Work Text:
EVERYTHING NOT SAVED WILL BE LOST, the screen flashes in warning, bold red against backlit white. Shiho squints, physically feels her eyesight deteriorate as she puts down her glass of water to navigate back to her file from where she’s misclicked on the exit button. She’s not quite done yet, thank you.
It’s late enough that everyone’s asleep, but her circadian rhythm has long twisted sideways from long nights up behind a screen. Four AM finds her thus working on a passion project, seated at the kitchen counter. The living-room sprawls before her, quiet-dark: the low buzz of the fridge, the pulled curtains, a sense of warmth and calm.
The disruptive buzzing of the wood underneath her forearms. Shiho looks down to see her phone light up with an incoming call. KUDOU, the screen displays, right below 4:34AM.
“Just one weekend,” Shiho mutters, exasperated. If that idiot is in any danger right now one minute most likely wouldn’t make a difference, so she takes the time to save her file and back it up, drinks the rest of her water, and sixty seconds later, because she unfortunately always will, Shiho grabs her phone to answer Kudou Shinichi.
Ok, so perhaps the minute was important. You can, after all, bleed out in less than five.
It turns out Kudou is, in fact, just outside, leaning against the closed gates, supporting the weight of a certain thief-magician bleeding from the thigh. Shiho's vaguely aware, just as an abstract piece of information, that Kudou’s been butting into Kaitou KID’s business lately, so she takes in the picture with minimal surprise. Her first thought is that she can finally tell KID to give back that hairpin he ‘borrowed’ directly out of her hair the last time she attended a heist; her second thought is a wince, there was a knife buried in his thigh.
“Ara,” is all Shiho says. The metal creaks as she opens the gates.
“Thanks, Haibara,” Kudou says tiredly.
“Hello,” KID greets her with a sly grin, face pale, voice breathy with pain, “it’s great to meet you. I do apologize for my current state.”
Shiho raises an eyebrow.
“Give it a rest,” Kudou clicks his tongue, dragging him forward.
KID’s arm thrown over his shoulder, a hand tightly encircling KID’s wrist like a manacle, Kudou manages to drag him into the house and onto the nearest sofa, Shiho opening the front door and trailing behind them. The whole process is mostly slowed not by KID’s butchered leg, but rather the argument they were having.
“Dude.”
“I told you to trust me,” Kudou's saying, sounding irritated.
“I get that, I get you, but it can’t be like this okay? Not now! Who the hell even is she—”
“She knows how to treat stab wounds. I don't know how to treat stab wounds and neither do you, alright?"
“I can—”
“No. Look, I'm done arguing about this everytime. You need to give an inch at some point. It’s either you and us, or it’s you.”
A beat.
“You’re being mean to me,” KID whispers, a whine in his voice.
Shiho is oddly struck by the childishness of the statement, the petulance in his tone. She’s never heard KID sound like that. She’d never have thought KID would say something like that. Something about it squeezes, and Shiho clears her throat, “Not to interrupt this little spat,” she says dryly, “but I’d like to point out that there is a knife currently buried in Mr. Thief’s leg.”
Kudou lowers him onto the couch, slow and careful despite the sincere frustration on his face. “Yeah, sorry,” he says tightly, straightening, “I’ll let you work.”
“You didn’t have to bother the lady,” KID’s voice, quiet but unshaking. His bangs are sweat-drenched, his breath hitched, face scrunched in a permanent wince. He’s in a hoodie and pants, all black; his cupped hand hovers over the blade sticking out of it, which, in Shiho’s professional opinion, is not ideal. Yet he still finds it in himself to intone dramatically, “I can go. ’tis but a flesh wound.”
Shiho pins him with a withering look. “What’s your blood type?”
“O-minus,” Kudou replies immediately then his eyes light up, “wait, that’s Akai’s blood type. I’ll go wake him—”
“You’re O-minus,” Shiho reminds him.
“It’s also yours, dipshit,” KID says at the same time.
Kudou blinks in surprise, looking between them. “I am?” And he’s already shrugging off his trench, “Great, just take mine then.”
Shiho raises a hand. “No need, I have it.”
“You have blood?”
“American blood,” Shiho confirms. Not so long ago a certain FBI agent had so generously donated it for her research. She waves him away, “Go get it, it’s labeled with his name. Don’t forget the equipment, and grab the morphine pack as well.”
“No morphine,” KID interjects.
