justonetruth | Perhaps writing it down will put things in proportion.

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Perhaps writing it down will put things in proportion.

It's a dark night in the Mansion this evening.

To be fair, it's dark every night, as the area is significantly lacking in any buildings or bright lights other than those that shine from the Mansion itself. But tonight the stars and the sky are obscured by low-scudding clouds pushed by a slow, damp breeze, and the moon is only visible as a hazy, sticky nimbus of white behind them.

The interior of the Mansion feels muffled as well. The lamps are turned low, their glow barely reaching farther than a handful of feet, and in many hallways there's hardly any light at all. The only illumination comes from the occasional occupied room, or a window open to the fitful light of the moon.

Of course, it's well past the twelfth hour, so this is hardly an inconvenience for most of the Mansion's guests. But deep in its darkened recesses a spill of light cuts across an empty hallway, green and flickering. The door it shines from is open a crack, revealing just a glimpse of a small, shadowed room: neat and plain, but crammed to the brim with strange and occasionally menacing knickknacks and minutiae. A faint scratching sound floats out on the light, overlaying the soft glow with an urgent, almost manic intent.

It originates from one Miss Ran Mouri, clad in a red, Victorian dress and sat at an equally Victorian desk, bent low over the pages of a journal. Her work is lit by a single foxfire candle; two greenish wax stubs already sit burnt and depleted before her on the desk. She writes frantically, without pause, filling page after page with tirades delineated in a black, scrawling hand barely recognizable as her own. Her face is drawn, her skin pale against the dark tresses of her hair, but her blue eyes are wild and feverish as they race ahead of her pen.

She does not seem inclined to stop any time soon.

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The inhabitants of the Grand Sanitorium have little need for light, or indeed anything else. Thus, it is only once Shinichi has taken a few steps down the corridor that the hush becomes apparent, and he realises that he is in a place as far removed from Venderblight as the Neath is from the moon -- now there's a far off thought.

Perhaps something of the gloominess of the colony still clings to him, perhaps it is a presentiment, perhaps even merest chance -- the scratching pen calling to mind his own recent activity -- but it is in a decidely sombre state of mind that Shinichi follows the sound of writing to its source.

She's become more beautiful with absence -- or perhaps her unnatural pallour heightens her dearness to him? Either way, it is with a strange stirring of emotion that he will analyse later that Shinichi pauses in the door way to study Miss Mouri. He's wearing a white medical coat over his usual attire, tomb colonist's bandages around his skin; as he greets her he starts the laborious and careful process of unwinding them.

"Ran." The word seems clumsy with disuse and to disguise his uncertainty he hurries over it. "I have to say, I think I see more of you in this unworldly manor house than I do in the 'Neath."

The moment her name escapes his mouth, Ran spins in her seat, clearly startled by his entrance. The pen skids across the page with a sound that brings to mind the shriek of a bow mislaid upon a violin, as if the words are protesting the interruption.

"K-Kudo!"

There's a significant pause as she takes in his appearance, her complexion paling even further until her skin is almost parchment-white. The bandages of a tomb colonist are immediately identifiable to anyone from the 'Neath — and the memory of what can lie beneath them is still far too fresh and raw in her mind.

And personal. Very personal.

Her stool scrapes backwards, nearly toppling over with how quickly Ran stands, and then she stops, not daring to draw closer. She isn't sure she can stand to see the death-blows that will be hidden beneath those bandages. Not on him.

"You— When did you—"

Edited 2012-02-04 23:35 (UTC)

Shinichi winces internally at her reaction -- not that she'd be able to see any sign of emotion with the bandages still obscuring most of his face. Just the reaction he was hoping to avoid ...

He takes what he hopes will be the most disarming line, hoping to divert her panic, set her at ease by misunderstanding.

"Mere minutes ago. I heard the sound of your pen and could not resist seeing who might be busy at what is apparently so late an hour."

"You know what I mean!"

Ran's tone is sharp and demanding — she isn't remotely willing to play games right now. She lets her hands curl into fists but still doesn't dare to advance, keeping her distance and her eyes away from his unwinding bandages. A part of her silently pleads for him to stop before gaping wounds or pummeled flesh can come into view, but another part of her sneers at the selfish hypocrisy of that selfsame desire.

"How could you— when—" Her throat closes in on itself every time she attempts to get the words out. She simply cannot ask him how he died, and she tells herself that the tears she fights to keep back are ones of frustration. No more.

Miss Mouri never takes the easy route. He can't help but admire that resoluteness of purpose even as he hastens to reassure her that it is not necessary.

