Fanfiction
Title: Desparado
Fandom: Detective Conan / Yu-Gi-Oh!
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Some strong language
Conan ran and ran and ran and- just ran, away, from whoever it was. No, he knew who it was. He knew it was Them. Them. He’d been lucky. Seen Them before They’d seen him, but it was too late, They already knew that he was there because of those looks on Their faces, and the way They kept checking their cellphones. Cellphones which were leading Them towards him.
Conan had frozen for a split second in his hiding place - Tracker, tracker, they’re tracking me - before kicking his shoes off and holding them in his hands. His jacket came next, and he wadded up the poofy material in the plant pot he was hiding behind. If there was a chance, any chance, that he could get rid of the bug by shedding clothing, he’d take it.
Ohshitrunrunrun RUN NOW-
Conan burst from his hiding place, catching one man in the face with his shoes, barrelling between the legs of the next and throwing him off balance. He didn’t wait for the shouting to start, nor did he stop around the next corner to catch his breath or look back - he’d done that before and nearly been goddamned captured.
They would have shot him, oh fuck and then they would have found out and ohgod ohgod they would have used him as a fucking labrat and - a sudden movement out the corner of his eye and he didn’t stop to look - OH FUCK IT’S THEM THEY’RE RIGHT BEHIND ME RUN NOW RUN-
Conan put on an extra burst of speed, vision blurring as he shot away from the goons who had nearly caught him - must be new haven’t seen them before don’t know them, not Gin thank god it's not Vermouth, they’re new, they don’t know me, can’t predict what I’m gonna do thankyou GOD - and just ran. Ran until his lungs were a burning mass of fire. Ran until his legs were screaming in pain as well. Ran until even that pain burnt away and he knew he should be on the ground asphyxiating, gasping and wheezing and choking for air - except he wasn’t. He could run for-god-damned-EVER now.
Until he came to a shop. Slap bang in the middle of the street, a big colourful sign above it proclaiming Turtle Game shop. Conan didn’t think, just burst through the door, knowing they were close on his trail - and stopped dead when he saw the man behind the counter.
It was Solomon.
Oh thank God.
Conan woke with a gasp, heart hammering as he stared blindly into the darkness around him. Something shifted to his right, and he froze, backing up until his back hit the wall, backing up further until he was pressed into the corner between wall and headboard. His hands splayed out across the walls, fingers twitching as he tried to push himself further backwards, past the posters and into the plaster, away from the indistinct shape in the dark and the sleepy mutterings and-
Red eyes snapped open. Conan whimpered, blue eyes wide with fright as they moved closer. A hand caught one of his, pressing it to the other’s chest. Fingers curled with his other hand and the eyes moved closer. Conan closed his eyes, not wanting to see any more, tilting his head up and away.
Goawaygoawaygoawaygoaway-
There was a tickle of hair against hair, strands moving against his forehead. Warm breath huffed against his ear, before a warm cheek pressed to his own. Conan waited for the inevitable. For the stranger to do something to him - stick him with a hypodermic needle, pull a gun, start whispering threats…
Nothing.
Just the warm presence, cheek-to-cheek. Calm breathing in his ear. Hair brushing against hair. And a pulse, a warm, thudding heartbeat under his hand. Instinctively, Conan’s fingers curled into the thin fabric separating his palm from the stranger’s chest. The grip on his other hand changed slightly, drawing his hand away from the wall, pulling him sideways to fall on the bed.
They hit the pillows with a soft ‘flumpf’, Conan remaining loose as they fell, years of experience having taught him how to fall without hurting himself. The stranger huffed amusedly, warm breath tickling his chin and Conan suddenly realised that he wasn’t panicked any more.
He blinked, opening his eyes to darkness. That was okay. This was okay. He closed his eyes again, inhaling deeply as he snuggled into the chest of the person holding him. He recognised the tang of metal and leather, with undertones of hot sand (A smell he’d never forget, not after Egypt and all its deserts). Conan sighed, lips twisting into a not-quite-smile, then curled closer to Yugi and let himself slide back into sleep.
