Author's Notes: I do not and never will own Death Note.
Also, I've been terribly remiss at posting anything new on FFN, so if you really want to catch up instead of waiting while my lazy ass catches up to it, my AO3 is under the same pen name. (That's also where I put anything more explicit.)
He should take better care of himself.
It's an old refrain, and one you've often repeated, but you know he won't listen. He never does, especially not knees-deep in a new case, insomnia burning darker shadows under his eyes, sugar painting his lips sticky, and nervous energy thrumming through trembling fingers, perpetually poised on his keyboard. He only stops when you ask if you can kiss him, and his nod leaves you both breathless and wilting on a hotel double bed, clothes scattered across the flower-patterned carpet in heady disarray.
"Let me help," you say impulsively in the morning, and he nods, adjusting his laptop screen so you can read along. You share space on a cramped couch, his breath feathering along the nape of your neck as he crouches beside you in that ridiculous pose of his that he claims improves his deductive skills. You've tried it a couple times, but only ended up with aching muscles that make you feel like an overly contorted pretzel.
"What do you think?" he asks, once you've had a few minutes, and you tap your finger on your bottom lip in a pale imitation of his own thumb, securely nestled in the corner of his mouth.
"That one," you point. "His alibi- something about it seems off."
"That's what I was thinking," he says, and you smile crookedly.
You remember the first time you saw him. Slump-shouldered and awkward, hands shoved into the pockets of his jeans. The long-sleeved white shirt billowed over a narrow frame and when he looked up at you, his dark circles were so bad, they could have been badly applied makeup. His hair stuck up every which way and his hand, when he offered it begrudgingly, like it pained him to have you take it in yours, was as fragile as a bird's wing, the knuckles sticking up, bony and proud. The name he offered wasn't his own, but you already knew that.
He enchanted you.
It's not like he meant to. He's impatient, sullen. His voice is a monotone, and he doesn't deal well with people. You can relate. You don't either- it's hard when it feels like your intellect is set seven speeds ahead of everyone else's. You haven't lived that long, but he's the only one who's ever managed to keep up with you.
On some days, you can even admit he surpasses you.
You dance around each other- painfully clumsy, terribly naive. Your purported social genius deserts you in the face of lollipops dangling between thumb and forefinger, under the irresistible softness of his hair. You finally kiss and fireworks burst beneath your closed eyelids. His lips are warm, slightly sweet, and perfect.
When the case is over (and a terrible, prolonged case it was- even on the outskirts as necessity dictated your presence), you show up at his hotel room, knuckles rapping out the customary four taps. The door is yanked open before you can lift your hand away, and his eyes burn with an intensity you've never seen before, not even in the depths of his detective work.
"Please?" is all he says, and that is enough.
"Light," he says now, putting the laptop on the coffee table, and you look up at him. The sunlight through the window halos him like some kind of god. "May I?"
"Yes," you whisper, your hands reaching out eagerly, pulling him closer to you. His mouth is a benediction and you drink greedily.
He will always be enough.