Part 14 - Go
Published 10.21.10
"Ohhh, m'God, I'm so fuckin' tired," Matt mumbles as he stumbles through the airport. His feet feel like lead and it is taking way too much effort to get them to move at all, much less to get them to support his entire body. Which, incidentally, also feel like lead.
"No one told you to stay awake for over 72 hours," Mello snaps at him. "And besides, you can sleep on the flight; it's a good seven or eight hours."
"Not enough," Matt groans. "Need sixteen hours. Or sixteen days . . ."
"What, and leave me to wreak havoc on the world because of the considerable sexual tension you sleeping for that long would cause? For shame, Matty. I thought you had more of a conscience than that." Mello shakes his head, disappointed.
Matt laughs weakly as they head through their gate and out towards the plane. As they settle into their seats (first class, thanks, L!), Matt glances over at Mello. "Why are we headed to Chicago, again?" he asks.
Mello rolls his eyes. "That's where B is, of course," he says.
"Why should that matter?" Matt asks. "It's L's case, not ours."
"No," Mello corrects. "L's case is finding Light. My case is finding B and murdering him with much pomp and circumstance because of what he did to you."
"Ah," Matt says, at last understanding. "Of course." And then his head hits the soft, downy pillow they've courteously provided him with up in first class, and he is unconscious.
Mello stares at his prone form for a moment before rolling his eyes and turning his attention to the copious amounts of chocolate they've placed on his end table.
"What the hell do you mean, there aren't any flights? We've been working at this for hours, planning and contacting agents, and now we can't get a flight? How the hell can there not be flights to Chicago?"
Whammy sighs, blinking a little at the profanity. "It's the blizzard they're having over in Chicago," he says wearily. "No one's flying out there."
"What about flying to a nearby airport?" L demands, mind whirring furiously as he paces.
"It's covering a good hundred square miles, L," Whammy says gently. "And it's moving fast, towards New York."
L stopped and took a deep breath. "The flight to Chicago will take roughly two hours, will it not?" he asks.
"If there were a flight, yes," Whammy says.
"And driving?"
"Twelve hours or so, and it would be treacherous driving, heading into an oncoming storm like that. It would probably take even longer."
"Damn it," L hisses. He climbs into his chair and stares blankly at his computer. "I finally have something to do, and I can't do it because the weather has decided that it's going to be difficult."
"We can still mobilize the agents down there," Whammy suggests.
L sighs. "Yes," he agrees. "But I need to be down there, Whammy. It's not going to work if he can't see me."
"I know," Whammy says. "The weather will clear up, L. Flights should be headed out in a day, maybe a little longer."
L nods, and it's a grim little gesture, because he's only agreeing since there's nothing left to argue. Not even the World's Greatest Detective can go up against the forces of nature and win. He does not, however, say what they're both thinking, which is: We don't have a day. We may not even have a few hours. Instead, he sits, and waits, and thinks.
When Matt wakes up, it is only because the prodding to his ribs is so damn insistent and chronic that he feels he might actually be bruising. A hissing, constant whisper of, "Matt! Matt, wake up! Wake up, Matty, you've got to wake up!" doesn't help much either.
Matt opens his eyes blearily, and gazes at the "Fasten Seat Belts" sign above him, which is lit. "Are we landing already?" he asks. Or at least, that's what he means to ask. What really comes out is something along the lines of, "Arewelaninalreay?"
Mello, fortunately, is familiar enough with Matt's utter lack of diction to recognize the inquiry for what it is, and nods. "Yeah, that's why you needed to wake up," he says.
"I can't believe it's been eight hours already," Matt mutters, moving his chair into a seated position.
"It hasn't," Mello says grimly. "We're being diverted because the weather in Chicago is absolute shit at the moment, apparently."
Matt blinks a few times, processing the information. "Well," he says slowly, "what should we do then?"
"What do you think?" Mello snaps. "We'll find someone crazy enough and desperate enough for cash to fly us out."
"Into a snowstorm, Mel?"
"Hell, yes," Mello affirms.
"Wait!" Matt says, but Mello cuts him off.
"No way, Matt. There's no way I'm missing this showdown. It might be my only chance to have a solid idea of where B's hiding, and I can't miss that."
