I keep telling myself to quit it with the vignettes; I never like them later. But then I can't sleep and something really incomprehensible comes out and I like that weirdness at this time of the morning. I don't know if this makes any sense, or if it's even supposed to. Proceed carefully.-Zeph

Misa falls asleep with her pink glitter pen propped loosely in her fingers, and the Death Note open on her pillow. She keeps in warm in her apartment because she prefers to feel bare skin on her silk sheets; alone for days, but she's still adorable in her red heart panties and skull-crossbones tee.

The god of death watches her sleep and wonders if, really, this "love" thing isn't some sort of parasite.

Rem has never been an idealist. She has simply existed for too long. Even in the realm of death, opinions tend to change, morals warp over the eons; there was once a brief but bemusing stir of renegade shinigami who simply decided that killing was wrong. No one knew where that absurdist idea got into their heads – this was before humans got around to the whole philosophical stage, so it hadn't rubbed off from them – and, obviously, it was short-lived. Ethics… oh, they were for smaller creatures, without enough structure in their lives that they require the addition of made-up rules.

No, Rem hasn't changed her minds about humans. She sees them for what they are. And she sees the shinigami the same way. Rem hasn't changed.

But she is very old – Rem is older than the Earth – and she is very tired, and Misa is a human like the rest, but Rem watches her sleep and can't remember what it means to be impartial. She can't remember how to write.

The hiss on the air is so, so pleasant, so gentle, that Rem might almost think it was Misa's sleepy sigh if she hadn't heard it before, heard it far more lately than she wanted to.

Her good eye drifts dully through the darkness of this mortal room; sees beyond it to the lighter, weightless creatures lie, and tells Desire to go away with her gaze.

The resulting laughter makes her ache for its sweetness.

It has been following her; hidden behind the curtain of Worlds, fleeting in the corner of her vision, but she knows it wants to make itself seen. She doesn't know what to think of it. And she doesn't know what to think of that; even seeing, much less being tailed by, one of the lighter Endless is very wrong, and it is alarming that it doesn't alarm her.

Rem is beginning to think she's lost her mind.

When Misa wakes in the evening, stretches and smiles and fondly teases the god of death for her passive nightly vigil, Rem is quite sure that she's lost her mind.

It's not you, says Desire simply, into the winds.

During a quiet moment in the evening, Rem writes a name into her Death Note. It's no one, just a human somewhere. Misa looks at her curiously, and Rem explains, again, that she must write to survive – as simple a ritual as a human maintaining itself with food or water. Misa listens attentively, but she doesn't understand and she doesn't really care. Rem can't understand how she loves this girl. She doesn't even like this girl, a human without even the redeeming human trait of intellectualism. She doesn't fear or respect death. She's like a leaf being carried down a waterfall.

If Rem hears the name Yagami Light spoken one more time, with more reverence and awe than Misa affords to the very heartstrings of the universe, she may well become an idealist after all. The ideal would be vengeance; murdering the stupid human who played at godhood so hard that hell itself wouldn't take him in.

The golden eyes hiding behind the world laugh and laugh; the most beautiful, horrible sound.

She's mine, you know, Desire says, its lovely fingers tracing the air above Misa's skin. Has been for a long time.

Yes, Misa is property. What human isn't? She is enslaved to her wants; she wants power, she wants revenge, she wants affection and sex and small tokens of human kindness. She wants Rem to protect her. She wants that thing that Yagami pretends to be. Her wants are the price at which she has auctioned herself to the universe.

Of course, Yagami has sold himself to another dark Endless, one with eternity in its eyes and a hollow, black madness cradled in its hands. His delusions encase him like a skin.

Desire is in the room, on the bed, in the air talking and laughing and petting Misa's hair like it's pure happiness. Rem stares at it blackly. Misa writes a love letter. The night ticks past.

And you, shinigami, Desire sings teasingly, the words like liquid, you are mine too, now, did you know?

The sun rises. Misa talks as she paints her eyes, using Rem like she'd use a diary; just more pages in another book. She thinks she'll surprise Light at school today. She's sure he'll be happy to see her.