Scattering Ashes

Title: Scattering Ashes
Chapter Title: Bullet Wounds
Summary: Three years after the fall of Kira, Near continues his role as the successor of L with dutiful indifference. Even so, he is haunted by ghosts of the past—indeed, one comes back from the dead hell-bent on teaching Near how to live.
Disclaimer: Death Note is the property of its creators. I do not own this franchise and no infringement is intended or profit gained by the writing of this fanfiction. I also do not own T.S. Eliot or his works; my quoting of his poems is to enrich the fanfiction but not to profit by it.
Pairing: MattxNear, past MelloxMatt
Spoiler Warning: Matt’s real name is mentioned again. Also, some more events from the final episodes are described in detail, and others are merely referred to. A character from one of the movies is mentioned. Doumi realized it from the last chapter. It’s a little scary, actually, that no detail ever escapes her. (Ha ha.)
Alternate Warnings: Rating T is for violence, swearing and adult sexual situations (which will occur later in the fic, please be patient) which include, but are not limited to, homosexuality. Also contains characters dealing with serious subjects like death and grief, so standard angst warnings apply.

Author’s Note: Hello Readers! I hope you all had a rockin’ Thanksgiving. I know I said I would try to get this out before the holiday—and I did try—but, you know, life happens. This took me about two weeks to write. Not so much because it’s exceptionally long, but more because I kept going back and adding to it. I had a lot of fun with this chapter. The last one was tedious because of the amount of research I had to do, but for this one, all I really had to work on was keeping it feeling organic.

I veered away from my original outline when it came to the Rabbi’s character. I had this whole thing mapped out where Near and Yisheth were going to have this strange relationship, where the Rabbi would refer to Near as “White Angel” and they took him and Matt in because it is Jewish custom to be hospitable to those in need. However, while the Jewish custom is certainly not cheesy, the whole “White Angel” thing is. I decided it felt more real, and by extension, more interesting, to bring back the Nusseibeh man, and to encourage the idea that the world and its problems is so much bigger than Near and Matt and Mello. And that these people, in this time of war, didn’t give half a rat’s shit about who Near was or how smart he is. That and the different notions of friendship were fun things to play with. I hope you like it.

Thank you so much for reading. I had a blast writing this one.

Yours,
Gloria



Scattering Ashes

Chapter Seven

Bullet Wounds

“Purpose is plain.

Endurance of friendship does not depend
Upon ourselves, but upon circumstance.
But circumstance is not undetermined.
Unreal friendship may turn real
But real friendship, once ended, cannot be mended.

Sooner shall enmity turn to alliance.
The enmity that never knew friendship
Can sooner know accord.”

~From “Murder in the Cathedral” by T.S. Eliot

June 11th, 2013
(That evening.)

Everything happened very, very quickly. Matt’s side was gushing blood, and once they had piled his unconscious body into the Rabbi’s car, Near took off his balta and pressed it into the wound, careful not burrow the dagger in deeper—but also fearful of taking it out. Near climbed into the backseat with Matt, pulling his deadweight into his lap and trying to staunch the flow of blood as the Rabbi pulled the car out onto the street. The ride was eventless and could have taken hours or minutes for all Near was paying attention. Near saw the blood; indeed, he was covered in it. He saw Matt’s face grow paler, his pulse become weaker, and his limbs colder. He heard the sirens and the shouting. He felt the hammer of his own frantic heartbeat. And through the surreal, through the veil and fog of this nightmare, Near’s only glaring thought was that Matt was going to die. He was going to die again. And he was going to die again because he had been trying to save him.

Yes, true, Matt’s focus was the urn—and it was a happy accident that Near was in charge of its well-being and therefore Near’s well-being was important to the renegade hacker. But before—before...

They had alerted him. They had given their lives so that Near would know—so that he could take down Kira. Matt and Mello. Mello and Matt. Mello.

Mello was dead. Matt was dying. In his arms, in the backseat of this Rabbi’s car, in a war zone, in the desert—because of ashes. Because of Mello’ stupid fucking will. Because of Mello’s stupid fucking ghost. Near wanted to laugh at the ridiculousness of it. He wanted to scream and be angry. He wanted to be defiant. But all Near could do was stare in shock and horror as Matt’s blood seeped through his fingers and soaked his shirt.

I’ve left something for you. For safekeeping. You will keep it safe, won’t you?

“Yes,” Near murmured hoarsely. He’d promised.

The car stopped suddenly—or Near abruptly realized the car had stopped. Either way, the car was no longer moving and many pairs of hands were gripping him, grasping Matt, hauling and pulling and above the hands were voices speaking rapidly to one another in Hebrew.

“—attacked by Garden Tomb—“

“—Heifa! Fetch the surgeon!”

“Yisheth! Why did you bring them here?! The Hezbollah will come!”

“Oh negative,” Near stated hollowly as he was hauled to his feet. The evening sun seared into his eyes and he blinked rapidly against the pain. His face was burning where it was exposed to the light. He swayed. “Oh negative.”

