A/N: Woo, a rare update! I can tell you that the next chapter will feature Mello and Apollo, but I can't tell you when it'll be actually written. Blame my essays.

Disclaimer: I don't own Death Note.

Devotion

Teru Mikami was a man of routine. His days and nights held no room for variables, and neither did his work. Mikami took on cases that allowed him the freedom to tackle them in his own time and tried very hard not to turn away clients who had the audacity to think that just because they were paying him, he was theirs to utterly command.

Mikami served nobody but society.

Ironically, his social life was virtually non-existent. He needed a notice of at least three days in advance if an acquaintance wanted to catch up over dinner. Mikami despised last-minute plans, and as an extension, last-minute planners. Although Mikami often cited his busy schedule and work load, the real reason he always declined spontaneous invitations to "go grab a coffee later" or "catch a movie tonight" was because he needed time to wrap his mind around the fact that he would be expected to socialize – mindlessly interacting with people he didn't really care about for a small amount of what normally constituted as pleasure. It was a waste of time, and pretending to like it was exhausting. He preferred sticking to the gym every night – gym, shower, work, sleep.

His partners at the firm thought him a loner. They were not entirely wrong, but Mikami preferred the term independent. He was self-reliant; he always had been, ever since his pathetic mother betrayed him by discouraging his troublesome bravery in school hallways. There was nobody else worth his trust, nobody worth his respect, nobody worth another heartbreak.

Then Kira happened.

Hitoshi Demegawa, Mikami had to admit, had been a key player in turning the tide of public opinion. Those who used to hide their admiration for Kira were no longer scorned and could now openly congregate with other Kira supporters without fear of police intervention. Yet, despite all his contributions to the Kira revolution, Demegawa was just a fame-hungry mouthpiece. Mikami wanted to be more than that; he wanted to go above and beyond "Kira's Kingdom" and other televised appearances.

He wanted to rule at Kira's side, or at Kira's feet. Whichever Kira desired, and whatever Kira wanted, Mikami would give. Kira was justice; Kira was everything Mikami wanted to be.

Mikami, impassioned with joy in discovering a potential kindred spirit, suddenly found himself breaking his own patterns. Gone were the days of cooking and eating dinner during the six-o'clock news. Day or night, and regardless of his own schedule, Mikami began taking new bus routes and lurking in public spaces where Kira's supporters held demonstrations loosely organized on social networking websites and where the media swarmed in droves.

He stayed up late past his regular bed time until he was able to secure tickets to well-known talk shows. He spoke up whenever the hosts opened the floor to the audience members, fully aware of how much the cameras loved his sharp, handsome features and austere voice. In contrast with teenagers sporting "I Heart Kira" t-shirts and college student activists who had larger voices and egos than life experiences, Mikami was every bit the educated and successful career man, and more importantly, a criminal prosecutor, and all of that lent credibility to his convictions and words.

When his wish finally came true, when the notebook came to him, his obsession became complete.

There was one other he would willingly serve.

It was the 25th of January, and that meant a visit to the bank, as per the norm. Mikami's suit was pressed, his glasses were clean, and all was well.

Or perhaps not. Mikami's breath caught in his throat the moment he entered the lineup. There, behind the bank tellers' counter, was a young man he had never seen before. It was possible that he was a new employee, save for the fact that Mikami could not see his name or lifespan.

God?

Sweat gathered on the back of Mikami's neck. It had to be God. But why was he exposing himself to Mikami in public like this? Was he to be punished for some reason? Was there a change of plans? Uncertainty flooded his mind, leaving his mouth dry and ears buzzing, and for the first time in years, Mikami felt fight-or-flight panic set in. But there were no bullies, no men who preyed on the weak or turned their back on their own.

Mikami's sharp eyes flitted around the room, seeking out hidden cameras or other signs that he was walking into a trap engineered by Kira's enemies. Finally, he allowed his gaze to settle on the man in front of him. God was looking straight at him, beckoning him forward. He was smiling, and it was a gentle smile.