Shiho blinks. “No morphine?”
“No drugs.”
There is a beat of silence, before Shiho turns to nod at her detective, standing there uselessly. “Well, you heard him. Go. You have five minutes or he dies.”
Kudou looks at her with a bit of bafflement, but then he turns away. Which is surprising—she’s never known him to be picky in his battles.
Shiho turns back to the thief. Alone, there seems to be a standoff. KID is looking up at her through his eyelashes, wary. “I’m not gonna die, right?”
The snap of a pair of gloves, the idle thought of wondering how far a poker face can bend until it gives. “No,” Shiho says, scientific curiosity stirring. “No one really dies anymore.”
“It’s so passé,” KID agrees with a pale grin. Shiho’s eyes flick down. The blood struggles to gush out around the blade, KID spilling out of himself drop by drop.
Cautiously, Shiho reaches out.
“You have a very high tolerance for pain.”
KID smiles. He’s staring at her, breath slow and deliberate, with exhausted, half-lidded eyes, and if his smile aims for flattered, it fails, a crazed edge to the flash of his teeth, “Why, thank you, you didn’t have to say that. It doesn’t even hurt that bad, I’ve had worse. I got shot a couple times, yanno. Right here, actually.”
He points at his shoulder, sliding down the sleeve of it down his arm just enough to flash the old injury, the skin scarred shut. Shiho looks politely. Two years ago, she used to do this, too — casually throwing terrible, bloodsoaked curve balls for misdirection. The illusion of vulnerability is an easy one to craft.
“So, yeah, this is nothing. I can probably do a backflip right now.”
“Refrain,” Shiho says flatly, sealing the last stretch of the bandage.
Then there’s a hand on her face, against her jaw, tilting it forcefully up, and Shiho blinks, finding herself looking at glazed, oddly-colored eyes. KID tugs her slightly forward to stare at her more closely, brows furrowed slightly.
“I know your face,” KID mutters, perplexed, “I have your face.”
“Yes,” Shiho agrees dryly, and reaches up to remove his hand from her face. Injured patients only get so much leeway. There’s so much blood—on her gloves, on his hands, the couch, her lap, dark and easy to slip on. There’s blood on her cheek now too, she can feel the warmth of it.
KID’s confusion clears, from one moment to the next: he blinks with recognition. “Miyano Shiho.”
Shiho arches an eyebrow. “That is my name, yes. And yours is Kuroba Kaito, if I remember correctly?”
Kuroba smiles, something angry in it, even though that consideration doesn’t leave the corners of his eyes, still slightly squinted. He’s thinking. Gauging. “Someone has been telling secrets.”
Shiho shrugs. “You know mine, I know yours. Don’t you think that’s only fair, Mr. Thief?”
KID stares for a long moment. “I helped you die, right?”
Shiho nods.
“Do they still think you’re dead?” KID asks.
“Yes,” Shiho gives him.
KID nods slowly at that. “Okay. Yeah, I’d rather you just call me Kuroba. I’m more than a thief, you know.”
Shiho nods in acknowledgement.
A bit further away, Kudou’s leaning on the counter, watching them. He’s making a face. “It’s weird to see you both interacting,” he points out, looking put out. “You okay, KID?”
Kuroba brushes the question off with a thumbs up, settling back against the pillows with a wince, leg spread out over the ottoman. Standing up, Shiho catches Kudou’s eye and nods towards the basement.
“What happened?” she asks under her breath, closing the door behind them and flicking the staircase light on.
Under the fluorescent Kudou looks tired, and over it. “There was someone in my house," he sighs, like it's a mere inconvenience. Shiho relates. "KID and I were coming in together, and he was there behind the door. In the library." His nose wrinkles in disgust, "God. You think he touched my books while he was waiting?"
“He was waiting for you?”
“I don’t know." He lifts a hand to rake through his hair. “I guess it's my house, and he did attack me first but KID got caught in between—he got in between," he corrects, frowning. "You know, we look alike. So he easily could've been following either one of us. I didn't recognize him, so it could be KID he's after."
"Who you invited to your house."
Kudou shrugs. “I'm helping him with something and we weren’t done talking. He's gonna have to stay here. I don’t know who that was, in the house. He got away.”
“I imagine both of you have accumulated quite the number of enemies," Shiho points out.
Kudou pinches the bridge of his nose with a sigh. "He’s not gonna like having to stay here.”
