So much for updating quickly…this fic is proving to be a challenge, but one that I greatly enjoy writing, even if it kept me up until five in the morning.
I'll admit it, I greatly enjoy the idea of Mello and Hal being together…so I incorporated that into Hal's breakdown. If you don't like the pairing, I at least hope that you enjoy this chapter, since it made my fingertips bleed.
phollie. does not own Death Note, or "the murder notebook" as L calls it.
The one who depends on the services she renders
To those who come knocking,
She's seeing too clearly what she can't be,
What understanding defies.
- The Tower, Vienna Teng
An hour later when Hal glides out of the shower, she thinks of Mello.
To say that she had not loved him would be a lie on her part, but there's no point in pulling the wool farther over her eyes. A bright flash of blue frequently passes by her mirror when she combs her hair; there is an occasional phantom brushing of golden hair over her abdomen when she's dangling on the edge of sleep.
She would like to think that he's reaching out to her, but the sentimentality of such a thought is so unlike the Mello that she knew that it nearly makes her laugh.
Or cry. But does Hal Lidner cry?
How long has she been looking in this mirror?
She scoffs at her reflection, her sallow cheekbones and diluted honey eyes, and forces a comb through her wet hair before tossing it into the sink. A corner of the comb chips off an scatters down the drain, and something in her tells her that she should rescue this plastic fragment before it tumbles to its death. Nevertheless, she merely cocks her head to the right and turns her gaze back to the mirror.
Blue. Ice blue, flitting across her reflection and out of sight. If she could just…
Hold onto it? How foolish. How utterly stupid of her. If any of her unexlained sights mattered, then why wouldn't they stay longer than a glimpse of a second?
You're a tease. Do you know that, Hal Lidner?
Hal drops the towel tucked beneath her elbows and walks to her room, naked and uncaring. If Mello decides to give her a visit, he will see what effect he has had on the body that used to be so faultless that he would lavish it with warm kisses and release inside of it shamelessly. Would he still bite upon ber bottom lip and bury his fingers into her hair if he were to see her today?
Once more, she is stupid. Mello is dead, more so than her philosophy on weaknesses of the heart. He is buried six feet under, while she is forced to endure the death of her wisdom six feet above.
She doesn't put much thought into what she wears for the night, but focuses on the black items of her wardrobe. If she decides to look nice, it will be by accident and not by nature as it used to be. One black dress in which billows over her has-been curves and a pair of stockings later, Hal sits by the window and waits for a sign.
She doesn't know what she's waiting for. The signs she desires only come when she glimpses at the mirror or pulls the sheets over her head, and she is well past her sleeping limit.
Mirror…
Standing up, she nearly stumbles over a pair of shoes as she rushes to the bathroom. She grips the sink for support, staring down into the drain that screams to swallow her fluttering fraction of life, and lifts her eyes to the mirror.
There is no sparkle of blue. There are no whispers swirling around her ears, no grazing of gold on her stomach. Only endless, endless fading.
She arrives at the bar with an air of indifference, and doesn't bother to remove her coat. The others find her before she spots them and wave her over, confiding in a small corner of dim lighting and polished stools, but Hal manages a small smile when Gevanni nods as a wordless greeting. Just as she expected, he appears as a carbon copy of the last time she saw him, and she is unsure as to whether or not this is relieving. He does not seem to notice her own rapid whittling as she approaches their corner.
"Hal," he says, standing up and gesturing for her to remove her coat. When Hal doesn't do so, he clears his throat and allows her to take her seat without any formalities.
She takes the opportunity after the awkward hellos and nods to survey the others around her, beginning with Rester who sits across from her. She is not entirely surprised to see that he has maintained the stately muscularity and set jaw, and in spite of the thin lines of age forming by his blue eyes, he is undeniably the same Rester that she had worked with three months ago. When he senses her looking at him, he glances over at her and gives her a smile that can almost be mistaken for sympathetic.
Sympathetic? Does she really look that dire?
"It's been awhile, Hal. How have you been?"
Rester's voice drags her out of her mental tirade enough for her to respond. "Fine, fine," she says with a nod. "I've been taking some time off for personal matters. Nothing serious."
She doesn't know why she says this. They all know why she has been on leave, and who employed her to do so. Near. And when even Near tells you that you need to rest, to take some time off and breathe, you are usually much deeper into your own wear and tear than you realized. Hal knows this well, and coughs into her fist to conceal her own slipup.
She swears she hears laughter in her ears.
"Nothing serious," Rester repeats slowly, nodding. "Well, I would hope not."
