A/N: So this is Bulletproof. It's been on my computer for ages and I posted it a couple of months ago. There were some major formatting issues, so I deleted it to fix them and here it is again.


There's something disconcerting about being shot.

There's definitely something disconcerting about being shot, Matt decides as the first bullet hits, Kevlar or not - and he's decided that, if at all possible, he'd like to avoid such events repeating themselves.

When the second bullet hits, everything seems to go into slow motion and he realizes that he's not thinking clearly. 'Disconcerting' is hardly the word to describe what he's going through ('distinctly unpleasant' might fit better), so he silently thanks whatever god will listen for the small things, like the cigarette pressed between his lips and the sweet distraction of deadly smoke in his lungs.

The third bullet brings burning, excruciating pain, so all of the thanks he'd just been offering turn to curses and all Matt can think about doing is repeatedly stabbing the chest and face of whomever it was that concluded that bulletproof sleeves were simply too much to ask for. A gunshot wound to the arm is not deadly, but this time the splotch of red blossoming upon his striped shirt is real-his own-and so he doesn't even have the mental capacity to appreciate that the sound of gunfire in his video games is alarmingly close to reality's counterpart. The pain is terrible and persistent, so the original discomfort (about which he'd been complaining) fades to background noise now.

Around the tenth or twelfth bullet, the pain, pressure, and adrenaline get to be too much, so Matt passes out...but not before one last, long drag from his cigarette. As he goes, the back half of his brain registers his body falling and slumping against his newly ruined car. (Ashes fall to his vest, but he's too far gone to care.)


"...Anonymous corpse..."

"...Multiple gunshot wounds..."

"...Miss Takada's bodyguards..."

"...Against Kira..."

Hospital morgues are unpleasant.

The cold metal of the table he's lying on isn't too great either. The air conditioning is up way too high, and he could use a pillow, and possibly a cigarette, and Matt is about four seconds away from writing off a complaint to whoever would hear it when he catches on to the fact that this room's usual occupants are dead. Now he just hopes that his shifting of weight hasn't alerted anyone in the vicinity to his consciousness.

Ten minutes of silence pass before Matt decides that he is alone. Good. Slowly, he opens one eye. Yes, definitely a morgue. Judging by the smell, definitely a hospital. It's strange to think that he had liked these places once; this environment seems far from comforting to him now. Finally, he sits up and looks around, and then down at himself. In addition to his arm wound, it appears he has obtained at least one in the shoulder/arm area and another in the thigh. How utterly fantastic. He almost wishes he hadn't looked because soon after that discovery, the pain starts up again. Surprisingly, gunshot wounds fall into the category of things you don't realize are causing you excruciating pain until you see the extent of the damage.

The small amount of medical knowledge he's obtained from Wammy's (and 10-straight hours of CSI weekly [courtesy of illegally obtained TiVo]) told him that all three bullets have gone straight through his flesh and muscle (and possibly bone, if the immobility of his right arm is anything to go by), so he won't have to worry about that. However, when left as they currently are, he runs the risk of getting an infection or bleeding to death. Neither of those things sound particularly appealing, so he scans the area for bandages or anything of that sort. At first, he comes upon nothing but his attention is caught by something he deems far more interesting.

Out of pure curiosity, the redhead carefully twists to swing his legs over the edge of the metal table and reaches toward the chart on the silver clipboard on the table of medical instruments next to him. He tries with his right hand and is rewarded with a round of grueling pain. When he gets over that, he corrects the mistake and tries again with his left: the good arm. The use feels awkward and the papers provide him with no information he hadn't already deduced for himself, and the rest is in kanji that he hasn't ever bothered to learn. What a waste of time.

'Ah, yes, bandages.' He hops and hobbles to a drawer near the sink and, luckily, is compensated for the trouble.

When Matt turns back around to go to the table, it seems a lot farther away than previously deduced so he lowers himself gingerly to the ground with the arm and leg that escaped the dangerous situation unscathed. A breath hisses involuntarily between his teeth with the pain that comes with the movement. It's nothing he can't bear though, of course, even though they have resumed bleeding heavily. Black spots dance in his vision, providing thirty-six seconds of mild entertainment before he regaines his senses.

The only small favor he can think of this time was that those Kira-worshiping imbeciles had been none-too-eager to begin his autopsy, so his clothes, Kevlar, modesty, and pocket possessions are still intact-and perhaps that is enough to pacify him for now.


Mello is definitely going to Hell.

…Or prison, depending on who catches up to him first. Quite frankly, he isn't sure which one he'd prefer. But there's no time to dwell on that now.

His breath comes in huffs as he runs at full-speed away from that damn church, feet stomping noisily upon the hard-packed dirt ground, and the murderous bitch contained therein. His stiff muscles are getting sore, his eyes burn from the ash, his lungs seem to pump pure smoke (is this what Matt feels like all the time), and his best and favorite motorcycle sits, stuck and forgotten, in the back of that stolen truck, but all in all (he supposes), he should be thankful. After all, he's alive. This is by far the most well thought-out plan he'd come up with in a long, long time, and it's been at least 50% successful.

At the time, forcing Lidner-one of Takada's bodyguards, Near's agent, and aid to Mello-to switch, hide, or burn all of Takada's hidden Death Note pages seemed like an unnecessary risk to take to ease his paranoia, but today, it saved his life.

And, for a while, he worried abou- errr- considered the possible outcome that someone might notice a blond teenager stuffing a body of his approximate size into the back of a delivery truck, but they hadn't. He thought that Takada might notice her kidnapper shoving a replacement corpse into the drivers' seat, but she was really less observant than one might think.

But he'd set the place on fire anyway, just to be sure.

So far, the plan was going more perfectly than he had ever predicted it could. He thinks he has a right to be proud, and so he is.

Of course, there was something else...

Matt's life would be the factor determining the complete success or utter failure of his months of plotting.

As Mello hops onto the old-but-functional motorcycle that one of his old mafia contacts had provided and kicks up the kickstand, he comes to terms with the situation, noting that there is nothing he can do but wait and see.

In such a manner, he begins the long drive back to the mediocre hotel in downtown L.A.


Bandaging his right shoulder with his left hand turns out to be more difficult of a task than Matt initially thought. Left-handedness and ambidexterity were two traits that he is not gifted with, but he manages and now attempts to make his way from the hospital to the hotel without being noticed by too many people, which is also indisputably more difficult than it sounds (who knew that blood attracted so much attention?) but, again, he manages. He'd studied a map of the area enough that he could work his way through the alleys blindfolded. If he remembers correctly, Mello had tested him by making him do just that.

After spending nearly 50,000 yen silencing witnesses at the hotel's service entrance, Matt stands, alone, in his suite. There is a door that connects his 'living room' to Mello's; the rooms are adjacent. That door was usually either unlocked or open, so the current status makes him feel slightly claustrophobic. The door is closed, and he can hear nothing but silence from behind it.

As all of the computers and technological equipment had been packed into suitcases and hidden somewhere (in case they "couldn't come back for it," Mello had said, but what he really meant was, "in case we die"), there is room on the couch for Matt to sprawl out and gingerly poke at his wounds. The pain makes him so out of it that he isn't even registering that he himself is causing the increase in discomfort. Almost as an afterthought before passing out, he turns on the television with the remote that he'd left sitting on the coffee table and turns up the volume too loud, so that Mello will be able to hear it if/when he returns, next door. It's the news, but enough time has passed that they aren't talking about him or Mello anymore. Small favors.

Matt doesn't have enough energy to formulate any coherent thoughts on Mello's condition, and everything fades to black again.