“Shh! Say again, boy?”

“Oh negative. He’s losing blood. The surgeon will come here?” Near was guided into a low roofed house. Ahead of him, three men were carrying Matt’s body into a back room.

“Yes.” Beside him, Yisheth, the Rabbi, touched a small scroll mounted to the doorframe and entered. In a low voice, Yisheth grabbed the arm of a young girl, one of his daughters, Near presumed, and instructed her to have the doctor bring blood from the bank. Oh negative.

Near made his way into the back room. It was a sterile room with steel accommodations and cabinets filled to the brim with medications and swabs, gauze and splints and surgical knives. They must bring injured fighters here, during battles. To operate on them. Near surmised there could be thousands of houses like this, turned into a make-shift hospice during war-time. Near was grateful. He stored the feeling away for later inspection.

Near busied himself with fetching a bowl of water and a rag. He instructed one of the men who had carried Matt in there to keep pressure on the wound. Near did his best to wipe as much blood away from Matt’s face and hands that he could—but soon the water became murky and the operation seemed useless. Near dropped the rag into the bowl with a thud and a splash. He lifted his hand and rested his fingers on Matt’s brow, despair and emptiness welling up inside of him as the precious seconds ticked by and still, the surgeon did not show. He pushed back Matt’s hair from his face, locks that were as dark and as red as the blood pouring from his side. He was so pale, blue around the edges. Near moved the hair to one side—and frowned. There, by the left temple, was a long, jagged scar.

In a rush, a tall, slender-fingered man swept into the back room, barking instructions. He laid his brief case on a nearby stool and ordered everyone from the room save Heifa and Yisheth. When Near did not move, the man made a small gesture with one hand and Near found himself being bodily dragged from the room. He was thrown onto a low sofa with plain appointments, but Near was on his feet immediately, shouting something he could not recall later.

“If your friend can be saved, Dr. Ali Mehkim will save him,” a voice murmured from a dark corner. The man’s voice was low and soft, but it stopped Near in his tracks nevertheless. He had heard it before. Near whirled, breathing: “Nusseibeh!”

The man nodded, his knotted turban dipping as he did. “Assalamu alaikum.”

Near stared rudely at him for a moment, his mouth pressed into a thin line. He had been correct about the Nusseibeh man being young, the Gatekeeper who had aided Matt and Near into the Selpuchre only a few hours ago. He was perhaps mid-twenties, with a beard that was barely full and black, solemn eyes that glittered in the darkness. Matt’s ally. Part of Matt’s network. In the Rabbi’s home. Either news traveled especially fast in this town and they were in far more trouble than Near would know what to do with—or this man had set Yisheth on that rock specifically to keep an eye on them. Which meant he gave a damn about Matt’s well-being. Which meant he either hadn’t been paid yet...or there was an actual friendship there. Eventually, Near answered: “Wa alaikum assalam wa rahmatu Allah.” It was only proper, after all.

The Nusseibeh man nodded again, this time out of approval—and maybe even respect. Near’s thoughts turned inward after that and he sank to the floor, crouching in on himself and reaching for a lock of hair to twine around his finger. He procured the Jack of Hearts from his blood-soaked shirt pocket and set it on the floor. He ignored the other men in the room, who had fallen silent at Near’s strange behavior, he ignored the women bustling to and from the back room, carrying pitchers of hot water and muttering to themselves, he ignored Matt’s moans of pain and the Nusseibeh’s intense stare prickling on the back of his neck, and he ignored time. He ignored its passage and its toll on his aching joints as it slipped by and vanished into the void. He stared at the Jack, the red smeared across its face. And he twirled his hair.

~*~

The fighting began around three in the morning.

It began as a faint, unassuming sound of irregular popping, echoing strangely in the dead night air. Near remained crouched over the Jack of Hearts, head bent in his vigil as he listened to the strange sounds cracking through the otherwise still night. Yisheth and Heifa were still with the surgeon in the back room, working on Matt, but other members of the household materialized into the hall, moving quietly about, lighting candles and barring the door. Their movements were robotic and slow with fatigue, and Near thought that this chore of closing down the house had become a sort of regular drill for them. The sounds of gunfire drew closer as the Nusseibeh and another man procured automatic rifles and took up a post by the front door. Occasionally, the house shook and yellow dust shivered from the beams above them. After the second time, Near glanced up to where Mello’s urn teetered on a narrow table, rocking back and forth as the foundation rumbled. Near rose silently and walked quietly over to the table, stiff joints cracking as he did so. He picked up the urn and set it under the table. Then he returned to the middle of the floor and curled in on himself, rubbing the pad of his thumb over his bottom lip as he pondered the Jack of Hearts.

