Hello, all!

You know the drift. Lots of angst and borderline insanity. This chapter finally gets into the whole Kira schpeel of things, as well as mentioning of L…which made me sad. He's actually dead in this story, thus marking a piece of my heart to be dead as well. ::sad sigh::

Anyway! Enough of my fangirl ramblings. Onto the story.

Don't own Death Note, shinigami, or Mello's cool leather gloves.

It is almost as though Bea does not exist when her five minutes are up. Mello keeps his back to her, as she was hoping he would, as she towels off quickly and fumbles through her bag for her clothes. She cannot help but watch his stiff shoulders as she dresses; they are so tense that she wonders if he is even human, if there is solid stone beneath his skin instead of muscles and bones.

When she tosses her old clothes back into the bag, she clears her throat and opens her mouth to speak, but Mello picks up quickly and opens the bathroom door, his eyes concealed as he leads her out. She keeps her distance behind him, watching as he clenches his fists by his sides, unclenches a second later.

Why does he get like this only every now and then? There's no way he feels guilty about what he did back there…I doubt he's ever felt guilty once in his life.

Something in Bea's stomach aches at the thought.

When Mello catches sight of himself in the mirror before leading the girl out of the bathroom, he still sees himself at twelve years old.

The defined edge of his jaw softens, morphing into its prepubescent smoothness, and his hair is shorter, washed, curling in along his chin. The scowl remains, of course; it is something that he knows has never left him, but he had never really had any reason to scowl at twelve years old, having always been a indication to others saying, Hey, don't get any closer, seriously.

But what is most disturbing about this brief survey of himself is the memory of what his eyes once lacked. They never used to be so wild, yet exhausted all at once. He remembers being at least happy from time to time, when it was just he and Matt climbing trees in the back of Wammy's House throwing acorns at the children that walked by beneath. When visions of Near (stupid fucking Near) cracking under the pressure of being number one would be the main source of his peace (even though stupid fucking Near would be the last one to crack). When L -

L is dead.

The girl, he is not sure how far behind him she is, but he feels his fists clench, unclench a second later, fingers twitching to latch onto something solid and break it.

Dead. And Kira isn't. Kira surpassed L. Near is the new L. And me, I'm just…no! I'm not number two. I'm just not number one yet.

Matt is standing at the end of the grey corridor, lighting up his seventh cigarette of the morning, and lifts his head when he catches sight of Mello. He is saying something to him, but Mello is lost in his cloud, glaring at the floor and tucking his shaking hands in his pockets.

I could have surpassed Near. I know I could have done it. We were so close to having our hands on the notebook until Magill fucked the entire plan up…god knows where he's at right now, or how far away we are from the notebook as of now. No, I can't think of it that way…I've got to consider the steps that Near must be taking in order to get ahead in the case…and I know I can get there quicker than he can if I can get this girl's memory to jog even the slightest…

"So what do you think, man? Think that sounds ok?"

Mello looks up at Matt with a bewilderment that he quickly shakes off for his usual dry irritation. "What?"

Matt gives a jerk of his head in Beatrice's direction, exhaling a mouthful of smoke through a gap in his mouth. "It won't hurt to have our little captive sit in tonight, right?"

When Mello's expression does not change, Matt sighs and elaborates. "On the meeting today. I was thinking it might fill her in a little more on what's going on, maybe ring a few bells or something if we're lucky." He gives a little shrug of his shoulders and places the cigarette back in his mouth. "Eh, shoot me if it's a bad idea, I don't know."

Mello turns to face the girl behind him, who stands a good five feet away from him with her eyes slowly lifting to meet his. When they do (that shade of dark amber has agitated him from day one), they linger for an unnecessary second before drifting off, and Mello must contain his snort of disbelief when the thought of her trying to actually comprehend him amuses itself for a moment.

The girl just doesn't get it. Oh well, I'm not surprised.

"Yeah," he says suddenly, keeping his eyes on the girl. "You're right, Matt."

He hears Matt nearly choke on his own smoke behind him, but he watches Beatrice's reaction closely with narrowed eyes. "Let her sit in," he continues casually. "It should be funny."

Mello let his burning smirk bloom when Beatrice lifts her head again, not looking at him but her eyes wide on the floor. Meanwhile, Matt mutters something beneath his breath that Mello makes out as, "Jesus, first time you've said that in awhile, Mel."

"Well, Beatrice?" Mello takes a step towards her, wickedly amused by the widening of her eyes. "What do you say?"

I'm pretty sure I scared you back there, didn't I? Ha…that's all the proof I need to know that you didn't get the point.

The girl's jaw visibly tightens at his question.

The point is that you think you have it so bad being around me, Beatrice. How about I give you to one of my other men, let them have a spin, huh? Would you prefer that?

"Well?"

Well?

