Scattering Ashes

Title: Scattering Ashes
Chapter Title: Secret
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: Slight spoiler for how Near formed the SPK, if you squint
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: Hi readers! I wrote some six thousand words of this in one go last week, and just sat down to finish the rest and edit. This chapter was an incredible amount of fun for me because, as you know, I like to write action. There were some minor differences in what I had originally planned, and then some major. But as a whole, I like this version much better. Doumi, I know I told you Near and Matt would that spiff in this chapter, but I decided to push it back one chapter so that this one could end on a happy note.

Also, readers, you’ll be happy to know that the romance hitches up a knot in the next chapter. Remember to review! Now that we’re this far into the story, it’s really important to let me know what you’re thinking so that I can stay on the right track. I won’t beg for them, but they are love in code. Show me some love, baby. And thank you so very much for reading.

Yours,
Gloria



Scattering Ashes

Chapter Eight

Secret

“Dayadhvam: I have heard the key
Turn in the door once and turn once only
We think of the key, each in his prison
Thinking of the key, each confirms a prison
Only at nightfall, aethereal rumours
Revive for a moment a broken Coriolanus
Da...”

~From “The Waste Land” by T.S. Eliot

June 13th, 2013

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

Dry laughter greeted his statement. Matt narrowed his eyes, the cornflower blue hue flashing in annoyance as he fished cigarettes from his pack and lit one up. The doctor, the long-fingered man across the room, whom Matt presumed had patched him up, began to object, but Akhish shooed him out. Matt ashed into the silver bowl on the stand next to him, turning a sanitized wash bowl into his personal ash tray with a mere flick of his fingers. “Well?” Matt prompted.

“I’m making no promises,” came the voice on the other end. “Where the hell is my plane? ”

“Your plane is on its way back to you,” Matt answered, trying not to hiss in pain as he scooted off the table and stood. Akhish came back into the room with a thick roll of electrical tape and the hacker’s jeans.

“And you’re not on it.”

“No, I’m still in Jerusalem.” Matt took the pants and hurried into them, pulling them up and over his waist. His stitches pulled and his side began to bleed. Akhish touched his elbow lightly and Matt put the phone between his cheek and shoulder before holding his arms up. “I need you to authorize a VIP Medevac.”

Danny-boy laughed again. “What? Lost your little friend already? Didn’t I say you were out of your fucking mind for going into Israel? ”

His words made Matt angrier than he was willing to show, and he gritted his teeth as Akhish wrapped the electrical tape around his naked torso. “Are you done?” Matt snapped into the phone.

“Very.”

“Good. I’m—“ Matt hissed through his teeth and clenched his eyes closed as Akhish pulled a little too roughly at the wound in his side. “Fuck.”

“I apologize.”

“What is that? M, are you hurt? ” Matt wasn’t convinced by the concern in Danny-boy’s voice. He knew just how self-obsessed this man was and that he really didn’t give half a damn about anyone’s welfare—except, of course, when it came to what Danny-boy wanted from Matt personally.

Matt took a steadying drag off of his cigarette. “I’m fine. DB, I don’t have a lot of time. Will you send the rain?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Danny-boy,” Matt growled, “Don’t be stupid. He’s—“ Matt paused, sharing a long glance with Akhish, as the Gatekeeper straightened and handed him a shirt to wear. “He’s important to L,” Matt finished, glancing away and feeling a darkness grow in the pit of his belly. His heart hammered from the adrenaline. His side burned like fury. And Danny-boy was being difficult. If they had taken Near yesterday, and he had been in the care of Hezbollah for over eighteen hours...not only could they now be anywhere in the Middle East, but also...but also... “Very important.”

Danny-boy was quiet for a moment, considering. Matt used this time to reach back into his pack and procure his makeshift satellite. He looked up to Akhish, who stood close and stared at him with piercing black eyes. “I need a monitor; a television will do. Anything—do you have something like that here?” Akhish was already moving before Matt had finished. The hacker pulled out speakerphones and some cords from his pack as well, assembling everything on the bed in an order only Matt understood. Matt checked the time, reading the clock face hanging from the far wall. “I’m losing daylight here,” Matt muttered darkly.

“No.”

“DB—“

“M, you’ve been teasing me for ten years.”

Matt froze, barely noticing when Akhish brought in a small TV and set it on the bed. Matt loathed Danny-boy in that moment more than he has ever hated anyone. Matt knew then that he was going to be blackmailed. And that Near’s life would hang in the balance. He tried again: “I can guarantee that the people you answer to will not be pleased if this man disappears.”

“This friend of L? ” Danny-boy mocked, laughing a third time.

“Yes!” Matt answered hotly.

Danny-boy sobered. Matt could hear the deadly calm in his voice. “I am not a fool. I know that you would not call me at home for a mere friend of L’s. ” Matt paled, and Akhish, sensing it, stilled beside him. “You would not have asked for a private jet into Israel for a mere friend of L’s. M, you would not be traveling into war zones for a mere friend of L’s.”

Matt took a deep breath and let it out slowly, trying to ease the sudden quake in his limbs. He fucked up. He really fucked this up. He reached with trembling hands and began assembling the wires into the monitor. “All the more reason for you to be cooperative,” Matt said quietly, despite his rush of panic, despite the anger and the pain. He hooked up the speakers and then attached the satellite.