Matt shakes his head. "No, no," he says. "It's not that. It's just that I don't think there will be a showdown, not now. If we can't get to Chicago, then neither can L."
Mello's eyes gleam with understanding. "That's right!" he exclaims, and Matt is a little worried by the triumph in his voice. "We'll have to take L with us; he's in New York, isn't he?"
"I wasn't trying to encourage your delusion that flying out in a snowstorm is a good idea," Matt says drily.
Mello shoves him a little. "And I wasn't really asking for your opinion," he says. "We've gotta go, Matt. And more important, L needs to go too. If I were him, I'd be going absolutely insane right about now."
Matt thinks for a moment. "Insaner, you mean."
"I don't think that's a word."
"Regardless."
"Yes, okay. Insaner. But you agree, right?"
Matt sighs, and nods. "Yep," he says reluctantly. "It might get me killed, but I agree."
Mello smiles, and it's the smile that makes Matt's hair on the back of his neck prickle and curl. He grimaces.
The plane touches down.
It takes a full 90 minutes for Matt and Mello to find L, catch up with everything that's happened since they got on their flight, and explain what the plan is.
The plan, in a nutshell, is this: Mello, since he had contacts in the area (read: 'since he still had some Mafia peons hanging around New York City), would get in touch with them again and persuade them through any means necessary to get him a flight to Chicago. Then, they would all get on the plane to Chicago, and hopefully they wouldn't die on the way over.
It isn't much of a plan. But it is the best hope L has at finding Light before he's murdered, or before B spirits him away to somewhere else. So frankly, he's willing to try.
Mello nods when he gets L's approval, then flips open his phone and dials a number, presumably from memory. There's a pause, and then, "Hey, Rod," Mello says, turning away from the other two.
L looks at Matt curiously, and Matt mouths, 'Peon,' to him. L manages to turn up one corner of his lips at Matt's attempt at humor.
"I need a flight," Mello is saying. "A fast one, and more importantly, one that will take me to Chicago within the hour." He pauses, and his voice cools several degrees when he speaks next. "That's hardly my problem, is it?" he says coldly. "Get me the fucking flight, Rod! I don't care what it takes. Money, threats, whatever." Another pause. "Sure, kidnap his grandmother, that'll work."
"Mello," L starts, and Mello half-turns to hold up one finger and glare over his shoulder.
"Yeah, or find a pilot strapped for cash, I don't you it doesn't matter! I don't fucking care about the details! Call me within the next 30 minutes." He hangs up, and turns to see L gaping at him. Mello shrugs and sinks into a chair.
"I don't want someone's grandmother kidnapped," L begins, a little incredulously.
"Oh, please, it's not like we're gonna hurt anybody," Mello sneers, rolling his eyes. He's still in full-on Mafia mode, and Matt desperately hopes that L doesn't try to give him any orders.
"But as far as morality goes-"
"Do I look like someone who cares about fucking morality?" Mello demands.
L takes in the head-to-toe leather and combat boots. "No," he answers.
"And do you really care what you have to do, as long as Light's okay?" Mello presses. "Face it, L, this guy's never been about justice or morality for you, or you would have had him killed years ago. So you add kidnapping to your list of shit you've had to do for him. So what?"
"Is this the reasoning you used when you had to murder and maim your way to the top ranks of the Mafia?" L asks back, quietly.
Mello stands and so does Matt. Before he can start screaming, Matt steps between the two. "Okay," he says. His back is to L, and his eyes are on Mello. "Chill, Mel. You know you're both just stressed out."
"Move," Mello snarls.
Matt does, but instead of stepping out of the way so Mello can start screaming obscenities at his long-time idol, he walks forward and grabs Mello's hand, using his considerable strength and Mello's considerable surprise to haul him out of the room and slam the door behind them.
"Mello, woah," Matt says. "Calm down. L's just worried out of his mind for Light, you know that. As we speak, Crowley could be torturing him. He could be dead."
Mello doesn't seem to be listening. "He's the reason I even joined the fucking Mafia," he hisses, glaring at the door. "He shoved my weaknesses in my face and told me without ever saying anything, without even looking at me that I wasn't good enough for him and that I'd never be good enough."
