[Death Note; L, Misa] Identities and honesty. OOC L.
Written for the LJ comm Chain_of_fics.
Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by Ooba Tsugumi and Obata Takeshi and their publishers. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.
My name, he said taking Misa by the arm, My name is for my friends, and leading her out towards the light of Times Square through traffic and into the park, he confessed he had stolen the line from Lawrence of Arabia, he told her he had nothing and might never have anything, he would live in America if that was what she wanted but he couldn't leave her not her not here not now not ever again for she made him forget, she made him laugh and kissed him and had such a neck, and she made him forget.
Aren't I a friend then, she asked, and isn't your name mine, you said it was for your friends and you have said that I was your second friend in the world, and the first one has died only today.
My mother, before she died, she used to say that whatever you had to give was your greatest gift, that the extravagance or luxury didn't matter as long as your heart was behind it. Her eyes glittered as she looked up, glittered with tears, and they took over her face and the tears ran down her cheeks and over her jaw and down the long, long slim line of her neck. She told me a story of a young widow who gave only pennies to the Christ, and how he blessed her and said--
Said it was the greatest gift he had ever received, yes. But you do not understand, I lied, the line is stolen and I have no name, truly nothing, and I cannot leave you for you are everything to me, you make me someone, something. My life was spent puzzling out the mysteries of everyone else's, taking apart their crimes so that they became my stories my triumphs and their failures their nothings and now you have given me a reason to be someone for when I look at your eyes, he wiped a tear off her neck, when I kiss you, I am in love.
I cannot love someone who is nameless, Ryuuzaki, Ryuuga, L, the most famous detective in the world. Who are you and what is your name? What is your name? She beat her fists against his chest gently, with such gentle blows one might break an egg or startle a heart into beating.
I--I--I don't know, he whispered, closing his eyes to block out her tears limning her neck and the distant lights of Times Square making them glow. I do not know. Call me--call me yours.
Yours, she repeated. Very well then.
No, he said. Yours when I say it, Mine when you say it. I am Yours.
You choose to be known as that, Mine, you choose to think of yourself as that, Mine, you choose to make that your inner self's name?
His eyes were still closed and he did not see her smile, cunning and fierce, the smile that she had mimicked from his face when he solved an investigation or won a chess game, a smile of triumph. Yes, Mine, Yours, I am Yours, because you are my last remaining friend.
Mine died today, she wrote later, of a heart attack, and my true love came back to life. Such power in a pen, such power in words, and as he died he held me unknowing, and I took this final triumph away, made him nothing, and he died embracing nothing because I am not his, never was his, and now I am with Raito.