“M, from where I’m sitting, you have much more to lose from this than I. Your threats can do nothing now. ”

Matt switched on the satellite. As he waited for it to boot up, he met Akhish’s stare. The Gatekeeper’s black, glittering eyes burned into him. “What do you want?”

“M, my dear boy, you know exactly what I want. ”

Matt’s blood ran cold. Akhish lifted his chin. Hezbollah has abducted the known L. They would kill him. And it would be Matt’s fault. It would be Matt’s fault if Near died. Matt had promised to protect him. Somehow, things had gone very, very wrong. Betray one, save another. Sell his soul, or sacrifice Near. Akhish waited. Danny-boy waited. Matt’s mouth thinned. Near was too important to him. “Fine.” Akhish’s stare turned into a glare, full of loathing and disappointment. “Fine,” Matt said. “I’ll give you one year.” The Gatekeeper turned his back. Matt reached out to grab his arm, to stop him, and missed. The Arab left the room. Matt turned in a circle, his anger reaching a boiling point. “One year,” Matt hissed. “And it begins only when L is safely home, do you understand me? If anything happens to him, I swear to God—“

“Yes, yes, I know. Where is he? ”

“Please wait.” Matt turned back to his contraption on the bed, ignoring the throbbing ache in his side, the induced hammer in his chest, the pounding in his head. “I’m tracking him.”

“You placed a homing device on L.” Danny-boy’s voice was rich with laughter.

“He is a very special friend,” Matt said, meaning it and not meaning it. He didn’t know what he meant. Only that it would amuse Danny-boy, and at the moment, that was enough. He eyed the satellite, the black and white fuzz on the television, and smiled when the beeping began. The red shirt, the one Matt had given him in Japan; Near was still wearing it. “Coordinates are longitude one, nine, four, six, seven, east. And latitude, three, two, seven, five, eight, five, north. What is that location?” The cigarette had burned down to a pillar of ash, and yet Matt continued to clench the filter between his teeth, listening intently as the speakers repeated the transmission. Same location. He wasn’t moving. Wherever they had taken Near, they had stopped.

“M.”

“I’m listening.”

“Sent it down. Your friend’s in Iraq. Twenty miles west of Baghdad.”

“Fuck me. Are you sure?”

“Yes. Abu Ghraib. ”

Matt froze. “What?”

“Abu Ghraib. How soon can you get to the border? ” Danny-boy was all business now.

Matt lifted his eyes. Akhish had returned to watch from the doorway. Matt pressed his hand over the phone and looked steadily at his Arab friend. “They took him to Abu Ghraib. I need to get to the border.”

“We will be enemies soon.” The Gatekeeper was angry still, his voice filled with regret.

“We are not enemies yet, Akhish, my friend. Do this one last thing for me?” Matt’s voice was soft. He knew he had no right to ask this of him.

Something passed over the Arab’s glittering, black eyes. At long last, he nodded.

“General,” Matt said into the phone. “Send the rain. I’ll call when I’m at the border. Don’t go in without me.”

~*~


“Ring around the rosies, pocket full of posies...” The child squatted in the water, running his fingers through it, causing ripples in the tepid, freezing rank. The child looked up at him. It was Mello. A younger version of him than he had ever seen. His eyes glowed green. “Ashes, ashes, we all fall down.”

He closed his eyes. When he opened them again, the child was gone.

Near’s limbs shivered uncontrollably. They had beaten him while he was blinded, with the sack over his head and his hands and ankles bound. Then they had interrogated him. For all their trouble, they got no answers from him. After the interrogation, and another beating, they had thrown him in this cell. It had barely enough room for him to stand, and there was freezing water up to his knees. It was pitch black in this dungeon, this tiny oubliette. His right arm was in a blaze of pain. Near did not think it was broken, but it certainly felt like it was. Near understood the awkward angle that it hung from his shoulder, knowing it was dislocated and there was nothing he could do about it. His hands were still tied behind his back.

They had questioned him about L. Not about his cases. This meant they did not think that they had the real L, only one of his pawns. Near believed he had made a very good decision in keeping the original L’s death a secret. His captors were confused to be sent for L, but to find only a young albino male.

Mello returned, a larger apparition than before. He stood behind him, tracing his cold fingers along the enflamed muscle and bone of his shoulder blade, where his arm dangled in agony. He shifted, turning to face his ghost, his tormentor. There was no malice in Mello’s gaze, but his eyes were not kind either. It was a strange look, one that he had never observed from Mello before. One solely of interest, and not hate.

“Does it hurt?” Mello inquired, his voice soft, the skin around his mouth stretching strangely below the scars on his face.

He felt pathetic at the tremble in his voice, the sob that threatened to follow. “Very.”

Mello reached out to touch his cheek, but he flinched back at the freezing cold fingertips, a fresh wave of tremors wracking his body. Mello dropped his hand, his eyes speaking volumes of regret. “I did not mean for this. You are too stubborn.”

“The coffee,” he answered, his voice shaking as hard as his limbs, “calling the kettle black...”

“Hm.” Mello shoved his hands in his pockets, glancing away. His eyes seemed focused on something far away. “He’ll come.”

