who walked all night with their shoes full of blood on

the snowbank docks waiting for a door in the

East River to open to a room

"Hang on a second," says Matt, reading his letter with wide eyes, "he's told me to ask Watari about flues and viruses."

"Mmm?" asks Mello, rolling over in bed drowsily, as Matt struggles out from under the blankets and reaches for a pair of jeans.

"What with Watari being dead and all, I'm thinking I'd better show this to Near."

Chapter Ten

January 1st

Hyde Park

London

At noon, on the first of the New Year, Near climbs out of the taxi and remembers when he used to be just Nate, and not special to anyone but his mother. He doesn't think about that 'then' very often, just when he's doing something he's going to find particularly distasteful.

Spending his afternoon in a park with an agent of a government he despises ranks fairly high on the list. Especially since it's rather cold out, even for January, and Near still hates the cold, and doesn't really like the outdoors to begin with.

He pulls his hat down a little more snugly, and once he's paid the cabby, pulls on his mittens. Then makes his way to the third park bench to the right of the gates, and settles down. Out of his pocket, he pulls a brown paper bag of birdseed. It doesn't take long for him to collect a swarm of pigeons, pecking at the ground.

L too believed that there was something important to investigate in terms of the St Mary's virus, cementing Near's suspicion. While L's letter had ostensibly chastised him for relying too much on intuition, how could he not, in this case?

"Here now, son, move along. There's no loitering here," snaps the large man, standing directly in front of him, very much all of a sudden. Near hadn't even noticed his arrival, or that he'd scared off all the pigeons. The pigeons being gone is especially a shame. Near is rather fond of birds.

"Please do not be insulting, Mr Creedy," he murmurs, with all the presence he can possibly muster, and folds his paper bag closed, to slip into the pocket of his coat, "and sit down. I will not remain for long and it would not do you good to try my patience."

The expression on Creedy's face is incredibly gratifying. Near knows he absolutely fails to look the part. Especially with the pom pom on top of the slightly lopsided hat that Evey insisted he put on. It is cold and flu season, after all.

"You're L?" the man asks, dropping onto the seat, barely containing his naked hostility.

"Of course not," answers Near, disdainfully, "you won't ever meet L. I'm a representative of his agency, you might say. Now, it was you that insisted we meet. You did want something in particular?"

"Yeah," says Creedy, filling up with bluster that Near finds kind of amusing, in its own way, "We do want something in particular. We want you out of England."

Near glances up at him, and then down at the remains of the birdseed on the ground.

"You will find that quite difficult. I am a British citizen, and illegal deportation of one of their employees will certainly gain the attention of the International Justice community. With their gaze already directed at you, can you really afford to provoke further incident?"

Creedy's lips pull into a sneer. "I don't know what their opinions have to do with how our country is governed."

"Please, do not be stupid." It's a childish thing to say, but it feels good anyways. "You know that there are those that are hoping for an excuse to end this regime. The mistreatment of the man slated to prosecute you for war crimes would be more than the spark needed."

He watches the man's face contort with rage. Near had forgotten that this was going to be the first news he had of the legal consequences fast approaching.

"And why," snarls Creedy, "shouldn't I have my plainclothes officers approach us right now and make you vanish, might I ask? Seems to me, that would be a right simple end to my problems, and unless you've got an arsenal hidden in your jacket, little boy, you don't stand a chance."

"An arsenal, no," replies Near, without any real hint of fear, "but a camera broadcasting video and audio to a nearby location, certainly. Everything you do and say, including that over hasty threat, are already being documented and sent overseas as we speak."

The best thing about the English complexion is that when irritated, it occasionally turns colours. Near wonders what he would have to do to make Matt go a shade of scarlet like that. It would probably involve copious amounts of nudity.

"And Mr Creedy, may I ask, how much do you know of the end result of the Kira investigation?"

This is a trick question. Near knows that almost none of the details were published. He's only privy to them by virtue of his acquaintance with L. Creedy will know nothing, but he seems to be pretending to anyways. Near cuts off his clumsy efforts with a sigh.

"Suffice it to say, the tool which he used is not lost, while the man himself is no more. If you make me disappear, it will be you personally that pays the price."

He imagines Matt, in the car down the road, listening to this and watching and probably laughing at his bluff, because there's only a 1 chance of L ever doing something out of vengeance, especially something as cold as that, and especially not if he knew Near had used it as a threat.

But Near does not want to die, and while that might be selfish, it is also imperative. He especially does not want to die at Creedy's hands, because the man is disgusting.

"Listen," Creedy says, "Alright. I'll give you information. Don't prosecute me and I'll tell you everything you need to know. I know all of it."

"Mr Creedy," Near answers, "so do we." And, watching the despair begin to show in the trapped man's eyes, "but if we need evidence or testimony, we will keep you under consideration. Until then, it is your best interest to convince your Chancellor that we are a minimal presence, and not a threat." A delicate pause. "Unless you'd like footage of what you just said to accidentally find its way onto his desk."

It always works best when they spin their own traps. Creedy, still red faced, is finally starting to see that he is not going to be able to play Near any particular way.