“Even if he wanted to, he’s not going anywhere with a leg like that. Just go tell him and get it over with. And clean up all the blood while you're at it. Baking soda's under the sink."
"Yeah, yeah," he waves her off lazily, opening the door to slip back through it.
She stays still behind it for a moment, listening: Kudou, softer, tinged with concern. “Hey. You okay?”
Kuroba, annoyed, brash: “No, man. My leg’s gonna fucking fall off. I feel like I’m gonna vomit.”
"Just not on the couch, alright? Tip over, or Miyano'll kill us both."
Shiho goes down to the bathroom adjacent to her lab. As soon as the door clicks behind her she takes off her top and discards it in a corner, steps out of her pajama bottoms and onto the feather-soft bath mat. While waiting on the water to warm up she turns to the sink and washes her face, exhales a sigh-shiver.
It's not wrong to feel like this, she tells herself, even through the self-disgust that crawls into her stomach the more her mind catalogues every evidence of thrill in herself: the quickening pulse, the crackle of her skin. She rubs her fingertips together, like trying to hush out candlefire. It was tragic that only danger feels this way, this intensely. How textbook.
But she's already figured this out, she reminds her body firmly. She's had enough of thrill to last several lifetimes. Stay focused, on the ground. That's where her meaning lies: the smallest possible scale. The case by case. The person in front of her.
She gives it about an hour before she ventures back to the living-room. Shinichi's set up camp in the living-room and they were each taking up one of the adjacent couches. Kudou looked tucked in and dead to the world already, asleep on his stomach with his arms crossed under his pillow, but Kuroba's still on his phone, lying on his back and face lit up by the blue screen in the darkness.
He looks up at the sound of her footsteps, and for a while she's aware of him watching her as she walks to the corner.
"What are you doing?" he asks.
She points to the bed in the corner, untouched and perfectly made. "I sleep here."
"What?"
"This is where I sleep."
She untucks the covers.
"You don't have to keep watch on me, you know. I'm not gonna steal your TV or anything."
"I really sleep here. I like open spaces," she shrugs, answering the silent question. "You better not snore."
A beat.
"Hey." Kuroba calls out in a stage-whisper. "Can I have that knife back tomorrow?”
It takes a bit before she understands what he means. The knife he was stabbed with, now washed and sanitized and on her desk downstairs. Shiho makes a face. "Really?"
“Yeah, I want it."
Huh. Well, it is a nice dagger. The handle's set with decorative stones, inlaid with gold, and when she washed it earlier she'd noticed the steel was engraved. It had suddenly appeared on display at Kudou's house one day. Either a new acquisition from his parents or a gift to them—the house had not changed an inch until they'd moved back in permanently, Kudou never bothering to touch anything except for the library.
“Are you stealing from Kudou-kun?” Shiho asks. “I’m not against it, to be clear."
“Please, like I want his gajillion books and plastic middle school football trophies."
“They’re not plastic,” Shinichi mutters out of nowhere. Oh, awake. His glare is audible even through his closed eyes. “I’m probably richer than you.”
“Who cares about money? I have cooler stuff.”
“Like what?”
“I can’t say.”
“Like what,” Shinichi challenges.
“I do, I obviously do, it’s not even an argument. I've seen everything you got. All my stuff is cooler.”
"You're full of shit."
Shiho sighs. "If you don't shut up and let me sleep I'm going to stab you both."
"What the fuck? It literally just happened—is nothing sacred?!"
"Save your breath, KID. She pretended to shoot me with a flower gun like two days after I'd actually gotten shot."
…
"I was still in the hospital."
The stunned silence that settles makes it about ten seconds, then, in the dark, breathy: Kuroba's laugh.
"It's my old man's knife," Kuroba explains the next day, mouth full.
When Kudou's over in the morning, Shiho's routine is usually to make breakfast, and then take it together at the counter. Not much had changed in terms of the first part of that, but they'd briefly hovered around the counter until they realized Kuroba's injury made him incapable of moving, so they'd tacitly migrated around the thief. Shiho's sitting on one side of the couch while Kudou's tucked on the floor.
Kuroba sits in the middle, eating a rice ball with excruciating slowness. Even though he's talking normally, he looks ill in a clammy and vague way, and his eye keeps twitching everytime sore muscles force him to shift. Kudou had dug around his closet until he found flannel pants with loose hems, which the thief was wearing. The bandages he'd bled through were changed, and he's wearing clean clothes and currently being fed, but there's not much Shiho can do about the pain.
