Author's Note:I'm so so sorry. I wanted to upload this yesterday as usual, but I was exhausted (first week of school, they are already killing us - and the heat doesn't help at all...), so I figured I would shift the upload-day to Friday, since I can stay home in the afternoon and actually use the computer.

Anyway, I wanted to answer to Laonasa Enllyn Avery's review: I know you want L to meet them, but that will not happen for... another two chapters, more or less. Sorry. They will, eventually, I swear!

Now, enjoy! (and let me know what you think)

After the encounter with Beyond, they moved.

And seven years later, Light was exhausted. He let himself fall in one of the couch of the comfort area of the Police Station, feeling his body become boneless.

He hadn't returned home for three days. He didn't know why, but crimes had popped up everywhere in the last week, and he, as the second in command of his team, just under the Chief, had to know about everything. So there he was, running like a madman in and out of the Station, bringing criminals in, filing paper works, conducing interrogations.

How he missed his bed. He missed his son; he missed the quiet presence of Mikami, always ready to have his back.

He let out a snort of disgust. Hell, he was becoming his father.

Fortunately, he had kept his American name, River, and not Yagami, his original one. That name was known in that Police Station, being the same where his father had worked when he had been alive. And know, Light was under the command of one of his late father's man, Aizawa, who had climbed the ranks and become Chief Inspector ten years before.

No one had recognized him*. And Light was more than happy to stay silent.

He sighed, knowing that he had to stand up and go back to work. But he was so tired…

Maybe if he closed his eyes for a little while…

"River"

A cheery voice was calling him, attracting his attention from the muddy fog that was his sleepy mind. Light tried to focus, frowning, feeling his eyelids stuck together with what he felt had to be superglue.

"River! Light!"

He finally managed to open his eyes, and the first thing he saw was the close – too close for comfort – face of Matsuda, the fool but brave underling of the team. Light yelped, startled, and fell down the couch, landing hardly on the cold floor.

"I'm sorry, Light!" said Matsuda, helping him get up. "But you were sleeping, and we finished for today, and Aizawa, I mean, the Chief, asked me to wake you and send you home. Said to take a few days off because you have earned it."

Light tried to turn back on his wasted brain, and managed to catch the general meaning of the other's words. He smiled – more of a grimace, God, he was tired – and barely remembered to take his jacket and personal effects before escaping the Station.

He took the train, because he couldn't trust himself not to fell asleep at the wheel and that would be really bad, so he endured forty minutes of chatting teenagers and swinging metal screeches, feeling his headache worsen by the minute.

All he wanted was to take a long, hot shower, cuddle his son, and sleep.

He remained with his blank gaze fixed in front of him for the entire ride home, earning strange looks from the college students around him, but he couldn't care less. He always tried to keep a façade of perfection around him, finding it easier in order to interact with the world, but one thing that always bought down his masks was tiredness. He couldn't deal with it, and now had it in spades.

The short walk home felt like torture, and he almost bought down the door in his haste to open it. Inside, the usual blissful coolness and darkness awaited him, making him relax while the feelings of home, family and safety embraced his brain.

Mikami was in the living room, working on his laptop. He had flourished in Japan, becoming a well-known doctor in that country and out of it. Articles of Dr. River were held in high esteem, and Light knew that his friend was proud of his accomplishments. His love for medicine and his desire to help people were the principal things that led him in his work, and the people he worked with recognized that.

Mikami lifted his eyes hearing him come into the room. "You look like hell" he said honestly, earning a grimace from Light. "Do you want something to eat, before you hit the bed?"

"No, thank you, I think I will hit the shower and then dream land. Near?" Light answered, loosening his tie and letting all his things fall down in one of the armchairs. He would set them in the right places when he woke.

"In his room. These past days have been tough for him. You know how he has trouble sleeping in general, and even if he wouldn't admit it, when you don't come home for a while he worries and doesn't rest until you're here again. Some sleep will do wonders for him too."

"Yes, I know. Send him to my room when you hear the water stop, will you? And don't wait us for dinner. We probably will be out for a long time."

Hot water was heavenly on his strained muscles.

Light let his head lean forward until his forehead met the cold wall, supporting his weight with his forearms of the white tiles. He gradually relaxed, feeling the warm rivulets worm their way in his hair, flattening it on his skull and making it dangle on his eyes. He brushed it on one side, and looked down his body, taking in the hard muscles in his chest and abdomen and his still lean waist and legs, the thighs strong from all the legwork his job made him do.

He had earned some scars that shimmered silver under the water. He hates them with a passion, because they mar his body, making it ugly, even if they symbolize the things he had done to ensure the citizens' safety in the countries he had worked. Still, he would have avoided them.

