DN -- Then Again
Title: Then Again
Fandom: Death Note
Pairing: Gevanni/Near
Rating: PG
Word Count: 740
Warnings: slightly sketchy implications
Summary: Orange on white, and Stephen really needs some sleep.
Author's Note: ...Near is like a Creamsicle. (In related news, I may need psychiatric help.) This is for jenwryn. :3
THEN AGAIN
Stephen has a gorgeous, skyline-view apartment in one of the nicest suburbs of NYC.
Not that he ever spends any time there.
He just… works. He digs through mounds of pixels for pointed silver, and he treats Halle like a sister, and he tries not to piss Rester off, because let’s be honest; the guy could probably break his neck and bench-press his limp cadaver.
Then again, he’ll be the first to admit that he feels a whole lot safer passing out on a cot in a converted office when he knows that General Stupid-Slayer is sleeping two doors down.
That’s what he thinks it is-when the door creaks softly, and he starts awake at the sound. He thinks it’s Rester come to inform him, with that imperturbable courtesy that makes the concept of his anger all the scarier, that Stephen’s forgotten to set his alarm clock again, and it’s well after nine, and daylight is burning like Stephen’s rotted soul.
So it ends up being comical when he looks up-way up-for Rester’s face, and there’s nothing there.
He lowers his gaze-and lowers it-and lowers it-until he finds… Near.
It’s rather remarkable that the kid’s standing, first off, since Stephen’s probably seen him do it three times since he started working for the runt of a genius, and it’s even more remarkable that he’s… approaching.
Which is something Stephen’s pretty sure he’s never seen Near do.
Stephen’s still prying his five o’clock shadow off of the pillowcase as Near climbs up onto the bed beside him, and the glow of the city lights through the blinds casts sickly orange bands across white skin, white pajamas, and white sheets as if they’re all the same.
And, somehow, it makes sense to Stephen’s ragged, sleep-deprived brain that they are, or that they should be, and letting Near get his way no matter what his whims entail has transcended second nature in favor of becoming instinct, and somehow all these things get muddled together until he’s letting Near’s soft, warm fingers unbutton the shirt he was too tired to take off before he met the mattress with a face-plant.
“I worry I’m overworking you, Agent Gevanni,” Near whispers, and it’s only when smooth, rounded nails graze his chest that Stephen realizes exactly what’s going on.
Or going down, as it were.
Or going up in smoke-smoky gray eyes wide and curious in the half-light.
“Near,” he says, and the boy pauses, withdraws his gently-searching hands, and meets Stephen’s gaze.
And that’s… what does it, really, because Stephen knows, from the extraordinarily limited files that Wammy’s House forked over and from Rester’s indubitable word, that Near’s eighteen and then some; knows that he’s smarter than all of his employees combined; knows that the perfect towers of dice are built to fill an imperfect space; knows that Near’s superiority is a singularity, and that he is, therefore, alone.
So when Near, his face unreadable, sits back on his feet where they’re folded beneath him, hesitates once more, and begins to slide one leg off of the bed, Stephen reaches out and catches his arm.
It’s thinner than he expects-and warmer.
Near rebounds in a matter of fragments of seconds, and he’s back to the buttons with practiced hands. Stephen, however, is bone-tired verging on dead-tired, and he fumbles to get his fingers around both of Near’s wrists, too exhausted to care that yanking the poor boy’s hands out from under him to force him to lie down might be considered rude.
Then again, so might wandering into Stephen’s room well after midnight and unfastening his shirt without his permission.
Near’s curls bounce as he flops like a rag doll onto the pillow, china-white shot with orange, and he starts to pout until Stephen slings two weary arms around him and draws him close enough to share his mint-toothpaste-scented breath. Pink rises in Near’s cheeks when Stephen manages to smear a sleepy kiss across his forehead, and he settles under Stephen’s hand, which Stephen is attempting, to little success, to maneuver through the tangled white hair.
Sleep mistily envelops him, and Near makes a murmur like a purr against his chest, and sockfeet flirt idly with his calves.
Gathering his last shreds of consciousness, Stephen mutters, “Do I get overtime for this?”
Near sighs exaggeratedly against his collarbones. “No, Stephen.”
Stephen smiles into Near’s soft hair. “Worth a try.”
