Will The Circle Be Unbroken

Summary: Constance wasn't like the previous Wataris. She refused to be a robotic butler. She'd make Near treat her like a human-being or lose her sanity. And if she was going to devote her life to him, she'd demand his in return. Post-Canon!Near/OC

A/N: KariTwilightMist, I blame you 100% for this.

Although it's probably a testament to my growth as a writer that I was even able to write it the first place, that's the only thing I'm proud of about this story—that I was legit able to pull it off. Otherwise I'm rather upset that this came out of me in the first place, because it breaks ALL my rules. Why would I go ahead and publish it then? I never said I wrote a shitfic. On the contrary, I probably put more work into this fic than I have with any other Near-centric story I've ever written, precisely because I found the subject distasteful. It is pretty much able to fit with canon, if I do say so myself. Not a bit OOC in my opinion.

That being said, if you came here looking for a sweet loving Near/OC story and/or a lemon, sorry. None of that sappy shit here.

Also, if you happen to read my other fics, this is a slight spin-off of White Chocolate. Well, I recycled some of the OCs, mainly Constance from that fic.

Suggested Musical Accompaniment: Will The Circle Be Unbroken from Bioshock Infinite OST. The lyrics are open source domain since this is a church hymn, or so wikipedia says. I like Bioshock's rendition a lot, it's fucking pwnage. Please listen to it.

There are loved ones in the Glory

Whose dear forms you often miss.

When you close your earthly story,

Will you join them in their bliss?

Will the Cricle be unbroken?

By and by, by and by?

Is a better home awaiting

In the sky, in the sky?

In the joyous days of childhood

Of they told of wondrous love

Pointed to the dying Savior;

Now they well with Him above.

You remember songs of heaven

Which you sang with childish boice.

Do you love the hymns they taught you,

Or are songs of earth your choice?

You can picture happy gathrings

Round the fireside long ago,

And you think of tearful partings

When they left you here below.

One by one their seats were emptied.

One by one they went away.

Now the family is parted.

Will they be complete one day?

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It was a solemn event, Roger Ruvie's funeral. They were gathered together on the lawn of Wammy's House, the church bells ringing loud. They were all there, what was left of that fourth generation of L's heirs. The air was heavy, and even the sky wept for the man that had once upon a time been their surrogate father.

Steamer threw the first clod of mud on the coffin. The next came from Mint Dandy and James followed suit, but his offering was a book on horned beetles—his last memento of the caretaker. One by one they shuffled forward and said their goodbyes. India shook from head to toe, but tears were not a thing to be shed. They'd been trained too well.

It hadn't left them.

The tension was as heavy as it had been during the cutthroat days of competition, blood boiling between them all. It bubbled over now because not one of them knew what to say to the others. They were adults that had grown up together, learning every weakness, every tick, and yet they knew nothing about each other. They'd never learned to cope. They'd only learned to claw.

Near was the last to approach the graves. He placed his mementos on each, accordingly. He hadn't come just for Roger: his arms were filled with the things he associated with each of his fallen family members. Linda took the chocolate bar from him and put it on Mello's marker herself, her fingers tracing the letters of his true name that they now all knew: Mihael Keehl. Words went unspoken but the cigarettes and the strawberry shortcake found purchase in their respective places in front of Mail's and Lawliet's tombs. Mr. Wammy's headstone was covered in flowers.

They drifted in and out between each other in silence. A whole generation of lost successors, the greatest minds in the world, and not one of them emotionally equipped to deal with their own minds.

Near turned his head when he felt a hand squeeze his shoulder. A tall dark woman dwarfed him at his side. It was almost comical, the deep contrast in their appearance, as weak and helpless as his frail frame must have appeared against her rough six feet of height. He didn't meet her eyes but simply turned and walked away, a simple command leaving his lips, "Let's go, Watari."

She bristled at the new alias. It would take some getting used to.

.

.

.

Like many of the Wammy's children in that fourth generation, Constance was older than Near. She'd also been at Wammy's longer. She'd been able to pick her own name, and she'd chosen it after a book character whose image she'd clung to for strength in those early days at the orphanage: Constance the badger, warrior of Redwall. She'd taken the image to heart and molded herself into a strong and fearless woman. That's how she'd survived out in the jungles, where she worked as a doctor, bringing medical technology to the indigenous tribes of South America.