But there was one that he wouldn't trade for the world, even if it was the ugliest and more extended. It was across his abdomen, twelve years old, a neat cut with a jagged edge where Mikami's hand had shook for a second, his nerves getting the best of him before the professionalism had come back again. From that scar his baby had seen the light, and he remembers the shattering pain, the anesthetic useless in the too low quantity they had managed to gather without attracting attention. That hour had been hell, the most painful moment of his life. But it had been worth it.

L, if you could see my body now, would you like it?

He couldn't help himself. His thoughts always ended up to L, to their time together, to the emptiness he still felt inside him. Before L, before Wammy's House, he had always been alone. In his home in Japan no one understood him, they only saw the sweet perfect son who had perfect grades, and no one was able to connect with him on a more personal level.

Until L. Their brains had boosted one another, and the kinship he had felt had changed his life. And know, he had Near, who was so smart for his age that was scary, and Mikami, clever in his own right, but they were not L. And he felt so bad thinking that, because he loved the both of them to death.

And he missed L. His equal, the other part of his being.

He couldn't help himself if sometimes he addressed him, hoping against hope that the other genius could hear him.

Impossible, of course. But it was the only comfort for that part of him that still wailed and cried for L's absence.

When he entered his room he found Near already inside his bed, coiled up on one of his pillows, his light grey eyes almost unfocused. Light eyed the bags under his son's eyes with worry, and crawled into bed, taking the twelve years old in his arms, ignoring the low whine of objection.

"I know you've grown, but we both know that you won't fall asleep alone, so let me held you, ok? We both need sleep" murmured Light, settling him against in chest and curling around him.

They soon grew drowsy, and Light was almost asleep when he felt Near shift slightly, burying his face in the crook between his neck and shoulder.

"I missed you" he heard him say, and Light smiled, kissing the top of his head.

"Missed you too" he said back, and they were quickly asleep soon after.

Near grew restless a few hours later, when darkness had already fallen outside the window. His jerky movements woke Light, who looked around him before embracing his son gently, cooing sweet nothings in his ear. The boy stilled after a minute, fluttering his eyelashes and half opening his eyes.

"Mom?" Near asked, voice drowsy and low.

"Shh, I'm here, go back to sleep" murmured Light, resting lightly his lips on the other's forehead.

Near seemed to accept the answer, because he was out in a moment, his breath even and regular.

I've become soft, though Light, watching with half lidded eyes his sleeping son. And he couldn't find in him the reason to regret it.

When Light woke, he was alone. The sun shone through the heavy curtain, lighting the room in shades of light blue. The red digits of the digital clock on his bedside marked half past ten, and the man stretched, feeling his joints crack and loosen after a long time of stillness.

He had slept sixteen hours.

He stood up, feeling the scar on his abdomen itch in protest for the quick movement. He scratched it, repressing a yawn, and exited in the hallway, his naked feet padding silently on the clear parquet. He got down the stairs, hearing the low noise of the television coming from the living room. A clear signal that Mikami was home, since Near had a fierce revulsion toward the device.

In the kitchen, he turned on the coffee machine and got a frying pan on the burner, set on making some scrambled eggs. Light then noticed the trails of toys all around the kitchen floor, and the edge of a puzzle around the table.

"Have you had breakfast?" he asked to the air, already knowing the answer and adding by habit another egg on the pan.

"No, but I'm not hungry" answered a low voice, absent-mindedly.

Light snorted, finished cooking the egg, and, after setting them on two plates, bought them to the table. Then peered around it.

Near was lying on his stomach, slender finger coiling a strand of snow white air around itself, his grey eyes – he was wearing his lenses, noticed absently Light – focused on the white puzzle in front of him, half finished. It had been the latest gift from Beyond, having arrived on their doorstep a week previously. The criminal – yes, they had heard about the LA massacre and had connected the dots – had managed, with a great amount of luck, to escape L, and had vanished, probably keeping a low profile. They hadn't heard from him for seven years, but every few months gifts found their ways on their doorstep, all containing stimulating toys for Near.

Light hadn't protested. He knew that his son was bored most of the time, and those gifts excited him, judging from the spark of giddiness his eyes got when they appeared.

Feeling watched, Near lifted his eyes, pointing them in the golden ones of his father. Knowing already, he sighed, stood up and approached the table, sitting in one of the chair with a disgruntled hair. They ate, and when they finished each of them disposed of his plate, putting the dirty dish in the dishwasher.

"Can we go to the library, this afternoon?" asked Near, his blank expression clashing with the slightly hopeful tone.

"I don't see why not. Anything in particular?" Light said, sipping on his now bearable coffee.

