Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It was a slow day at the little English coffee shop on the corner. The weather probably had something to do with it. Not many fancied going out on such a cold afternoon, even if it was for a hot beverage. A man sat in the corner with a newspaper and, at a table nearby, two women chatted casually, their coats and scarves still on.

The little bell above the door announced that another customer had arrived and the icy cold rushed in momentarily as the heavy wooden door opened and closed again. The girl behind the counter looked up from drying mugs and smiled to greet her patrons: a grey-haired old man with kind eyes and a neatly-trimmed mustache and a little boy of maybe 5 or 6 (or was he just small?). The man wore a long black dress coat and leather gloves. He stood removing the gloves, one finger at a time, and then bent to assist the child with his small red mittens. He was talking softly to the child but the boy did not appear to be listening. His large, dark eyes were fixated on something, peeking out from between the scarf covering his mouth and nose and the thick, black hair that flopped every which way.

Once his mittens were removed, he stuffed small hands into his coat pockets and the grandfatherly old man helped him remove his scarf. But those wide, round eyes never moved and the man turned to see what the boy was looking at and chuckled. "Do you want a pastry?" the man asked kindly as he unwrapped the scarf. The eyes moved to meet those of the old man and, seemingly impossibly, widened even more. He did not smile, though, nor did he say a word. But the man chuckled again and rose to his full height. "Alright," he said, approaching the counter, "We will take a hot coffee- black, please- and..." he paused to look down at the child who was standing with his tiny hands pressed against the pastry display, his breaths making foggy little clouds appear and disappear on the glass. His face remained emotionless, though, save for those big grey eyes wide with anticipation. The old man smiled. "...we'll take the one with the strawberry on top."

The girl at the counter bent to collect the pastry and for just a moment, her eyes met those of the little boy on the other side of the glass. She smiled at him. Quickly, he removed his hands from the glass, leaving little smudge marks, and dropped his chin to stare down at the floor. His hands retreated to the pockets again. The girl, quite taken with the small boy, placed the pastry on a plate and came around the counter to present it herself. She knelt down before him and held out the plate. "Is this what you wanted?" she asked warmly.

The boy's eyes darted to the pastry then back to the floor. But he nodded, his black hair bouncing up and down.

"Well, here. Take it."

Slowly, two thin, childish hands slipped out of their pockets and reached out to accept the plate. Then he looked up and the girl looked into his eyes once again. They seemed sad close-up, somehow. And tired. So, so tired. It was as if the eyes of someone who'd already lived a lifetime belonged to this little boy with the wild hair and the milk-white skin.

The girl smiled again as he took the plate. "You enjoy that, okay?" she spoke sweetly.

The wide eyes softened a bit but didn't leave hers. And it was almost undetectable, but it was there... a tiny and surprisingly low voice for one so small softy said, "Thank you. "

And then the eyes dropped again and he turned his attention to the treat in his cold little hands. He was a good boy and waited patiently while the old man paid for the coffee and pastry. They moved to a table and the elderly man sipped his coffee while the little boy, sitting ever so oddly in his chair, ate his strawberry pastry. When they got up to leave, the man helped the child once more with his scarf and mittens and they turned to leave. He nodded politely at the girl behind the counter who smiled broadly and wished them a nice day. She noticed the bundled little face with the wide eyes looking at her and she smiled even bigger and waved. And, as they turned to leave, a tiny mittened hand lifted to wave back.

And then they were gone.

Many years went by and the girl grew into a woman, a wife, and a mother. She still worked happily behind that coffee counter. It was a warm day and the coffee shop was a bit busier than it had been that day many years before. The bell rang and she looked up to see a white-haired old man enter with a much younger man at his side. There was something so familiar about them... and as they approached the counter, she suddenly knew.

Those eyes... those haunting dark eyes.

The old man greeted her and asked for two black coffees with plenty of sugar on the side. He began to add something to the order when she stopped him, grinning broadly. She bustled over to the pastries and took out the one with the biggest strawberry on top and came around the counter. She did not need to bend down this time, however. The ever so wide dark eyes were now level with her own.