"It's a Leon knife, right?" he asks Kudou, who nods, chewing through his own mouthful. "My dad used to get his gear exclusively from there. I think he helped him out with something once because Leon came out of retirement just to make that dagger for my dad. It's one of a kind. Literally."
Kudou swallows, licks his lips. "How do you know it's this one?"
"Noticed when it was sticking out my leg."
"No, but seriously."
"Seriously?" Kuroba runs his finger through the side of the engraved steel. "Seriously, it's obvious. See the clovers here?"
Out of nowhere—a flick of the wrist—he produces the KID monocle and holds it out.
The elastic of his sweatpants rides up his calves as Kudou twists around and reaches up to cup the dangling charm in one of his palms. His brows furrow. "Huh. The same."
“A four-leaf clover,” Kuroba agrees. "My dad's brand. There's also this, look." He flips the blade around, giving all three of them a clear sight of the English letters on the bottom of the handle. K.T.
"Kuroba Toichi," he shoots Shiho a smug look, "You might have heard of him. That's my old man."
Magnanimous, Shiho stays silent save for a vague nod, swallowing back the reflexive quip that springs to her tongue. A magician whose trick took his life wasn't exactly the most impressive, but Kuroba looks at the blade with such a fond pride and, well—parents are sacred.
"How did Kuroba Toichi's dagger end up in your house?" she asks instead.
Kudou is still frowning at the KID charm in an alarmed look that Shiho recognizes, like he's forcing himself to follow a line of thinking to its scary, scary conclusion. “It was a gift,” he says absently.
“I'm used to finding my dad's stuff scattered around the world. Auctioned off, stolen, on Ebay, whatever. They just pop up sometimes. I know it’s expensive, but do you think your dad would be willing to let me have it?”
When Kudou finally tears his gaze away from the monocle he'd been glaring at Shiho can practically hear the shredding sound. He looks up at Kuroba, and his eyes are a little wide. Like he's seeing him for the first time.
There’s a beat of silence, his obvious cue. Kudou lets it pass him by, staring.
"I want it, okay?" Kuroba repeats patiently. Shiho's about half sure that he's going to steal it no matter the answer he got.
Used to picking up Kudou's slack, she cuts in, "I think if you get stabbed with something, it's just yours now. Right?"
"Uh," he blinks, looking at a loss, "yeah. Whatever. Sorry, toilet."
They watch him go with twin frowns.
"He did not just say that," Kuroba comments. "What the hell's wrong with him?"
"Many things." Shiho heaves herself up. "I'll be right back."
"Wait—fucking shit."
Shiho turns back, only to see Kuroba doubled over, facedown on the couch, like a wounded animal curled around itself. Fist clenched tight around the upholstery. "Have you changed your mind about painkillers yet?" she asks, with no particular inflection.
The sound he produces is truly pathetic. "Just let me die."
"Take them," Shiho sighs, "You're not in enemy territory. Sleep it off. No one's going to wake you."
"No," Kuroba says miserably, still muffled by the couch cushion.
Shiho purses her lips. She's starting to understand Kudou's irritation with the thief last night. Witnessing someone struggle when you could easily alleviate their pain is maddening. Reignited gratitude simmers low in her chest, for every time Kudou had to deal with her that year, every forced shove forward. It was so very easy to throw your hands up and wash them off.
And so Shiho does of course, but not without a heavy sigh. She turns around, and finds Kudou standing by the stove.
"Ok. You've never once helped clear the table," Shiho points out, in a carefully neutral tone despite the concern pinging. When Kudou's nervous, she gets nervous; at this point it's a deep-rooted survival instinct. "What's wrong?"
Kudou looks at her, a slight dent in his cheek betraying the fact he’s biting the inside of it. “Miyano.”
“Yes?"
“Miyano."
Shiho claps him on the shoulder a couple of times, like resetting a game console. "Out with it."
"The knife. My father said it was a gift from his brother."
Shiho blinks.
“I’m,” Kudou covers his mouth with a hand, "I’m related to Kaitou KID.”
Shiho blinks again, trying to both calm her anxiety and process those words. Then the statement clicks into place, and her heart soars but this time—fear has nothing to do with it.
Her face lights up in pure delight. Could this be...the best day of her life?
“Kaitou KID is related to me,” Kudou utters in disbelief, and Shiho thinks: so it does exist, something in this world that can make Kudou Shinichi cry.
