who were burned alive in their innocent flannel suits
on Madison Avenue amid blasts of leaden verse
& the tanked-up clatter of the iron regiments
of fashion & the nitroglycerine shrieks of the
fairies of advertising & the mustard gas of sinis-
ter intelligent editors, or were run down by the
drunken taxicabs of Absolute Reality,
"Matt?"
"Yeah, Near?"
"Lilliman is in the city for the weekend."
He glances up, sharply, and stares at Near, who's looking at the newspaper heading dispassionately, with a lock of hair curled around his finger.
"We'll see how it goes then, won't we?"
"I don't want Evey to know." Near's voice is quiet, but firm on this point, and Matt nods his agreement, looking back down at the newspaper he's reading, now keeping an eye out for stories pertaining to the priest's presence. It's some things that it's best just not to tell their guest. Some things that none of them particularly want her to have to understand.
Chapter Fourteen
March 12th
Father Lilliman's Residence
London
"V," L mutters, uncertainly, as he's led firmly up the stairs by his arm, "I don't know that this is a good idea."
"I will not let any harm befall you," V reassures him, ignoring his gasp as they hit the cool night air. L's toes try to curl inside his shoes, nervously, but the leather restricts their movement. This is why he doesn't wear them, but V insisted, for some reason.
L doesn't understand why. While being barefoot is not exactly inconspicuous, given that he's travelling with a masked, wanted terrorist in a cloak, L imagines that it would be the least of his problems. He opens his mouth to tell V as much, but then they're out in the wide open street, and he decides it would probably be best to keep quiet. When one is being dragged about at the mercy of a masked madman, one behaves in ways one normally wouldn't.
Really, he hates having to compromise his position like this, but there's something very different about V tonight, that he'd rather not tangle with, when it comes down to it. He'd also rather not be left on his own in the open streets of London, at just past sun down.
He wasn't lying about the agoraphobia. It isn't crippling, but it's enough to make him keep his eyes fixed on V's gloved hand around his wrist. His shoulders are slumped and the thumb of his other hand is pressed tight against his lips.
This is all making him feel rather out of control, and he doesn't enjoy it in the slightest.
Fortunately, with V rushing them through back alleys and parks and passageways, it doesn't take more than an hour to reach their destination. Unfortunately, by the time they have, L is twisted and turned about so badly that he isn't entirely sure he could trace their steps back. No doubt, this is what V intended, since L is not in a position to wander through the streets of London he is securing his continued presence. He has no where to run to.
Sometimes, L wonders if V is the most skilled strategist he has ever tangled with. Second, perhaps, to Yagami Light. Raito-kun. Why is he thinking about Light as they come up to the church? Perhaps that's because it's easier than remembering the chapel at Wammy's, and Watari, Mr Wammy, driving him through probably these very streets, years and years ago.
"V. I am distinctly uncomfortable with this situation." He lets a bit of ice carry into his voice, as he's guided firmly up the metal stairs of the fire escape. Someone has taped the lock of one of the emergency exit doors, and they enter through it. He fears, for a moment, that an alarm will be set off, but none is.
"I'm fulfilling your own request." V's whisper is harsh, and full of anticipation. L doesn't understands what he means, but lets himself be pulled through back corridors. "Open justice, L, and if the hearing is held in camera, well, you will understand the delicacy of the situation."
No. He can't mean what L thinks he does.
He doesn't have long to wonders. V drags him through into a nearby room, all plush fabrics and carpets and a soft, big bed, and towards a nearby door. He yelps in surprise when V pulls him upwards and literally shoves him into it. As his back connects with the clothes, knocking hangers down on his head, for the first time, he aims a blow at V.
He's badly off balance, so the kick connects with his chest, and V is able to brush it off as one might a fly. Then he's climbing in the closet too, pushing L all the way back against the wall, and closing the doors after them.
L tries to throw an elbow at him, rather than kicking, given the close quarters, but he's tangled in what feels like a set of robes, so the effectiveness of the blow is reduced considerably. V closes a hand around his throat and he doesn't stop struggling. The sound of a door opening in the other room renews his efforts, even if V is pressing harder and L is beginning to feel a little bit light headed.
V really can move abnormally fast. Before L can so much as choke out a yell, he has one of V's hands over his mouth, and he's spun and pressed hard into the wall, arm wrenched up behind his back. There's a button of a jacket pressed between his shoulder and the wood, a sharp point of pressure, and V's weight leans, unforgiving, into him. He has been effectively immobilized
L grits his teeth in frustration as V turns his head for him, so he's forced to look out of the closet, through the slats in the wood, at what's going on in the room. He misses the new occupant until she moves.