She held out the pastry to the young man, who was standing rather oddly with his hands in his jeans pockets. His thick ebony hair was as wild as it had always been. She grinned. "Is this what you wanted?" she asked.

And those eyes lifted to meet hers, still so tired but a little less sad, and a brief look of surprise passed over the thin, pale face. And then, the face softened and his skinny hands left his pockets to take the pastry. "Thank you," he said, his voice low but now stronger and more sure of himself.

"Do you-" she began.

"I remember," he said simply.

The woman smiled.

And this time, she received a small but genuine smile in return.

The kind old man and the thin dark-eyed boy never returned to the coffee shop. But to this day, the woman behind the counter still smiles fondly whenever she places a strawberry on a pastry.

Chapter Text

B always wondered what the numbers meant.

It seemed only natural that everyone else saw them too. That is, until his small voice quipped after them one day and all he received in return were blank stares. He felt different and strange after that.

He never spoke of them again.

But still... he wondered.

They were everywhere and held no meaning to him. He tried not to look at them.

But one night in particular, he couldn't help but notice that A's numbers were especially small. Nearly ran out.

A, his best friend. His brother in every sense of the word, save in blood. The small, freckled boy with the bright eyes and the charming tooth gap. The quiet, brilliant child with a laugh only B himself could genuinely initiate.

And how B loved to make him laugh. When he wasn't with B, A bore a timid countenance. Almost frightened.

B found him once, sitting and hugging his knees on the windowsill behind the heavy curtains. He was crying. When B climbed up to sit with him, A quickly wiped the tears from his red, round face. B looked at him through strands of messy, black hair that always hung in his dark eyes. They sat for a moment in awkward silence. Then, B reached out and his long slender fingers closed around the especially small, freckled hand of his friend. He candidly spoke only a few simple words and A's tear-streaked face brightened into a toothy grin.

And that was B to A. The carefree spirit to his small, burdened shoulders. The wild laughter to his quiet reservation.

But the numbers kept getting smaller.

And on that night- the night the numbers were smallest of all- A hugged B. He held him close and whispered, "Thank you." And B tousled his friend's hair and laughed as he always did and asked, "What for?" But A didn't answer. He squeezed tightly one more time and turned to go into his room, shutting the door behind him.

And the next morning, Roger came and sat down slowly on B's bedside. He spoke softly and sadly.

And the numbers finally made sense.

Chapter Text

L Lawliet stood at the tall, metal fence. Shoulders arched, knees bent, hands pocketed. A warm breeze played lightly with his plain cotton shirt and his tangled mess of black hair.

He waited.

A loud buzzer sounded from the large brick building on the other side of the fence and a door opened. Several men in orange jumpsuits stepped outside, single file, accompanied by heavily armed prison guards.

L waited. His dark-rimmed, ever so tired eyes dismissed each face as they exited the building until, at last, they locked on one inmate in particular.

The man, barely more than a boy, walked with hunched shoulders and his hands in his pockets. He listlessly kicked at some gravel while everyone else formed teams for basketball or some other outdoor activity. His hair was dark and messy, but only on one side. On the other side, it was nearly gone, growing oddly in patches around mangled, pink flesh. His face and neck bore the angry scars of merciless flames and one eye was burned red and useless.

L just watched him aimlessly wandering around the prison yard. And then, without warning, the young man just happened to look in his direction. Their eyes met. There was a glint of surprise in the boy's good eye as he seemed to question to himself if what he was seeing was real.

L's expression didn't change. His face was cold and rigid, never once giving away the hurt he felt so deep within himself. His unblinking eyes remained fixed on the horribly disfigured boy.

Beyond hadn't moved. His dry, cracked lips were slightly parted in awe. He blinked a couple times. His gaze lifted ever so slightly from L's face to the space above his head...

Then suddenly, his expression changed. One eye remained half-closed and dead but the other sparked with pure venom. One side of his mouth curled bitterly into a hideous grin. He did not break eye contact as he removed his hands from his pockets and dramatically bowed in mock salute.