“I know.”

“Don’t die before he gets here. He’ll be very angry.”

“I think,” he said, but then stopped as another wave of violent trembling shook him. This cold was torture. He had long since lost feeling in his legs. “I think...he will--he will be angry...anyway.”

Mello nodded and glanced back. “He cares for you.” Mello’s eyes hardened. “You are stupid for not seeing that. For not seeing that it will kill him if you die here.”

It was his turn to look away. “If he had not lied to me--“

“He lies to everyone,” Mello interrupted dismissively. “He omits things from you. To protect you. He does not lie to you.”

“Omissions are lies.”

“No, they are not. Trust me, when it comes to him, there’s a very big difference.”

He shook his head, defiant even in this. It was difficult, even now, to agree with anything Mello says. “You say to trust you, but you are dead.”

“Yes,” Mello agreed, his voice like acid. “And if you die, like this, I will personally make your time here Hell.”

He believed him, and he was bitter for it. “You already make my life hell.”

To that, Mello only laughed.

~*~

Crew Chief William Denvers leaned over the helicopter skid of the HH-60L Black Hawk that had been deployed to the Israeli border, trusting his bungee chord to keep him on the aero-medical craft. He was a little surprised when the man jumped lightly out of the moving jeep, the satellite they had been tracking held high in one arm. Denvers had been under the impression that the individual they were picking up was injured.

Denvers held out his hand as the Black Hawk descended, which the man, running swiftly with his head ducked towards the helicopter, quickly grasped and hauled himself aboard. The young man looked haggard, his wind swept auburn hair falling crazily around a jaw that could use a good shave. The man’s eyes were covered with large, tinted goggles and his clothes were baggy, hanging awkwardly off his thin frame as if they didn’t belong to him. Beside him, his lieutenant cocked his rifle at the driver of the jeep that met them at the border.

“Who’s the driver?” Denvers demanded.

The young man glanced at him as he pushed his pack under the seat, filled with something large, rounded and bulky. “A friend. Let’s get this thing in the air.”

The Black Hawk ascended quickly, at seven hundred feet per minute. The man used this time to move around the cabin, ignoring the medics that had come with them and hooking his satellite into an electrical conduit. “I’m sending the coordinates for the package directly into your navigational system,” the man shouted, raising his voice to be heard over the roar of the engines. “In case the subject moves while we’re airborne.” The man glanced around the cabin then, seeming to notice for the first time the medics crowding the back, ready with their instruments and the OBOGS, waiting for orders with perplexed expressions. “What the hell is this?”

“We were told this was going to be a medical evacuation,” Denvers answered, trying not to seem as confused as he was.

The man looked annoyed, his lips pressing into a thin line as he put on the earphones Denvers handed him. “It is, but that’s for the pick up in Iraq.” The man looked distracted then, listening to whoever contacted him through the earphones. “Don’t be stupid, DB, I told you I was fine. If you send a bunch of HH-60L’s, we’re not going to have enough firepower--“ The man paused. “Alright...DAP’s? How many? Good...”

Denvers watched him talk, feeling uncomfortable. Who was this guy to accuse the general of being stupid? Abruptly, the man quieted, listening instead to the beeping coming from the satellite he had brought with him. “They haven’t moved. No, we don’t have time for that. We’ll rendezvous with the battalion in the Iraqi aerospace.” The man suddenly ripped off his earphones and looked as though he was going to hurl them across the cabin. But he seemed to think better of it as he delicately set them by his feet instead. Then he ran a hand through his hair and rose again. He was handed a vest and a helmet, then a rifle, all of which he handled with the seeming ease of long practice. The he stood by the opposite door, gazing out over the golden landscape as it whipped by, looking as if he was born to be a door gunner.

He did not speak again until fifty MH-60L Direct Action Penetrators swarmed around them some two hours later. He turned then, and beckoned to Denvers, who rose willingly, instructing another soldier to man his M60, and approached the strange young man. He seemed older now, more tired, and his left hand shook. He saw Denvers looking at it and moved to shove his hand into his pants pocket. “Chief?”

“Denvers,” he introduced himself.

“Denvers,” the young man echoed, as if storing the name in some special archive. “I am M.”

The name meant nothing to Denvers, only that it had shown up in his briefing and that after they had picked him up, they were to evacuate a nameless VIP from Abu Ghraib, a prison that had been used by US soldiers in the Iraq War years ago. Denvers nodded for him to continue.

“I will go in and retrieve the target. The only Black Hawk that is going to touch ground is this one, and only to drop me off and pick us up. Do not venture any closer than fifty yards. Do I make myself clear?”

Denvers nodded. He didn’t know what rank the man was, but he gave him a title anyway. He commanded a presence that spoke of being used to giving orders. “Yes, sir.”

“Target is an albino,” the man continued. “I imagine he’ll be the only one where we’re going. If he comes out without me, take him and go. Don’t wait for me.” When Denvers seemed ready to object, the man glared at him. “That was an order, not a suggestion. Do I make myself clear?”

Denvers pressed his mouth into a thin line. The boy was young enough to be his son. “Yes, sir.”

