Obviously don't own deathnote.
She can feel it. Those arms, devoid of warmth or life gave what once could have been a welcomed embrace the feel of slippery disgust. Logically (something she rarely used when it came to him before) she knows those are the wrong words, knows that his arms are strong and hard and human (or as close to a reference as she can dredge up) and yet, all she can feel when he wraps them around her is the shadowy, slimy impression of something long buried, cold and unfeeling.
Except that was inaccurate. Perhaps in life, filled with its inconsequential moments and needs and conquests, filled with his superiority, perhaps then that was the case. Now, however, things were far different. In the grey, they were more equal than ever before.
He broke first. He, who was used to pushing and prodding and leading broke into a thousand million fragments, pieced together haphazardly into an image that echoed his once presence but did not equal it.
She -who was used to following, used to desperation and degradation and always coming out unsatisfied- was stronger. The greyscale warped her, changed her, but that happened long before they had ever been introduced to this place. Behind strawberry smiles and airs of wonder, decorated with lace and frills and shining eyes dwelt the empty disregard. Terminally.
That all encompassing veil had been warm, stoked with the flames of anger and rejection and so many emotions smouldering in her veins and it had led her to her downfall. Him. And now that it had brought him his, here, (where once it had been in her, now they were inside it) it once again had the tool to bring hers.
He, broken with anger and rejection and those too many emotions running through others veins stole her familiar obscurity and once again he was her malignant cancer.
His arms tighten again around her, and as he whispers, mumbles, grunts about the only splash of colour in the empty grey plane surrounding them, and those words once more gain grip under her skin, he is once more all she can focus on, and she wishes him anything but. She is reminded, faintly, of her time, blind, bound and eventually gagged, wrapped in metal with voices constantly constantly prodding her. However, that was preferable. At least she had the voice.
The voice could provoke the familiar rushing of anger and perhaps a small hint of something (hope). The voice let her know who she was, where she was needed, what her role was. The voice gave her context. Here, with everything topsy turvy and obscure and so confusingly blank when all she'd known was turned on its head and suddenly –finally- touching her and all she wanted was it to stop. And the voice.
Time warps and eventually the coldness he brings seeps into her and she stops feeling discomfort. She stops feeling. The grey expands but no shock registers to her system and she moves off as if it always were this way. She recognises only two things: The notebook at her side and the voice in her head.
Faintly, sometimes, a brief brush of flesh or fabric a step behind her side almost registers, and the sensation echoes of apples, reddish hair and begging, on her knees for something, but before it comes into being it is snuffed out and so she goes on.
When she walks by one particular area of the grey, a flash of blue and mocking laughter greets the space behind her, and while she finds such vaguely queer, the voice in her head speaks of colours and sweets and she never remembers any such notion mere seconds later.
Two shadows, one petite and straight backed, the other tall, hulking and hunched a step behind mark themselves on the grey horizon, and the Shinigami world becomes that much more haunting.
Simply a small possible (unlikley) outcome of the whole "deathnote users go to Mu" rule. And it had to be pro Misa... I like her, she's kinda twisted in her own way. And i couldn't resist slipping in a tiny hint of LightXMisaXL. So, seeing as this was really just an excersize to try and get back into writing and probably didnt make much sense... heres the sparks notes. Light and Misa = dead, Mu nothingness) is the grey and its already driven light 'round the bend by the time misa gets there. Seeing as she was (in my mind anyways) already kinda messed up, she didnt fall as spectacularly from grace as light did, but her sanity's as gone as his. Light's kinda obsessed/ indentured serventile to her as she's the only "colour" he had in the grey ( i'm running on the theory that humans dont just mangically turn into shinigami... but need something similar to the supernatural demon turning process... you know... mental torture and such?) and Misa's fractured mind latches onto the one thing it can to keep some form of higher order thinking, which is the memory of L, who played her opposition in most things (L to kira, Male to female, Detective to supposed ditz) basically he made her feel like she belonged. AAAAND ryuk the twisted guy turns up occasionally to laugh at how far light's fallen... and they manage to even creep out shinigami in the end. Ta Da!
So, i hope you enjoyed my yoda-esk writing.