Title: Post-Mortem
Rating: K+
Summary: Contains major spoilers for the end of the series. The story is all one big spoiler. Also contains mpreg. Unexplained. Oneshot. Implied Mello/Near. After the fateful events in book 12, Near makes a startling discovery and goes to Mello's grave to consult his rival.
Yeah. I HAVE MADE THE FIRST MELLO/NEAR MPREG. PHEAR. I mean, enjoy.
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Under his pajamas, it was easy to hide. The growing swell that appeared a month after the events in the warehouse, after Kira had died, fit invisibly under the loose, comfortable clothes that he preferred.
It wasn't as easy to hide when Roger, the new Watari, wondered why the new L was ill. It wasn't as easy when he was constantly exhausted to hide the shadows under his eyes that had been characteristic of his predecessor, his "elder brother," but never of him.
And yet because he was the new L, he was in the perfect position to hide everything. No one but Roger ever saw him, since the warehouse. Roger, and occasionally he got in contact with Gevanni, or Hal. For old time's sake (though such sentimentalities were wasted on the boy – those old times were dark times, better left where they belonged).
He had his suspicions as to why he was sick, as to why his normally pale, childishly pudgy body was starting to swell grotesquely beneath the pure, baggy pajamas he wore. He wouldn't have been a super genius, wouldn't have been worthy of being the new L, if he hadn't started forming his own conclusions and deductions.
But it wasn't until he got an intense craving for chocolate, that he knew for sure what was wrong. And as soon as he knew for sure, he went to see Mello.
That was where he was now, looking at the small plot of land where his rival, his – at least in his opinion – friend, lay buried. It was raining, and he got the distinct feeling that it wasn't good for him to be out in this sort of weather, but he had to see Mello. His fluffy snow white hair clung stubbornly to his round face, and with it this wet he found it useless to play with it like he usually did.
So instead he fiddled with the Transformer in his hands, the plastic toy a comfort to his restless hands as he tried to come up with something to say to Mello. Finally, he decided to just be blunt.
"Mello, I'm pregnant," he said softly, slowly, in his normal deliberate way. He was silent for a moment, sitting on the ground, his white pajamas growing muddy and grass-stained the longer he stayed. His clothes were transparent by then, clinging to his skin. But he just moved the arms of his Transformer, and morphed it in a few seconds into a car and then back.
"Of course it's yours," he said, his voice still level and deliberate. "You're the only one I've..." he trailed off. He transformed his toy into a car, and rolled it across the ground a few times, back and forth, back and forth.
"I don't know what I'm going to do either. Even if I make it, he or she will grow up in Wammy's House, probably. If it's ever necessary for me to show my face to police again, they can't know that the mysterious L has a child." He fell into silence again, and transformed his toy back into the robot. Finally he looked up, and looked at the stone that marked his rival's grave. But, unwilling to see such concrete proof that the other half of the new L was gone, he looked back down at the ground. Mello wasn't under there, six feet deep.
"Of course I'm going to eventually tell Roger. I have to choose a new L, for precautionary measures." He didn't have to explain why – if their predecessor had been able to choose a true heir, out of the two tied for the part, then Mello might not have left. They might have worked together. Mello might have lived.
Then again, he didn't have to explain why anyway. He was, after all, talking to a grave.
He continued to play with his Transformer, a grave and heavy silence draped over him, a snow white angel sitting out in the rain.
To anyone walking by, he looked like an angel with his wings cut off, unable any longer to fly.
"I don't know how it happened, either," he said quietly. "That's the one thing I couldn't solve – why. That's why I came to see you." There was a beat of silence, but he didn't take his eyes off of the toy in his hands.
"Yes, I know. It would be strange if you did have any insight. But if you did, I would appreciate it," he added. Silence reigned, and he rolled his toy – a car once more – across the ground. The boy didn't appear to be listening too intently, but then, there was apparently nothing to listen to. But although he was apparently detached, a small smile played over his lips, as though he had heard something at once tender and amusing. He looked up at the headstone that bore his rival's name.
Mihael Keehl
"You're a vexation," he replied. "But thank you. For everything. Kira would not have been brought to justice if not for your sacrifice – and for Matt's, as well." There was another silence.
"It wasn't 'nothing,'" the boy said, shifting closer in his crouched position. "You gave your life. Because of that, we found out that the one we replaced the pages in was a fake. I know you'd rather not admit it, but because you sacrificed yourself, we all lived and Kira lost." He reached out with a sleeved hand and brushed his fingers against the headstone.
"Thank you," he said again, more softly this time. The harsh sound of rain falling on an umbrella broke him out of his reverie, though he didn't show it. Footfalls followed, uncertainly squelching in the muck.
"Near!" the voice of his guardian and assistant, Roger, called. The older man moved more certainly then, toward him, and then Near, the white-haired boy, no longer felt the rain beating down on him, as Roger held the umbrella over his head.
"What are you doing out here, Near?" the older man chastised politely. The last of the Ls – the next heirs were still in training – shouldn't be out like this. Not when he was already sick.
"I was talking with Mello," Near replied simply, almost childishly. Roger's expression became immediately sympathetic.
"Near," he said softly, and put a hand on the boy's shoulder. "You shouldn't be out here in the rain. You're already sick." Near nodded, not willing to tell Roger yet why he was sick. He set his transformer, in car form, in front of the headstone, and stood. Roger looked at him, puzzled.
"You forgot your toy," he said. Near looked up at him.
"I didn't forget it," he said. "I'm sharing with Mello." And then, without the protection of the umbrella, Near walked away from his rival's grave, his hands empty. Roger looked from the retreating form of the pajama-clad Near to the grave, smiled fondly, and then followed his young charge, calling to him to stop and get under the umbrella before he caught cold.