L just watched with a face that appeared deceitfully heartless.

B stood upright again and returned his hands to his pockets. His mouth was twisted into a cruel smile and his tongue hung crazily out to the side as he began taking a few steps backwards. He laughed. A sadistic, ugly laugh. He turned abruptly on his heel and moved to stand where L could no longer see him behind a concrete pillar at the entrance of the prison.

L's hand left his pocket and his long fingers curled over the diamond-shaped openings of the metal fence. He swallowed hard.

"I'm sorry," he whispered.

Then he turned and left.

BB saw the car driving away in the distance. He smiled again and cackled, his snake-like tongue creeping back and forth along his scorched bottom lip. He dropped his head back to rest on the pillar and closed his shinigami eyes in cruel contentment.

Chapter Text

Mello feeling the sudden grip of a heart attack sitting there in that front seat... grabbing his chest and knowing INSTANTLY what is happening.

And then he hears a voice...

"Just give it a minute... and then it won't be so bad."

Mello looks over, clutching his chest and gasping for breath.

Matt sits there... ethereal and transparent. He's looking at him with one arm stretched over the back of the front seat and one ankle resting on his knee.

"You...?" Mello nearly chokes on the word.

"Yeah," Matt says softly. "Yeah, they got me..."

Mello grits his teeth and scrunches his eyes, vocalizing the intensity of the searing pain in his chest. "I- I'm sorry..." he manages.

The ghostly redhead smiles. "Don't be. I knew the risks same as you."

"Arggg..." Gloved fingers tighten on leather and, with his vision warped and blurred and finally blackened, Mihael Keehl's heart pulses one final time...

...and then Mello inhales deeply. Slowly, he sits up and looks over at his best friend, the pain suddenly gone.

"I guess some things never change," Matt quips.

Mello looks down at the yellow-haired body slumped over the steering wheel in front of him, strangely protruding from his chest and morphing with him at the waist and legs. He looks back at Matt.

"What do you mean?"

Matt shrugs. "You and me. Getting into trouble... together." He then outstretches his hand, palm up, toward his fellow fallen comrade. "Come on."

"Where are we going?"

Matt takes Mello's hand and leans toward him with a shine in his teal-green eyes– the same way he always did when they were about to embark on an adventure.

He grins.

"Home."

Chapter Text

A heartbeat.

Thump thump.
Thump thump.
Thump thump.

A breath of air.
An inner voice.

Where am I?

It's dark.
I hear voices.
They sound so far away.
Like echoes in a hollow, metal tube.

They are angry.
They are angry at me.
And I am afraid.

I don't want them to find me.
I'm safe in here.
In the closet.
The coats are soft.
I like soft.

Now it's quiet.

So quiet.

It's too quiet...

Thump thump.
Thump thump.
Thump thump.

SLAM!

They found me.
Please no.
Not my hair.
That hurts.
You're hurting me.

I know I spilled my milk.
I'm sorry.
I don't know how to tell you.
I'm bad with words.
I'm bad.

You look so big.
Your hand is big.
It hurts my face.
It hurts my arm.

I'm sorry.

Please stop hurting me.

I'm sorry.

I'M SOR–

"–ry!"

It's quiet.
I'm sitting up.
I'm-
I know this room.

"L?"

Thump thump.
Thump thump.

That's Naomi...

It's so hot.
I'm sweating through my shirt.
No...
I'm not wearing a shirt.

"L, what's wrong?"

Naomi...

Thump thump.
Thump thump.

It was a dream.
It was just a dream.
This is real.
And I'm safe.

"It's nothing."
My own voice sounds weird.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes."

Okay, you're fine.
Lay back down.
It's so hot.
But I want her close.

Thump thump.
Thump thump.

She's here.

She's here and he's gone.
He'll never hurt me again.
Was he my father?
Oh I don't know.

Maybe someday I'll tell her.
Maybe not.

For now, she's here and that's enough.

I can hear her heartbeat.
I can feel it against my face.

I'm okay.

I'm safe.

Thump thump.
Thump thump.
Thump thump.

