who loned it through the streets of Idaho seeking vis-
ionary indian angels who were visionary indian
angels,
Chapter Seven
November 17th
The Shadow Gallery
London
It must be said, though Matt is not an ill mannered person, L managed to awaken and handle his arrival in the Shadow Gallery somewhat more graciously than the younger man had. To be fair, this might be entirely because L is expecting to awaken in a place where he has never been and where he will be kept captive, for the next year or until he can manage otherwise (and he firmly intends to manage otherwise, make no mistake) but there are also some things L has to cope with that Matt did not.
For one thing, there is an understandable amount of hostility, on V's part. L has no way of knowing that it is because of the whole jukebox hostage situation, but it is alarming, to say the least, to find yourself locked in a room.
He wastes no time hyperventilating, because he has other things to think about, and because panic decreases the effectiveness of his reasoning abilities by considerable margins. Instead, he sits up against the headboard, and looks around.
His new room is small, and full of bookshelves that are empty. It is, in fact, conspicuously bare of anything breakable. This would again be because of Matt's reaction. That much L does manage to guess. It makes him smile, because he never did approve of making anything easier than it had to be, and apparently, Matt had inherited the trait.
V knocks on the door, three hours later, when L is beginning to wonder if he's ever going to. L says 'come in,' and V tries the knob before using the key. L arches an eyebrow at him curiously, as he comes through, carrying a glass of water and a plate of eggs.
They are not sugary, eggs seldom are, which is a disappointment, but L is prepared to acknowledge that it would be rude not to accept them, and that he needs his strength.
"I imagined," V says, too casually for it to actually be casual conversation, "that you would have picked the lock by now, given your disciple's propensity for escape attempts."
L tilts his head and gives him what he knows is a disarming stare.
"That would only be rational behaviour if I were attempting to escape. And besides, I do not know how to pick locks."
V offers him the water, which he takes, and sets the tray with the eggs on the side table. L isn't sure what Matt did in order to provoke this much hostility, but he'll be sure to ask, later, once he's secured maybe a little more freedom than what he's been given so far.
"You don't pick locks?" asks V, which is what L believes he just said, but he doesn't point that out. He just nods.
"That is a skill that Matt acquired in his life before entering the institution that trained us both. While we share goals in common, we are not the same people, and our strengths differ accordingly."
"Ah," says V, and leaves the room without further comment. L thinks that usually, this would suit him just fine, but since V is a terrorist (ergo, automatically breaking the law, ergo, a suspect) it would perhaps be better to win him over than to let him keep his distance.
He climbs doggedly to his feet, still holding the water, and slouches out of the room after the masked man, following him into the kitchen. V glances up at him, and L can't tell what he's thinking, so he goes for an apology, because that's always a good choice.
"I am sorry. I was not thinking. This is your home and I am moving about through it. Am I free to come out into the main rooms, or would you prefer I did not venture out?" He chews on his thumb, and watches V putting dishes into the sink, and filling up the pan to soak.
"Provided you don't follow Matt's example, and attempt to destroy all my property, I don't see why that would be a problem," V says, grudgingly, and L smiles a little.
"Matt is a very determined young person. While I admire many things about him, as I said, he was trying to escape and I am here almost entirely of my own volition."
V for Volition, he thinks, and wonders if V is believing him or listening at all. Even Light was easier to peg down than this, and that nearly cost him his life. He feels a pleasant frisson of worry, like the game suddenly has real stakes again. It is up to him, still, though, to offer information at this point, because he still doesn't have V's interest or attention.
"Matt, Mello and Near were the three highest ranking students at the orphanage that collects children with the qualifications necessary to take up the mantle of L." He can hear V start to listen, and it makes the unpleasant task of sharing information very much worth it. "Until the process was disrupted by the unrest here. We were raised in England."
He rambles on, keeping his information purposefully undeniably personal, but mostly useless. V seems to still be listening, though, if perhaps mentally chalking him up as 'a little bit crazy.'
"And then," L says, perching crouched on a kitchen chair, in his customary position, "the unrest did begin, and the orphanage was evacuated to Japan. The older students mostly left to live their own lives and do what they could, since they were all raised to be rather charitable, and I enlisted the top three of them, given their intellect and talent."
A light shrug, and a small smile. "Although I do not doubt that you did not see that side of him, Matt is a very diplomatic force. Particularly between Mello and Near, who are, ah, as you might call fire and ice."
V is standing now, at the edge of the counter, making no pretences of not staring at him, and L thinks perhaps he might have gone too far. That the orphanage story might be seen as a bid for sympathy, and a clumsy one, at best, so he narrows his eyes and says quickly,
"And I saw you at the Old Bailey." He isn't playing this well, not well at all, and he needs to 'get his act together' as Mello might say, and work out what to do next in some sort of logical order.
"And I saw you," says V, and L finds himself surprised by how his voice sounds, for some reason, though they have spoken, before, "Visiting Justice in the middle of the night."
L 'hmms' and inclines his head, agreeing (and accusing,) "Only to have her destroyed before my eyes."
"A perverted symbol," V sounds like he might be reassuring him, but L doesn't buy it.