Beatrice lets her heavy amber eyes flit up to his testing gaze. She is an adolescent with a worn, aged stare.

You're lucky to have me watch you instead of them. That's the point you're not getting. Although I shouldn't care; you're just some girl with sad eyes who isn't doing shit for helping me.

He watches her take in a breath, weigh her words before uttering them coldly. "I guess I'll have to wait and see when I'm there, right?"

Mello cannot help but twist his smirk tighter, enjoying that dark flush that has come about her eyes as she looks upon him. "Good answer," he says before turning around and heading off for the girl's holding room.

You'll get it eventually. I'll make you see it if I have to.

In the hours that span before the meeting, Bea, sitting in the corner of her holding room, observes Mello quietly.

He has an odd habit of side glances that are neither obtrusive nor comfortable. While they are disconcerting, they are not quite forward enough for Bea to visibly squirm. Even though she takes great notice in them, she cannot say or do anything about it all because they straddle the line of what is normal and what is appropriate.

But…doesn't he have better things to be doing instead of just sitting there?

Just to break the silence, Bea clears her throat and clasps her hands in her lap. "Um…so, where's Matt?" she asks conversationally.

Mello's gaze remains unchanging, only a notch heavier, sharper. He takes a bite of his chocolate bar and speaks around it. "Showering," he says, his voice a flatline.

"Oh."

Tense silence. His eyes are still on her, and her instinct tells her to keep talking to break the strain that is mounting in her stomach. "So how are y-"

"You hate me, don't you."

It is not the statement that stuns Bea; no, it is the fact that Mello is smiling when he says it. However minute the smirk is, it is still there, not quite fitting into the equation but still undeniably present, and it will not be solved until it is canceled out. "I…why are you asking me thi-"

"Tell me, Beatrice." There is laughter in his voice, ashes in his eyes. "You fucking despise me. You think I'm waste and want me dead." He is standing up now, approaching her slowly with a leer on his striking face. "And if I gave you the chance, you'd beat me until I couldn't see straight and make a break for it. So go ahead and say it."

Her back is pressed so hard against the wall that her shoulderblades sting, but Bea stays put, eyes darting to find the most useful escape in case he should pounce. "There's nothing to say," she responds, voice low and careful.

"You're lying between your teeth."

Bea bows her head, looks up at Mello through the narrowed slits of her eyes. "What are you trying to get out of me, Mello?" she whispers, growing agitated. "Why do you care what I think anyway?"

He is quiet for a few beats, looking her over with an odd glint to his eyes. Within seconds, Bea has decided that she dislikes it, it makes her squirm. Then, he grabs her wrist and yanks her up, smiling viciously. "Stand up," he instructs.

She twists out of his grasp for a moment, but he catches her quickly again and forces her to look at him, holding her by the jaw. Bea is rooted, her bloodstream both heated and frozen all at once; he is positively flooring up close, as stunning as what can fit the word. His grip is not as sharp as she expects, but it demands her attention, every last fraction of it, onto that face and those eyes.

Something is curling in Bea's stomach, and for a fleeting second she believes that she will be sick. "L-let me go-"

"Hit me."

Hit me.

Hit him…?

The cement beneath her bare feet is cold, as molten as her skin suddenly feels. His touch (grip) grows tighter on her jawline; he is entirely serious, frigid, beautiful, horrifying.

"What…?"

"Come on. I'm letting you do it. Hit me."

"W-why would I-"

"Do it."

He does not shout. He does not raise his voice even a notch. In fact, it dips, drops a low, smoking octave, swirls around in Bea's ears as she feels them turn a hot, lively red. Her cheeks follow suit soon after as she tries to find something else to look at besides that face, but he holds her jaw tighter and urges her to look back at him. Brief shards of blue pierce through his hair, in which almost entirely shields her sight of his eyes, and the blood is rising in her neck now, her lips, heating and exposing and -

Softly. "You're not going to?"

Unsure of what to say, Bea shakes her head slowly and swallows hard, her throat turning sandy and rough.

His eyes darken, and Bea knows that this is not over. Even as he releases her, turns smoothly on his heel and begins stalking off, she knows that this is not over.

The last thing he says to her on his trudge out the door is, "Stupid. I knew you wouldn't do it."

It seems that all Bea knows how to do anymore is sleep. It consumes her so much easier than it should, much more effortlessly than it used to back at home, but she submits and lays curled up in the corner of the grey room.

And it is the first time that she dreams of Mello.

In the violent haze of it all, she is writhing, she is warm, and there is are hands all over her, gripping and gliding and pinching and it hurts. And yet she leans up into it, digs her flesh deeper into his nails until she bleeds. She can barely breathe, the sight of him is too much to take in all at once. Even as he pulses atop her, holding her in ways that she should be fighting against, he has transformed from aloof to passionate, lips swollen and gaping and red while his eyes are fixed so intensely upon her. She does not know who she is, or what she is doing, or even what he has become as something snaps and boils over between her legs into an eruption of shuddering heat.