“Good.” The man looked back over the landscape, nodding at the crew chief manning the side of the Black Hawk DAP riding parallel to him. The crew chief nodded back. “Make sure the doc knows to keep him out of the sunlight whenever possible. He burns easily. I don’t know what other injuries he might have.” The man’s voice seemed to break at this, and he wouldn’t meet Denvers’ eyes. It was then that the Chief realized the target was close to the strange young man who stood in his bird and gave him orders.

Chief Denvers softened a little in his demeanor towards him, having lost none too few comrades during war time himself. The ache never goes away, neither does the guilt. “This crew will take care of him, M. I swear it.”

The man, M, nodded once. The conversation was over.

~*~

The Lebanese guerillas shouted a question at him

Mello, standing beside him, told him not to answer it. Near ignored them both. He tried to remember that in some places, a guerilla is called a freedom fighter. Indeed, the Hezbollah had made quite reputation for themselves when they had fought against the Israeli invasion of Lebanon decades ago. And later, they continued to fight against occupying armies of foreign soil. They had battled the U.S. forces while they occupied Iraq, and even now, they championed for the freedom of Jerusalem. Even so, they had become little more than thugs in this particular war. They aided Iran during the invasion only because they hated Israel so. Revenge, as they say, is a dish best served cold.

After the invasion of Israel, they became a nuisance even to Iran, a thorn in everyone’s side. They are no longer as organized as they used to be, and smaller sects have been breaking off to fight for the highest bidder. Like this one, who apparently had been employed by someone who hated L so much, and had gotten wind of him being in Israel, that they had sent the Hezbollah after him. Near’s first guess was K. He could not fathom why she would suddenly wish to dispose of L. It angered him, thinking of her, that she would disappear so thoroughly and not even return to aid the fight against Kira--even though, surely, she would have known about their struggle against him as she had aided Matt.

Someone backhanded him, and his head whipped back. His tongue darted out, tasting the blood that began pouring from his cracked and parched lips and mouth. He returned his gaze to the floor. Near reasoned that K must have had Matt followed since aiding him in Japan, and after he had gone back to Wammy’s, deduced that he had taken L, and then began to make her move. Near still could not decide what her motive could possibly be. Had there been bad blood between her and L?

Another shouted question. Near did not respond. Suddenly, they were shaking him. He bit back a cry as a fresh wave of pain shook him. They were untying his hands and yanking roughly on his dislocated arm, causing a nauseating swell of pain to shudder through him, over and over. Near gritted his teeth when they let his right arm go and grasped his left. They were pushing up a table and splaying his hand atop of it.

That’s when Near saw the hammer.

Tears pricked his eyes as he understood what they were going to do next. Standard torture procedure. The Hezbollah had learned well from the U.S. occupation. Starve the prisoner, do not let him sleep, beat him frequently during interrogations, and then, naturally, make it worse. They were going to smash his fingers with the hammer.

One man held him fast by his wrist, pressing his hand into the table. Near tried to curl his fingers into a fist, to protect them. But they merely laughed and uncurled them. They knew his right arm was helpless and let it dangle freely. The other man lifted the hammer--and paused as the entire foundation shook violently.

Near jerked his hand, surprising them with his swiftness. He used their distraction to his advantage and kicked backwards, freeing himself from their grip. His left hand shot out and grabbed the hammer. Near swung hard, catching one in the face. He watched the man’s face crumple inwards, splattering brain tissue and bone all around. He was grabbed from behind, but he twisted quickly, sweeping his feet under his assailant and causing him to fall backwards. Then Near rolled, gasping at the pain that emanated from his shoulder, and lunged forward, bringing the hammer down as hard as he could. Near caught the second man in the throat with the back of the hammer. He jerked the tool and wrenched it free, tearing the man’s throat out and consequently splaying his blood and gore everywhere. Near rocked back on his feet and whirled around. There had only been the two of them, but more would come.

The structure shook again, and Near looked up to the ceiling. He wasn’t sure how many floors he was below the surface, but he was certain that sounded like--like bombs and gunfire. Wherever he was, it was under attack.

~*~

“They’re focusing their attack on the front of the base,” Denvers shouted to M. “We’re going to drop you off at the rear in five minutes, once most of the enemy fighters are drawn away.”

M nodded. His skin had taken on a sickly grey pallor, but his eyes were focused and intent. M hoisted his automatic rifle as Denvers attached a bungee chord to his harness. They had decided to lower the bird enough so he could jump out without needing a parachute.

They circled around the base twice, as the flock of DAP Black Hawks they had brought with them swarmed over the target and launched their attack. Missiles rained down and M60’s shot ammunition in an endless torrent. M smiled to himself in grim satisfaction. It seemed their plan was working. The Hezbollah came out in the dozens to arm weapons that were never made for them, being shot down and gutted often before they could even man their defensive posts. After the second cycle, the HH-60L began to descend.

M jumped from the craft when Denvers motioned for him to go and he took off at a run. He didn’t look back as the Black Hawk ascended; he was too busy shooting down the enemy as he barreled in.

~*~

Near stumbled down the hall, holding his right arm close to his chest while the keys he had taken off of the dead men in the interrogation room dangled from the fingers of his left. The ground shook more frequently as he wandered through the halls aimlessly, feeling half-dead. He was disoriented and bone-weary, his exhaustion fighting with the rush of natural adrenaline. The electricity had gone out in the entire building almost five minutes ago, leaving only the dim emergency lights to illuminate his path.