"Shall we go somewhere warm? I wouldn't mind a cup of tea," Near suggests, "and I'd rather not have your operatives working quite so casually close to us, don't you think?" He climbs to his feet, and Creedy stays seated, reluctant to move. Near heaves a gentle sigh, and winds his fingers into the hair coming out from the edge of his hat.

"I'm sorry for threatening you, Mr Creedy, but you do understand that it was necessary. It would help if you would come with me and help convince me that you can be useful to us."

Self-serving is something Creedy understands, he's on his feet lickety split, smoothing snow off his coat. Near smiles at him, in as childish a manner as possible, because he knows it does the opposite of putting people at ease. It makes sense for someone like him to be older, and Creedy would find it easier to accept.

None of them, not Matt, not Mello, not L, none of them ever tried to make anything particularly easier for anyone. Not even friends, much less horrible people like this. Even if Near isn't sure how comfortable he is playing the child any more, because you are how you act, and he just might be too old for this sort of thing. L may never really have grown up, and he isn't sure Mello has either, but he's not sure he's going to be another Peter Pan.

They walk silently to the nearest tea shop, and Near almost orders jasmine, but remembers that he's no in a society of heterogeneity, from people to food to tea.

"Earl Grey, please," and he probably will have to put lemon in it, instead of milk and sugar like L used to make for them. God, England is a stupid place.

"I won't promise you anything, Mr Creedy," he finally says, as the young waitress puts his cup- and lemon- down on the table, "but if you want me to even consider offering you clemency, you will tell me the two following things. You will not raise any objections."

He doesn't. Good.

"First of all, where did the project to develop the virus begin?" Creedy's eyes widen, "And second, was Lewis Prothero involved in any significant way?"

By the look on Creedy's face, he has hit the nail spectacularly on the head, and the man's own suspicions are beginning to dawn. Could they possibly have thought that the two things were not related? What, that there was some massive, unexplainable coincidence? Near doesn't believe in coincidences, and neither, he's sure, does V.

"Larkhill Detention Facility. Prothero was a commander at the unit."

Near has fit another of his puzzle pieces into place. There's only a few holes left, and he thinks he's beginning to see the sizes of the pieces. It's almost a shame, to come up with the answer this early, leaving L with ten months of captivity to endure.

Or rather, V with ten months of a belligerent, trapped L to endure, should L be feeling the size of his cage out. Near imagines he probably is.

"I will be going." Near climbs to his feet, leaving the tea practically untouched, still steaming on the table. They have jasmine at home, and he knows everything he came to learn. "Do not have me followed, or I will know. Do not discuss anything that occurred here, unless it is absolutely necessary. Good day, Mr Creedy."

He doesn't think anyone follows him, not at first. While he was sitting in the park of course he took the time to keep track of the faces that passed him by, and he didn't see any in the tea shop. By a few blocks away he's certain none of them are behind him. No cars are there that are familiar, either, and none moving noticeably slower than the traffic.

There might be people on rooftops or in windows, feasibly, but there's nothing to be done about that. He'll just have to walk the roundabout route back to the apartment.

Although he knows this is a small price to pay for their safety, he is suddenly incredibly tired and cannot really imagine much more difficult than an hour's walk through cold and the light snow. In fact, it's not often he comes to this realization, but he might honestly be incapable.

"Matt," he whispers, the camera and microphone are still on, and hopefully his friend is still listening, because is he ever in need of his help, "please come get me."

He can't be there right away, of course, Near realizes, because the plan was for him to walk home and Matt to drive so that the two of them aren't seen together. So he keeps walking and lets the bug he's wearing do all the work for him.

He wishes he was too tired to think, but sadly, that's not the case. Perhaps it would be easier to just let his feet rise and fall and watch the slush under them, but his mind is caught up in a mantra of 'L, L, be alright, L, be alright.'

Why he's started worrying about this now, he isn't sure. No, that's not true, it's obviously an attempt to displace his anxiety about the fact that Mr Creedy is probably currently weighing the odds of whether to have him followed and killed or not.

Near is fairly sure that he's far, far too much of a coward to make it an issue, but very seldom is it that Near even has to ask that question, so even though 'fairly' sure is pretty close to completely, there's still a lot of anxiety attached.

"Hey sugar, how much?" asks Matt, as the car pulls up next to where Near's walking. He ignores the comment and climbs in the passenger seat, buckling his seatbelt and closing his eyes. Matt gets it, and shuts up for the drive home. He's playing David Bowie on the car radio, which Near is pretty sure is illegal in this country.

When he pulls off his scarf and hat and mittens, and divests himself of his coat, Evey peeks down the stairs and smiles at him. He thinks she's a little bit intimidated by Mello, and will make a mental note not to leave the two of them alone unless it's strictly necessary.

"So what do you think?" asks Matt, shrugging off his jacket, gingerly, still mindful of the shoulder that took the bullet. "Can we trust him about Prothero?"

"It makes sense," Near replies, climbing the staircase wearily, "play it all to Mello and ask what he thinks. I..." can't, right now. Just can't. He's cold and tired, and as he sinks gratefully into the sofa (which again, nearly swallows him whole) Evey comes into the room bearing tea.

Jasmine, specifically.

Near thinks simultaneously that she's practically psychic, except that she isn't, she's just at least mildly observant, and that he could kiss her.