Gevanni is staring. When Hal grits her teeth and returns the gaze, he clears his throat once more and nods once. So much nodding, so much throat clearing. "That's good to hear, Hal. Good to hear."
Hal takes this on the offense, and is unsure why. Nevertheless, she clenches her fists beneath the table and digs his knuckles into her wan thighs. "Good to hear?" she asks. "What, were you expecting worse?"
"No, Hal, of course not," Gevanni replies. He is reassuring her, and it angers her to no end. "Like Rester said, it's been some time. Things change over time, I'm sure you're aware."
Stop fucking laughing, Mello.
"And some things don't change at all," Hal says. It does not come out as sharp as she wishes, but she keeps her gaze firm. "And the things that do change usually have a pretty good reason for-"
"Hey, guys, I'm back!"
Hal looks up at the sudden outburst and sees a man that she wishes she hadn't. She knows him, this beaming, bright-eyed man that is clumsily holding a glass of fizzing amber liquid, the man that stood opposite of her and the SPK on the last day of Light Yagami's life.
Yellow Box. Crash. "Matsuda, you idiot!"
This is the one that shot Kira…and he is smiling, wobbling, happily meeting Hal's stare with a bewildered sort of charm. How can he appear so flighty, so carefree and joyous and Matsuda when he was the one who had shot Light? Hal had never fired a bullet into the man's body, but she had seen him spilling blood upon the cold cement floor until he appeared nothing more than a fallen soldier that had put up more of a fight than she had ever seen in her life. They had all seen him stagger up and run off to a heaven that would never accept him, bloody and beaten and corrupt.
The so-called "god" bled just as much as Hal could if she had been shot by Matsuda, who seems to be on the verge of intoxication.
"H-hi," he says, flashing her a slurry smile. "I've seen you before, right? Haven't I?"
Of course he has, even though Hal was hoping that he wouldn't remember. Perhaps three months would leave a blank slate for her to work with, and her wan appearance would simply be a first impression instead of a noticeable change.
He's blushing. Drunk. Waiting for her response. Pushing a piece of hair behind her ear, she gives him just that. "Three months ago." Nothing more, nothing less.
Matsuda laughs for reasons unknown. There is a cloudy fog hanging over his eyes as he looks at her as well as a lazy smile that betrays Hal's memory of him. He had been crying those three months ago, trembling, collapsing into the arms of the task force members after shooting Kira to the ground in a mangled heap.
And now? Hal has not decided exactly what this man is, and half of her is disgusted while the other half is vaguely relieved. Even though the alcohol is lightening the man's circumstances to an extent, and that she is certain that there must be some shard of anguish lurking beneath those glassy eyes, Hal wants to understand him. No, she needs to understand how he's done it, how he's kept his head glued onto his neck after sending bullet after bullet into Kira's body.
But who is she kidding? He's drunk.
"Well, uh, want a drink?" Matsuda asks, holding his hand out to her strangely. Hal takes this as a sign that he wants her to come with him, and even though it would entirely defeat the purpose of him getting a drink for her, she stands up and gives a slight wave to the others at the table. She chooses to ignore the questioning gaze from Gevanni as she leaves their corner.
"I usually, uh, don't have a girl - oh, I mean woman, sorry - with me, so this is pretty cool, you know?" Matsuda is staring at her with that silly smile on his lips, yet Hal fails to see what is so "cool" about having her by his side. She does not say this, however, and merely nods and twists the corner of her mouth into a crooked smile. Matsuda seems satisfied and releases a dotty titter of a laugh beneath his breath. When he nearly loses his balance, Hal sighs and grips him by the shoulders enough to steady him. "Are you good?" she asks with a twinge of annoyance. She hasn't had to do anything like this for quite some time, and the memory of her past bodyguard scenerios disturbs her enough to turn her attention away from him.
His voice brings it back onto him. "Y-yeah, I'm fine," he says sheepishly. "Just, yeah, got a little dizzy for a second."
"Then maybe you should lay off the booze for the rest of the night," Hal quips dryly. She doesn't know why she is giving such advice to the young man; the alcohol seems to be doing a swell job at concealing any signs of emotional distress in him, if he possesses any at all.
Matsuda swallows hard and gives her another lopsided grin. "Maybe you're right. But I still need to get you something, right? I'd feel pretty bad if I left you hanging!" He chuckles and places a hand on the back of his head.
What?
She ignores his statement and tells him what she wants to drink, and he smiles again before ordering it. He's so beaming and bouncy and everything that Hal is not. Should she envy him? Should she search for better company?
Or should she just go home and wait for her flash of blue.
She is on her third drink, and doesn't feel anything.