The building shuddered dangerously under the strain of the explosions from above. Near turned the corner and then had to immediately fling himself back as the ceiling collapsed. Heavy beams and plaster exploded all around him. He scrambled back to his feet and ran back the way he had come. The emergency lights flickered and smoke began filling the hallway. Near coughed as the acrid smoke filled his lungs and stung his eyes. A figure appeared at the end of the hall. Near froze and pressed himself against the wall, blinking rapidly against the tears in his eyes.

“This way.”

Near coughed again. The voice seemed to come from everywhere at once. He peered at the figure at the end of hall, watched it turn and disappear down another corridor. “Mello?”

“This way.”

~*~

Matt could hear only the loud hammer of his heartbeat. His breathing was labored as he made his way through the building, following the beeps and trills emanating from his earpiece, honing in on the device that tracked Near. His side ached like fury and Matt could feel the tape wrapped around his torso loosen from the sticky blood that poured from the knife wound. The adrenaline shot was wearing off, and Matt was afraid he would collapse before he reached Near. He couldn’t let that happen. He had loosed Hell on Earth to get him out. He had sold his soul to the devil.

Matt paused, hearing someone enter the stairwell he was descending. He crouched low and peered through the scope of his rifle, pointing it down towards the sound. A Lebanese man came running wildly up the stairs, his face black with ash from the structure fires below. Matt breathed in deeply and pulled the trigger. With a spray of blood and a crash, the man toppled and fell backwards, dead. Matt continued on. Low and fast, down and down.

Abruptly, the trills from his ear piece became faster. He paused, just outside a door. He checked the window, but the slit was small. He quickly turned the knob and inched it open. He checked left, and then right, and then rushed to the other end of the hall. Low and fast. Low and fast. It’s what Watari had always drilled into him. Keep your head down. Stay low, stay fast; don’t go anywhere your gun hasn’t checked first.

The trills and beeps led him down one hall, and then another, the corridors dark and smoky. Someone coughed a few meters away. Close enough that Matt should have been able to see him if it hadn’t been so smoky. Matt sank even lower, pressing his back against the wall, and ignored the pain lancing his side.

“Mello?” a voice called. Another cough.

Matt lifted his head, the hammer in his chest skipping a beat. “Near?! ”

The figure paused. Matt straightened--and then rushed forward. Matt swept Near into a fierce embrace, hugging him close, causing Near to cry out in pain. Immediately, Matt released him.

“Matt?” Near peered into Matt’s face, his dark eyes swimming in a sea of pain.

“Yes, it’s me.” Matt led him to a doorway off to one side. And then his hands were all over him, checking for injuries...but not quite as impersonal as it should have been. He needed to touch him to make sure he was real.

“My arm...”

“Oh, Jesus,” Matt breathed. “What did they do to you?” Matt found the dislocation. He twisted Near’s arm, braced the detective with his legs, and jerked the limb hard and then pushed. Near screamed and then sagged against him. Matt wrapped him up in his arms and rocked him until the pain ebbed. Breathing heavily, Near finally lifted his head.

“What’s happening to this place?”

Matt touched Near’s face, tenderly, protectively. “I sent the rain.”

Near wasn’t sure what that meant, but he obliged when Matt turned and tugged on his hand, urging for him to follow. They ran quickly and quietly back toward the stairwell. Matt had re-shouldered his rifle and made sure its nozzle always went first, and then him, and then Near. They took the steps two at a time, up three flights of stairs. Near found it easier to breathe after the second flight, despite their run, but then the smoke thickened again at the ground level.

An explosion rattled the stairwell, and Matt shoved Near in front of him and out into the hall as the stairs groaned. Matt had barely hurled himself into the corridor when the stairwell abruptly crumpled like a tumbled tower of Near’s dice. “This place is falling down around us,” Matt shouted, taking Near’s hand again. “We have to hurry.”

Near followed Matt as they took off at a run, twisting this way and that, stopping abruptly so Matt could shoot down a Hezbollah fighter, and then continuing on. Suddenly, they were outside, and Near fell to his knees with the searing brightness of the desert sun. Matt tugged on his elbow, urging him up. Near blinked, scrambling to get his feet under him as he heard the whistle of missiles being dropped, and the angry roar of fires blazing, and the thunder of the explosions rattling the entire base. Finally, the stars warping his vision gave way and Near could see. He stumbled again, gaping at the battle screaming around him. The blue sky looked black with the swarm of Black Hawks flying over head, the plumes of smoke rose for miles, thick and black and angry. Everywhere, Lebanese freedom fighters screamed and died. Near looked at Matt with wide eyes, realizing for the first time how far this man, Matt, was willing to go to keep him safe. How powerful his anger was. How frightening his notion of revenge could be.

But Matt was blinking rapidly at him, a dazed look glazing his cornflower blue eyes. “Matt?” Near rushed forward as the hacker dropped to one knee, clutching his side and shaking his head jerkily. “Matt? Matt! Where--“

And then Near saw it, some fifty yards away. A Black Hawk was landing. They were shouting to them. “Matt, get up.”

