Post by doctorpeggy on Sept 23, 2018 18:24:24 GMT
Prompt: The thoughts of someone as they witness the APTX-4869 transformation occur before their eyes.
(I can't seem to help writing angsty Ai pieces. Maybe that says something about me? I should write more Ai pieces to introspect.
I'm conflicted between being happy with how this one turned out towards the beginning and tearing my hair out at how I've ended it, but something happened and I'm not sure what exactly, but hopefully it makes as much sense when it's being read as it did when I was writing it. I think I might do a sequel, if I get the time. Whoever my prompter may be, I hope you like it!)
Word count: 1589
Summary: Ai knows nothing is the same between her and Kudo-kun anymore, but she tries at least to give him his life back, even if that means she won't be in his life anymore.
Silence
Ai opens the windows of her lab and turns on the table fan that had been put there without her consent a few years ago.
She stands in front of the window for a moment, waiting for the heat from outside to seep into the room. Her fingers are ice.
She wonders how long it will be till she can finally get the antidote right.
She is twelve now. So is he.
Although sometimes he gets to be 22, and then she doesn’t really know if she’s got it right when she thinks that she might be at least a small part of his life.
He only comes to her when he needs something.
The doorbell will ring any moment, but she’ll let the professor get it.
It lasts a little longer every time, but there have started to be inconsistencies. Sometimes he changes back within the same time again. Sometimes it happens early.
But this time it shouldn’t happen at all. She’s made a time estimate anyway, based on the prototype she had used as a reference, because she doesn’t want to get her hopes up. She hasn’t told him anything. Better not to get his hopes up, either.
She’s called him in two hours in advance, and now they’re both sitting in her lab, sweating even though the table fan is on full power, but he doesn’t ask her to shut the window and turn the AC on. She’ll do medical tests in an hour. The extra hour is just for safety.
She doesn’t look him in the eye as they make small talk. She hasn’t for nearly a year now. It isn’t hard when he’s taller than her, but more often than not, he isn’t. She’s grateful that right now he is.
Whether or not he can live the rest of his life the way he wants depends entirely on whether or not she can succeed, and she hasn’t yet. It weighs on her more than almost all the deaths she’s caused. At she didn’t know those people well enough to feel anything for them. They had been just data points, pieces of evidence to tell her that she had succeeded.
Ai glances at the window to see if anyone might be watching. She hasn’t been in any danger from them for years, but she looks anyway. When she’s outside, she still feels eyes on her, sees shadows where there are none.
Ai can’t stand the awkward conversation anymore, so she offers to make tea. He declines, but asks if she’s got any coke. She says no, tells him what she does have in the fridge, and he settles for orange juice.
She makes the tea anyway, drinks it hot and watches condensation drip off the bottom of Kudo-kun’s glass of juice.
She waits for the seconds to tick by. She pours herself another cup of tea. The silence between her and him is heavy with summer heat and years of tension.
With his free hand, Kudo-kun fidgets. He seems to notice the tension, too.
She almost jumps when, after ten minutes, she hears his voice.
“Haibara, maybe we need to talk about a few things.”
She doesn’t think there is anything to talk about. And he’s started with her name, that can only mean he’s desperate for something. After all, they’re the only two people in the room, it’s not like he can get any more attention from her. What could he possibly want now?
“Sure, what is it?” she mumbles. She still does not look at his face.
“Haibara…”
And there he is, saying her name again. Why?
“Are you going to tell me?” she snaps, because she’s not used to the tone he’s using, and there’s an odd, cold, slimy feeling climbing up her spine because of it.
“It’s been ages since we had a proper conversation,” he says bluntly.
“Of course not,” she denies, “we talk all the time.”
For a second he doesn’t respond. She lets her eyes travel up to his chin, his lips. They’re pursed, unamused.
“You know what I mean. And you won’t look at me anymore. You haven’t looked at me in years and it’s frustrating as hell.”
She does know what he means. And she really hasn’t looked at him, not properly, for a long time now.
But she’ll never admit it.
She’ll just keep her mouth shut, not look at him. He’ll drop it eventually. He’s never pushed her for anything.
She waits.