Chapter Text

With a heavy creak, the solid wood door heaved open, briefly allowing entry to the cold, Russian wind. The young man with the yellow hair stepped inside the dimly-lit structure smelling of cedar, potato gravy, and vodka, and shut out the bitter snowstorm once again with the sole of his combat boot. Narrow green eyes beneath a black fur hood scanned the low-end, rowdy tavern, dismissing with an air of importance the Soviet thugs and the loosely dressed women. From the pocket of his long, heavy overcoat, his leather gloved hand removed a silver rectangle, and in one smooth motion, he removed the top half of the wrapper. Then returning one hand to his coat pocket, he lifted the cold, frozen chocolate bar to his teeth and snapped off a corner.

He spotted his contact against the back wall and made his way over. Biting off another piece of chocolate, he sat down opposite a man with a black beard and a bald head. A waitress promptly appeared beside him.

"Privet, krasavchik, chto tvoy napitok?"
("Hello handsome, what are you drinking?")

"Stolichnaya," he answered simply, his preferred brand of vodka. He held up two fingers, and the waitress nodded and turned to oblige.

The bearded man leaned forward, a strong-smelling bottle of alcohol already half empty beside him. "You work for Vadim?" he inquired in Russian.

The man with the yellow hair and the chocolate bar simply nodded.

The bearded bald man maintained eye contact, his gaze narrowing as he sized up the much smaller, much younger man sitting across from him. Then he smiled a little... not a friendly smile, but the sort of smile one gives when they are quite unimpressed with what they are seeing. Several teeth were missing in the unsettling grin, and those that remained were yellowed and rotten.

"And what do they call you?" he sneered.

Another corner of chocolate snapped off as two shot glasses, containing liquor potent enough to burn away the hairs in one's nose just by smelling it, were placed onto the tabletop. In answer to the man's question, an alias was given.

Back home, he was Mello, M, Mihael Keehl, but here... here, he was

"Miklos Kozlov."  snap

The burly thug nodded again. Then he tipped the bottle beside him to dribble some of the clear, alcoholic liquid into his own shot glass. He lifted it, and Mello plucked up one of his own to do the same.

"Dmitri Ivanov," he introduced himself.

Mello tilted his head toward the man opposite him, then both of them knocked back their shots.

"Naturally, you know who I work for," Dmitri slurred a bit, the Russian words tumbling from his lips like water bubbling over jagged rocks.

Of course Mello knew who this man worked for. This man was employed by the very weapons dealer the great detective L was after. He went by the name of Feliks, and he was the sole purpose for Mello's undercover infiltration into the Russian Mafia.

But naturally, Mello said none of this. He simply nodded and replied, "Da."

"Good." Dmitri's voice was thick like molasses, though nowhere near as sweet. "He wants you to send a... a little message to someone who has not been very cooperative lately." He spoke the words in a sneer laced with twisted power.

snap  "So..." Mello began around the chocolate in his mouth. "...you want someone like me... just to deliver a message?"

Dmitri nodded as more alcohol tumbled into his shot glass.

"What's the message?" Mello tipped his head and threw back his second shot of Russian vodka.

Dmitri shrugged. "Feliks is displeased. That should be clear enough, yes?"

Mello stared at the man, his gaze cold and narrow. It seemed simple enough. Too simple.

"Alright," he agreed finally. "Just tell me where to go."

Plain and simple, Dmitri rattled off a name and address.

Mello nodded and stood, tossing some Rubles onto the wooden table. Then he headed back toward the door and out into the bitter wind.

He arrived shortly thereafter at the specified address, and he made his way across the snowy path to the front door of a humble and run-down home, barely more than a wooden hut. His leather-gloved knuckles knocked three times.

A small man, older than Mello, answered the door. At the sight of the expensive fur coat, the man opened the door further, asking his guest inside. He shut out the cold and turned trembling toward Mello.

"What do you want?" he asked, his eyes full of fear.