"And now gone completely," L agrees (accuses) again. "At least I saw it once."
V's mask smiles at him, but by the sound of his laugh, he's not feeling precisely mirthful. L is sure he can understand why. He wouldn't want a stranger in his kitchen, accusing him of these sorts of things.
"What is a show without a critic? Was the music at least to your taste, my friend?" There's barely concealed hostility in the word, and L barely contains a flinch.
"I do like Tchaikovsky. I could not help but think I was imagining it at first. There were a few moments where I thought perhaps my reason had escaped me at last." V laughs, at least a little bit honestly, and L chews his thumb a moment, before asking, "You are musically inclined. Do you play any instruments yourself?"
V glances at him, and shrugs. "I don't remember," he says, which is an answer that confuses L enough that he is prepared to forgive it while he turns it over in his mind. While he was turned away, V has slipped rubber gloves onto his hands. L did not miss noticing that he had not been allowed to see the skin, which leads him to agree with Mello's assessment. There must have been some sort of grave injury done to the man.
This time he waits for V to be the one to start the conversation, if he wants on to take place. Apparently, the answer is no, because he leaves, leaving L feeling simultaneously rather put out and more determined than ever. At least he has found his bag, which contains his sugar, which will no doubt improve his mood and charmingness by half again at least.
V contrived not to run into his latest houseguest for the next two days. He probably wouldn't have talked to him, in fact, for much longer if he could help it, if it hadn't be for the fire; that is to say, L demonstrating his complete lack of culinary ability, and setting fire to his toast.
V emerges to the smell of smoke, and a very bashful looking detective standing over the blackened remains of the bread in the sink.
"I," says L, and V sighs and goes to start cooking breakfast. L sits at a safe distance on a kitchen chair, chewing his bottom lip. The dark circles under his eyes are even more pronounced today, and V wonders if he's slept since he's been here.
"I don't think what you're doing is justice," says L, from the chair, staring at the sink, "a burglary victim does not decide the punishment. Even if they broke the best china, breaking their hands is inappropriate."
V stiffens, and looks over his shoulder at L, who isn't meeting his eyes, it seems. This probably has more to do with the toast than with expressing his displeasure. The accusation came out nearly conversational, but with a poisonous little edge to it.
"And a lawyer, once victimized, are they no longer allowed to set foot in a court room?" V asks, because L is certainly quick to question whether he is fit to pass justice.
"Oh? Which law school did you attend?" L asks, bang in response, "and may I meet your judge and jury? What of the defence attorney?"
"Well, that might be you, L. Tell me, what is your client's defence for the atrocities he has committed?"
L gives him a dull look, like it's a stupid question, but V thinks it likely means he just doesn't have an answer.
"That is not the side I am on. I suppose I espouse a philosophy of legal positivism."
There is a long moment, while V flips the egg-in-a-basket in the pan, where he does not respond. L thinks it's a more comfortable silence than the ones they've had so far. Like they're discovering the lines that separate their philosophies, and learning to navigate around them.
V is just thinking that legal positivism in a country like this is practically criminal.
"Are you the L that was in charge of the Kira investigation?" V asks him, reasonably and curiously, a few minutes later as he sets the food down in front of him, because he has done research and the widely publicized saga attracted his attention at once. The strange man on his kitchen chair nods, and looks up, and the steel that it must have taken is visible in his eyes, for once, as opposed to the usual clownish smile or cautious glances.
The mask inclines, as though V is making a respectful gesture, but L cannot be sure.
"Matt mentioned that he thought I was like him," V says, casually, almost with amusement, but L's laugh is sharp and entirely cold.
"No," says the detective, "you are nothing like that. You are, and you are not." If pressed, L might not be able to explain what he meant by this, except it had something to do with Light's sweet smile and quick stabs, and V's declaration of intentions and cautious, formulated plan. V is approaching the task of ridding his world of evil- and their task is the same, L admits that much- in a specific and thought out manner, while Light went power drunk and just killed.
All of a sudden, though, L remembers Light's laughter, in the hotel room when they trapped him and caught him and he decided that was it. So now he knows what V's smile reminds him of, and it eases and alarms him at once. He is the same, and he is not the same.
But that is internal politics, and that is nothing for him to question or deal with. He is here researching a specific case. He is here doing a specific good. He is here solving a specific problem.
"I am not here to trap you, you know," he says, mostly to cut off his own thoughts, nothing good lies down that road. He can tell, by the way that V starts, that this is something he did not know. "We are investigating Adam Sutler. Neither Mello, Near nor Matt will be trying to discern where you might attack next, or who it is you might kill. I do not think that your justice is real justice, but I am not here to stop whatever revolution you might be hatching, V."
"L," says the terrorist, with his voice like butter, all of a sudden, "don't think that you could if you tried."
L feels himself smile, and not in a kind way, and thinks that it might be his turn to look rather a lot like the mask V is wearing.
AN: wow, any author who pretends to not have at least some small sliver of their pride affected by their reviews in the SLIGHTEST, they are a lying piece of lyingness. Thank you so much to all of you, it's really, really nice to know people are reading and enjoying, and that I'm not just screaming down an empty tunnel. You make me giggle like a three year old.