"I know," Matt says gently.
"God, I hate him sometimes!" Mello snaps, his voice loud in the small hallway. "He rips away whatever dreams and aspirations I had and then he fucking lectures me about morality? He has the gall to tell me I'm not good enough for his program, and then he looks down on me because I couldn't be just like him?"
Matt takes his hands. "I know, Mello," he repeats.
"You don't fucking know-" Mello begins, wrenching his hands out of Matt's grasp and raising a hand. Halfway on it's way to making contact with Matt's face, Mello's hand freezes, and he drops his arm. All the fire seems to go out of him and he slides into a heap, leaning against the wall for support. He rests his head on his knees. After a moment, Matt sits down beside him.
After a few minutes, Mello raises his head. "I'm sorry," he says quietly, ashamed.
Matt leans over and kisses the top of his head. "It's okay," he says. "Instinct, right?"
Mello laughs, and even though it's a choked, desperate kind of laughter, it makes Matt feel better to hear anyway. "Yeah," he agrees. "Something like that.
"It really is okay, Mel. I know you wouldn't really do that. Not now."
"You have this bizarre trust in me," Mello mutters. "It freaks me out sometimes."
"I can't help trusting people when I know them like I know you," Matt says, smiling. "And the fact that you buy me video games doesn't hurt," he adds as an afterthought.
Mello snorts. "You're so easy to please," he says.
"And you're so difficult," Matt counters. "We make a great pair."
Mello smiles and leans his head back against the wall.
After a moment, Matt speaks up again. "Just . . . don't let it eat at you, okay?" he appeals.
"What?" Mello asks.
"This brief return to Mafia boss," Matt clarifies. "Don't let it get to you, consume you, like it used to. Okay?"
Mello nods. "Yeah," he shrugs. "I'll try."
L pulls away from the door when silence seems to reign between the two. His chest is aching, and for a moment, he thinks that maybe he's actually having a heart attack (which would be just delightful at this point). He has to think for a moment to sort out everything he's feeling, but he finally gets it: it's guilt, and grief, and remorse. But mostly, it's jealousy. If—no, when he gets Light back, he is going to do everything in his power to have the relationship Matt and Mello have right now. The kind where honesty is blatant and even painful sometimes. The kind where showing love isn't a weakness and doesn't inspire fear and suspicion.
The kind where they build each other up, not tear each other down; where Light can just be that: Light. Not Kira or Crowley's prisoner or even Light-kun, who was L's friend back when he'd lost his memories. Just Light, and everything that name entailed. And where L got to be just L. Not the detective or L Lawliet, which Light only called him when he was angry. Just simple, gentle.
Even with nearly everything he cares about hanging in the balance of Mello's shady contacts and a great deal of luck, L still smiles. He is looking forward to that hypothetical relationship, no matter how long it takes to make it that way. He's willing to work, and after copious apologies, he hopes that Light will be too.
Twenty-seven minutes after Mello first hung-up on Rod, his cell phone rings.
He picks it up. "What?" he snaps. And after a moment, he smiles. "When do we leave?" he asks.
Everything is pale and dark in the narrow field of Light's vision. He pants, feeling his lungs stretch beyond capacity and even as he tries to push himself up into a seated position, he finds that his arms will not support him. No surprises there, he thinks grimly. He rests his face in the cheap hotel carpet and waits for the next blow . . .
. . . which does not come. After waiting a few seconds, and then maybe as long as a minute in silence, Light chances a glance up, over his aching shoulder.
And Light says nothing, because he's already bleeding and he's pretty sure some ribs are cracked and certainly one of his fingers are broken. He breathes deep again, wincing some more as it strains the aching parts of his body (and everything in his body aches right now). For lack of anything better to do, Light continues the staring contest with B.
Beyond is still there, standing a few feet away from him, silent and calculating. There is no hint of a smile on his lips, and Light isn't sure if he should be terrified or not.
"B?" Light finally croaks when he feels like he's sinking into those fire-red eyes. He's getting confused, staring at B this long. His hands tremble, and he notices for the first time in days. B's hands are shaking a little as well, and Light wonders if they always have and he's just never noticed.