Near’s mind was filled with visions, memories from the past. He relived, over and over, the feed from the security cameras that showed Matt being shot down by the Kira supporters in Japan. He had exited his car in surrender, cool and overconfident. Even through the black and white fuzz of the camera feed, Near had been able to see the smirk on Matt’s face, the tell-tale twist of his lips that spoke only of how much more he felt he knew than them. Even then, Near believed that Matt had some secret. Did Matt care so little about the world that he could walk smiling into the waiting arms of death? Or did he know something that his killers had not?

He’d been shot multiple times by the Kira fanatics, the bodyguards of Takada, and the police force. He’d stumbled back, teetered dangerously when a bullet had grazed his temple, and only then did he collapse. Near remembered what Matt had been wearing. During those days, Matt still had an affinity for long-sleeved striped shirts. That night he’d worn a thick vest to ward him from the cold. Stylish and bulky, the vest had a neck that covered nearly half of Matt’s face. When they were done with him, the soft deerskin vest had been ruddy with blood, so soaked that it had instantly put out the cigarette that fell from the hacker’s mouth. He watched the feed in his mind, able to recall every detail, every angle.

L had never spoken to him. The great detective had never given him instructions or left him advice or deemed it necessary to aid Near’s succession in any way. At the time, Near had thought nothing of it. Mello had loved L, and so too, in his own way, Near thought that Matt had as well. However, there had never been any affection between him and the esteemed, reclusive detective. Near never felt the need for L’s acknowledgment. In a way, being the chosen successor was enough acknowledgment. But Near did not feel that was the type of relationship he shared with L. If he shared one with him at all.

Near had taken up the mantle of L with dutiful indifference, handling the Kira case where L had failed and continuing on with other cases after that one was sufficiently closed. Near understood that he had proved himself with the finale of the Kira case, but he also felt that he hadn’t quite made his mark yet. L had worked very hard for his prestige. The War of the Three, the battle between L and two other great minds for the top had been a great chapter in L’s legacy. There, Near felt, was where L had made his mark. However, Near was so introverted that he did not feel the necessity to be so flashy or objective. He fulfilled his duties and wished only to be left alone. Near wondered now if it was not enough.

L did not like people. He did not enjoy struggling to communicate with them. Near knew this because he did not like it much either. Yet, L had been willing to go out among them to solve a case—and sometimes for his own pleasure, as with the Tennis Tournament. Why? Had L understood something about people that Near had not yet grasped? Near felt different being among strangers, out in situations he did not have full control over. His emotions seemed to rise and fall with growing strength, feeling to come out of him instead of at him from a different source. He reacted to expressions. Before he cared little for them and rarely looked at a person’s face. And he found himself caring a great deal about the welfare of the man who called himself Matt, despite his aversion to Near’s predispositions. Near had been willing to endanger himself to save this man. Near had killed for him. Was there a secret here that L knew? That he had discovered for himself? That Near was discovering now?

Was there a hidden clue in the feed from those camera images, something he had missed before? Something he had overlooked?

Did Matt kill those men in Japan? If not, were those murders some sort of warning?

Dawn light was just beginning to trickle through the cracks in the boarded windows when Yisheth emerged from the back room. Near raised his head and blinked questioningly up at the exhausted Rabbi. But Yisheth merely turned and retreated to another part of the house. Heifa came after, rubbing at the blood on his forearms with a towel. When he didn’t meet Near’s gaze either, the detective felt fear lance his heart. He watched the second man’s retreating back as a coldness seeped into him, his mouth working over words that would not take form. Finally, the surgeon came through the doorway, running a hand tiredly over his eyes. Behind Near, the Nusseibeh man straightened.

“He lives,” Dr. Ali Mehkim murmured in Arabic. “The knife missed his liver.” The doctor glanced behind him and then looked over at the Nusseibeh. “He will be conscious for only a few more minutes. I have given him an opiate for the pain.”

Near rose to his feet, trying but failing to formulate a response. He was relieved, so much so that he felt weak. Near struggled to separate himself from this feeling that abruptly overwhelmed him. It was not as easy to push this feeling down, to set it aside for later review. He wanted to know when Matt would be well again. How long it would be before they could leave. The Nusseibeh man brushed past Near, heading for the back room. A jolt of savage anger shook Near and his hand shot out, grabbing the Arab’s arm. Before Near could speak, the Nusseibeh said: “I have business here, friend.”

“Your business can wait,” Near grated in a flat voice, his black eyes flashing dangerously under his fringe of white hair.

“You are a weak man in a formidable land,” the Nusseibeh man said, shaking off Near’s grip. “Do you think your story is the only one to tell? That your life is the only one that matters here?” The Nusseibeh gestured around him, the gesture meant to encompass the whole of the Holy Land, symbolized by the Arabs and Jews living together in the same safe house. “I think that I would know better whose business is more important in a place such as this, in times such as this.” The man slipped into the back room and shut the door. Near let him go without further protest. He was just as stunned with his reaction as he was with the man’s response. Near turned to the doctor, feeling suddenly vulnerable.