Mello took a moment to scan his surroundings. The place was old and shabby, though clean. The furniture and the kitchen appliances all appeared to be decades old, and the entire place was essentially one big room, save for a dingy bedroom and a sad-looking bathroom off toward the back. Mello's green eyes then came to rest on a little girl sitting quietly on the frayed rug by the couch. She held a cat on her lap and looked at him through icy blue eyes. She had wispy, platinum blonde hair, and she wore a plain cotton shirt dress.

"Feliks is displeased with you," Mello spoke at last, returning his attention to the frightened man before him.

"P-please, sir..." the man cowered. "Not in front of my daughter."

Mello's brow furrowed. His hands in his coat pockets, he glanced over to the little girl again, who was holding the grey striped cat against her with both arms. He cleared his throat.

"Well... I suggest you remedy the situation immediately," he said coolly.

The man's head came up. "But... that's... that's it?"

Mello shrugged. "That's it. That's the message."

"Oh thank you! The Saints bless you!" The man reached out to clasp Mello's arm gratefully, leaving L's undercover agent very confused. But, all in a day's work, he supposed...

He returned to the hotel he was staying in, and turned in for the night.

Two days later, there was a loud knock on his door. Mello shut his laptop and made his way over to answer it, and was rather unpleasantly greeted by Vadim, leader of the Russian Mafia, bursting into his room.

"Uh... come on in," Mello snarked, still standing with his hand on the door as Vadim and two of his thugs marched inside and turned to face him in the middle of the room.

Vadim was a broad-chested man with his hair buzzed close to his head. He had a gold tooth, and he wore a fur-lined leather jacket.

"KOZLOV! Give me one good reason why I shouldn't shoot you in the fucking head right here and now!"

Mello calmly shut the door, then turned to face the Mafia leader, crossing his arms. "Well, for starters, I have no idea why you've come calling. Care to help a guy out?"

"For fucks sake, Kozlov!" Vadim exploded, shoving Mello up against the door, both his burly hands gripping his shirt. "We got a job from Feliks, and you just had to go and fuck it up!"

Mello glared at Vadim, despite the fact that the giant of a men could quite literally squish him like an ant. "I was asked to deliver a message, and I did! What the fuck is your problem?"

"Oh, oh you delivered a message?" Vadim let go, shoving Mello against the door and turning to pace a few steps. "So... so what, you... you walked up to the door, knocked, then said, 'Hey! Here's a message from Feliks!'"

The sarcasm was so strong, but Mello shot it right back.

"Yeah, that's EXACTLY what I did! 'Send a message... Tell him Feliks is displeased...' That's WHAT I DID, Vadim, what the-"

"Okay, listen here, tough shit..." Vadim was in his face again, smelling strongly of cologne and liquor. "Go with Igor here. He'll show you how to properly deliver a  FUCKING MESSAGE!" He roared the last word, slamming his fist into the door right by Mello's ear as he did so.

Vadim flung open the door, shoving Mello forcefully out into the hallway. They made their way down to the parking lot, Vadim getting into a luxury vehicle driven by one of his thugs, and Mello getting into an equally extravagant car with the second mafia member, Igor.

Mello said nothing on the drive to the poor man's house. He was starting to get the picture. Apparently "delivering a message" had a much more violent context than he had initially understood... and the .357 Magnum on Igor's lap was only confirming this.

Mello swallowed. This was not going to turn out well... but the last thing he could do was blow his cover.

The car pulled up in front of the same shabby house Mello had visited two nights prior. Igor got out, tucking the weapon into a holster inside his coat, and started toward the house, motioning for Mello to follow. Their footsteps crunched in the snow as they made their way up the crooked walkway, and all at once, Mello knew what he had to do.

Picking up his pace, his shoved his way past Igor and to the front door. He pounded on it with his fist.

"Open up!" he bellowed, his fist repeatedly thudding against the simple wooden door.

It opened, and the same man stood there. His face paled in terror, and Mello stormed inside, his eyes blazing as he removed his gloves.

"Sir, what-" the shaking man began, but his words were cut short.