When cornered, the wild thief, with its swift hands and sharp wits, becomes a surprisingly shy animal; in situations where it feels at a loss of control, it may demonstrate unreasonable mulishness. Case in point: by four PM on the first day of attending to the basic care of such an injured, couch-bound wild thief—unbudging on the matter of instant pain relief—said thief seems to have convinced himself that he is, in fact, fine enough to leave.
"I'll be fine if you can find me some crutches," he says over the NatGeo documentary Shiho's put on. "Actually, scratch that. I just need one."
"I'm not a magician's assistant," Shiho answers patiently, arms crossed. "If you want to pull a vanishing act, you're on your own. But I'll be a very impressed audience." She intends to stop there, but recognizes this for a perfectly fine entry point, "Even with the high standards I'm used to, when it comes to you."
Kuroba peeks at her, obviously interested. "You're a fan?"
"You're a good entertainer. Maybe my favourite. No one out there is doing what you're doing. I appreciate that." Kuroba glows smugly. Huh. It really is so easy with boys. "Which reminds me, you took my hair pin."
Kuroba doesn't look surprised; this is most likely a routine accusation. "What does it look like?"
"The Diadem of Rixensart."
"Oh, yeah," Kuroba snorts, mouth twisting into a smirk, "I remember that. You totally wore that to help me out right? I always wondered."
She shrugs. "Kudou-kun pissed me off that day."
"You're a fan," Kuroba reaffirms, pleased, with so much boyish confidence Shiho's first urge is to put a stop to this. Before she can think of a retort, he goes on, "Sorry though, I don't have it anymore, your hair pin. It's probably with the police or something."
"Hm. Do you take commissions?"
Kuroba laughs, then grimaces. "Ow. Don't be funny."
"I'll try to tone it down," Shiho says humbly.
"Tell you what, I'll buy you another if you help me leave." Eyebrow, eyebrow. "Come on, I just wanna go home."
"You will pass out five minutes after you step out the door," Shiho informs him. She picks up the remote to mute the TV, then turns to him fully. "Kudou-kun said the guy who was after you is still roaming. Now were he to find you, do you think you can outrun him in your state?"
"So he was after me?"
"We don't know."
"Who is he?"
"We don't know."
Kuroba squints at her. "Seriously, this is it? This is the best Japan has to offer?"
"It's only been one night," Shiho snaps back, bothered by his demeaning tone. Kudou hadn't offered any further information over their meal, but she'd the sense that it wasn't for a lack of it. With his deflective retorts and half-shrugs, his silence seemed permeated with the protective quality Shiho'd come to be oh-so familiar with. Most likely he was fielding a lot behind the scenes. "Don't knock your cousin."
"He's a complete wash," Kuroba scoffs.
Shiho shrugs, grabbing the remote to turn the TV volume back up.
The voiceover of the documentary drones on, soporific; somewhere in the Sahel, a cheetah chasing after a gazelle. She watches the chase for ten, long, seconds.
Just as predator jumps on prey, Kuroba reaches out to take the remote out of her hand and mutes it.
"What?" he asks.
Shiho blinks at him innocently. "Hm?"
"Cousin?"
"You didn't know?"
He blinks, again. "...Of course I know," he says, cutting short the startled moment that follows.
"The fact that Kudou-kun's father and your father are brothers," she completes.
"I know that," he repeats, frowning. Shiho can practically see the new information light up a part of his brain. "...I just—didn't know that Kudou knew. Since when?"
"Since this morning."
She watches him relax at this, shoulders slumping.
"Since when do you know?"
"Since this morning," Shiho says, then, taking pity: "It was Kudou-kun's uncle who gifted the dagger to Kudou Yusaku. You know, the one you got stabbed with. And since you apparently are certain that it was originally your father's, and the card it came with was signed his initials, well." She shrugs. "Even an idiot can connect those dots, and so Kudou-kun did."
“His uncle,” Kuroba repeats stupidly. "His uncle my dad."
"So it seems."
"I knew that," he reiterates. "I just forgot about it. It's not like I've ever seen them in my life."
She nods. "The Kudous tend to be remote."
"Kudou's old man is a famous detective too, isn't he?"
“He’s a mystery writer," Shiho corrects, "but he's known to consult with law enforcement, yes."
“Huh," Kuroba says. Then, eyes on the TV, in his flat voice, "Yeah, I guess I just forgot about him."