As she stared at the bleached walls of Near's headquarters, she wondered if she'd made a mistake answering Roger's call two months before, when he was in his terminal state and making arrangements. She could have ignored it. She reasoned that she wasn't obligated to return to Winchester just because he'd named her his successor. It wasn't like she was jumping for joy to be around her new boss. He was essentially the same as he had always been towards all of them: cold and distant, even if she was his new right hand. At the same time, it was surreal to be where she was now, working directly for him as the second in command in the Wammy's Hierarchy. She'd only been ranked tenth when Lawliet had died. Actually that had probably been the very reason why Roger had picked her to succeed him. The higher ranks couldn't be sassed to work for Near. Being Watari was a truly shitty job.

That she'd taken it without hesitation was probably a testament to how fucked up their childhood competition to be number one had been. She felt like she'd sold her soul to be number two in the command hierarchy. It was masochistically fucked up.

She disrobed the wicked-ass floor-length trench coat and fedora that was Watari's signature and introduced herself to the remnants of the SPK who had stuck around Near for years.

They made bets on how long she'd last.

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.

.

Halle Lidner was right; it took her only a week before the new Watari started to crack.

It was in the sculpture room that she first broke down. Near has subtly suggested that she not enter that room. Of course that was the first thing she did.

She'd been in love with Matt when they were kids and he was that awkward lanky boy who trailed after Mello's destructive nature. Of course he never gave a glance in her direction. It had always been one-sided; but somehow, seeing him there, the way Near had created the larger than life replica of him...she was feeling things she'd hidden away for years.

They were huge—the monuments Near had created. There was one of Matt and one of Mello, and while she at first had been drawn to the image of Matt, his striped shirt and cream-colored vest riddled with bullet holes, it was Mello's form that struck out at her most frighteningly. She approached the figure tentatively, and held her breath as her finger touched the melted flesh across the statue's face. She took in the singed fringe that brushed against the burns, the cold black leather clothes and the crosses. So many crosses. Her eyes settled on the gloved fingers that held fast to the other statue's hand, confirming a life-time's worth of suspicion. She supposed she always knew why Matt had rejected her.

She closed her eyes and touched a hand to both of them, asking the question she knew they could not answer.

Her voice cracked weakly with the onset of her sobbing,"Oh, Mello. What kind of hell did you guys decend into?"

Constance supposed she could ask Near, but she wasn't sure she wanted the answer. The man had a photographic memory; she could bet her life that the statues were accurate to last detail. It would be unprofessional to cry in front of him, which she most assuredly would.

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.

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The second time she broke down, it was in rage. She'd absolutely had it with his condescending commentary and she was damn furious that he expected her to do every little thing for him. This time he'd only asked her to arrange a private jet for him, but it had been like the fortieth fucking time and he wasn't a helpless child anymore. He'd beaten Kira for fucks sake!

The pale man blinked at her in confusion, water dripping off the curls of his hair and soaking the white top he wore. She'd dumped a bucket of ice water on his head.

"Do it yourself for once!" she'd huffed at him in a murderous rage, "It's not in my job description to wipe your ass and bathe you like a baby! Grow the fuck up already and stop acting like a spoiled brat."

Halle had protectively stepped between her employer and the seething black woman. The ex-FBI agent hadn't liked the look of her from the first day they'd met; Constance had a wild look to her with her wiry hair braided back into corn rows and held together with snake hairpins. There were tattoos over every inch of the dark woman's neck and Halle found her ungraceful stance unsettling. When she looked into the deep brown of the other woman's eyes, it was a different kind of malice than she'd sensed with Mello, but nonetheless one that beckoned her fight-or-flight reflexes. The new Watari had a much larger frame than Halle did, lean, fit, and muscular like that of a boxer's. Not for the first time, Halle questioned Near's safety in the hours that he was alone with her. With that body, a weapon wouldn't be necessary to assassinate him.

"Remember the man you are speaking to!" The blonde spat towards the brunette, her gun trained automatically on the vital spots, "This is L!"

Watari the third cracked her knuckles and side-swept the blonde easily, "Near, calm your bitch or I'm leaving. You can replace me for all I care."

That had been the first test. Near didn't need her if he had the former SPK members looking after him. She could still walk out on his shit. She was there more because Roger had named her his successor, than out of any allegiance to the newest L.

"Constance." It had been the first time in years that he'd called her by her familiar alias. Since the day of Roger's funeral he'd only addressed her as Watari.

She bowed her head to him, a show that he'd gotten her full attention.