“Haibara, I just need to know if I’ve been doing something wrong.”
That makes her world turn sideways. Him doing something wrong? She’s been keeping him from his life all this time because of her incompetence and he think he’s doing something wrong?
She hears half of a choked syllable, can’t identify it, hears the glass of juice shatter against the tiles.
“Sorry,” Kudo-kun gasps.
He’s clutching his chest.
Ai checks the time.
One hour and seventeen minutes earlier than her estimate. A small voice in her head reminds her she’s farther off her estimate than that, but she shuts it up. Instead she reaches out to grab Kudo-kun’s wrist as he moves his hand down to pick up the glass pieces.
“Sit on my lab stool,” she orders, standing up.
He gets up, face pinched in pain. It hasn’t gotten all that bad just yet.
He makes his way to the other end of the room, past the chair Ai was sitting on and to the stool she’s put near the door as she always does when she’s not using it.
He collapses before he reaches the stool.
Ai’s heart climbs into her throat. She wants to go help him, but she can’t make herself.
She’s watched this so many times. She should be used to it by now.
She can’t even make herself turn away. She watches him change. She can never catch the exact moment that he becomes a child, it seems to get lost in his scream of pain every time. She isn’t even sure if he changes gradually or if he just shifts from adult to preteen. It was the same with all the mice in her lab. It’s like trying to watch a flower bloom. She can never catch it just as it’s happening.
And then he’s twelve again, palms on the floor and panting hard. His clothes aren’t quite as oversized for him as they used to be all those years ago.
“Are you going to just stand there?” he asks her between breaths, turning his face towards her, his mouth quirked up in a tired smirk.
He catches her eye. These are the only moments she lets him.
And then the impossible happens. He convulses, screams again, and then almost instantly changes back. Just like that. Like he hadn’t turned into a child for thirty seconds.
Except he’s panting and sweaty.
And there he is, on the ground, breathing hard, tears leaking from his eyes from the momentary pain, but he’s Kudo Shinichi and not Edogawa Conan.
It’s a miracle, but it leaves a terrible taste in Ai’s mouth. She’s not sure why.
He gets up slowly, looks at her. She can see his hands vibrating in excitement.
“You did it!” he says gleefully.
She says there’s no way to be are just yet. Anything else he says goes straight over her head.
Ai doesn’t let him change his sweat-drenched clothes till she’s checked at least his heartbeat, blood pressure and body temperature.
This is the last time she’ll do it, unless there’s a complication or if something’s wrong.
The last time.
She licks her lips. She knows what the taste in her mouth is. It’s fear.
She’s never going to have a proper reason to talk to him again. She's scared.
She pulls out her equipment.
As they’re waiting for the digital thermometer to beep, he lets out a sigh.
“We still need to talk,” he says.
“We don’t,” she replies curtly. The thermometer beeps.
It’s already in Kudo-kun’s hands before Haibara can react.
“It’s yours if you’ll look me in the eye again,” he says, his voice cold.
It’s like nothing has happened in the last five minutes. It’s like he’s picking up right where he left of with his conversation with her.
“Kudo-kun…” she warns.
“Yes?”
“Just… not today,” she pleads.
“Then when?” he asks.
It’s not a demand. It’s a genuine question. She can hear it in his voice.
She does not reply, only takes the thermometer from him. He lets her.
She squints at it. Nothing wrong.
“I need a blood test,” she says.
“Haibara, you’re acting like you don’t even know me.”
“I don’t.”
“Don’t you? We’ve been through the worst parts of our lives together.”
She freezes. Thinks.
“Yeah,” she says, “but now it’s over.”
“It’s not,”
There’s steel in his voice.
“Kudo-kun—”
“I’m coming over tomorrow even if you don’t want me to. Now see about that blood test.”
It’s an order.
Ai doesn’t argue.
He’s angry, she knows, but she doesn’t know why. When Ai’s done with everything, when he has changed into a fresh pair of clothes, he leaves without a word.
After he goes, Ai collapses on the sofa in the living room, and asks herself what just happened. Her mind draws up a blank.
It’s a miracle. Kudo Shinichi is back.
It feels surreal. Unreal. Fake.
