L x Light
Pink Floyd
Empty Rhetoric
Life is a short, warm moment, and death is a long cold rest.
You get your chance to try in the twinkling of an eye:
Eighty years, with luck, or even less
To work on the Kira Case, you had to have a good idea about the importance of mortality, and an even better grasp on how sometimes it had to become second priority to the bigger picture. You could not be callous about throwing life away, but at the same time, you had to be prepared to admit that sometimes one innocent had to be sacrificed in order for a thousand more to be saved- even though Kira was only targeting criminals to begin with, it was clear that he had no moral doubts about sacrificing others to keep his identity a secret.
And they had to be weary of their own lives, too. They did not know who Kira was, or where he got his sources from; all they knew was that he was close, and that he could probably get a lot closer than they knew about before they became aware of him. So they worked on luck and stealth, and hid who they were from sources that Kira might use, and tried to keep a low profile in the media debacle that the case had become.
When they went home at night, to the warm embraces of their wives or the thought of their families, they thanked provenance for another day of living, for they had no wish to die yet.
There were two exceptions to the rule.
One, unofficially in charge by merit of his own mind, stayed late into the night illuminated by glowing television screens and lifting fork after fork to his mouth. He did not spend any time worrying about Kira killing him, for there was no way for Kira to know how to, as far as he was aware. He waited for Kira to slip up, and waited for the puzzle to be solved.
The other simply waited. What was going on behind his young, but somehow old, eyes was for no one to know, only to guess at. He often did not go with his father, but stayed behind as well, for he had… he had more than a professional interest in the case. For him, it was near enough matter of life and death.
And with that thought, if he were a less careful man, a smile might have crept across his face.
As it was, he watched L reach for a slice of cake, and turned one eye back to the row of television screens. Night after night, these screens played the live news reports and documentaries on Kira, set on mute, in case they had picked up on something that they had missed. L, he knew, thought very little of this theory, but had them on anyway, as background light, to humour the policemen. L simply sat there, staring into space, his computer next to him, eating sweet after sweet, waiting for inspiration to strike his mind and show him what it was that he had missed.
Light's other eye was on the notepad on his lap, where he jotted down thoughts as they came to him. Every now and again, as if checking for signs of danger, both eyes were distracted by the detective, who stared resolutely ahead, into the darkness, eyes never once faltering.
"Light?"
And who is the master of fox hounds?
And who says the hunt has begun?
L was still staring into the darkness, but his fork had paused mid-air. He was waiting, in his normal- if that word could be used appropriately- sitting position, waiting to see what response he would illicit from the silent figure next to him. They rarely spoke, on nights like these, rarely said anything except the cursory words of greeting and parting expected.
"Yes?"
Light did not falter, and continued to look over the television screens.
"Why are you glancing so guiltily from the corner of your eye?"
One of Light's eyebrow flicked upwards, in gesture of indifference and dismissal. His voice, when he replied, was dry and uninterested, although he felt the clammy bite of nerves in his chest.
"I wasn't aware I was doing so."
"I see."
And that meant what, Light wondered? What was it that the detective saw? He itched to ask that question, but could not bring himself to do so, for he knew that if he did he would be exposing a weakness of himself that he would not be able to recover from. He had an image to uphold, a disguise that he could not throw away with meaningless words and useless accusations that would only reveal more about himself than it would do about L.
But what did that mean?
Behind his mask of calm, Light was a seething mass of emotion, with no way to properly vent it, for he was well aware that he was still being monitored, that his actions were still under scrutiny. He could not escape the thought that anything he did could be used against him. He was new wine poured into an old bottle, expanding the glass whilst trying to hide behind what he had once been, and he was sure that, given time, the cork that kept it all together would explode. But, for now, he would wait, and he would simmer, and he would-
"What do you see?"
Damn. So much for patience.
But, to his gratification, L turned to look at him, regarding him with cool eyes that betrayed nothing but mild surprise that could so easily have been a cover for something else.
"What are you asking, Light?"
He shook his head- enough with cryptic comments for tonight. He felt more riled than he knew he should be, but still the urge to continue talking did not leave him. The urge, all of a sudden, was all-consuming, and as he had done so rarely in the last few months, he let himself ride on his instincts alone. He would be careful, that he knew, but he would let the conversation run its course.
"I am asking, what do you see?"
L tilted his head to one side.
"I see you, Light. I see you looking agitated."
"I am not agitated."
"I think you are, you know."
"Why would I be agitated, L?"
L smiled then, a faint crook of his mouth.
"Because I am here."
Light felt the rising heat in his cheeks and cursed provenance for building him this way. Every night they spent together, that look that was, at some point or another, turned on him inevitably made the blood rise in his cheeks and made him question, again and again, whether or not he was being baited for sport.
Whether or not he was actually in control of anything.
Or whether he was just being played with.
And who calls the tune in the courtroom?
And who beats the funeral drum?
L swivelled in his desk chair as he did every night, and stared resolutely at him, watching and noting down the slow rise of blood in those normally composed cheeks. It was the usual, after weeks of the same routine, for him to wait, staring impassively, until Light turned away, but tonight he found himself bored with the routine, bored of watching and waiting, passive-aggressive, for some kind of unusual movement. If Light was baited far enough, then perhaps he would swing across and try to strangle his tormentor- perhaps he would admit to being Kira, because although L was sure, by now, that he was, he had no evidence to prove that that was so.
All he had been doing was waiting, and he found himself ready for a new development.
It was, however, not what he had expected.
Instead of turning away, his blush increasing, or shaking his head patronisingly, Light leant forward. But he did not lean forward in order to attempt to kill L, he did not try to threaten him- instead, he leant forward so that they were mere inches apart, and spoke, quietly, calmly, and without haste.
"Why would you agitate me, L?"
L had the urge to lean back, to create more space between them, but he fought it.
Show no quarter.
They stared at each other, both outwardly calm.
"Why, indeed?"
The rhetorical question, meant to deflect attention away from himself, only seemed to draw it closer, as Light ghosted a smile at the detective. Light's blush had faded away, but there was a look in his eyes that L was not familiar with, a look that both compelled him and frightened him in equal, disturbing measures. He took a hold on himself, and realised that instead of moving away, he had actually leant just a little bit closer than he had been before.
"I-"
His no-doubt empty rhetoric was cut off by a finger, placed lightly, over his mouth, effectively silencing him. He could see the ghostly blue planes of Light's face, lit by the television screens, and the words turned to ashes on his tongue. Light leant a little closer, unblinking, and ran his finger lightly, slowly, across L's bottom lip. L fought the urge to back away, but for different reasons now.
He realised that this was the first time he had ever had the urge to close his eyes against a foe, against an investigation, against danger.
He was sure that this man would be the death of him.
That did not stop him from wanting more.
L heard the syllable of his name, dancing across the air, as lips leant in to claim his own.