"It is not what you fear." Too presumptious? She can scold him later. At last enough of the bandages have loosened that Shinichi's face is visible, wan as Ran's own and thin -- gruel may be the only substance able to pass through such of the patients as still have interest in food, but it does not do much for an active and inquiring young gentleman -- but very much alive. "It is necessary for my continued presence at the Grand Sanatorium that I blend in."

Alive. Whole.

Ran's relief is so strong that she has to sit down again. She slowly sinks onto her stool, pressing the heels of her palms to her eyes as she wills away the image of her benefactor, cold and mangled on the cobblestones with his blood staining her hands. Her shoulders are shaking.

"The... the Grand Sanatorium— what below the earth are you doing there?" she demands, voice husky with emotion. She doesn't look up.

Shinichi is too modest or too cynical to think that Miss Mouri's reaction is entirely due to him. Something else is going off, something even more disconcerting than the sudden reappearance of an acquaintance wrapped in to bandages of a tomb colonist--

But they're not merely acquaintances, are they?

Leaving his facial bandages to pool around his neck, Shinichi comes to stand beside her. He holds out a handkerchief with a couple of drops of Tincture of Vigour on it, hopefully enough to assist Miss Mouri with regaining her composure.

"I didn't realise it was so well known -- outside of certain circles." A pause. "Currently I am assisting a permanent surgeon with her research."

The brush of cloth alerts Ran to the handkerchief's presence, and she lowers her hands to take it, gratefully daubing at her eyes.

"It isn't," she says, her voice slowly regaining steadiness as the tincture takes effect. "I only know the name by chance. It's... it's in one of the deeper regions of the Colonies, isn't it?" Pause. "A surgeon?"

"Venderblight. A full week's journey by steamer -- and I can hardly recommend the effort of making the journey."

Shinichi's hands return to the pockets of his medical coat as he leans against the wall, still looking down at Ran and the desk. Her notebook still lies open, a fact she does not seem to be aware of -- should he recall her attention to it? She was writing very rapidly before his approach ...

Perhaps it is better to continue their discussion as long as she is willing to be distracted. A change is as good as a rest, after all -- and there is much he selfishly wishes to tell her, even if he is not sure he can. "A curious title for a curious job. You are aware of the Sanitorium's function?"

Ran shakes her head, eyes following him as he leans against the wall. Her relief at his well-being still lingers, but she feels compelled to watch him, to make absolutely sure that he's in good health. (Or at least reasonable by 'Neath standards.)

"I simply heard it mentioned in a conversation," she explains, refraining from mentioning that she'd been eavesdropping at the time. Her hands fall to her lap and gently twist the handkerchief, running the fabric through her fingers. It's a tell, she knows, but she's too shaken to stop herself. "I don't know anything more than the name."

It is never an unwelcome occurence to find himself the object of Miss Mouri's gaze, and only the knowledge of how vain an attempt it would be keeps Shinichi from attempting to straighten his clothes. He does, however, stand a little straighter.

"It is hardly a place people like to speak of," Shinichi said. "It is -- where the tomb colonists retire when there is no where else to retire too."

Ran's brows draw down, puzzled. "Then what did you need there?"

"Information. The permanent surgeon once worked with someone whose whereabouts and actions I need to trace. She'll help me -- but only if I help her."

Shinichi hesitates, but there is something about being with Miss Mouri after so long an absence that has him unbending himself to her unbidden. "It is -- hardly a pleasant occupation, taking down the dreams and thoughts of the patients, but there are -- unexpected developments."

He paused, then admitted. "I find that I have gained -- an inkling of identity."

Their dreams and thoughts — that sounds more than unpleasant, but Ran knows she's hardly one to criticize others' methods of information gathering. She tucks the tidbit away in her mind for later, when they might hopefully be more at ease to discuss it.

What he says next is a little more confusing. Identities are constantly being shed and donned like cloaks in the Bazaar, and hints towards them even moreso, but something about the way Kudo pauses implies something more.

"Whose identity?"

Shinichi finds himself feeling bashful suddenly. It is disconcerting, but it is all he can do not to drop Miss Mouri's gaze.

"Mine."

"Yours?"

The surprise is genuine, though perhaps not for the usual reasons. First comes the thought that he should already have an idea of his identity, especially given that she already knows it — but then comes the knowledge that she's quite sure that she shouldn't. Should she? Where had she learned such a thing?