She feels hollow.
She doesn’t clean up the spilled orange juice or the shattered pieces of glass.
(I can't seem to help writing angsty Ai pieces. Maybe that says something about me? I should write more Ai pieces to introspect.
I'm conflicted between being happy with how this one turned out towards the beginning and tearing my hair out at how I've ended it, but something happened and I'm not sure what exactly, but hopefully it makes as much sense when it's being read as it did when I was writing it. I think I might do a sequel, if I get the time. Whoever my prompter may be, I hope you like it!)
Word count: 1589
Summary: Ai knows nothing is the same between her and Kudo-kun anymore, but she tries at least to give him his life back, even if that means she won't be in his life anymore.
Silence
Ai opens the windows of her lab and turns on the table fan that had been put there without her consent a few years ago.
She stands in front of the window for a moment, waiting for the heat from outside to seep into the room. Her fingers are ice.
She wonders how long it will be till she can finally get the antidote right.
She is twelve now. So is he.
Although sometimes he gets to be 22, and then she doesn’t really know if she’s got it right when she thinks that she might be at least a small part of his life.
He only comes to her when he needs something.
The doorbell will ring any moment, but she’ll let the professor get it.
It lasts a little longer every time, but there have started to be inconsistencies. Sometimes he changes back within the same time again. Sometimes it happens early.
But this time it shouldn’t happen at all. She’s made a time estimate anyway, based on the prototype she had used as a reference, because she doesn’t want to get her hopes up. She hasn’t told him anything. Better not to get his hopes up, either.
She’s called him in two hours in advance, and now they’re both sitting in her lab, sweating even though the table fan is on full power, but he doesn’t ask her to shut the window and turn the AC on. She’ll do medical tests in an hour. The extra hour is just for safety.
She doesn’t look him in the eye as they make small talk. She hasn’t for nearly a year now. It isn’t hard when he’s taller than her, but more often than not, he isn’t. She’s grateful that right now he is.
Whether or not he can live the rest of his life the way he wants depends entirely on whether or not she can succeed, and she hasn’t yet. It weighs on her more than almost all the deaths she’s caused. At she didn’t know those people well enough to feel anything for them. They had been just data points, pieces of evidence to tell her that she had succeeded.
Ai glances at the window to see if anyone might be watching. She hasn’t been in any danger from them for years, but she looks anyway. When she’s outside, she still feels eyes on her, sees shadows where there are none.
Ai can’t stand the awkward conversation anymore, so she offers to make tea. He declines, but asks if she’s got any coke. She says no, tells him what she does have in the fridge, and he settles for orange juice.
She makes the tea anyway, drinks it hot and watches condensation drip off the bottom of Kudo-kun’s glass of juice.
She waits for the seconds to tick by. She pours herself another cup of tea. The silence between her and him is heavy with summer heat and years of tension.
With his free hand, Kudo-kun fidgets. He seems to notice the tension, too.
She almost jumps when, after ten minutes, she hears his voice.
“Haibara, maybe we need to talk about a few things.”
She doesn’t think there is anything to talk about. And he’s started with her name, that can only mean he’s desperate for something. After all, they’re the only two people in the room, it’s not like he can get any more attention from her. What could he possibly want now?
“Sure, what is it?” she mumbles. She still does not look at his face.
“Haibara…”
And there he is, saying her name again. Why?
“Are you going to tell me?” she snaps, because she’s not used to the tone he’s using, and there’s an odd, cold, slimy feeling climbing up her spine because of it.
“It’s been ages since we had a proper conversation,” he says bluntly.
“Of course not,” she denies, “we talk all the time.”
For a second he doesn’t respond. She lets her eyes travel up to his chin, his lips. They’re pursed, unamused.
“You know what I mean. And you won’t look at me anymore. You haven’t looked at me in years and it’s frustrating as hell.”
She does know what he means. And she really hasn’t looked at him, not properly, for a long time now.
But she’ll never admit it.
She’ll just keep her mouth shut, not look at him. He’ll drop it eventually. He’s never pushed her for anything.
She waits.
“Haibara, I just need to know if I’ve been doing something wrong.”