"Lidner," he continuted, turning his attention to the other woman, "remember your position here. I did not ask you, Gevanni, or Rester to stay with me after the Kira case. Your attendance to me is of your own volition to fillful your own desires. However, Watari's is an existence intertwined with L's. She is your superior."

Constance laughed at the blonde. She didn't appreciate the fact that Near had inadvertantly forbade her from leaving, but at least he'd put the other in her place. It was a small victory.

She could hear Near whispering under his breath as he got up, presumably to remove his wet clothes—something he did without help or prompting, she noted.

"Women are not a puzzle I have any desire to solve."

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Years followed and an unsatisfactory rhythm developed. Eventually, the former SPK members moved on. Near still solved cases as L, but there had yet to be something of that magnitude to truly bring out his detective potential. There were many days in which there was nothing for them to do. And yet there were little changes, subtle changes that had prompted each of them to leave Near. He had grown, just a bit, over the years.

He'd even managed to give them presents for their birthdays and at Christmas time.

Rester sent postcards from time to time and Near kept every last one.

.

.

.

Near had noted the change in her behavior, that she had been acting strangely for days, but it still surprised him for a moment when she thrust the papers at him.

He'd analyzed her motives in about twelve seconds and decided blunt upfrontness was the most direct route to take.

"I do not love you." Was his simple reply. That should have been enough to close the matter.

"Yeah," she'd said. Her tone didn't belay the hurt he'd expected it to. He changed his mind about her motive and was met with the correct line of reasoning when she continued, "I don't love you either, but we live every waking moment together and if it's going to be like this for the rest of our lives, we might as well. We already sleep in the same room and it's not like we could ever go out into the world and find people to fall in love with anyways. We're all so emotionally fucked up, the lot of us."

He nodded. There was no need to analyze what each and every Wammy's Alumni knew without blinking.

"I'm a bit envious of Matt and Mello," she continued when he said nothing more, "and I know you think it's pointless, because it's not like anything's going to change between us."

She knelt in front of him, careful not to crush a card tower that had surrounded him like a fortress. Near noted the sadness that washed over her face, "No white picket fence and dog named Spot. No kids hanging on my skits. No warmth or kind words of welcome when one comes home from work. No pies in the oven. No dinner parties with friends that obnoxiously refuse to leave. No hand-holding. No intimacy. No sitting on rocking chairs and holding hands when we're old and retired. I killed my hopes the day that L died and you and Mello nearly started World War III with Kira. I suppose...at the end of the day, I just want the flicker of hope that I won't die alone. Can you understand that?"

He looked at her for the longest minute, and she couldn't tell what he was thinking. She'd obsessively watched him for years when they were children—they all had. Near had been the ultimate obstacle on their path to L. Mello hadn't been the only one watching his every move. She probably knew his little ticks and quirks even better now than she had when they were detectives in training. Yet for all that knowledge, she couldn't even nearly make a chink into Near's emotional armour. He was as untouchable as ever.

When he spoke, he smiled subtley, his thoughts elsewhere, "You may have that one small comfort if I can provide it."

She was sure if she could read his mind, that he was thinking of L, Watari, Mello, and Matt. Granting her request was personal to her, but she decided that it was his way of apologizing to their dead comrades. She returned his smile. Here's two of your children that won't die alone, Roger, she thought.

She placed a pen in his outstretched hand, which he took to place his name on the document.

When she took the paperwork back, she broke down once more, barely holding in a cry at his gesture. It was more than she'd asked for. It was a million unspoken thank you's and apologies that would never reach his lips. It was a single frozen tableau as she looked at him, really looked at him for the first time in the years since she'd worked under him. For a split second she recognized the child she'd seen the day he'd entered Wammy's all those long and heart-hardening years prior.

Next to Cece White, the marriage license read Nate River.

There was no love between them, but there was a glimmer of humanity, however slight. They would break the cycle.

For the briefest moment, they were not letters, not alphabets, not the geniuses of Wammy's House.

They were themselves, very broken, heavy-hearted.

Very human.

A/N: You actually made it to the end? You didn't commit harakiri? OMG you deserve a cookie and a hug. Thank you for staying with my insanity until the last bit. I hope nobody was offended too much while reading this. It wasn't terribly long because I saw the story in flashes and sat and had out with the thing in one go. It's exactly what I wanted to say and not a detail more or less. I wouldn't be able to write more if I wanted to.

Sorry if the lack of time reference makes it a bit confusing.

**solemn bow**

-Holly