Author's Note: Okay… this is probably just mid-final exams overreaction, so ignore me if you like, but I've just been noticing—and I'm not trying to point fingers, and I don't mean to accuse anyone—that a fair amount of people have been saying this fic is cracky. It's usually said in a positive way, but I'm kind of unsure how to take that. I put a lot of work into this sucker, and I spent a lot of time making it something I was pleased with and proud of, and I took it seriously, at least as far as commitment goes. And it's not like there aren't solemn parts to it, right? End of last chapter Emofest, anyone? XD

So I guess what I'm asking is—is it "crack" because it's funny? I'd like to think most of the cast is relatively in-character (yes, even Mello! I don't think it's too terribly far-fetched to think that if he'd spent those years bumming around with Matt and Near instead of getting beaten down on the streets of L.A., he'd be the kind of crazy that jumps on baggage carousels instead of the kind that blows up buildings he's in the middle of. XD)

There's no need for anyone to apologize or anything, and I'm not trying to alienate anyone; I just want to understand what exactly is at work here. XD Please feel free to weigh in, or berate me, or just ignore me if that strikes your fancy. Whatever the case, thanks for sticking with me this far, and have a chapter for your pains. x)

So… ah… my original A/N: Making apple pies with my mom cured my block. Who'd'a thunk?

Finally, some DRAMA! And let it be stated that I do NOT condone tickling. DX

XIV. Sensibilities

Mello stretched luxuriously, hearing his spine crack with a satisfying snap like that of a crisp chocolate bar, glorying in the breathless fragility of the pale dawn light fragmented by the half-broken blinds. He pushed blond strands out of his eyes and glanced over at Matt—who, of course, was still sleeping, rusty hair splattered across the pillow like a bloodstain.

Damn Matt and his sexy hair and his anti-morning sensibilities.

Idly Mello dressed, cursing the recalcitrant leather softly until it conceded to slide over his thighs and into place. He had somehow managed not to wake the Orange Baron, who still had his face interred in the pillow, so Mello fell back on Plan B for the morning—not that kind of Plan B; oh, God—and went to bother L.

The superlative sleuth was sitting on his bed, knees drawn up, staring almost uncertainly at a collection of puzzle pieces that didn't match.

Mello flopped down on the floor, leaning against the nightstand. "It's absolute shit, isn't it?"

L smiled a little. "I can think of a great deal of things befitting that description, Mello-kun," he noted calmly. "To which exactly do you refer?"

"This case," Mello sighed. "I mean, all we've got is what, a map of not much more than topography and half a puzzle? And Near's off God knows where—" He cut himself off, swallowing the rest of the sentence. His life's savings, paltry as they were after chocolate binges too numerous to count, said that "Having God knows what done to him" wasn't going to eradicate the faint, fragile vulnerability glinting in L's eyes.

Mello hated seeing it there. It wasn't right. If L broke, the stars would fall, the sun would fade, and the Earth would spiral out of its orbit and plunge off into the endless, frigid black oblivion of space, where they'd all shrivel and die ignominious deaths.

Which was a cheery thought, to be sure.

Then again, there were plenty of cheery thoughts in the world that he could choose from.

"Want to go down to the kitchen and see if Roger got cake?" he asked.

L's eyes lit up. "Yes," he said.

x

When they reached the linoleum-lined haven they sought, however, an unexpected intruder had claimed the space.

Light was slicing a half-dozen peeled apples and tossing the fruits of his labor—damn it; Mello had been spending too much time with Matt—into a bowl. He glanced up at them and smiled a little.

"Good morning."

"What are you doing?" Mello asked immediately.

Light raised his eyebrows. "I'm making apple pie," he answered, as if making apple pie at nine in the morning in an orphanage in England was the most natural thing in the world.

L gazed at the enterprising pastry chef as if he'd just been introduced to God.

Mello wasn't quite so impressed.

"Apple pie?" he repeated. "What, practicing to be an American housewife?"

A bit of pink leapt to Light's cheeks. "If I make it now," he explained slowly, as if speaking to a very contrary five-year-old, "then after cooling for a few hours, it'll be ready just after lunchtime."

"Genius," L murmured.

Light noticed Mello's critical expression. "What?" he prompted.

Unconcernedly, Mello shrugged. "If you're going for the domestic diva look," he remarked, "I'm sure we've got some aprons around that'd match your shirt."

Light rolled his eyes and turned to L. "You guys can help if you want," he offered.

Mello clasped his hands under his chin, beaming. "Can I coordinate the bedspreads and the drapes?"

Light ignored him.

"What do we do next, Light-kun?" L was inquiring interestedly, peering at the array of supplies laid out on the counter.

Light finished with the apples, ran his hands under the tap, and toweled them dry before turning to the row of little jars standing like sentinels by the flour. "Now," he answered, "we spice things up a little."

Oh, so it was okay when he made horrible puns? Mello saw how it was.

Apparently blissfully unaware of his heinous hypocrisy, Light handed L a measuring cup. "Can you get me a fourth of a cup of white sugar and a fourth of a cup of brown sugar?" he asked.

Light then made the mistake of attending to the cinnamon and nutmeg rather than monitoring his assistant.

Mello resisted the urge to smack himself in the forehead.

When Light turned again, L was proffering a measuring cup heaped with a mound of sugar that spilled over the sides, little grains raining onto the countertop.

Light blinked. "I honestly can't believe I didn't see that coming," he declared.

As the most clueless genius the world had ever seen took the measuring cup and attempted to even out the quantity, L remarked mildly, "Light-kun should try cooking with Mello-kun."

That was his cue. Brightly, Mello put in, "I think this chocolate needs more chocolate!"