Mello grabbed the man by his collar and punched him hard in the jaw. The man stumbled back, but Mello held him upright, pounding him again and again with his balled-up fist. He let him drop to the floor and lunged atop him, beating him over and over until the blood on his knuckles was mixed with his own. At last, he gripped the man's collar and jerked him up face-to-bloody face.

"You WILL pay Feliks what you owe him!" he snarled.

The broken man nodded, barely still conscious.

Mello released his grip, but not before leaning in and hissing through gritted teeth, "I just saved your life!"

He stood to his feet, his heart pounding and his hand throbbing. The man's blood was spattered on his coat and on his face, and he lifted his wrist to wipe some of it away from his mouth.

And as he turned to go, a knot instantly formed in his stomach as his emerald gaze made contact with those icy blue eyes again, belonging to the girl with the wispy hair and the tabby cat. She was crouched in a corner and just looking at him through glistening tears.

Mello looked away. His strides took him back outside, past Igor in the doorway. His eyes straight ahead, bitter like the Soviet wind, he muttered coldly,

"He got the message."

Chapter Text

"I don't want to see his face."

The young man barely more than a boy stood with his arms at his sides and his head hung, his yellow hair falling over his slender green eyes. His voice echoed in the strange and empty space, windowless and white with no walls or ceiling. With his fingers curling into his fists, he spoke again through gritted teeth.

"...I can't do it, Mattie. Not after we've failed him like this."

A black-gloved hand clamped down upon Mello's shoulder as a pair of boots stepped up beside him. The freckled redhead looked at his friend, his stance casual with his other hand loosely pocketed. He said nothing, for there was nothing to say.

They'd failed him.

And now they had to face him.

A door with no outline opened and shut again in a creaking echo as a tall figure began to approach them with lightly tapping barefooted steps.

The pair stood still and silent, green eyes beneath yellow hair downcast, while the teal pair under the shaggy red mop and goggles watched as he got closer and closer until he stood there right before them.

He stood a little straighter than he had in life, though his shoulders still slumped a bit with his pocketed hands. His black hair was as wild as it ever was, though now it fell into eyes that weren't quite as tired as the ones that had spent many sleepless nights serving justice to a world he had left all too soon.

"L, I..." Mello's voice caught as he shook his head and lifted his angry and tearful gaze. "...I'm so sorry."

"We did our best." Matt said softly, looking down and scuffing at the plain, stark white ground with the toe of his boot.

The wide, grey eyes looked at them both, the pale and plain expression beneath ebony locks unchanging.

Mello's fists clenched as hot tears stung his eyes, his heart beating like a drum inside his chest.

Matt couldn't bring himself to look up, the knot in his stomach and the lump in his throat causing his own tears to spill over as he swallowed hard and sniffed with a cherry red nose.

And then, slowly, L nodded, and a smile began to form on his face. He stepped forward, and his long arms wrapped around his boys.

"You did your best," he agreed quietly. "And you did me proud."

Chapter Text

The young medical examiner couldn't help but wonder as he looked at the body of the man, barely more than a boy, on his autopsy table...

The victim's skin was whitish grey... his lips even. It seemed even more so under those shaggy locks of reddish brown hair. His closed eyes had already started to darken and sink in a bit. He laid there on his back with his arms down by his sides. The large Y-shaped incision, beginning below the naval and splitting into two forks at the sternum and traveling upward to the shoulders, was stapled shut now. The blood stains had been thoroughly cleaned, but dark purple bruises still surround the multiple circular holes all over his body, seeming hollow and empty now that his blood was gone.

On a table nearby lay a set of red-stained clothes, torn to shreds, including a black and red striped shirt and a suede vest with white fur. Among the other personal effects was one wallet, containing $38 in American bills and a photo of what appeared to be a younger version of the victim and an unidentified blond boy about his age. There was no ID card. One cell phone. One lighter. A packet of cigarettes, half used up. One pair of motorcycle goggles with a cracked lense.

Quietly and with care, the M.E. pulled a sheet up, draping it over the boy's face, and the thin, light blue fabric settled over the still and lifeless form.

"I wonder who he was..."