With a little jerk, B starts forward and makes his way over to Light. He presses one foot into Light's ribs, making Light suck in a breath to keep from screaming. Light expects a kick, and feels oddly vulnerable and cheated when B just uses the leverage to turn him over onto his back. Light rolls over easily enough, then uses the momentum to curl up on his side, bringing his arms and legs in a bit. He breathes deeply; the suspense is making him feel jittery and exposed.
B crouches down lazily, not into L's position like he normally would, but down on his haunches. The position looks more natural, so Light assumes in the small part of his brain that isn't dedicated to being terrified right now that it's one of his own poses.
There's a faint smile on B's lips as he grips Light's chin and forces Light to look up at him again. Light feels chills run straight down his spine as B reaches into his pocket and extracts the switchblade from earlier and snaps it open.
"B, don't-" Light starts, and then freezes when B presses the flat of the blade to Light's lips.
"Don't make any sound unless I ask for it," B murmurs, and Light doesn't move. He doesn't even breathe. B waits for a moment, head cocked to one side, to make sure his order is obeyed. Then he nods. "Good," he whispers, and it comes out like a hiss. He pushes at Light's shoulder to make him lay flat on his back.
B's eyes are darker than Light can ever remember seeing them; the red is almost imperceptible. He begins to shiver, then shake, badly enough that the blade still pressed to his lips begins to dig in unpleasantly and a thin line of blood starts to drip down his lips and chin.
B shakes his head and pulls his knife away. "Can't have that," he says gently. He runs calloused fingers down the thin cut and brings them up to his own lips and licks delicately. B closes his eyes and shivers slightly. Light doesn't dare speak, but he does whimper softly when B leans over him and laps at the blood directly.
"Shh," B whispers, and presses the knife just under Light's left collarbone. Light stares at him, wondering what the point of all this painless knifeplay is, and then he feels cold silver and steel sink deep into the right side of his chest. He hisses in a breath through his teeth and glares at B the best he had. "Not good enough," B tells him. "Scream." And he cuts again, dragging the blade deep.
"God-dammit, B!" Light exclaims. "Get the fuck off of me!"
In one smooth motion, B flips the knife around so it's resting just under Light's eye. "What was that?" he asks. He notices Light's muscles beginning to tighten and tremble further and laughs. "Don't try it," he suggests, "unless you want to go through the rest of your short life blind."
Light, who had been preparing to fight back, slumps back down and stares up at B with what he believes must be considerable hatred in his gaze. B doesn't flinch, though his smile spreads across his face like disease.
"Now," B murmurs, "give me what I want."
"What do you want?" Light manages to grind out.
B pulls the knife away from his face (Light breathes a sigh of relief), then jams it back into his skin, which is slippery now from the blood flowing freely onto cheap hotel carpet. He begins to carve, humming cheerfully, and Light groans and shuts his eyes tightly, trying to remember how he used to deal with this back in the asylum. He's so far away from that person now, though, that it doesn't help at all.
To his shame, Light feels tears forming at the corners of his eyes and as B makes a sharp turn with the blade, they begin to fall down the sides of his face as he writhes, trying to stay as silent and still as possible (since moving makes the cutting worse). Light damns his weak, malnourished body, and he swears to himself that if he ever gets out of this, he will eat every damn day no matter how sick he feels. This is hell; being unrestrained, but unable to get his spent body to move much. "Stop it," Light gasps. B laughs and leans down to taste the tears on his cheeks.
"Almost there," B murmurs. "You taste wonderful," he tells Light confidentially, and Light wonders that he ever thought it was a good idea to run off with this psychopath.
Light is writhing, trembling, whimpering a little and clenching his teeth to keep from screaming, when B suddenly reaches into his pocket and pulls out a little white packet. Light can barely see with the tears clouding his vision, but he understands exactly what it is when B rips one side open and begins to rub the salt from the packet into the gashes carved onto his chest.
Light's back arches and his vision goes black around the edges; he's faintly aware of shrieking, "B!", and then suddenly, sensation stops and he's left with the sharp, burning sensation of dreadful injury and pain.
B is leaning back on his haunches again and grins at Light as Light's eyes find his. "There we go," B murmurs. He leans down again to taste the blood still spilling out of the injury. "Perfect."
