a/n: So, in case you didn't know---I'm obsessed with Mello and Matt, most particularly with the backstory to how they met---a mystery. Most writers insist that they were good friends at Wammy's, that Matt was horribly upset when Mello left, and then they have a quirky/serious tale about how Matt finally tracks Mello down after he's gotten his scar or vice versa. There's nothing wrong with that. I adore many stories with that idea. But it feels like that's all it ever is.

So, here is something that I was just thinking of: you all know how the first time we see him, Matt is sitting in Mello's car.

But why is that, really:grin :Here's my take on it.

Death note is of course the property of Tsugumi Ohba and Takeshi Obata.

I slid into the seat of my car feeling confident: The night before hadn't been full of nightmares. The sun was shining.

And then I noticed that there was a stranger sitting in the passenger seat.

No, not sitting, lounging. He had the seat pushed back, and was leaning with his head drooping over the headrest.

His striped shirt rose slowly in time with his breathing.

"Okay, Matt, time for you to get out," I said to the man, plucking the name out of the air for lack of anything else. I figured there was no need to panic. There had to be, after all, an explanation as to why he was there. Probably he was a homeless person who needed a place to sleep.

A homeless person who needed a place to sleep who was very good at picking locks.

Probably.

The man looked at me.

I was almost taken aback by the force of his gaze. There were rules to social conduct--- yes, I ignore them on a daily basis, but most people don't----and the stare I was receiving should have been coming from an intimate friend, not a random person who somehow forced his way into my car.

"How'd you know my name, Mello?" He smiled.

Now I was taken aback. I subtly reached for the gun I kept in the front of my pants.

"What are you gonna do, shoot your best friend?"

Okay. Maybe there wasn't a subtle way to reach into one's pants.

So I did the next best thing.

I started driving.

The city was a blur as the car passed the world by.

"I don't know who you think you are, but it's not anybody I know. You're lucky I'm in a good mood. And you're really lucky I don't want any blood on this interior." I said after a few minutes of wondering when he was going to say something.

"What are you talking about? We went to school together. At Wammy's House."

"I went to school in California," I lied. Suddenly I wondered if I was actually in danger. It hadn't looked like he was armed, but I was only looking for the obvious.

"You were second in line to become L," the man continued. He took a long drag on the cigarette I hadn't noticed before.

"What the fuck's an L?" Why was he so calm? How did he know this? There were only four people who knew that. And two of them were dead.

"I was third."

"There was no third," I snapped. "There was nobody named Matt." It was no use keeping up a charade if it would be ignored. But what was he getting at, anyway?

"You slept on the second floor, mostly because Near doesn't like heights." His voice was bland.

"Who the fuck are you?" I couldn't keep the raw emotion out of my voice.

"It's hard to believe you kept your hair the same length, after all this time."

"L, Near, Me, Toby, Linda, Sam, Bently, Sarah----that's the way the lineup went. But Toby was so far beneath me that he wasn't considered for the position. And there wasn't any Matt." I said.

I was disturbed, yes. Disturbed, but also curious, flattered, terrified, pissed.

Logically, there was no way he could have been at Wammy's House---I knew enough to know that.

Logically, he had to have been at Wammy's House----he knew enough to make me think that.

"There wasn't any Matt you knew, you mean."

"Bull shit. I knew everybody."

"Even the kids in the infirmary?"

I mulled over this for an instant or so. It was possible, I supposed, that this Matt person was very intelligent like myself, and had resided at the orphanage, and had spent all his time in a sick bed.

"Impossible," I said.

"Why?"

"You called yourself my best friend. I don't have any friends."

The man tossed the cigarette out the window. The sun caught his hair, playing tug and war with it against the wind----the rust colored strands flew back revealing features that were so laid back I could only draw the conclusion that he wasn't laid back at all.

As he withdrew his hand, the sleeve of his shirt rode up a bit.

I caught a glimpse of a white band with a number around his wrist.

And suddenly I recalled the insane asylum not three blocks from my parking space, and a cold creeping horror descended upon me, chilling my fingers as I shifted my grip on the wheel.

"So…what do you do for a living?" I asked nonchalantly.

"I'm between jobs right now," He smiled.

"Oh?" My voice was strained. There wasn't a lot out there in the world that scared me----I was the one who was supposed to scare people. But I've always, always, hated crazy people.

"Yeah. So where are we going?"

"Right back where you belong, buddy," I muttered, swerving the car back the way we'd come, back towards the institution.

"Oh. For some reason I thought it'd be Kira related."

I slammed on the brakes. Matt----if that was his real name----bit down on his cigarette and started choking.

I was in no mood to slap the escapee on the back, and opted to instead watch him warily.

By the time he had recovered, I was parked in front of the asylum and had my hand on my gun.

"Look. Matt. This is the end of the road. Get out. And then get inside. I'm sure the employees know what to do after that."

"Amazing. You really are smart, you know that?"

"Thanks," I said, waving the gun in the direction of the door.

He shifted, and he gave me that look again. A look tainted with false familarity, a look steeped in glass. A look that was now mutely begging me.

And then he began to talk, his words sharp and falling over themselves to splinter into my reluctant ears.

"I'm not supposed to be here. I'm not like them. They think I'm crazy---you get that, don't you? You know what it's like to have people think that. But we're not crazy, are we?"

"I'm not crazy," I offered. Mentally I recoiled at how good his aim was.

"Exactly. Look---if I were crazy----how would I know so much about you? I'm a hacker. A good one. One of the best---no, the best. And I want to help you."

"Help me?"

"Because you're by yourself. I'm your hypothetical best friend, buddy. Trust me on this, I'm the smartest person alive after you and Near." His tone switched from desperation to cockiness to an earnestness I couldn't help but admire.

Yeah. I've been accused of being crazy, and I'll tell you what---it fucking sucks.

I never thought I'd be on the receiving end of such a speech. And maybe that's why I let my guard down the tiniest bit, let it down for the first time ever since I'd walked through the Wammy's House gates.

"Ok. Matt. That's what I'm gonna call you, got it?"

"Got it."

"I couldn't care less about hacking. I'm tailing two people right now. This is what I want you to do….."

Which is how I started working with Matt.

I don't know if it's his real name. I don't even know how smart he is, and I still haven't figured out how he got into my car. (Although lately I've been thinking that last doesn't matter so much.)

What I do know is this: he wasn't kidding when he said he was my best friend. He's been invaluable to me.

Upon researching that asylum I discovered that they didn't issue armbands to their patients. I don't know what to make of any of it.

Is he really just a stranger, a stranger who picked me, out of millions and millions of people on this earth?

Sometimes I tell him my theories.

That he really is crazy. That I'm hallucinating him. That he's actually Toby. That he's an angel.

Sometimes he looks up from his videogame, with the most peculiar looks on his face.

But mostly he just smiles.

a/n: Thanks for reading! I'm sorry for the wacky oneshots lately...but please, please review!