There's a child, no more than thirteen, and dressed like a little doll. For a glorious, naive moment, L wonders if she's just come from a costume party, and then realizes precisely how short that little ruffled dresses, and realizes she must be a prostitute.
That's why she's here. She can't be the one V is going to kill, she isn't old enough to have been more than in diapers when the problems all began here. She's not much older than most of the children from Wammy's house.
It's one of the saddest things he's seen in some time.
Now there's someone else coming into the room. The man in the hallway calls him a bishop, and closes the door after him. The prostitute puts on a pretty smile, and V leans in to L's ear, and whispers, barely audibly.
"Gentleman of the jury. The man before you stands accused of crimes against humanity. He was party to the offence of the development of the St Mary's virus, testing it on human beings, and was an accessory after the fact of that same crime. He also stands of accepting for himself money, valuable consideration, office and place of employment as bribery in exchange for his silence, and furthermore with obstructing justice."
L tries to bite V's fingers, but can only get a purchase with his teeth on the leather of the gloves, and for his trouble gets a short laugh in his ear and is shoved a little harder against the wall. V's hand tightens and his jaw begins to ache.
"And also, multiple charges of soliciting prostitution, sexual exploitation of a minor. He pleads innocent, but, as you can see, the facts are speaking for themselves."
The little girl's dress is coming off. L closes his eyes tight and V shoves him again. He opens them, obediently.
"How do you find the defendant?"
With V's hand still tight on his mouth, all L can do is shake his head as hard as he can, hoping V will feel the motion.
The hand withdraws, but L can feel the knives V's carrying, and knows better than to yell. With the violence in V's voice, he has no doubt that his life would be forfeit.
"I won't give you permission to murder someone." He keeps his voice a low, venomous hiss, and tries to turn to look over his shoulder at V. His arm is aching furiously where it's still pinned.
"Then you want his evil to continue." V makes a 'tch' sound in L's ear. "And that young woman," it's a stretch to even call her that, "is forfeit. I brought you here to show you, L, the people I am killing are not innocent. This is not the worst evil this man has done."
L considers his options, weighing ways to get out of this situation without anyone dying or being hurt.
"You know he is a monster, L. You can see it right now. You know he needs to be stopped, or there will be another girl, and another. He is living off the money from Valerie's blood. He is living off the flesh of my body."
"Martyr," snarls L, like an insult, because he can't think of a way out, and he should be able to. He stays silent and the girl is forfeit, and V probably kills the bishop anyways. He says yes, and the man's death is on his conscience. He tries to fight and he is killed. He keeps V talking until this is over, and he's left, and if by some miracle V doesn't notice, the girl is still forfeit.
"But then I sigh, and, with a piece of scripture, tell them—That God bids us do good for evil."
In the frenzy and terror of the moment, L is terrified, he can't even remember what play it is that V is quoting. He is terrified because he knows what it is he must do.
"Someone!"
His voice shakes, but he forgives himself for it. He expects the slide of steel between his ribs, any instant now, and is aware that it is a mercy when V's hand curls in his hair and slams his head forwards against the wood.
Stunned, and suddenly no longer supported, he sags to the floor while V bursts out of the closet. The girl on the bed screams, and V pushes her out of the way, dragging the bishop off her.
L looks up from the floor as she stumbles into the corner. Tears are ruining her makeup, painting black streaks down her cheeks. He can feel blood trickling down his temple, hot and sticky.
A man bursts into the room. The assistant from before, and V whirls and L, for a long, deranged moment thinks that they are saved.
"Father Lilliman!" L assumes he must have been bribed to vouch to the morality of what happened at the medical facility where this all started. His assistant freezes in the doorway. V turns, and L barely catches the movement of his arm, it's so quick.
The spray of blood from the knife wound is disgusting. He closes his eyes just in time. A drop lands on his lips and he licks it off without thinking, then puts his face down on the carpet with a shudder. The body lands next to him with a dull thud, and even though there are alarms sounding, none of them will be here in time.
"And thus I clothe my naked villainy with old odd ends, stol'n forth of holy writ; And seem a saint, when most I play the devil,"
"Have mercy!"
"Oh, not tonight, Bishop. Not tonight."