Light is panting with the effort of trying not to sob. "What-" he gasps, "what the hell . . . was that?" He feels B's grins against his skin, and he gives a muffled scream as B nips at the cuts. For a long time, even when B pulls away, all Light can do is lay where he is, shirtless and shuddering all over from the pain. He has no energy, and the adrenaline is pumping so hard that it feels like he has jolts of electricity shooting down his arms and legs every time his heart beats.
Finally, the few endorphins he has left manage to combine to dull a little of the pain. Light begins to push himself up with trembling arms (he isn't doing a very good job), and B doesn't stop him, but he doesn't lean back either. Light finally gives up and shoves at B. "Get the . . . fuck off me . . . B," Light hisses, pushing him away.
B just laughs, but allows himself to be pushed back. "I thought we were ending our time together soon," B says. "I wanted to give you and L something to remember me by."
Light is horrified when he realizes what that means and he cranes his head to look down. Sure enough, there is a 6-inch tall 'B' carved just under his right collarbone. "You bastard," Light snarls, his body still too exhausted to attack him like he'd like to.
B shrugs, not looking terribly concerned. "You're the one who attacked me, remember, Light-kun?" he asks.
Light shudders. "I assume you have bandaged or something so I don't bleed to death?" he demands. Oh, he's talking big, but when B's eyes flash and he gazes down at Light from his position crouched over him, Light has to forcibly shut his mouth so he doesn't take back what he just said.
"Do I look like I'm the kind of person who plans ahead with bandages?" B demands, giggling now.
Light looks at him for another moment, then rolls over and shakily pushes himself up into a kneeling position, hands and knees on the floor as he catches his breath from just that little action. Damn it all, he needs food, and sleep, and exercise, and probably copious amounts of medication; he's not going to make it through any of this if he's this weak all the time.
He can't see what B is doing, so he yelps a little when B pulls him back and sets him n his lap. Light holds still for a moment, then when B starts fingering the letter on his chest, Light jerks away at the expense of the cracked ribs he's managed to sustain. He gasps in pain again.
B jerks him back and speaks directly in his ear. "Call me L, and I'll give you the bandages I've brought," he offers. "You don't even have to pretend. I just want his name."
Light presses his lips together. "I'd rather bleed to death," he snarls after a moment. B's gaze grows dark and he shoves Light away.
"All right," B says, almost amiably. "I have errands to run; why don't you get cleaned up?"
"What the hell are you talking about?"
"Do you want to go to the bank or not?"
"With you?" Light demands? "Hell no!"
B shakes his head. "That's part of the deal," he tells Light.
"I thought you wanted to 'renegotiate'," Light sneers.
B smiles condescendingly at him and pats his head. "I'll be back in three hours," he tells him. "If you don't look less pathetic by the time I'm back, I'll give you a matching scar inside your abdomen. And if you aren't here by the time I get back . . ." he pauses, apparently thinking, "I think I'll find L and give him a matching scar."
"Like you could find him."
"It's funny that you're still underestimating me," B muses. "I might not be the greatest detective in the world, Light, but I am one of the very best criminals. I know where L is right now, and if you don't think that I'd risk everything to carve my letter into his skin, you're crazier than I am."
And he flashes Light a bright smile, and walks out, slamming the door.
When L, Matt, and Mello all step off the plane in Chicago (which is positively doused in snow), at least two of them consider falling to their knees and kissing the ground. One of them does.
"Matt, get up," Mello snaps, rolling his eyes. "It wasn't that bad."
L looks dubiously over his shoulder at the smoking remains of the private just they just (crash) landed in. Wisely, he chooses not to say anything.
"Are you kidding me?" Matt demands. "This whole experience has just converted me to Christendom! I figure if there is a God, he's weirdly on your side, since you haven't fucking died yet. I'm with you now, man! Get me a rosary, sign me up-"
"Matt!" Mello lashes out. "Shut the fuck up, you're rambling."
Matt was rambling. He shuts up.
L checks his watch. "We need to move, now," he says. "The bank is open still and we need to get there before they do."
Mello looks over his shoulder and nods at Rod, who dials a number and has a brief discussion with someone on the other line. In less than five minutes, a Bentley with darkened, bulletproof windows slides up in front of the little airport gate. Mello slides in first. L's overactive mind notes that Mello's leather and the car's match. He feels insane.