“He has lost a lot of blood,” the doctor continued after a moment in a quiet voice. “He suffers from a swelling of the brain. I do not think it will kill him, but he will sleep for many long hours until the swelling recedes.” The surgeon met Near’s eyes briefly and then glanced away. “All things considered, I think your friend has seen much worse and lived. His body will heal.”

“Is he in a lot of pain?” Near finally managed.

Dr. Ali Mehkim smiled sympathetically at him. The gesture surprised Near, who did not expect it. “The worst of it is over,” he said gently.

To that, Near disagreed. They had only covered two of the places on Mello’s list. They weren’t even half way done. The doctor excused himself and retired, leaving Near alone with his thoughts and the armed guard at the door. Twenty minutes later, the Nusseibeh man emerged from the back room, regarding Near solemnly with a grim set to his bearded chin. “I am sorry, friend, but now he sleeps.”

Near glared openly at him from his crouch on the floor until the Nusseibeh stepped away from the back room. Only then did he rise to enter.

Matt was laid out on the table in the center of the room, a long white sheet covering his body. Plastic tubes from an IV and machines dripped fluid and blood back into his veins and monitored his vitals. Near was relieved to see they were stable. He did not like, however, how pale he still seemed, despite the garish bruising that swelled his face and throat, where the assailant had kicked him. Matt breathed evenly, despite it all, his chest rising and falling beneath the sheet. Near approached the table and reached out to touch him, but his hand fell away as he lost his nerve. It seemed improper to touch Matt when he wasn’t aware to receive it. And it didn’t seem necessary now that Near knew he would be fine.

Near walked around the table, to the machines on the other side. He gazed at the jagged peaks of Matt’s heartbeat and the numbers that gauged his breathing and blood pressure. He wondered, briefly, why he was in here at all. It did not seem to make a difference one way or another, Near being in this room with him. Matt could not speak to him, and Matt would not hear him if Near spoke. Near smiled wryly to himself when he realized they did not speak to each other much even when they were both conscious. Which was just as well. Perhaps Near just liked being close to him. Knowing, instead of just being told by a stranger, that he was okay. Near wondered if this meant they were friends.

Near turned back and gazed down at Matt’s sleeping face, the stark sweep of his lashes against his swollen cheekbones, the fringe of his dark auburn hair. Near’s dark eyes found the jagged scar again, the one by his left temple. He reached out and traced it with one finger. The camera feed flashed into his mind again and his hand froze. Suddenly, Near grasped the sheet and threw it back. Matt was naked underneath, but Near was unperturbed. His eyes sought and found what he was looking for. And they were everywhere. Three in his right thigh, one in his left calf, two in his right arm and four in his left. That was why his arm shook. That was why he always wore long sleeves and only changed clothes when Near could not see.

Bullet wounds.

Deep, indented scars all over his arms and legs and even one in his shoulder, but this one only a graze where the muscle met the triceps. But none on his chest. Near reached out and pushed up Matt’s side to inspect his back. Matt’s arms flopped carelessly as Near saw that his back was also unscathed. Near returned him to his former position and rearranged his limbs, returning the sheet to modestly cover his body. Near closed his eyes as another piece of the puzzle fell into place.

Matt had been wearing a vest. A bullet proof vest. Well, of course he had, hadn’t he? Matt was no idiot. He would have known those men would have been armed. Near’s eyes snapped open. But Mello hadn’t known. Mello had thought Matt had died. And there had been bloodstains on the vest. Near had watched them appear on the feed. Mello had not known about the vest. Matt had made his death very public. Matt had—

Matt had faked it. He’d been injured in his limbs, but Matt had made sure his vital organs would be safe. Flashy, objective—but what objective?

What had he been hiding from Mello? Why would he let Mello think he was dead?

“What were you running from?” Near whispered down to Matt’s sleeping form. Kira? No. That made no sense. Kira had no knowledge of Matt at all. Kira was aware of Mello, but never Matt. “Secrets...”

Secrets kept from Near, from Mello, from everyone...but kept from L? Matt had been his first choice, after all. He had been trained in ways that had excluded Mello and Near. What was he involved in? Had he been trying to protect Mello? Matt had not aided Mello until Mello had come to Japan. Matt had not been with Mello when he was running the Mafia. Near knew that was significant, but could not understand why.

“I’m quite comfortable with everyone thinking I’m dead, believe me.”

Who lent him the jet? How was he connected to the Nusseibeh?

“Web of lies,” Mello breathed next his ear.

“Yes.”

“Everyone has secrets,” Mello whispered, his breath hot on his neck.

“I don’t have secrets.”

“Yes, you do.” Mello lowered his head, allowing his blond lashes to trail his skin, causing gooseflesh and shivers. Mello smiled wickedly. “Your whole existence is a secret.”

“Is it not something he’s hiding then? That it’s just him that’s the secret?”

“We’re not talking about him,” Mello murmured, his lips pressed behind his ear.

“I am.”

“I’m not.”