It rings within her ears as she bleeds, his nails sinking deeper into her hips. Hit me. Hit me. Hit me.

And the last thing she sees, hears, before she is shaken awake is his toxic leer, dark laughter pouring out of his lips as she releases.

Her instinct tells her to slap away whoever is touching her as she awakes with a jolt, but her eyes open and see Matt.

"Well, well, sleeping gorgeous," he jibes, grinning around his cigarette, "welcome back."

His goggles are on again, she notes, and she can see her frazzled reflection in the foggy orange lenses. Her hair is a sight and her eyes are half-drunken, but she shakes her head and disregards it. "Thanks," she says blearily.

"Man, you sure are violent when you're woken up." Matt lets out a little chuckle and rubs the top of his hand. "Your subconscious must be pretty pissed off."

With his words, her dream hits her (hit me) in a cold rush, and she recoils against the wall, staring down at the floor in shock. My subconscious…?

"You alright, princess?"

"Do I…do I talk in my sleep at all?" she asks wearily.

Matt's handsome face scrunches up in confusion, lips twisting in thought. After a beat, he shakes his head and exhales smoke. "Nope, I didn't catch anything. Wasn't paying much attention." At this, he grins and tilts his head. "Why, got any guilty confessions you don't want to let out?"

Something drops in Bea's stomach, but Matt nudges her in the side and chuckles again. "Nah, you don't look like the type," he says. "Too cute to be guilty." With a little sigh, he flicks his ashes onto the cement behind him and scratches the back of his head. "Me, on the other hand, well…"

The cryptic statement is followed by Matt standing up with a shrug, Bea watching him as he twists to crack his back and take another drag of his cigarette. "Eh, never mind that. Mel told me to wake you up for the meeting, it's about to start."

What had turned frigid in Bea's body now lights aflame again, the panic seeping thickly from her pores and sending a cold sweat to dot her forehead. She takes a quick series of steps forward to Matt, hands trembling. "H-how did Mello know I was asleep?"

Matt turns around, looking at Bea with that same confused expression. "Well, he came in awhile ago to make sure you weren't doing anything stupid. Said you were asleep and told me to get you up in time for the meeting."

The nausea that comes with his explanation is overpowering, and Bea has to swallow hard in order to not be sick on her own feet.

"I guess he didn't want to do it himself, I don't know," Matt continues idly. "Why?"

Bea clenches, unclenches her fists, feels the clammy and cold skin close in on itself. "N-nothing. I'm fine."

Matt's face remains blank for a moment before he laughs it off and reaches a hand out to her. He gives her hair a little ruffle and shakes his head. "You're a weird one," he says with a grin, turning back around to lead Bea out. "I like that."

Walking into the meeting room is exactly how Bea expects it. The room is dimly lit, couches with torn upholstery placed along the walls, and all eyes are immediately upon her as Matt gestures for her to take a seat on one. She follows suit in sitting stiffly on the edge of the leather cushion, takes brief relief when Matt sits beside her.

As the eyes continue to bore into her from all angles, Matt leans over and brushes a strand of hair away from her ear, sending a startled jolt up her spine. "Don't worry," he says quietly into her ear, "they all look like oafs but they won't do aything. Mel laid it onto them beforehand."

Bea freezes and refrains from jerking her attention to him too quickly. She swallows quickly and nods. "Really?" she questions hoarsely.

Matt leans back away from her, arms stretched along the back of the couch. "Yeah. I didn't hear much of it, but…nah, they won't do anything. Trust me."

On the verge of responding, Bea is frozen once again when the door swings open and reveals Mello, mouth wrapped indifferently around the corner of a chocolate bar and eyes lit. His gaze flits almost immediately over to where she sits, and the nervous curling in her stomach is suddenly frostbitten and quivering. Before she drops her gaze, he does the job for her when he narrows his eyes and looks away, standing up on the opposite couch and sitting down. His legs are splayed open lewdly, the frontal lacing of his pants loose and lazily tied, and the frostbite in Bea's stomach is washed in scalding acid at the sight.

"Everyone here?" Mello asks, his voice a grunt. It is followed by another groan of approval from the men in the room, and Bea momentarily feels comfort when all the eyes are off of her. She sinks further back into the couch and attempts to relax; Matt's arm has shifted around her shoulders, lightly, not quite touching her. It is…consoling, a soft gesture, and she leans back against his arm, letting her pulse slow down from its rapid thrashing back to an anxious neutral.

"First things first," Mello says sharply, "no one gives me any lip about why the girl is here. You say a word about her, you're done, got it?"

Another muffled groan of understanding. Mello's lips curl into a hint of a smirk that Bea has a feeling only she and Matt pick up on. "We don't have to worry about our little captive leaking anything. She's not going anywhere."