They have got to find Light.
It is afternoon when B returns. He surveys Light, who has messily stitched himself up, wrapped the injury in gauze, and is dressed smartly in the clothes B stole for him. Besides the bruise on his cheekbone, he looks like he'll fit in perfectly well at the bank.
B smiles at him. Light flinches. B's smile widens. "Ready?" he asks.
Light nods grimly. He is getting the fucking Death Note, and then he's getting out of here. Screw finding Crowley, he'll do that on his own. He's proved that he doesn't need B here; now it'll just be a matter of losing him after getting the Death Note.
B is studying his face; Light is certain he gives nothing away, but B still laughs and nods towards the door. "Let's go then," he says. This time, Light leads the way out.
"Mello, we need to move faster."
"L, I just don't have the firepower to blow up everyone in our way right now. The weather sucks, everyone's driving slow. We're moving as fast as we can. We're going to make it."
"We're going to miss them," L murmurs, but Matt notices that his eyes seem very far away. And that he seems strangely . . . calm.
"What . . . what the hell is this?"
"Let me see!"
"Get off me! B, what the hell does this mean?"
"2575 South Stewart Avenue," B reads. "I think it means it's an address, Light."
Light growls and jerks the paper away from him. "What's a piece of paper with an address on it doing in the safety deposit box my note's supposed to be in?" he demands, then pauses. "Unless . . . Misa wouldn't have left it alone in here. She'd have hidden it somewhere else in the city!" He turns and rushes out of the bank.
B follows slowly, a Cheshire grin spreading from ear to ear.
"I just saw them! I swear, it was them!"
"Matt, why the hell wouldn't they stay in the bank?"
"Just trust me, Mel. They got in a cab and headed south."
"I don't think-"
"We're headed south too, then," L announces, appearing out of nowhere. He'd gone into the bank to check things out, but found nothing. His tone is pressing, but his body language is calm, smooth. Like he's accepted something, Matt thinks.
Mello pauses, seeming not to notice L's strange attitude, and then climbs into the car and nods to his driver. "Right then," he says, "we move south."
Light is panting by the time he reaches the tiny apartment complex. His stitches have torn open, he knows, but he's so close now, he can taste it like success on his tongue. His cracked ribs are giving him a hell of a time, but he can barely feel them as the adrenaline pushes him up higher, further, headed up half a dozen flights of stairs, B trailing after him and grinning like a maniac, but he doesn't care, he can't care, he's almost there, he is so fucking close to achieving the one goal he's managed to make in years and he feel like collapsing but he keeps pressing, pushing, pressing until . . .
He stops. "2575," he whispers. He raises his hand to knock, then seems to think better of it. Instead he tries the doorknob, which is . . . open? He turns it, and pushes the door inward and steps onto the threshold of the dark apartment.
He takes a step in, barely able to breathe.
He reaches for the lights—he can't see anything, even though it's daytime. He supposes that it is horrible weather right now, maybe that's why.
He hits the light switch, and then freezes. All the color sinks out of his already pallid face, and he narrowly managed to grab the nearest piece of furniture so he won't fall to his knees.
And B, who has just come up behind him, peers over his shoulder, cocks his head to one side and announces, "Well, that's not what I had planned at all."
A/N: So you like? Oh, also, do tell me if I've made any mistakes; I just wrote the last bit in one go and I'm too exhausted to beta, so if you spot anything that should be there, lemme know! Anyways. The end of this chapter is something I've been planning on writing since chapter 4 or so! Well, and the next chapter. Hot DAMN it's going to be awesome! I'm truly sorry for the cliffhanger, but I have been updating sooner than usual, ne? It was only a month since I posted last time! I'm on a roll! WOO!
Okay, that was sarcasm. But seriously, you guys have GOT to tell me what you think is going on right now! Keep in mind: there are only probably going to be 2-3 more chapters, so things are starting to wrap up. Let me know what the hell you think is going on! I probably won't let you know if you're right, but I'll tell you what; if you wrap up all the loose ends in a review or PM, I'll probably do something along the lines of writing a story with a plot bunny of your choosing once this story's done! XD