"Next!" said God. Mikami felt like his legs were made of jelly.

Hephaestus was fully aware of the fact that Mikami had the Shinigami Eyes, and it was a fact that he was going to use to his advantage if he wanted to get into Mikami's safety deposit box. For all his talents with metal and smithing, the disguised Olympian could not get around the electronic keypads that guarded each box. Damn mortals and their technological innovations.

He wordlessly guided Mikami into the bank vault as the man had requested, where another customer was rummaging through their possessions. Hephaestus caught a glimpse of bright yellow envelopes and inwardly scoffed. He could understand wanting to protect jewels and heirlooms, but paper?

Mikami coughed and Hephaestus turned his attention to the man, who was clutching a leather binder that he had retrieved from his deposit box.

"Could you get us a private viewing room, please?" Mikami's voice was hoarse and full of mistaken reverence.

The private viewing room was small. It had plain white walls, two chairs, a desk, and most importantly, no cameras. Mikami locked the door behind him.

"God?" Mikami murmured, not without some hesitation.

"That I am," said Hephaestus. Technically, it was not a lie.

Mikami immediately fell to his knees in front of the disguised Greek god. "It is an honour to finally meet you, though I am not worthy to be in your presence," Mikami said passionately, his eyes blazing with the force of his devotion. Hephaestus could have bet all the pearls in the Red Sea that Mikami would have showered his shoes with kisses if the Olympian had not bashfully stepped back.

Hephaestus felt embarrassed for the mortal. Little did Teru Mikami know that the real Kira was a mere man, barely more than a boy. Yet Mikami had already made up his mind to worship him with all his entirety. It was so wrong, so shameless, and it made the god's blood boil to see a man of Mikami's prestige to throw everything away for an arrogant child with a magical toy.

And yet, Hephaestus was guilty of the same fault. He was just unable to recognize it in himself.

When he was born, his mother Hera grew so ashamed of his ugly face that she literally tossed him aside – off the Mountain – thus crippling him physically and emotionally for the ages to come. No amount of magic could remove the pain inside, so Hephaestus had never bothered to fix his injury with magic. His limp was a welcome reminder of his hatred for his mother.

And so Hephaestus grew up in exile, starved for affection. He spent his days in the forges perfecting his craft and plotting his revenge against his mother and all those who wronged him by standing aside in their apathy. When that day finally came, when he finally earned his place among the Olympians, Hephaestus swore that he would also earn their love. Without it, his victory was meaningless.

Except that it was difficult to distinguish between love and pity.

No love was better than bad love, yet Hephaestus could not help but dedicate every particle of his existence to his wife, the ironically heartless Aphrodite. The god-smith worked with precious metals and gems daily, but the goddess of beauty was the only treasure on Mount Olympus worth having. Hephaestus had even built a palace for her as a wedding gift. Aphrodite constantly called him names, and needy bastard was one of them. Hephaestus preferred romantic.

And others would say that he was hopelessly, helplessly, blindly devoted.

"I would like to take a look at your cache," said Hephaestus, and Mikami practically shoved the leather binder into his arms.

"Yes, God!"

Hephaestus undid the buckle and cracked the binder open. A Shinigami's notebook lay inside, along with a gold pen, mocking him with its shine. He closed it, disappointed.

"Is this all you keep in your vault?"

"Yes, God."

"Do you have any others?"

"No. I have nothing of value other than the gift you bestowed upon me, God. I own no earthly possessions worth protecting," Mikami replied in earnest.

His frustration must have shown on his face, for Mikami suddenly froze, his eyes filled with anxiety. "What is it? Have I displeased you, God?"

"Not at all." Looking into Mikami's wretchedly eager face unsettled him, so Hephaestus decided to end the charade right there and then.

"Thank you for your service, mortal. Be well."

"Wait, God –"

Mikami made a motion to grab a handful of Hephaestus's shirt, only there wasn't anything left to grab onto. He had disappeared into thin air – but not before the ugly, unloved god caught sight of the most adoring gaze he had ever been given in his entire immortal life.