L drags himself up, crawling towards the little girl, refusing to look in the direction of the wet sounding noises. V is beating the man to death, but the little girl is screaming. He's aware that he must look like a monster to her. It's possible that his approach is frightening her even more than the attack itself.
"Close your eyes," he tells her, and feels sick because he can still taste the blood, "little one, just close your eyes. It'll all be over soon, I promise."
He obviously isn't that frightening, because she grabs him tight and buries her face in his shoulder when the Bishop's screams start to burble forth. L tries his best to cover her ears.
He miscalculated. He miscalculated gravely. His actions could not save Lilliman, and he destroyed her innocence more than the bishop ever could. He is responsible for the death of the assistant.
He actually hears the moment the Bishop stops breathing. He can also hear the security guards racing through the stairwell, and the alarm, and the little girl's tears, and soft fall of V's boots on the carpet as he comes towards them.
"We've got to go."
L doesn't know if he can move. He's not terrified by the violence; he's done worse than this on his own, in the name of interrogating suspects. He's done horrible things during interrogation, and had nightmares about them afterwards.
He's just never had it be out of his control before. Not since Kira, and even then, he never had the blood of Light's victims in his mouth.
V drags him bodily to his feet, and the little girl screams and tries to cling to him, but is shaken off. There are men running through the hallways, almost in the room, and L wonders how V is going to manage this, or if this means the end of both of them.
The window. It's thrown open, and V swings out it, L practically over his shoulder. The trip to the ground is a blurr of jolts and balconies, and V only drops him once but it's onto soft grass and only from a few feet. He's fairly sure he might have cracked a rib on V's shoulder.
"Can you walk?" V asks him, and L climbs determinedly and dizzily to his feet. Since he is capable of doing so without vomiting, odds are that he is not concussed.
With one of L's arms over V's shoulder, they take off towards the shadows of an alley. V is doing most of the running and taking most of L's weight too, while the detective stumbles along. The blood from his forehead is getting into one of his eyes and it's stinging, so he just closes both of them and lets V lead the way.
By the time the sounds of sirens and alarms fade in the distance, V has slowed to a quick walk, and L is able to keep up. The masked man eventually surrenders his arm, and he finds himself only swaying a little without support.
"You're a fool," V snarls at him, "and that man is dead because of you."
"It was your knife," L says, dully, trying not to step on litter or to lose his footing. A rat scuttles out from behind the garbage and startles him into nearly falling. He doesn't grab for V. "But I know that."
"A fool and a hypocrite."
"Do I contradict myself? Very well then I contradict myself. I am large, I contain multitudes." L very seldom chooses to resort to quotations to argue, because that's a cheap way to get out of having to think on your own, but today he is lowered to it. He does not know if he could think on his own if he tried.
V is seriously considering swearing, but instead holds his tongue, as L holds up a white sleeve to his temple, to stop the trickling blood.
When they get back the Shadow Gallery, V has to support L's weight going down the stairs. His legs look too unsteady to hold him, and he's clutching the banister with a furious, white knuckled grip. V keeps him from falling, depositing him on the piano stool; the first seat once you enter the gallery.
"Stay there."
L does, but only because he doesn't wish to try V's patience any further tonight. He knows he is probably lucky to be alive as it is.
V re-emerges, bearing a damp washcloth and a bowl of water. He sets the bowl on the seat next to L, and with a firmer touch than is actually comfortable sets about cleaning his face. L clenches his aching jaw and bears it.
He has marshmallow peeps in his room. He needs the taste of blood out of his mouth very badly. If Watari were here, he would know this, and would have brought them, but Watari is dead.
"That's enough," he says, urgently, climbing to his feet and pushing V's hands away with surprising strength, given that the world is spinning, "thank you. But I need to be elsewhere, Light-kun."
Did he just call him that? Hopefully the pronunciation, Raito-kun, will keep his host from realizing he just made a Freudian slip comparing him to a serial killer. The entire sentence was Japanese, so he should be safe. Although perhaps, at the moment, L can't entirely bring himself to care whether V knows or not or gives a damn or not. He's going to be very angry about this when he can think straight.
"V."
He pushes past him and towards the dubious sanctuary of his bedroom.
AN: confession to make. There are four scenes that are the reason I wrote this story. I imagined them, and then structured the plot to include all of them. The first, was Matt threatening to bludgeon V's jukebox. This whole chapter is the second. smiles it feels good to have it written. Two down, two do go.