There's a moment of conflicting information until Ran grasps a memory of tea shared with an Oriental couple with very familiar faces — a memory that is conspicuously absent when she's actually in the 'Neath. (And one that, even now, brings something of a blush to her cheeks. She's not a shy woman by any means, but it's a peculiar sensation to be aware of another version of herself so comfortably married to a man she knows.)

Of course. Kudo had mentioned that they were in the Mansion. She'd been so caught up in her writing — and then distraught at his appearance — that she'd nearly missed it.

Ran relaxes somewhat, neatly folding the handkerchief and handing it back to him. "You've remembered your name? Or something of your past?"

"The former." Shinichi tucked his handkerchief back in his pocket before bowing with a slight flourish. "Shinichi Kudo, at your service."

It's still an odd feeling to give his name, and there's still something strange about it -- ought it to have been the other way around, the way the Orientals did it? There was something there --

But that could wait until another time.

"Shinichi," Ran repeats, letting the name roll off her tongue with perfect diction. She'd heard the correct pronunciation when she'd first learned it from their counterparts, but somehow it feels even more natural than that, as familiar to say as her own name. It makes her smile. "Congratulations."

And now he is thankful that the lighting is so dim as to (hopefully) conceal his pleased blush at hearing his name from her lips. True, she'd said it before in reference to one of his many mansion doubles, but the name had not had the resonance it now did -- it belonged to him.

"I see that you have been busy in my absence," he observed, hastily changing the subject. "Though I fear that your discoveries have not been so welcome."

"Ah—" She turns and looks at the open journal, lips thinning, and after a pause she reaches out to slam it closed. The book lets out a faint hiss, stirring the terrible secrets still sitting in the back of her mind, but Ran resolutely ignores them. She's carried them this long; they can wait a little longer to be purged.

"They're... manageable," she says, standing and latching the book closed before placing it on a shelf with a number of similar volumes. It's difficult to work up another smile, but she does it; she's nothing if not practiced. "I've brought them upon myself, after all."

Shinichi watches her, a strange uncomfortable feeling -- regret? -- surfacing. If he were Kaito, he might be able to tease her out of this distance, then steal the secret in an guarded moment. Aoko would offer steady, uncomplicated friendship and perhaps some tea. Shinichi wasn't even there and while he has guesses, the facts elude him for the moment.

It is always hard to withdraw back to being merely an acquaintance -- and for once Shinichi is in no mood to do what delicacy demands.

"Ran." He joins her at the bookcase, before she can turn away. They are closer than propriety would allow though he doesn't look at her but the row of notebooks, not touching them but letting his gaze speak for him. "Tell me?"

His use of her name causes her to turn and Ran starts at how close Shinichi is, less than a breath away from touching her. She sees his eyes looking past her, at the books, but that doesn't stop her heart from beating strangely loud in her chest. She covers it with both hands, hoping it will quiet before he hears it.

"They aren't for telling," she finally manages, her tone quiet. She still remembers the inhuman shriek that arose from last night's writings, rising in such a way that she couldn't tell if the sound were coming from the book or her own throat. There are few people she would wish these sorts of secrets upon. Shinichi is not one of them.

"Not them. You." Shinichi turns his gaze to Ran, taking in her gesture with an odd pang. He can apologize for startling her later. "You can tell me what's got you into this state without betraying any confidences, surely."

"My confidences are more complicated than one might think." Ran's insistence is weak, distracted now that all of Shinichi's attention is trained on her. Something about the look in his eyes pins her in place, and she's disconcerted at how she has to fight to keep her cheeks from warming like a schoolgirl's. She should be in better control of a situation like this.

But this close, she can smell the dry, musty scent of the Tom Colonies clinging to his clothes, and the thinness of Shinichi's face is much more noticeable. Ran tightens her grip over her breast, resisting the sudden impulse to reach out and trace the hollows of his cheeks, to see if they really run as deep as they look.

Edited 2012-02-05 10:04 (UTC)

It's probably lucky that despite Shinichi's high Watchful, he has not a clue what line Ran's thoughts are travelling. In her increased colour he sees a rallying of spirit and acts swiftly.

"Brass Embassy business is always complicated and confidential -- but no harm, surely, in unburdening yourself to an old friend -- particularly one who is many weeks of travel and research distant. I could not act on anything I learned -- even if I would remember it once we leave this place."

Enough, surely -- and yet Shinichi couldn't help himself, adding in an entirely different tone:

"Besides it -- would give me much pleasure to assist you."

Well. At these close quarters, Ran would not be able to mistake his earnestness, or his blush.

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