Matt’s eyes were wide and his breathing was coming in short gasps. Near took the rifle and flung it over his shoulder. Then, he grabbed Matt’s arm and hauled him up. “I’ll get you there,” Near shouted to him, repeating the hacker’s words back to him. “But I need you to keep moving!”

Matt helped where he could, his feet shuffling beneath him, and it was just enough. They made it to the helicopter and two medics jumped down and helped haul Matt inside as another two soldiers kept their weapons trained on the field before and aft. Then they helped Near aboard, who came willingly but shook off the medics who tried to cover his mouth with a breathing mask. “Help him,” Near commanded, pointing to Matt who lay on the floor of the cabin, blinking slowly and breathing heavily. The medics lifted him onto a lift and strapped him down for the flight as the helicopter made its hasty ascension. Matt’s hand fell away from his side as he lost consciousness. His hand was covered in blood.

Near took his hand as another medic strapped him in to his seat, watching anxiously as the medics tore off the hacker’s shirt and cut into the electrical tape wrapped around his torso.

~*~

Matt could hear the hustle and bustle of the medic unit long before he realized he was conscious. His mind felt muddled, a heavy fog pressing down on thoughts that didn’t quite have purpose or reason. Slowly, the thought came to him to open his eyes. The first thing he saw was the light. It was long and rectangular, the sort that commonly stitched in regular form in ceilings. He contemplated it for a moment, moving his swollen tongue inside a mouth that was parched and dry. He grunted and moved his head to one side, recognizing the sharp tang of need rising from his belly. He needed a cigarette.

Someone was pressing something cold and metallic against his lips. Without thinking, he parted them and felt crushed ice slip into his mouth. Not quite the cigarette he craved, but it was delicious all the same. He closed his eyes again as the ice melted in his mouth and tried to shake the grogginess out of his head.

He had woken up like this before. The residual muddle-headedness was familiar, and so were the beeping sounds and the hustle and bustle of doctors and nurses. They had given him ice chips, then, too. However, three years ago, he had been in considerable more pain. Now, there was only an ache in his side. Matt wondered, briefly, how much trauma one human body could take before it defected.

All things considered, he was lucky. Most of the bullets had merely embedded themselves into muscle tissue, or torn through ligaments. It was that one blasted bullet that had shattered his left ulna, the under-bone of his forearm, which had nearly rendered it useless. It had taken nearly two years of excruciating surgeries and long hours of physical therapy to get it to function like it used to. The nerve damage caused it to shake still, and it served as a constant reminder of the sole hardest decision Matt had ever had to make in his life. As if the scars weren’t reminders enough.

He opened his eyes again, trying to blink away the grogginess that blurred his vision. As he laid there and thought, he couldn’t help feeling that something was misplaced. That he was supposed to be--

Matt sat up with a jolt, and struggled against the large hand that tried to push him back down. He shouted indiscernibly, ripping the IV out of his arm and the other tubes and wires attached to his body. Another big hand shot out and tried to snag his wrist. The killer inside of Matt coiled and then whipped around, abandoning the tubes to grab the man’s throat. He squeezed, ignoring the strangled sputtering sounds until the fuzzy figure bent over him sharpened into someone he recognized. Instantly, Matt released him and felt a snag of guilt tug at him. Denvers took several steps back, rubbing at his neck with an intensely shocked look on his face.

“Sorry,” Matt muttered. “I--Sorry.” It seemed like such a lame thing to say to someone you had just very nearly killed, and Matt momentarily forgot the reason for his sudden panic. Until it slammed back into him.

Matt swung his legs over the side of the bed, getting his bearings. The bed next to him looked tousled, but it was vacant. He turned back to Denvers, who was staring at him with pursed lips. “Where’s...?

The Crew Chief’s eyes flickered, and then he sighed. “He’s with the general.”

Matt jumped right to his feet, ignoring the ache in his side--and the fact that he wore a hospital gown than bared his ass for all to see--and made for the door. Denvers cleared his throat, and when Matt glanced back at him, he tossed a pair of military camouflage pants and an ID badge to him. Matt caught the items, and slipped the badge over his neck. Then Matt grabbed the door handle, pausing only to send a grim smile Denvers’ way. “Really, sorry for the, you know--“

“Yeah, yeah,” Denvers interrupted, waving his hands at him and lowering himself into a nearby chair. “Just go.”

As Matt left the room, he could hear the Crew Chief muttering something about him being a “...crazy, intense son of a bitch...” Matt hopped into the pants the chief had given him as he walked through the medical unit, glaring ominously at the nurses who turned as he passed and voiced objections. He paused just outside the unit, glancing quickly at the fire escape route, before continuing on. From that sole glance, Matt had been able to derive that he was currently aboard the Wasp, a LHD aircraft carrier. This made perfect sense, given that Danny-boy had sent him an entire battalion of Black Hawks. He had also been able to familiarize himself with the general layout of the ship, and made his way towards the bridge. He found the general’s office near the bow, one storey beneath the bridge, and managed to get into a heated argument with a female corporal who insisted that he could not just barge in.

“You,” he grated, reaching around her to punch in his code. “Fuck off.”

