Disclaimer: Death Note doesn't belong to me. Hardly anything does - I think even the pound in my pocket was begged off someone somewhere.

AN: Just a little drabble I found when combing through my junkyard of fic.

Quiet Comfort

She closed the door and leant against it, shutting her eyes and drawing in a deep, steady breath. It'd been particularly exhausting today, a world-famous photographer had been hired and he'd been relentless in his demands. She'd stayed on her feet for more than eight hours, all the while keeping those sweet, cherry lips upturned and a sparkle in her eye.

Misa-Misa was a true professional.

She yanked off her stilettos and left them carelessly by the shoe rack – it didn't matter, all the shoes there were hers; he wouldn't care, she thought with a private smile – and pulling up some energy, she ran into the living room with a squeal, spotting him crouched on the sofa, picking at a slice of cake with a small fork. She flung herself on the couch next to him, almost causing him to overbalance – but then again, he'd gotten used to the big, flashy shows of affection – but he righted himself at the last second. He sighed when he felt Misa snuggle up to him. She had learnt not to grip his arm though; it would hinder his cake-eating.

"Have you had a tiring day then, Misa-san?"

"Mm! Misa had to do all kinds of things today, Photographer-san was a meanie and wouldn't even let me sit down for a while. Make up and hair took almost over two hours too!"


She shifted; the lace of her dress was pretty, but itched a little and the make up felt heavy on her face. Her hair had been caught into her signature pigtails, but the hairdresser hadn't been her usual one and had pulled roughly, applying too much mousse and hairspray than Misa's hair needed. The shocking pink of her toes caught her attention, earlier it had seemed cute and daring, but now felt artificial in the serene environment next to Ryuuzaki.

Ryuuzaki. Fondly, she moved her gaze to him instead, the clean cotton of his shirt slightly speckled with cake crumbs – strawberry shortcake, she deduced with a smile – and loose on the bottom half of his frame were the ever-present denim jeans; worn, but freshly laundered. He didn't smell of anything particularly sharp, no trendy cologne that had been recently released, just the faint fragrance of laundry detergent and - strawberries today (she was guessing it was the cake): the quiet, unassuming scent of Ryuuzaki. He hadn't been doused literally in perfume today.

She sighed, and cuddled a little closer, gripping his shirt in one hand. She felt him pause, before resuming his consummation, hearing the fork scratch against the plate at regular intervals and his quiet chewing intermixed with his soft inhales, and if she listened hard enough, concentrating just like that, she could hear the steady rhythm of his heart.

She heard him finish the cake and delicately lower the plate on the coffee table. She glanced at the silver fork glistening in the middle of the plain, white china, before Ryuuzaki shifted and her attention was diverted (to him, always him) when he pulled her more firmly into his arms, where she closed her eyes and just breathed.