"I don't know…" the boy looked around, thinking. "I finished those books on French language and culture, so I have to return those, and now I'd like to pick another project. Italian, maybe."

"Seems interesting. Be ready in a couple of hours, then. We could also go to the park."

Near scowled. "The park, really? Why?!"

"When was the last time you've been out of this house, not counting the trips to the library?" asked Light, raising his eyebrows. "I know you don't like people, and crowds and confusion in general, but you have to get out a little bit."

"Fine" relented his son, rolling his eyes. "But somewhere with trees. You know I can't suffer the sun."

"Deal."

A week later, a child disappeared.

Light was sent to investigate with Mogi, but they couldn't find any clue.

The child, Masato Fujimoto, eleven years of age, had been playing in his house front yard, like he always did. The mother, as usual, had been in the kitchen, cleaning it after dinner, hearing the news on the television and occasionally checking on his son through the window.

At 21:23, the woman had checked again, and his son hadn't been there.

Light questioned the neighbors and the father – who had been in the living room -, but no one had seen anything. He had examined the street, searching for any sign, but all was normal. It was a mystery.

The street's security cameras had been too far away.

Three days later, a body was found in one of the trash bins a few streets away. It was wrapped in a common trash sack, black and shiny, the extremities bound with pieces of rope.

Masato's eyes, when he had been alive, had been shining blue, clear and full of life. In death, the wide open orbs were glassy and opaque, resembling pieces of glass, staring into nothingness. Sprays of blood marred his tanned skin, crisscrossing on his face and neck.

The true horror had been his torso: it was slit wide open, the jagged edges of the pale ribs jutting out of the skin, and the cavity was empty. All his organs had been removed.

And Light couldn't find any clue at all.

No one had seen anything. They had no leads, and even Light's superior brain couldn't think of anything.

All the things they could exploit – the sack the boy was found in, the rope, the blade used for the slaughter, any kind of particles that could have been found on the body – were dead ends. The objects were too common to trace, and no particles were found. Light was sure of that, he had pestered the forensic experts until they had checked at least thrice.

And the press was slandering his team that was already under a lot of pressure from the Commissioner.

And they couldn't find anything. It was like chasing a ghost.

Two weeks later, another child disappeared.

Same modus operandi.

The child, Kyousuke Michishige, ten years old, was playing with his eight year old sister in front of his house. Their mother was talking at the phone inside the house; the sister went to the bathroom.

At 20:04, when his mother went out to tell him to come inside because there was a killer out there kidnapping children, he was already gone.

They questioned the family, the neighbors, everyone that could have seen anything, but Light knew that it was useless.

And four days later, the boy was found in another bin, wrapped in cheap plastic and with his organs removed.

No traces. No leads.

Light wanted to scream.

It went on for another month and a half.

Other three children were kidnapped and found dead after a few days, their chests open and empty. The press was having the time of its life, printing articles after articles on the Child Eater, the name the journalists had given the killer.

Light was tired, and disheartened. But he wanted to look at the files again, trying to find something that maybe they had overlooked. So he bought the folders home. After dinner, while Mikami worked on his laptop and Near built a dice's tower, Light spread the documents on the low table in the middle of the living room and sat on the floor. And looked. And looked. And couldn't find anything again.

"It's the case of the children?"

Near's voice startled him, and Light whipped his head to the side, seeing his son peer over his shoulder, his wide eyes alight with curiosity. "Yes. I can't seem to find a bloody clue."

"Can I take a look?"

Light hesitated. "There are gruesome photos of children your age" he tried to argue.

"I can handle it" answered his son, looking at him with earnest eyes.

He caved. Near sat beside him, and they went together through the shortage of evidence.

"The first one, Masato Fujimoto, eleven years old, went missing around 21:23 the 10th of September, and his body was found the 13th. The second one, Kyousuke Michishige, ten years old, was gone at 20:04 the 23rd of September, and found the 27th. Then Asuka Sakamoto, twelve years old, the 11th of October and found…"

"The 14th of the same month" completed Near, furrowing his brows and looking at the papers. "Teru Kojima the 24th, Masahiro Saruwatari the 3rd of November. There's no connection, apart for the fortnight cadence."

"I think the victims are chosen by chance, not by characteristics. The age ranges from nine to thirteen."

"And the houses are quite away from each other. There a pattern, a shape in the collocation on the map?" asked Near, his grey eyes focused and sharp.

"We've already checked that. No shape, no pattern, just a crazy line all around the city. I think the districts are chosen by chance too."

"Probable" said Near, reaching for the photos. He studied them, his eyes devoid of emotions, not feeling in the slightest affected by the sight. He seemed to be thinking about something that troubled him, and started to twirl a strand of air around his fingers.