Before long, Light was packing cinnamon-and-nutmeg-and-whatever-else-covered apple slices into what looked to be the bastard child of a roll of tinfoil and a box of graham crackers.

"I didn't know we had pie crusts lying around," Mello noted from where he was loitering, deliberately uselessly, by the table.

"You didn't," Light answered calmly, rearranging a few slices in some indistinguishable way. "I took the liberty of borrowing the car to go to the store this morning."

Mello raised an eyebrow. "Jesus, Lightbulb; how long have you been up?"

Light shrugged and started sprinkling little clods of crust material over the top of his apple pile—er, pie. "Long enough," he replied.

Mello frowned. "So," he drawled, slightly dangerously. "Couple days here, and you think you're qualified to do the shopping? Think you know how this place operates?"

Light finished, washed and dried his hands, and went to one of the cupboards. He opened it, rifled through a few items, and selected one. "Here," he said, tossing the plastic package to Mello. "You guys were all out."

It was a bag of semisweet chocolate chips—brand name.

Mello paused.

"You can stay," he decided.

Light grinned to himself, hefted the pie, and smiled apologetically at L. "Think you could get the oven door?"

Momentarily, the luminescent lad was standing back and dusting off his hands, most likely purely for dramatic effect.

—

L usually let others do all the cooking for him, but there was something oddly satisfying about looking at the pie he'd had a hand—or at least a finger—in sitting smugly in the oven, bathed in the rosy orange glow of the heating coils.

Then he noticed that there was a smudge of flour on Light's face, smeared haphazardly along the curve of his cheekbone like war-paint. L made a motion that was half-indication, half-swipe-at-nothing.

"You've got…"

"Ah," Light said, rubbing at his cheek—too low; he missed it entirely.

"Higher."

"Here?" Light adjusted, but not enough.

L saw his hand move. He saw his arm stretch. And then he saw the pad of his thumb touch Light's cheek to wipe off the flour.

Everything went still and silent for a long moment. It took a thousand years to retract his arm, and then a thousand years to lift a faintly-trembling hand to his lips, because he needed that thumb there as an anchor, as a reassurance, as a safety net between the words in his head and the world beyond—

The same thumb that had just wiped flour off of Light's face was now wiping it onto his mouth.

He was not going to survive this. No—he might survive, but he couldn't endure. He wouldn't have to. The universe was a kind place. A black pit would yawn itself into existence just beneath his feet, and he would plop neatly down into it. It would enclose him in its warm, protective darkness for minutes, or hours, or days; however long it took for Light to forget; and then it would open again, and he would reemerge somewhere else, somewhere safe—like his bedroom, where he could lock the door and refuse to undo it for anyone. And he would curl up under the sheets and sleep, and when he awoke, Quillish would have left cake on the nightstand—

Light was still looking at him, and he was still looking at Light, and maybe he was imagining it, or maybe he really could taste the salt of the boy's skin in the flour on his fingertip.

Light's eyes were precisely as they'd always been—vast, endless, and impregnable. Deeper than wells—chasms; caverns, boundless and bright, intricately-interconnected passages leading further and further back to places the mind could barely hope to comprehend. They were beautiful, Light Yagami's eyes. They were so beautiful that sometimes L tried not to see them, because they made him feel like even less.

It was at that moment that Mello cleared his throat extremely loudly.

"Now what?" he prompted.

"Now we wait," Light responded, turning his attention slightly abruptly to the dishes.

Mello scoffed. "Forget that" was the verdict. Pushing Light blithely out of the way, Mello bent to rummage through the lower cupboards, straightening when he had a sizeable copper-bottomed pot in either hand. "I'm going to go wake Matt," he declared.

Resolutely, boot treads progressing proudly across the linoleum, Mello departed, possibly to his doom.

Light set the bowls in the sink, left them to soak, and then leaned against the counter, rubbing his eyes. "Hell, I'm tired," he mumbled.

L tilted his head as he considered, smiling a little bit sadly. "You didn't sleep last night, did you?" he inquired.

He phrased it as a question and inflected his voice accordingly, but they both recognized the inherent statement-of-fact quality about it. After so long in each other's company, L sometimes felt there was a current between them, an invisible frequency along which thoughts were transferred.

And then again, there were times he couldn't have guessed Light's mind if the fate of the world depended on it. Two minutes ago, after all, had been one of those occasions.

Light raised his shoulders momentarily and glanced out the window at the gray yard. "It was hard to sleep by myself after all this time. I got kind of used to—" He was blushing now. Light Yagami, the unstoppable, the unbeatable, the unthinkable, was blushing, gently but undeniably. "Well, I got used to hearing you breathe."

L paused. He weighed the possibilities, and then he realized that a bit more awkwardness might tip this conversation to the point of being somehow endearing. "I feel the same way, Light-kun," he confessed.

Hmm. Judging by the lengthy silence, perhaps he'd been wrong.

The period of quiet was riotously interrupted by a loud clanging, which segued into an outraged howl, which broke off into cursing, which was followed by a stampede of feet down the stairs.

Pressing themselves back against the sink, L and Light narrowly managed to avoid being trampled as Matt chased Mello into the kitchen and tackled him to the floor. With sounds like twin gongs, the pots went bouncing across the tiles in the spirit of highly unconventional tumbleweeds, which Matt ignored completely as he straddled Mello and commenced tickling his victim mercilessly.

Accordingly, Mello writhed, screamed fit to shatter eardrums, and put some claw marks in the linoleum.

Near, L reflected, never failed to be moved to reluctant but entirely helpless giggles by a deft set of fingers at his ribs—or to a sadistic grin seeing someone else subjected to it.

This was another reason, added to a virtually boundless list of them, why they needed him back.

Another was that Near could shut Mello up in an average two-point-seven-three seconds. L had yet to encounter another human being with that particular talent.