AN: Yes, I know. I definitely shouldn't be spewing out crappy oneshots with two updates long overdue. But, well, I'm in the mood to write Misa. And I'm actually rather happy with this little fic/drabble/thing. I adore writing Light as the manipulative bastard that he is :0

Anyways, it turned out a bit more angsty from what I had imagined. Not too much angst, though. Tell me how I did, hmm?

Oh, and I think the verb tenses are a bit effed up. I tried, I really did.

Warnings: None? Use of one mild cuss word. No worries, folks.

Disclaimer: Death Note is not mine, nor will I ever gain possesion of it.




"Sorry, Misa," says Light, voice soft and hypnotizing, as always, "but something's come up—urgent work and all." He gives her a rueful, charming smile. "I've got to fulfill my duties as…" his voice lowers conspiratorially, and he stares into Misa's eyes deeply, reminding her of their shared secret, the shackles holding them together that no one can penetrate, "Kira."

Misa tries to keep the whine out of her voice. "Tomorrow, Light-kun? Can Light-kun go on a date with me then?"

Light shakes his head, long brown bangs falling over his face and hiding his eyes. Misa likes to think they're filled with regret. "No; I've got to work with Ryuuzaki on the Kira Case. Another time, perhaps."

Misa opens her mouth to speak up, about to point out various blanks in his schedule that leave time for them to spend together, but then Light is gone, and all she can see is his back, distant and broad-shouldered and perfect.

She sighs almost inaudibly and begins walking back home, carefully holding her purse securely between her underarm and side. A page of the Death Note is folded neatly inside it, upon which she has been ordered to write a multitude of names and thus spend the afternoon in absence of the previously scheduled date.

It is cold out, and Misa's exposed flesh—she dresses provocatively for dates, weather be damned—rises up in tiny pale goosebumps. She shivers and rubs at her arms, walking with her legs close together so as to procure as much body heat as possible. Rem floats silently behind.

When she finally slips into the welcoming warmth of her apartment it is more than a relief. Immediately after locking the door behind her she makes her way to her room, stopping only to change into some black lingerie and a long, blood-red robe tied loosely over her clothes, before sitting down at the desk and pulling out a pen, settling down to kill scum and execute justice.

It is a dull, almost tedious—though of course undeniably virtuous—task, and Misa allows her mind to wander off, absently scribbling down names in her best Romanji all the while. As per usual, her thoughts turn to Light. Where is he? What is he doing? She guesses he went downtown, probably to meet with Ryuuzaki at their usual bakery. He had gone that way, after all, heading towards the busier side of town. And as for her prediction of Ryuuzaki's company, well, she isn't stupid, really. "Urgent Kira business" can often be translated as "outings with Ryuuzaki." The two play mind games shrouded twice over by plans and predictions and veils. Games that Misa can never hope to understand, that perhaps nobody can understand except the players themselves.

And deep down, under the icy-slick rivalry, Misa knows that Light enjoys these games. She knows that he counts L as someone important—more than a rival? If not a friend then in all likelihood an equal.

…Something she will never be, she knows. Her clear blue eyes, even when human and entirely ordinary, see and comprehend their interactions, perhaps more than Light himself. She sees L's sparring with Light, how the constant rushing thrill of competition brings a half-smile to her "boyfriend's" face, brings the forgotten gleam of challenge into his eyes, brings a furrow to his brow and a pleasant testing frustration to his brilliant, lofty mind. Light is another creature unto himself, and so is L, and maybe, Misa thinks sometimes, maybe they are two creatures made up of the same mold. Sometimes she wonders if they are created of something not quite human, some sort of paranormal material that places them that much above mankind. She and the rest of the world are on the outside looking in—looking up and seeing dizzying merry-go-rounds that are only half-spotted with a fleeting sight.

And then she sometimes wonders if it's so worth it, worth being Light's "girlfriend" when, in his eyes, she might just be a stepping stone in the plan, a plain porcelain doll to be played with and eventually discarded. She is Misa Amane, Japan's number 1 most popular model and actress, wielder of one of the two Death Notes among humankind, and every man's heartache. Japan, the world, can be—is—lying patiently in the palm of one perfectly manicured hand…

Yet here she is, offering mind, body, soul to a man who would most likely break it all, shattering and scattering the pieces and leaving someone else to stumble upon the wreckage. He's always walking away from her, rising above her, without a drop of regret or indecision or pain or love. Human emotions which bounce seamlessly off Light's, Kira's, hard glossy barrier.

L's, too. It's the same barrier, a shield, a fortress that envelops them both, keeping the two encompassed by ruthless cold walls, completely and utterly impermeable, holding together two jagged pieces of a puzzle that don't quite fit, chafing edges but attracted and attached all the same.

And really, two halves make a whole, Misa thinks, writing down the last name of the evening as the news ends. Nothing more, nothing less. She shuts the Death Note and turns off the TV with a weary finality, for once drained of her signature exuberant energy, and leans back in the chair. Her mind continues its stubborn ponderings, weaving round and round in confusing fruitless loops until finally she forces her eyes shut and concentrates with a single-minded intensity on the inside of her eyelids.

A pale bluish light is seeping into the room when she awakens. Birds are chirping outside her window. She rolls over in bed, wondering why her back feels so sore when the blankets swathing her neatly are so very soft and warm. As she pries open one sky-colored eye, she is shocked by the tousled auburn head she spots.

There is Light, curled up on the cushy black armchair in the corner of her room, facing sideways, legs curled under him as he burrows as far back into the chair as possible. The early morning sun glints and winks off his hair, throws into relief the length of his slender fingers as they lightly grip a black pillow and grazes the soft contours of his cheeks, complimented by long dark eyelashes, with a dappled light.

Misa sucks in a shallow gasp. He looks beautiful, angelic, otherworldly, washed pure and shining. Untouchable.

Her suspicions diminish and shrink back as she watches, content to simply sit and stare and bask in this rare gaping vulnerability. She wonders—no, she decides—that Light is trying to show her his softer side, opening up to her with a trusting gentility. Why else would he come to her house after his likely mentally exhausting meeting with L if not to glean comfort from her? And then, upon finding her asleep, why would he bother to tuck her into bed if he didn't care for her?

She is his girlfriend, after all. Light will one day rule the world as the righteous Kira, with her, his beloved, at his side for eternity. Nothing to do with Ryuuzaki, really—he's the stepping stone, a mere obstacle on the path to godliness. Why, she was silly to have even been harboring such unfaithful thoughts!

Yes, very silly indeed, Misa thinks determinedly as Light finally awakens, softly murmuring her name and opening clear honey eyes with a sleepy blink and a veneer of innocence.