When her shoulders stiffen in bottled rage, Bea feels Matt's fingertips gently tap the nape of her neck, catching her from leaping off the edge of her sanity. Another soft gesture, so minute and yet effective enough for Bea to slowly relax again.

The meeting does not hesitate to shift into business. "We got a note here, boss."

Bea watches through narrowed eyes as one of the larger men on the opposite couch reaches over and hands a small paper to Mello, which he snatches up greedily. His bright eyes flit over the note as the man continues speaking.

"We got word from one of our outside men that Magill was spotted boarding a flight to Atlanta, Georgia just two days ago. When he tried calling from an unidentified number, the call wouldn't go through, which means that-"

"Which means the old man got his number changed," Mello grumbles as he crushes the note in his hand. "Simple as that." He takes another bitter bite of chocolate and narrows his eyes. "Who's tailing him to Atlanta right now?"

The room falls silent. The answer is obvious.

Mello bounds up off the couch, murder in his eyes. "I take it that none of you thought to have someone fucking follow him, right?" he barks.

Used to the sound of his voice exploding in rage, Bea simply sits there with Matt's fingertips tapping her neck rhythmically, watching the boy's tirade through foggy eyes.

"That's not what happened, boss, it's just that we couldn't-"

"Am I the only one who still gives a shit about this?" Mello jerks around, having turned his back to the men momentarily. The flashing in his eyes is so mortal that Bea feels a jolt of dread strike her hard in the center of her stomach as she flutters her fingers up to rest on her navel. "Who else besides me is trying to make this fucking work?"

The others begin rambling off words that Bea does not pick up, because Mello's eyes are set to kill and they are now directly on her.

"Stand up."

The order is sudden and callous, but Matt taps her again on the back of her neck and unweaves his arm from around her. "Here we go," he mumbles, turning his head away from her.

Bea stands up on shaky legs, not having time to be confused, because Mello is in front of her in a flash, studying her. Her eyes wander everywhere but his gaze. Whatever she does, she cannot look at him, cannot meet that stare, or else -

"Do you like it here, Beatrice?"

What…?

She knows better than to leave empty silence between them. It gives too much to ponder, too much weight to carry. "No," she says, her voice like gravel.

Mello grins. "Do you hate it here? Is that it?"

"Yes." No more hesitation. She answers without skipping a beat; exactly what she knows Mello wants. Their eyes are locked, hot amber stones digging into that cheeky smirk of his. Just for the sake of the argument, she straightens her back and whispers through her teeth, "I hate it."

Oh, and something has shifted in Mello's eyes, and Bea relishes it with an odd sort of acceptance; it is both delight of her boldness and fresh, simmering longing to most likely reach out and strike her on the cheek until she burns.

Still looking at her, Mello speaks to the others, voice sly and liquid. "We wouldn't want to keep our little captive here for no reason, right? It was her old man who put her in this place anyway." He takes a step back now, smirk deepening. "And we all heard her. She hates it here."

From behind, Bea hears Matt mutter almost inaudibly, "Man, cut it out already." Mello does not hear but finally tears his gaze away from Bea, turning on his heel and going back to addressing the group.

And all that she can think about at that moment is how, for once, he had been the first to look away.

One name lingers with Bea when the meeting is called to a close.

Kira.

They had spoken of task forces and Japan and shinigami. They had fought about what route to take to get to her father, how they would go about tracking him, and then they had grown rather fussed about a notebook.

But they had spoken of Kira, the serial killer that Bea has been both horrified and fascinated by for years, the name that she used to hear in hushed odes in the hallways of her high school, the symbol that she herself speaks nothing of. Out of fear? Exactly that. After all, she is a sixteen-year-old girl that has been barred away from the world since childhood, practically her whole life, long before Mello and his band of cronies tucked her away in this dank warehouse. She had never watched the news simply because her mother had been neurotic and her father had never been there to push her in any different direction. Hell, until now, she had grown up believing that the man worked at a fucking loan company, not with the mafia that currently shelters her as they track down notebooks and a serial killer without a face.

Something is churning inside of her. She can feel it, low in her stomach, a thick, curdling panic as she lays on her side, knees curled up against her chest. Because it has all hit her in a big, whooping rush in a matter of a single hour.

She is in the middle of a war. She is under the wing of a dangerous boy that thinks he can fight against Kira, and her family is gone, and her father has lied to her for fucking years, and her curves are wasting away, and that smirk Mello had given her had something so much more than hatred laced within it, and, dammit, she is in the war.

And Beatrice Magill is not stupid enough to not understand that she is going to be here for a very long time.

Mmm, little bite of a lemon thrown in there for good fun. :D

Do expect the reason for the M rating to occur quite soon. Things pretty much get kind of…scary, from here on.