Shiho lifts an eyebrow, but keeps her eyes on the screen. It had been such a light thing with Kudou, the fact that he was cousins with Kaitou KID; he'd received it with a procession of emotions not unlike grief on the fast-track, the five stages culminating in nothing more than an exasperated eye roll. Two generations of KID and Phantom lady... no one can ever know.
She'd expected Kuroba to react similarly, though she couldn't explain why. She doesn't know Kuroba, she has to keep reminding herself. Only KID's playful and easy nature, which she's sure must be in there somewhere. He'd shown hints of it here and there, but evidently—looking at the resolute set of his jaw, the fixed eyes on the screen, his crossed arms—this was not the way to coax it further out.
"I've had a similar experience," she decides to say, without looking at him. "Finding out I have a cousin, that is. All I have left of my family are tapes that my mother left me, so I thought I'd be happy, or somewhat more… I don't know the right word. Anchored? But I didn't feel anything. There was no grand emotion or… or profound shift in loyalties. I even forget about him, sometimes. Honestly, I feel I have more of a blood relation with Kudou-kun and the Professor than I do him."
"What?" Kuroba makes a face, "You're related, too?"
"No, that's not what I mean." They've gone through the worst, darkest part of their lives together, and come out the other end wincing at the light and still together. It meant everything to Shiho. But that's a little embarrassing to explain, so she gives up. "I mean I actually have their blood."
Words aren't her forte. Whatever.
"That's so creepy."
"Perhaps."
They watch TV.
"That's actually all I got left of my dad, too, yanno, it's funny."
"Hm?"
Kuroba sounds almost bored. "Tapes. He left me some tapes. I listen to them everyday, sometimes he sounds so close it fucks me up. I get this urge to reach in there somewhere like I can pull him out."
Shiho falls silent, rattled. It's hard for her to be particularly stirred by anything these days, but the words demonstrate such a perfect understanding of a feeling she'd thought to be so unique to her, buried deep within her and nowhere else, it leaves her stunned to hear it verbalized, and so casually.
"A cruel illusion," she quietly says.
"I love my illusions," Kuroba sighs, struggling through a yawn.
Shiho stares at him for a moment, startled at this answer. She reaches over to put the back of her hand on his forehead. Kuroba's skin is feverishly hot under her hand, sweat-drenched bangs caressing her knuckles. He lets her, with a grimace, wounded tight. He's wincing in pain, and he, too, has tapes.
Shiho purses her lips. Decision made, she retreats and makes a quick stop in the basement, comes back with a cold press and a stick that she proceeds to unwrap and push in Kuroba's face.
"The fuck is that?" Kuroba frowns. "Why are you giving me a tampon?"
"You have to suck on it."
"Jeez. What kinda freak are you? I hate it here."
Shiho summons every drop of patience in her body. "It's morphine," she explains flatly. This was going to happen, she's decided. "For pain relief. They make these lollipops for army soldiers, you just have to suck on them and the effect will be almost immediate. It'll help."
Kuroba eyes it with hesitation, looks up at her, his gaze a worried, boyish blue. A cloudy blue, tired. "What does it feel like?"
"Like a warm bath. It will feel easy, nice. You won't slip out of yourself, just deeper in."
When Kuroba only holds it lamely in front of his face, Shiho narrows her eyes, sitting on top of the coffee table, watching him closely. It strikes her, suddenly, how similar they are.
"You need to get over yourself," Shiho says coldly, reaching up to take his fist around hers. "And you need to do it fast before you get him killed."
She pushes his hand up, the lollipop in his mouth. Kuroba lets it happen, obviously wanting it.
"I didn't ask him anything," he mumbles around it, conceding.
"I know," Shiho hums softly. She flattens the cold press against his forehead, and with the side of her finger sweeps the bangs out from under it.
Gradually, she feels him relax under her hands, and it's not something Shiho feels easily or even often, but at this moment, it is the most natural thing in the world to like herself.
"Your cousin's high."
"Don't call him that. How'd you get him to take them?" Kudou frowns, arms crossed as he stares down at the sleepy figure on the couch, impressed. "Are you a witch?"
"Wha'?" Kuroba stirs, "Where?"
"Settle down," Shiho tuts, gently pushing him back down.
"I forgot he believes in those," Kudou mutters, looking so disgusted that Shiho can't help but grin. Cousins. This is going to feed her for years.