Light remained silent, giving him the quiet he needed, and stretched, almost groaning at the sore muscles on his back.

"What's your opinion about the organs?"

"The reason why he or she took them you mean?" asked Light, who kept talking after seeing Near's nod. "Well, since the victims are all children… I thought about some kind of cult, satanic maybe. They often require the consumption of organs, and virgins' blood, and other crap. And we looked into strange libraries, new age shops, to see if someone had bought something like a dagger or spell books in the last weeks. Nothing."

Near fixed his gaze to the photos, pensive. Then started talking slowly, deep in thought. "I read some books about the usage of rituals in some pagan and monotheistic religions, and only a certain type of organs are to be used, often the heart, and the uterus in women. So if the goal was some kind of rituals, taking all the organs multiple times doesn't make sense."

"Should you read those kinds of books?" asked Light, concerned.

Near blinked at him. "I was bored."

They looked at each other in silence.

"And my knowledge might be useful to the case, so stop being a father for once."

"Fine!" said Light, grumbling. "So! Not a ritual, then. Are you thinking about organs' trade?"

His son nodded slowly. "I think you should look into the organs' black market. You might find a lead; there must have been a surplus of fresh healthy organ these months. Something must come up."

The next week trailed by slowly.

Light told the team his son's thoughts and, after Aizawa's tirade on not showing kids traumatic things and dangers of taking documents out of the Station, they got to work. They contacted their informer on black market, who said that he would look into things.

All they could do was wait.

One day later another child got kidnapped, ten years old named Hotaru Fukuda, and like usual there weren't any clues.

Two days after that, their informer ended up dead in one of the alleys near the Station, and something leaked to the press, because their lead was printed in capital letters on the next day's first issue.

Everything got more complicated.

Emi was eating breakfast. It was a normal day in his apparent normal life. He ate his toast, donned his jacket, got to work.

Then he saw the newspaper.

Japanese Police's got a lead on the Child Eater!

He had never read something this fast in his entire life. At the end of the article, he was fuming. They had discovered his holy purpose! Now they knew that he was the Helper of the innocents, of the sick and neglected!

Even knowing that, they still tried to catch him. And now, he had to be more cautious, because if he kept on supplying organs this fast someone might start to doubt him. For now his cover had held, but he had to slow down.

His accomplices thought he stole the organs from the hospitals he works in, but even if stupid they would start soon to question him.

He thought about his precious donor, bound and knocked out in his warehouse. Maybe he could keep him for a little while, wait for the waters to settle, then kill him and take another. Yes, he would do that.

A name on the articles caught his attention.

Light River. The detective who had come up with the idea.

In a whim, Emi turned on his computer and opened his company's research software, typing in the name.

He read the results.

He smiled.

Three days later, Light was going back home. He was later than usual due to a gang fight that had broken in one of the suburbs, and he was exhausted. Again. It was becoming a habit.

He parked his car in front of his house and got out, walking up to the door.

He was fishing out his keys from his jacket when he saw it.

Something was wrong.

The door was ajar, without evidence of lock-picking, but still open.

Near, he immediately thought. His heart started thundering against his sternum, pumping adrenaline across his veins, and his hand sought the comforting weight of his gun, pointing it up in front of himself. He pressed his body on the wall beside the door and counted to three.

Then, he pushed it open and walked inside.

The first thing he saw, after his eyes adjusted to the different light, was Mikami, lying on his front in the entryway. Looking around and not seeing anyone, Light got down on his knees and pressed his fingers to his friend's neck, checking the pulse. He relaxed a bit feeling it, still strong. He then stood up and walked slowly ahead, checking each room.

There weren't signs of violence. Everything – beside Mikami – was how it should be. Having checked all the ground floor, he walked up the stairs, expertly avoiding the creaking points.

The house was deadly silent. He didn't like it.

Fear, previously pushed to the corners of his mind, threatened to overwhelm him, and he had to stop for a second on the landing to close his eyes and even his breath.

He's alright, he told himself, don't believing it for a second. Your son is just waiting in his room, and nothing happened to him.

Empty words.

His son's door was open. He first checked the other places, then walked in.

A tower of dice was knocked over, its little pieces thrown all around the floor. There were scratches on the door and the walls, and a drop of blood on the floor.

The empty room confirmed Light's deepest fear, and he felt the walls close in on him.

Near was gone.

End Notes:

*No one recognized him because Light had seen his father's colleagues only a few times, and had memorized their faces, while the officers had probably forgot the face of an eleven years old. As for the name, the surname is different, and I'm going with the idea that in Japan they called him Raito, instead of the English variant Light.