A/N: I have a crush on the taskforce collectively, and Mochi is most definitely not left out. I'm talking about anime!Mogi, though, because manga!Mogi is extremely meh. And I always thought Rester was a stud. Oooh, he and Mochi are just big hunks of muscle. Yeah, I like my men manly, okay? (Side-note: You'd think Ooi was a shoo-in, wouldn't you? But, like, ewww.)

The title of this fic (yes, it's a horrifying cliché) came to me after I'd written most of it, but upon editing I tried to keep dialogue short (which can be difficult for me). I've planned for one chapter after this. Hope you enjoy!

Disclaimer: I don't own Death Note.

So they'd been taken—by people who were also after Kira. How inconvenient.

They'd provided him with a very nice suite, but one of them probably kept a key. Rester, most likely. Gevanni and Lidner were bound to be highly trained in combat, but if there was any one of the three who could match his strength, it was Rester. He knew without having to check that his rooms would be bugged. He wondered if there were cameras in the bathroom, and decided he didn't care. He wouldn't do anything that they could construe as suspicious, and had no qualms about the exposure of his body, if it was all for the sake of trust.

"Rester-san." Mogi finally spoke.

"Yes?"

"You are American, aren't you?"

Rester smiled wryly, brushing a hand through his white-blonde hair. "Yes, I am."

"You speak very good Japanese."

"Thank you."

"When did you learn it?"

Rester had known that Mogi would ask questions, but hadn't expected this sort. "Er… when I was very young. My mother died when I was two, and my father remarried a Japanese woman. They thought it would be best if I was fluent in both languages." His father's hair was a very dark brown until the day he died. From his mother's death on, everyone had thought Anthony Carter was adopted.

"I see."

They were both quiet. They were quiet men. They followed orders and rarely voiced judgments, never felt underappreciated, were always ready to risk their lives for the anti-Kira effort. Mogi cooked for Misa. Rester bought toys for Near.

Rester was fluent in Japanese, and his American accent was barely noticeable, but Mogi knew very little English. He knew the words that had made their way into Japanese culture and the names of various American foods, some of which made him feel slightly queasy. He could say things like "My name is Kanzo Mogi," remembering to switch it around so that his family name came last, and "Could I please use the telephone?" and "I must go to the hospital" and "Sorry, I don't speak English." He was proficient with a table fork and steak knife.

He looked at Rester. In America, people wouldn't care whether you had white-blonde hair and sky-blue eyes and pale skin, or black hair and tanned golden skin and black eyes with an epicanthic fold. He knew people would stare at Rester were he to walk side-by-side with Mogi in Tokyo. But what would Rester be doing in Tokyo? Unlikely that he would be walking side-by-side with Mogi.

Rester's hair was smoothed back, Mogi noted. Maybe if he grew his own longer, he would be able to do the same. They looked quite alike, he realized. They were the same height, the same build. Near had added a little puppet-Mogi to his collection of toys, and it had the same expression as puppet-Rester. But Rester had a chin that was slightly squarer. Mogi noticed these things.

[Days later.]

Mogi woke flat on his back, arms at his sides, breathing steadily, and with an erection. He sighed. It was to be expected.

Stiffly, he rose, and grunted at the slide of his boxers. It was 7:00 exactly. He had fallen asleep at 11:00 and had slept soundly. He couldn't remember his dreams. How would he take care of this?

A cold shower? He hated those.

Or perhaps whoever was on watch wasn't paying attention. He dearly hoped they weren't; he knew a very conspicuous bulge appeared whichever way he turned. But he had to always behave as if they were. Chief Yagami had taught him that.

He blinked. What did Chief Yagami have to do with Mogi's morning erection? He shuddered. More thoughts like that would take care of his problem.

Were there cameras in the shower?

He closed his eyes. Of course there were. Waterproof lenses and miniscule equipment were not too much of a luxury for the SPK. There was probably only one; he could search for it, and face away—but that would be such a visible and blatant attempt to be hiding something.

Maybe he would do it anyway, turn the water scalding, close his eyes, bow his head under the steaming spray and stroke himself until everything disappeared down the drain and he could think more clearly. What would they care if he masturbated? If Rester broke into his room in alarm, expecting a waterproof mobile phone, or something, he would only find Mogi in the shower with his hand on his cock and his skin pink and dripping and his eyes shut tight. And then Rester would skedaddle. They could assume that he assumed that they would not be spying on him in the shower, and nobody would have to exchange words on the subject.

7:03. Mogi made his bed, took off his nightclothes, and folded them neatly on his comforter. He wouldn't be able to search for the camera, but he was a good actor. No, he was thinking this over too much. He didn't want to put on a show. He just wanted to act casually enough so that they'd sense no weakness, and keep from embarrassing himself more than he already had. His breath came quickly, and he fought to keep it from showing.

Gevanni and Lidner slept in their suites. Near was in his room, meticulously painting faces on little Lego men. Rester was in the control room alone, mixing hot oatmeal and staring at the various screens. Amane was still asleep; Mogi was up.

Rester peered at the bulky Japanese man. He wasn't jumping out of bed as usual, but he didn't seem ill. What could be—oh.

Mogi was up.

Rester had checked Mogi's file. The man was five years younger than himself, but had had the same amount of physical training. Rester had to admire the way he tidied up his bed and carefully folded his nightwear. Their habits were very much the same. He gave a little smile—their bodies' habits were also very much the same. No doubt Mogi had spent a couple of minutes debating what to do. Well, Rester was not one to spy on a man's more personal moments. He switched all screens off.

"Mr. Rester." Near's voice, somewhat digitized, echoed in the large room. He flicked the communication control.

"Yes?"

"I have received a signal that the screens are off. Please turn them back on."

Could Near have been watching too? He doubted it. Even if Near had had his television screen activated, it would not be watching Mogi's room if Rester was already on it.

"With respect, Near, there's nothing of importance happening in either room."

"Mogi Kanzo has proven himself to be a very good actor. Please turn the screens back on."

"Yes."

Camera eight was receiving activity signals. The shower? Oh, well… it couldn't be helped. Screens winked back on.

Was Mogi doing what he thought he was doing? There was no point questioning—Rester could see everything quite clearly.

A man after his own heart. Did he think that there were no cameras in his shower? Rester knew Mogi wasn't that stupid. Was this the man's way of showing the SPK that he had nothing to hide? He certainly hid nothing.

Mogi could not have looked for the hidden camera; if he had, he would have angled his body away, even unconsciously. Nothing was hidden from view. Rester watched, willing himself to be as detached as possible. He thanked God that Near wasn't around. It could be hard to explain such a thing to an eighteen-year-old whose voice hadn't yet changed.

Mogi was muscular. Large. Everywhere. His head was bowed, but Rester wasn't watching his head.

Mogi wore a towel out of the shower, and his skin was still pink. He dried himself methodically and once more entered his bedroom. Pressing the button that would connect him to Mogi's suite, Rester cleared his throat and schooled himself to speak in his Official FBI Agent voice. He'd said these words daily; nothing was meant to have changed.

"Mr. Mogi, breakfast is ready whenever you are."

The television opposite his bed flickered on, displaying Rester only. The breath Mogi didn't know he was holding escaped. Rester looked very calm, but there was no way that his timing could have been that perfect.

"Understood."

Few words were necessary, really. They both despised the cliché.

Later, in private, Rester fisted his own cock hard and imagined having been able to see Mogi's mouth on screen, perhaps whispering Rester's real name, however impossible it was for him to know. He came in silence, holding his breath, remembering Mogi's muscles and wet hair and clenched fist.