He sighed, annoyed. “Why do you haunt me, Mello?”

“Nonsense.”

“Nonsense?”

“Nonsense.” Mello pulled away a little, letting him feel the absence of it, relishing at how he stepped back into him. “The dead can only haunt the living.”

“I don’t understand.”

“When have you ever been alive?” Mello whispered.

He did not answer.

“You see my point then,” Mello murmured, and withdrew.

The door slammed open and Near stormed into the hall. The Nusseibeh man was cleaning his rifle on the sofa when he came in. He raised his head and regarded the detective calmly, even as Near reached out and grabbed the rifle away from him.

“Who answers to whom?” Near demanded in Arabic, holding the automatic weapon away from the Gatekeeper. Behind him, alarmed members of Yisheth’s household rose and approached warily. The Nusseibeh waved them back. “Answer me, Nusseibeh! Who do you work for? Why are you here, for him?”

The Nusseibeh man breathed in slowly and let it out in a sigh. “I know that I do not answer to you. And neither does he.”

“That’s not good enough.” Near’s voice was sharp, tilting dangerously in his anger.

“It will have to be, friend,” he responded, his voice becoming less kind. “For I cannot in good faith tell you what he will not.”

“Are you saying he doesn’t trust me?” Near breathed, his anger boiling to the brink. He clutched the rifle so tightly, the metal contours of the weapon bit into his flesh.

The Nusseibeh considered his words before speaking. “I only observe and make judgments on what I perceive. Who are you to make these demands of me? To make them of anyone?”

For the first time since taking the mantle of L, Near wanted shout the words, to force another into submission by that one phrase that could silence an entire room. I am L. He had said them before, but only as a way to introduce himself through a speakerphone, to a person who could not see him and probably never would. This was different. Near knew that there would be a measure of seething satisfaction of surprising this man, startling him into answering his questions, humbling him. However, despite the gratification, Near knew that the consequences of this admission, this declaration, could be deadly. No one was to know he was L. Near already feared that those men on the hill had known. That somehow, it had gotten out, and they were sent to kill him. It was something he did not like to think on.

Near said instead: “I am Mello.”

The Nusseibeh man looked curiously at him for a long moment, before pulling his eyes away to regard the urn in the far corner of the room. Near stiffened, thinking he may have made a mistake. This man knew who Mello was. Near was certain of it when he brought his black eyes back to Near’s face, a strange, soft smile curling into the man’s beard. “I see.” Those black eyes continued to roam Near’s face, thoughtful and intelligent. Behind them, Heifa and the other man listened intently. Beyond them, Yisheth’s daughters listened in the hall. Apparently, their conversation had become quite a spectacle. Eventually, the Nusseibeh’s smile relaxed into a grin. “Well, friend, I am Akhish. Now we can speak together as civilized men, yes?”

Near glanced down at the rifle in his hands, feeling suddenly foolish. He handed the weapon back to Akhish who took it and set it next to him. Akhish beckoned Near closer with a crook of his brown finger. Near lowered his head, peering suspiciously at the Arab.

“If an enemy of my enemy is my friend, then so too must a friend of my friend be a friend as well,” Akhish said to Near in a low voice only he could hear. “I cannot give you the answer you ask of me, but I will say it is not wise to use that name among friends of M.”

Near blinked, startled. Is that what they called him here? M? “How many times has M been to the Holy Land?” Near whispered.

“Only this once,” Akhish answered. “And he will probably do well not to return.”

Near felt his confusion deepen and his irritation grow stronger. “And those men who attacked us?”

“Hezbollah,” Akhish said. “They were sent for a detective. And they found you.”

They stared at one another as the meaning of that truly sunk in. At last, Near turned slightly on his heel and lowered himself to a crouch on the floor so he could pick up the Jack of Hearts. With a sense of finality and commitment, and none too little foreboding, Near turned the card over and laid it face down on the floor. It was time to even the playing field. He brushed his fingers lightly over the back of the card and glanced up at the Nusseibeh Gatekeeper, his curling white hair falling heavily in his dark, piercing eyes. “Thank you, Akhish. Is there a phone in this establishment?”

“The line would not be secure.”

“Friend,” Near said, smiling a little at how strange the word felt in his mouth. “That was not my question.”

~*~

In Near’s office, on the third story of Wammy’s Orphanage, Rester and Halle sat at their desks, sifting through paperwork. They had decided to keep on Near’s cases to counteract the threat of anyone suspecting that L was not mandating his post. One of the many flat screens covering the walls flashed abruptly and Roger’s face came on the feed. Rester leaned over his laptop and pressed a button.

“Yes?”

“There’s a call from Switzerland,” Roger said, his wrinkled face drawn in concern. “Line one.”

Halle glanced up from the file she was currently bent over as Rester took the call and put it on speakerphone, switching on the mechanism that would distort his voice to the person on the other end. “This is L,” Rester lied, his voice even.