The glare she sent him could have melted steel. “Sir, you need to back away from the door.” She had her weapon drawn, and seemed quite serious about shooting him. However the door slid open, making her pause, and then she lowered her weapon altogether when she heard the general’s smooth voice.

“Thank you, Sally. M, please; do come in.” And then: “I wish you wouldn’t make such a scene.”

Matt sidestepped the scowling corporal and marched into General Daniel B. “Danny-boy” Whitman’s office, slamming, for good measure, the door behind him. He glared furiously around the room, calming only when he spotted Near curled into a chair in the corner of the office. General Whitman sat behind his desk, a handful of documents in his hand and his desk nearly impeccable. Both men gazed expectantly at the hacker.

Matt, for his part, felt frozen in space. A thousand thoughts stormed through his mind as he realized that Near and Danny-boy had obviously spoken at great length. Near met his eyes in that quiet way of his, his face a stony mask and his arm in a loose sling. The detective’s cheeks and nose were slightly pink from where the sun had burned him in the desert, and there were nasty bruises scaling the length of Near’s right temple and neck, ugly green and yellow blemishes disappearing down into his shirt. His bottom lip also sported a dark gash, where it had been hit repeatedly during his time in Abu Ghraib. Near’s dark eyes were unreadable, and Matt hoped to God that the general hadn’t told him of their agreement.

“It seems you’re feeling better, M,” General Whitman remarked, his voice deep with amusement.

“What day is it?” Matt asked, his eyes never leaving Near’s face.

“June twenty-third,” the general answered, returning his attention to the papers in his hand. He shuffled them, signed the topmost, and then slid them into a file. “You’ve been here for ten days. We had reason to believe you wouldn’t sit still long enough for your wound to heal, so we gave you a sedative.”

“And who authorized that?” Matt demanded angrily, turning to General Whitman with murder in his gaze. Despite his ire, his fingers went under the hem of the hospital gown and prodded the wound in his side. The stitches had been removed, leaving a slightly raise scab and some minor bruising.

“I did,” Near answered softly.

Matt dragged his eyes back to the detective curled like an overgrown child in the chair. Near met his gaze unflinching, his stare beginning to border on accusing. “You should not have come yourself,” Near admonished in a flat voice. “It was stupid and reckless of you.”

Matt glanced away and meandered over to the general’s desk, where he picked up a pack of smokes and lit one. “Coming from you, that sounds almost like concern.”

“It is.”

Matt looked back at him with burning eyes. It was Near’s turn to look away, and color stained his pale face and neck. It was then that Matt realized Near was dressed like a soldier, in camouflage pants and a jacket. Near noticed him looking and said flatly: “They burned our clothes.”

Matt took a deep drag off of his cigarette. Near seemed uncomfortable, and he knew they were all dancing around the elephant in the room. Finally, Matt gathered his nerve. “So, you two seem chummy.”

“Indeed,” came Near’s mumbled, monotone voice. “Danny-boy’s company has been rather informative.” Near looked up, his dark eyes hardening with something Matt had begun to call resolve. “We are on even ground now.”

Matt addressed the general with a minute toss of his head. “Get out.”

The general continued to seem amused, instead of insulted, and laughed softly to himself as he rose. Without a word, General Whitman left his office, shutting the door behind him.

“I would have told you,” Matt began.

“When?” Near demanded, his eyes flashing. “Before or after you threw yourself in front of another bullet? Would they have been your dying words to me? ‘I have the U.S. Armed Forces under my thumb’?”

Feeling abruptly self-conscious, Matt tried to pull down the sleeves of the hospital gown he wore, but they were too short and the scars on his arms remained painfully visible. “That’s not fair. It’s nothing you haven’t done.”

“I rallied an American President to stand up against Kira and to give me protection, because everyone else had either died or abandoned me,” Near retorted indignantly. “I did not hold an entire nation’s military hostage.”

Matt balled his hands into fists. It hurt him to think Near considered his absence during the Kira case as abandonment. But there was nothing he could say to that that wouldn’t turn both their worlds completely inside out. “It’s not like that. I give a little, I take a little. Countries pay you in money for what you do. I get paid in services. It’s perfectly fair.”

“I never said it was unfair,” Near said dismissively. “I simply continue to be perturbed by the fact that you hide these things from me. Why--“ Near shook his head, the monotone note of his voice cracking. “Why did you hide your scars?”

Matt’s face burned, but he did not answer.

“Did you not wish me to ever truly believe it was you?” Near pressed, his black eyes burning holes into him. “If it had not been for Mello’s will, would you have never...” His voice cracked again, and he looked away as his face contorted in an expression Matt had never seen him wear. Hurt anger. “Would you have never alerted me? Informed me that you were alive?”

Matt stood in the center of the room, smoking his cigarette contemplatively as Near stared at him, waiting for answers. “No. No, I don’t think so,” Matt said at last. “I was never under the impression that you gave a shit.”

“I didn’t,” Near conceded after a loaded pause. “But things are somewhat different...now.”

Matt scoffed and jabbed his cigarette into the ashtray on General Whitman’s desk. “Nothing like getting shot at and tortured to make you want be best pals with someone.”

“I do not blame you for that.”

“I’m sorry that it happened.”

“Please, do not be insufferably idiotic. What happened was in no way your responsibility.”