There is no pleasant glow of calm within her blood, nor is there a warm flush of good-natured friendliness that used to greet her after a few drinks. But now, the effect is a numbing ice pressed against her forehead, and she has taken solace in staring off to her right at the mingling cliques of adults instead of her colleagues and drunk Matsuda to her left.
She listens to them talk, however, only because the conversations from the tables around her are a blur in her ears.
"I told her that retirement would be best, considering how the pension agency is finally out of the water, and that it would be much easier for her to go into a retirement home, but of course her own son wouldn't know what's best for her, so…"
Hal has never heard this man before, but does not turn to see his face. His voice holds a smarmy sort of defiance that Hal finds insufferable. He is speaking of pensions. The possibility of her having any less interest in the conversation is zero to none. She blocks out the rest of his chatter until another person, a woman, speaks.
"You can't force a woman into retirement, Dibson, especially your own mother, for Christ's sake. If she doesn't want to be pent up in some old folks hut, don't make her."
"I never said I was making her, Trish, it was a suggestion. There's nothing wrong with…"
Hal blocks him out again. His voice is making her cringe and long for another drink to bring the numbing sensations back to her brain.
Gevanni leans over to her. "You look distracted."
She keeps her eyes on the couple to her right, conversing and laughing and oblivious to her staring. "I am," she says flatly.
"Do you need some air?"
Again with that same question. She looks at him now, amused for the first time that night. "You must really like air, Gevanni."
He looks at her, stunned for a moment, and cracks a genuine smile that Hal has not seen for what feels like ages. It is a hearty flush of joy to see that, even for the most brief of seconds, she has inspired someone to smile, or that her social skills returned just long enough to do so.
Before she can relish it, it is chilled and frosted over in a anesthetized sort of shock that tugs at the root of her brain. The chuckling in her ears, his smile, fogs her senses over until she feels the urge to either vomit or laugh with him, laugh so hard with her head thrown back that she would vomit anyway.
She needs to stop. She needs to stop this, right now, while she still has the meager strength that has just been injected into her with a fleeting second of happiness. Self-satisfaction. Something other than this blank longing for something that only scribbles along her mirror or grazes her stomach in the night.
He's not really there.
Perhaps she does need some air, just as Gevanni suggested. She stands up and slings her purse over her shoulder before hearing a confused sound bubble in Matsuda's throat. When she hears his chair being scooted back, she is positive that she will not be alone on her quest for the air that is refusing to fill her lungs. She is choking on something, something that is not bodily or anything that she can name. It's all in her head, she is sure of it, it's all boiling and spilling over and it's all in her head…
She doesn't keep track of how long she walks, or where she is even going since the mental map of the bar has now failed her, but she eventually finds the door and rushes outside into the cool night air. She trips over something imaginary. Matsuda catches her, earning a furious grunt from her. He's touching her. He's holding her the way that he has no right to, and her fury is blinding her from making a clean escape from his arms. There is something burning behind her eyes.
"Are you crying?" Matsuda asks, bewildered.
What a stupid question, she thinks. "Let me go," she orders. "Let me go!"
He does exactly that and releases her clumsily, so clumsily that she stumbles against the hard brick wall with her palms holding her up. Since when has she been this unbalanced? She's not drunk, she's sure of that, but her feet are floating beneath her, occasionally touching ground and tying into knots when they do.
Look at what you've done.
Mello or Light, she is uncertain as to who this thought is aimed at. Both have played a role in her slow-burning destruction that is now a blazing forest fire in her mind, in her joints and in her cold heart. If Hal Lidner doesn't cry, then she won't even now as she is pressed against a brick wall outside of a tavern, thinking upon the two men that have morphed her motives into something unrecognizable. She doesn't know what she wants, who she is, or what she's doing, but she'll be damned if she cries in front of this drunk, dark-eyed jester that seems to think he can calm her down.
"H-hey, maybe you should go home, you don't look so good," Matsuda says shakily. "I mean, uh, not that you look bad or anything, I just…I can t-take you home, alright?"
Hal scoffs and waves an impatient hand at him. "Then get me a cab, you're drunk."
Matsuda mumbles something of acknowledgement under his breath and begins flagging down a potential ride home. Is he coming with her? Hal is not thinking that far ahead, nor does she care.
His eyes are brown, not piercing blue.
She wonders what, or who, possessed her to leave her bed in the first place, and makes a mental note to extend her
sleeping limit by another hour. Or two.
I hope to keep my promise in updating quicker than this…this took friggin' forever. I'm quite proud of it, though, and my fingertips are healing from their toiling!
I love me some feedback.