“Well, that’s just as well,” said a female voice of one of their many contacts around the globe, her English heavily accented. “Because there’s a call that just came in; a man claiming to be the same.”

“From where?” Rester asked as Halle shot to her feet and crossed the room to hover over Rester’s shoulder.

“I traced the call to Jerusalem,” the woman answered, seeming cross and nervous simultaneously. She probably feared what would happen for wasting L’s time.

Rester and Halle exchanged a quick glance. “Put it through.”

“Are you sure—“

“Put it through.”

The woman hesitated, then: “Please hold.”

A series of beeps and shrills came over the speakerphone and then a dull click before Near’s voice came on the line, monotone and flat. “Rester, Halle.”

“We’re here. Is it—is it really you?”

There was a pause and then a short, annoyed sigh. “Code in?”

Relief slammed into both of them and Rester, uncharacteristically flustered, said: “Yes, of course. Code in.”

“N1225.”

“Oh, God, Near!” Halle cried, lunging forward and turning off the distorter. “Christ, are you okay? Where are you? We’ll come get you. Oh, God, I’m so sor—“

“Halle, shut up,” Near snapped.

Subdued and a little hurt, Halle straightened. Rester put a comforting hand over hers and squeezed a little as Near spoke again, static crackling over his words.

“The man who abducted me from the mansion is Mail Jeevas. I have deduced that he faked his death in Japan but the reasons for this continue to elude me.” Near paused as the static grew louder and then faded. “He has some intricate network he is connected to, and powerful friends.”

“Who?” Rester inquired.

A moment passed before Near answered. “I should know soon enough.” The static rose and fell again. “Listen carefully, I need you to keep an eye out for—“ The static screamed, drowning out his words.

“Come again? Near?”

The static faded. “—albino murders in growing numbers.”

“You believe the knowledge is out?” Halle asked. “That you’re gone?”

“A group of Lebanese mercenaries attacked Matt and I,” Near said, his voice cracking a little, and not from the static. “Matt is injured.”

“Were they contracted to kill you?” Rester asked.

“If they were, specifically, that could mean trouble for the albino population,” Near said, almost offhandedly.

“Near, I don’t understand,” Halle interjected. “Why don’t you tell us where you are? We’ll come and get you. You could make a statement; put the rumors to rest...”

“That’s a very good idea,” Near mused, seeming somewhat distracted. “A statement...Rester, do that if it becomes necessary.”

“Near,” Rester said, a strange, paternal warning in his voice. “Where are you?”

“If I do not contact you again in a month, assume that I am dead and consult Roger for a new L,” Near said in an emotionless voice, as if it were the most natural thing in the world to say.

“What?” Rester and Halle exploded simultaneously.

“If I do not return in a month—“

“Near,” Rester said in a dark, scolding tone. “Tell us where you are. We’ll come get you.”

“No,” Near said. “No, there are some things I need to do. Some things I need to discern. I will contact you when I am ready for an extraction.”

“Near, you’re talking crazy,” Halle said, her voice tight with anger. “Anything you need to do, you can do with us. It’s our job to protect to you. How can we protect you if you’re not—“

“Halle, shut up.”

“I will not! You need—“

“Then consider yourself relieved of your duties,” Near said harshly. “You may clear out your desk. Rester—“

“Near, you little shit, listen to me.” Halle was beside herself. “I went to Japan, and had the body re-examined with Aizawa. The mortician from three years ago lied to me. If you say that Matt faked his death, she was in on it, she helped him do it. She called herself Kimiko Kujo. Does that name mean anything to you?”

Near was quiet for a long time. At last he said: “Yes. It does.” Another long pause. Then, “K.”

Halle, breathing hard, managed, “So, this woman...she’s from here?”

“Yes.” The static rose and dulled. “Thank you for that information, Halle. You are re-hired.”

Halle sent a long-suffering look Rester’s way, who answered it silently with knowing eyes. It was not the first time either one of them had been fired in a bout of impatience from Near.

“K is from A’s generation. Please consult the archives and track her down in my absence. I will do my best to live to hear the results of your search.” The static screamed briefly, and when it died down, Near resumed speaking. “I have made promises, Halle, Rester. Please attempt to understand that this is a thing I must do without you. I wish we could speak more, but time, as they say, is of the essence.”

“No,” Rester said, recognizing the tone in his employer’s voice. “Near, wait—“

“Goodbye.”

The connection ended, leaving an empty silence in its wake. Rester and Halle looked at one another for a long moment, dread filling the quiet between them. Then, Rester leaned over his desk and hung up the phone. “Let’s get to work,” he said.

~*~

The following day, close to dusk, a siren began wailing. It shrieked through the air, the eerie whine filling up the silence of Yisheth’s near-vacant household. Near rose from his crouch on the floor, taking the Jack of Hearts with him, and approached Mello’s urn. He took the urn and placed it into a nearby wicker basket, covering it with a straw lid. Near placed the Jack of Hearts atop the wicker basket and turned to face Yisheth and Heifa, who had come into the room armed with their rifles at the sound of the siren. They looked questioningly at the detective.