Matt disagreed, but he smiled at Near’s words. He met his eyes then, watching as Near smiled too. It was a small smile, just a curl at the corners of his mouth, and somewhat pained, but it was a smile nonetheless.

“I’ll tell the general to take us to England,” Matt said, circling General Whitman’s desk and seating himself.

“Why?” Near looked genuinely confused.

“I’m taking you home.”

“No, that will not be necessary.”

“Near, don’t be ridiculous. This thing almost killed you in Israel.”

“I gave my word,” Near said in a tone that broached no argument. “I intend to keep it.”

To be continued...

A/N: OK, a few notes...

1. Hezbollah is a factual militia that rose up against the Israeli occupation of Lebanon in the eighties. Because of the nature of the war that I made up for the setting of the second arch, I thought that it would be...ironic...to include these guys in here. Despite the nature of their presence in this story, I actually have an immense amount of grudging respect for them. No, I am not a war-monger, or a terrorist, or anti-American--quite the contrary, actually. But I maintain an open mind about certain insurgencies. I am aware that every guerilla militia has a country backing them that believe, fervently, that they are Freedom Fighters, for better or for worse. And I also understand that each of these believe desperately that they are fighting for a cause that is right and justified in their own mind. Whether they are right or wrong is not for me to say. Well and so, the reason I went to some length to write this here, is because I want to make sure that their mentioning in this fic is not taken as disrespectful to any Lebanese readers--which, according to my reader traffic thingy, I have at least two.
2. Abu Ghraib is a prison in Iraq, some twenty miles away from Baghdad, which the U.S. currently uses to ‘interrogate’ prisoners for information on ‘terrorists’. If any of you keep an eye on current affairs, you understand already that this prison is rather scandalous as these prisoners are victims of psychological and physical torture. So, of course, its mention in this chapter is also ironic, and mockingly so. It amused me to have U.S. forces come in and bomb the facility where Near was being tortured for information--for reasons that I hope I’ve made rather clear. This is a subject I feel strongly about. I firmly believe that torture is evil and a war crime that no one should be able to get away with. No matter how powerful and untouchable they think they are.
3. HH-60L Black Hawks are fascinating military helicopters that specialize in medical evacuations. I also mention door gunners, but be assured that during an operation, only a Crew Chief and/or a specialized soldier are allowed to man the M60’s at the open doors of a Black Hawk. Of course, Matt’s a special case because, well, he’s Matt. DAP’s are sick--sick--military helicopters that have gatling guns, torpedoes, missiles--I mean the whole nine, baby. As far as Black Hawks go, this one is the Zero One Gundam of them all. (Am I a geek, or what?)
4. LHD, just as I described it in the story, is an aircraft carrier. It is somewhat shorter than a regular one, because it focuses primarily on helicopters. But the standard shape applies. These things are sick too, can go up to twenty knots forward, and usually travels with a bunch of other ships because its somewhat weaker in artillery and maneuverability than, say, a battleship.
5. “Bring the rain.” is a phrase I’ve heard in movies too frequently to not want in on the fun too. I have absolutely no idea if that is actually what they would say, or if it is just standard Hollywood bullshit. Ha ha. Also, would they really send fifty Black Hawks on an air assault like that? Hmmm. Probably no. Most likely, it would just be a few, and then back up cover would come from two or three battle jets. But I just couldn’t get this Apocalypse Now-esque image out of my head with just this swarm of helicopters coming down and wreaking freaking havoc. So, you know, there you go.

Doumi: Gosh, Doumi, thank you so much for such a thorough review! The thing about Matt’s attitude is something that’s fascinated me since his death scene in the canon. Later, I read something about the writer saying very little about his character to the artist except that he “did not care much about the world”. This is just riveting to me. Especially after such an action packed scene.

Ah! And, OMG, yes, Near over-analyzes EVERYTHING. He’s chasing himself into circles over this guy, and he’s more uncomfortable there then ever because of Matt’s injury. *laughs maniacally* The bullet-proof vest thing is what inspired me bringing back Matt. I kept thinking, well, if he’s not an idiot, he should have known to wear a vest...but wait, didn’t he? And then I decided to claim that he faked it, lol. Suits my purposes. Hmm. And I will be coming back to why Matt wasn’t with Mello when he ran the Mafia shortly--that’s something else that’s interested me.

It was risky, I’ll admit, writing that first Mello scene. But I couldn’t help it. It was so delicious and unexpected. He goes from an annoying dream that won’t quite leave Near alone, to a ghost, to an incubus...Even the All Knowing One loves the Mello scenes the best, and he is so homophobic its scary.

Doesn’t Akhish just rock? The more I wrote him, the more excited I got because this guy has unlimited potential. And the clash with Near--actually challenging him--was spectacularly effective. Not many people dare to stand up to Near, and to do it so well...! Ha ha, and Near firing Halle was sort of spur of the moment. But it made me grin too much to delete. It did seem to go over well; many of the reviewers enjoyed that. So, yay. Mello contradicting himself constantly is important, and something I’ll touch back on later. It’s...sort of a clue.

And you’ve guessed it! Matt really is just as side-swiped by Mello as Near is. I hope you enjoyed the update, and thanks again for your constant support!