That makes her world turn sideways. Him doing something wrong? She’s been keeping him from his life all this time because of her incompetence and he think he’s doing something wrong?
She hears half of a choked syllable, can’t identify it, hears the glass of juice shatter against the tiles.
“Sorry,” Kudo-kun gasps.
He’s clutching his chest.
Ai checks the time.
One hour and seventeen minutes earlier than her estimate. A small voice in her head reminds her she’s farther off her estimate than that, but she shuts it up. Instead she reaches out to grab Kudo-kun’s wrist as he moves his hand down to pick up the glass pieces.
“Sit on my lab stool,” she orders, standing up.
He gets up, face pinched in pain. It hasn’t gotten all that bad just yet.
He makes his way to the other end of the room, past the chair Ai was sitting on and to the stool she’s put near the door as she always does when she’s not using it.
He collapses before he reaches the stool.
Ai’s heart climbs into her throat. She wants to go help him, but she can’t make herself.
She’s watched this so many times. She should be used to it by now.
She can’t even make herself turn away. She watches him change. She can never catch the exact moment that he becomes a child, it seems to get lost in his scream of pain every time. She isn’t even sure if he changes gradually or if he just shifts from adult to preteen. It was the same with all the mice in her lab. It’s like trying to watch a flower bloom. She can never catch it just as it’s happening.
And then he’s twelve again, palms on the floor and panting hard. His clothes aren’t quite as oversized for him as they used to be all those years ago.
“Are you going to just stand there?” he asks her between breaths, turning his face towards her, his mouth quirked up in a tired smirk.
He catches her eye. These are the only moments she lets him.
And then the impossible happens. He convulses, screams again, and then almost instantly changes back. Just like that. Like he hadn’t turned into a child for thirty seconds.
Except he’s panting and sweaty.
And there he is, on the ground, breathing hard, tears leaking from his eyes from the momentary pain, but he’s Kudo Shinichi and not Edogawa Conan.
It’s a miracle, but it leaves a terrible taste in Ai’s mouth. She’s not sure why.
He gets up slowly, looks at her. She can see his hands vibrating in excitement.
“You did it!” he says gleefully.
She says there’s no way to be are just yet. Anything else he says goes straight over her head.
Ai doesn’t let him change his sweat-drenched clothes till she’s checked at least his heartbeat, blood pressure and body temperature.
This is the last time she’ll do it, unless there’s a complication or if something’s wrong.
The last time.
She licks her lips. She knows what the taste in her mouth is. It’s fear.
She’s never going to have a proper reason to talk to him again. She's scared.
She pulls out her equipment.
As they’re waiting for the digital thermometer to beep, he lets out a sigh.
“We still need to talk,” he says.
“We don’t,” she replies curtly. The thermometer beeps.
It’s already in Kudo-kun’s hands before Haibara can react.
“It’s yours if you’ll look me in the eye again,” he says, his voice cold.
It’s like nothing has happened in the last five minutes. It’s like he’s picking up right where he left of with his conversation with her.
“Kudo-kun…” she warns.
“Yes?”
“Just… not today,” she pleads.
“Then when?” he asks.
It’s not a demand. It’s a genuine question. She can hear it in his voice.
She does not reply, only takes the thermometer from him. He lets her.
She squints at it. Nothing wrong.
“I need a blood test,” she says.
“Haibara, you’re acting like you don’t even know me.”
“I don’t.”
“Don’t you? We’ve been through the worst parts of our lives together.”
She freezes. Thinks.
“Yeah,” she says, “but now it’s over.”
“It’s not,”
There’s steel in his voice.
“Kudo-kun—”
“I’m coming over tomorrow even if you don’t want me to. Now see about that blood test.”
It’s an order.
Ai doesn’t argue.
He’s angry, she knows, but she doesn’t know why. When Ai’s done with everything, when he has changed into a fresh pair of clothes, he leaves without a word.
After he goes, Ai collapses on the sofa in the living room, and asks herself what just happened. Her mind draws up a blank.
It’s a miracle. Kudo Shinichi is back.
It feels surreal. Unreal. Fake.
She feels hollow.
She doesn’t clean up the spilled orange juice or the shattered pieces of glass.