This person he could trust.
Fandom: Detective Conan / Yu-Gi-Oh!
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Some strong language
Conan ran and ran and ran and- just ran, away, from whoever it was. No, he knew who it was. He knew it was Them. Them. He’d been lucky. Seen Them before They’d seen him, but it was too late, They already knew that he was there because of those looks on Their faces, and the way They kept checking their cellphones. Cellphones which were leading Them towards him.
Conan had frozen for a split second in his hiding place - Tracker, tracker, they’re tracking me - before kicking his shoes off and holding them in his hands. His jacket came next, and he wadded up the poofy material in the plant pot he was hiding behind. If there was a chance, any chance, that he could get rid of the bug by shedding clothing, he’d take it.
Ohshitrunrunrun RUN NOW-
Conan burst from his hiding place, catching one man in the face with his shoes, barrelling between the legs of the next and throwing him off balance. He didn’t wait for the shouting to start, nor did he stop around the next corner to catch his breath or look back - he’d done that before and nearly been goddamned captured.
They would have shot him, oh fuck and then they would have found out and ohgod ohgod they would have used him as a fucking labrat and - a sudden movement out the corner of his eye and he didn’t stop to look - OH FUCK IT’S THEM THEY’RE RIGHT BEHIND ME RUN NOW RUN-
Conan put on an extra burst of speed, vision blurring as he shot away from the goons who had nearly caught him - must be new haven’t seen them before don’t know them, not Gin thank god it's not Vermouth, they’re new, they don’t know me, can’t predict what I’m gonna do thankyou GOD - and just ran. Ran until his lungs were a burning mass of fire. Ran until his legs were screaming in pain as well. Ran until even that pain burnt away and he knew he should be on the ground asphyxiating, gasping and wheezing and choking for air - except he wasn’t. He could run for-god-damned-EVER now.
Until he came to a shop. Slap bang in the middle of the street, a big colourful sign above it proclaiming Turtle Game shop. Conan didn’t think, just burst through the door, knowing they were close on his trail - and stopped dead when he saw the man behind the counter.
It was Solomon.
Oh thank God.
Conan woke with a gasp, heart hammering as he stared blindly into the darkness around him. Something shifted to his right, and he froze, backing up until his back hit the wall, backing up further until he was pressed into the corner between wall and headboard. His hands splayed out across the walls, fingers twitching as he tried to push himself further backwards, past the posters and into the plaster, away from the indistinct shape in the dark and the sleepy mutterings and-
Red eyes snapped open. Conan whimpered, blue eyes wide with fright as they moved closer. A hand caught one of his, pressing it to the other’s chest. Fingers curled with his other hand and the eyes moved closer. Conan closed his eyes, not wanting to see any more, tilting his head up and away.
Goawaygoawaygoawaygoaway-
There was a tickle of hair against hair, strands moving against his forehead. Warm breath huffed against his ear, before a warm cheek pressed to his own. Conan waited for the inevitable. For the stranger to do something to him - stick him with a hypodermic needle, pull a gun, start whispering threats…
Nothing.
Just the warm presence, cheek-to-cheek. Calm breathing in his ear. Hair brushing against hair. And a pulse, a warm, thudding heartbeat under his hand. Instinctively, Conan’s fingers curled into the thin fabric separating his palm from the stranger’s chest. The grip on his other hand changed slightly, drawing his hand away from the wall, pulling him sideways to fall on the bed.
They hit the pillows with a soft ‘flumpf’, Conan remaining loose as they fell, years of experience having taught him how to fall without hurting himself. The stranger huffed amusedly, warm breath tickling his chin and Conan suddenly realised that he wasn’t panicked any more.
He blinked, opening his eyes to darkness. That was okay. This was okay. He closed his eyes again, inhaling deeply as he snuggled into the chest of the person holding him. He recognised the tang of metal and leather, with undertones of hot sand (A smell he’d never forget, not after Egypt and all its deserts). Conan sighed, lips twisting into a not-quite-smile, then curled closer to Yugi and let himself slide back into sleep.
This person he could trust.