Akhish had spoken for many hours with the Rabbi before departing back to his father’s house near Sepulchre. After a heated argument, Yisheth had finally agreed to allow Near and Matt to stay in his home until Matt was well enough to travel again. Yisheth had, however, deemed his home now unsafe for his wife and daughters, and had sent them to a relative’s house in the Eastern Quarter. It was now only the four of them, Near, the Rabbi, Heifa and Matt—who was still unconscious and heavily medicated.

Near tugged the sleeves of his shirt down to cover his hands, steeling himself before he could meet the Rabbi’s accusing stare. It was the deep red shirt Matt had given him in Japan. It no longer smelled of lavender. It smelled like Matt’s blood. He finally looked up at the two men across the room as the ground shook when large, armored vehicles rumbled down the street. Yisheth had hardened in his demeanor towards Near after seeing Matt’s body. Near could not fathom what Yisheth must think. Did he believe that that was what happened to a companion of him? Did he believe that Near had caused those scars? Inadvertently, Near could have. But Near knew now that there was more to the shooting than just warning Near, back during the last few days of Kira’s reign of terror and death. And besides, guilt was not a language Near fully understood anyway. Near met Yisheth’s gaze unflinching.

“Is a there a hidden room,” Near asked, “Where you two might hide?” Near had already covered the door to the back room with a tapestry, making it blend with the rest of the wall. Should the Hezbollah come for him, Matt would be safe.

Yisheth stared at him as the rumble drew closer, shaking the beams of the house and causing yellow dust to trickle down. The popping sounds of gunfire began, loud this time, so close.

“God be with you,” Yisheth murmured, and meant it, despite his glare. He was a righteous man. Near liked him for it. It is a different kind of strength required of a man, to be holy in times of war. Yisheth touched Heifa’s arm and they turned to go.

“And with you,” Near whispered in Hebrew, watching Yisheth pause before the hallway. The Rabbi touched a scroll on the mantle and entered, leaving Near alone in the small room. Near never saw him again.

Moments later, they came like a scourge. They rammed the door and, shouting in Lebanese, swarmed in. Near stood in the middle of the room, watching with dark, indifferent eyes as the place exploded in a flurry of motion. Khaki pants and dark shirts, they wore mostly, some with camouflage garments, and most with bullet proof vests. All were armed to the teeth. Near was grasped roughly by a man who smelled like onions and rank. A sack was thrown over his head and he was shoved into another pair of hands. A violent blow came from nowhere. The last thing Near heard was harsh laughter.

~*~

Mello held the pigeon carefully in both hands, stroking the dull grey feathers with his thumbs. “Soft,” he observed.

They sat on the roof. It had always been their favorite place. Quiet and peaceful, save for the cooing of the birds as they begged for bread crumbs.

It was different now, though. They were much older than they used to be. Mello had his scars, and he...well, he had his fair share of scars too.

Mello leaned forward, rocking precariously on the balls of his feet, his jagged blond hair sweeping forward as he let the bird go. In a flurry, the bird flapped its wings and took off. Mello rocked back and shook his hair away from his face. “I used think, with utter certainty, that karmic hell would be dying and coming back as a pigeon.”

Startled, he laughed. “Why?”

Mello shrugged and tipped his face back, relishing the warmth of the sun. “They’re dingy and ugly, rats with wings; too fat to fly anywhere important...they eat garbage...” Mello glanced sidelong at him, his mouth curling into a wry smile. “I know better now.”

He frowned. “I wish you wouldn’t say things like that.”

“Why not? What’s true is true.”

“Still. I don’t like it.”

“That’s very sweet of you.”

“I’m not trying to be sweet.”

“I know,” Mello said, his smile taking a turn for the wicked. “That’s what makes it so sweet.”

He changed the subject. “Is there such thing as karmic hell?”

“No,” Mello answered readily. He brought one fingernail up to his mouth and began chewing on it. “And yes.” He moved his hand away from his mouth and regarded his bitten fingernail. “After all, I have to watch you and him.”

“Does it make you angry?”

Mello shrugged. “Nah.” He dropped his hand to his lap and stared out over the estate, stories below them and stretching on forever. “Not angry. I worry, that’s all.”

“About what?”

“Everything.” Mello frowned. “Nothing. I don’t worry.” Mello turned suddenly, his green eyes blazing. “He’s gone,” he hissed.

“What?”

“Wake up,” Mello demanded, his voice hard, urgent. “Immediately.”

Matt’s eyes snapped open and he jerked away from the cloth covering his nose and mouth. The cloth moved back and disappeared from view, replaced by Akhish’s strained face.

“Akhish? Wha...?” Matt made to sit up, but pain and nausea attacked him from all sides. He fell back with a groan.