Fandom: Death Note
Pairing: Gevanni/Near
Rating: PG
Word Count: 740
Warnings: slightly sketchy implications
Summary: Orange on white, and Stephen really needs some sleep.
Author's Note: ...Near is like a Creamsicle. (In related news, I may need psychiatric help.) This is for jenwryn. :3
THEN AGAIN
Stephen has a gorgeous, skyline-view apartment in one of the nicest suburbs of NYC.
Not that he ever spends any time there.
He just… works. He digs through mounds of pixels for pointed silver, and he treats Halle like a sister, and he tries not to piss Rester off, because let’s be honest; the guy could probably break his neck and bench-press his limp cadaver.
Then again, he’ll be the first to admit that he feels a whole lot safer passing out on a cot in a converted office when he knows that General Stupid-Slayer is sleeping two doors down.
That’s what he thinks it is-when the door creaks softly, and he starts awake at the sound. He thinks it’s Rester come to inform him, with that imperturbable courtesy that makes the concept of his anger all the scarier, that Stephen’s forgotten to set his alarm clock again, and it’s well after nine, and daylight is burning like Stephen’s rotted soul.
So it ends up being comical when he looks up-way up-for Rester’s face, and there’s nothing there.
He lowers his gaze-and lowers it-and lowers it-until he finds… Near.
It’s rather remarkable that the kid’s standing, first off, since Stephen’s probably seen him do it three times since he started working for the runt of a genius, and it’s even more remarkable that he’s… approaching.
Which is something Stephen’s pretty sure he’s never seen Near do.
Stephen’s still prying his five o’clock shadow off of the pillowcase as Near climbs up onto the bed beside him, and the glow of the city lights through the blinds casts sickly orange bands across white skin, white pajamas, and white sheets as if they’re all the same.
And, somehow, it makes sense to Stephen’s ragged, sleep-deprived brain that they are, or that they should be, and letting Near get his way no matter what his whims entail has transcended second nature in favor of becoming instinct, and somehow all these things get muddled together until he’s letting Near’s soft, warm fingers unbutton the shirt he was too tired to take off before he met the mattress with a face-plant.
“I worry I’m overworking you, Agent Gevanni,” Near whispers, and it’s only when smooth, rounded nails graze his chest that Stephen realizes exactly what’s going on.
Or going down, as it were.
Or going up in smoke-smoky gray eyes wide and curious in the half-light.
“Near,” he says, and the boy pauses, withdraws his gently-searching hands, and meets Stephen’s gaze.
And that’s… what does it, really, because Stephen knows, from the extraordinarily limited files that Wammy’s House forked over and from Rester’s indubitable word, that Near’s eighteen and then some; knows that he’s smarter than all of his employees combined; knows that the perfect towers of dice are built to fill an imperfect space; knows that Near’s superiority is a singularity, and that he is, therefore, alone.
So when Near, his face unreadable, sits back on his feet where they’re folded beneath him, hesitates once more, and begins to slide one leg off of the bed, Stephen reaches out and catches his arm.
It’s thinner than he expects-and warmer.
Near rebounds in a matter of fragments of seconds, and he’s back to the buttons with practiced hands. Stephen, however, is bone-tired verging on dead-tired, and he fumbles to get his fingers around both of Near’s wrists, too exhausted to care that yanking the poor boy’s hands out from under him to force him to lie down might be considered rude.
Then again, so might wandering into Stephen’s room well after midnight and unfastening his shirt without his permission.
Near’s curls bounce as he flops like a rag doll onto the pillow, china-white shot with orange, and he starts to pout until Stephen slings two weary arms around him and draws him close enough to share his mint-toothpaste-scented breath. Pink rises in Near’s cheeks when Stephen manages to smear a sleepy kiss across his forehead, and he settles under Stephen’s hand, which Stephen is attempting, to little success, to maneuver through the tangled white hair.
Sleep mistily envelops him, and Near makes a murmur like a purr against his chest, and sockfeet flirt idly with his calves.
Gathering his last shreds of consciousness, Stephen mutters, “Do I get overtime for this?”
Near sighs exaggeratedly against his collarbones. “No, Stephen.”
Stephen smiles into Near’s soft hair. “Worth a try.”