“Easy, friend. Easy.” Akhish turned and spoke to someone else in a low voice. Matt covered his eyes with the back of one hand until, minutes later, someone pulled it back and pressed a cup of water into his palm. “Drink.”

Matt propped himself on one elbow, wincing at the pain it caused him, breathing carefully at the dizziness that attacked him. “Where’s Ne—where’s the man I was with? With the white hair?”

“Drink first,” Akhish said, turning to the other man in the room who handed him a needle filled with clear fluid.

Matt took a sip, eyeing the syringe warily. He didn’t much like needles. “What is that?” His head pounded something fierce, the light hurt his eyes. “Where are my clothes?”

“Adrenaline,” Akhish said, answering the first question but ignoring the other. “Your friend’s been taken.”

Matt froze, the cup half-way to his mouth. “Who?”

“Hezbollah. Last night, while I was away. I came as soon as it was safe.”

Hezbollah. The blood drained from his face. Matt grabbed the syringe from the Nusseibeh and slid the needle into his flesh. “I need my things. Where’s my pack?”

His backpack was tossed into his lap and Matt pushed his hand in and retrieved the bulky, black phone. His heart began to hammer in his chest. The adrenaline was working. He reached a second time into his pack and took out a stick of gum. He handed the gum to Akhish and kept the wrapper. Within moments, he was dialing Danny-boy.

“Danny-boy? It’s M. I need another favor.”

To be continued...


A/N: That last scene with Mello was inspired greatly by a watercolor fanart I had stumbled across some months ago on the net. Its this beautiful depiction of Mello and Matt sitting on a roof and Mello is holding a pigeon. One of my favorite DN fanarts. I have no idea who the artist is. If you do, be sure to let me know. I would like to accredit him or her for the inspiration.

inuyashalove04: Thanks for another awesome review! I’m glad you’re already doing some guesswork on L’s hallucinations. I can’t wait to address that, but I have to get through some action first. The I don’t believe in ghosts dialogue was a lot of fun to write. It was something that wasn’t there at first, and then when I went back to edit, and I was taking a bunch of unnecessary things out, I thought of those lines and played with them. It went through some editing too, because I wanted that feel you mentioned, serious yet comical. I wanted it to feel like Near was still in his haze, and he was thinking faster than the words were coming out of his mouth. Sometimes I do that, I’ll be chatting with friends and my mind is going fifty miles an hour and I’ll abruptly say something that seems out of the blue, but really would be relevant a few minutes down the road. I imagine it would be like that with Near frequently, because he is so lost in his own head.

The attack at Garden tomb was very, very clear in my head, even months ago when I was still debating whether or not I wanted to commit myself to a DN fanfiction. And it was always very clear to me that Matt would easily take a bullet for Near. It was something interesting to play, Near believing that Matt only wanted to protect the urn, but by the his actions, allowing to have the reader understand that Matt was really protecting Near—without beating it into the ground, you know? One of my favorite things to write in that scene was when Near turned back, and Matt was ready to execute that man but hesitated when he saw that Near was there. Speaks volumes to me about how he struggles to adapt to Near’s sense of right and wrong, when he was so used to Mello’s skewed perception of the same. It was subtle, but it felt natural so I kept it. Thanks again for your review and I hope you enjoyed the update!

Doumi: Thanks for your reviews! I cannot tell you enough how much I love them! That bit with Matt and Near speaking about ghosts wasn’t exactly planned, but sometimes the best dialogue is the stuff that shows up on the page organically, evolving from the characters instead of for them. Hah! And I am glad you caught that! That Near answered his haunt and Matt at the same time. I’ll sneak that in from time to time. Its fun to play with. I’m telling you Doumi, Eidetic Memory is fascinating stuff! The Google Maps thing came straight from that research for TFTM.

All those observations of Matt in action are big, big clues! I’m glad you liked the analysis. I had fun imagining that scene up, especially when Near kills that guy to save Matt and then tries to carry him away. It shows the beginning the tables turning, and their roles with one another beginning to even out and become more of an equal partnership.

You’re on to something with K, m’dear. It’s fun that you caught that. I didn’t think anybody would, lol. And, lol, yeah, grilled cheese sandwiches are a subtle theme threading this story, but I have absolutely no idea why. I think its fun because it’s so mundane and it clashes with the extraordinary themes of Death Note.

Funny thing about the scene in the Sepulchre. I had written that scene originally without all that info about the status quo, and then worried that no one would understand the significance of the ashes on Calvary and Mello’s twisted sense of humor. So then I wrote all of that in there—and then because I made that big deal over the status quo, I ended up re-writing the scene again to include the Arab Gatekeeper, who also made a big appearance in this chapter as well. Its funny how characters materialize out of necessity. And it turns out I had such a blast creating Akhish. He feels like he has so much history and wisdom because of this ancient tradition, plus the mystery connection with Matt gives him a special allure. I enjoyed thinking up little moments where Near and Akhish would clash.

Thanks again for your amazing reviews, and I hope you enjoyed the update!