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Thien, you're too
nice. really, thanks a lot! wow… i feel like a complete idiot now.
O.o
Tootsiepop254 thank you thank you thank you
-spastic-
-shot-
by some miracle, i think my chapters are getting longer. :o
still, i probably got a so much wrong with wammy and what-not so just
bear with me. (or run and point and laugh?)
so yes… read and review please!
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L contacted one of Wammy's current residents in the hours to come. Watari was not the only one with correspondents in the home, though it was assumable the owner of the orphanage had more interaction with those he wrote. The detective would readily admit he was not the most popular person in the orphanage – at least, not until he left. Until then, he was just another genius in the shade. Sometimes he would wonder if he should have made more connections when younger, seeing as almost every child that had lived in that house (great exception number one: Beyond Birthday) had managed to make something out of themselves that could be of use to the inspector. There was also the benefit of all of them being as capable in their chosen work as he was, or at least more capable than the average person.
Wammy's House never held average people.
"Basil, Ryuzaki?"
Looking up from his selection of doughnuts, a Bavarian cream positioned delicately between his thumb and index finger from an arm hanging at an odd angle above the man's head, the person in question glanced fleetingly at the monitor of his laptop, as if to check if he had mistyped an ingredient.
Only his eyes moved, and they were soon focused on the pastry that had left a coat of powdered sugar on L's lips. In a thick glob, the yellow cream began to drip out of the dough's opening, the entrance of which was still mashed together with teeth marks. A thin, pink tongue slipped out to meet the sweet liquid. Deliciously thick cream oozed out, coming in thin strands at first, then a blob all at once, sliding, slipping over L's parted lips, covering his messy entrance, and that tongue kept darting back and forth like a cobra, lapping up its pray. That sleek, moist tongue, twirling and tasting, frenching the damn air…
Light should have looked emotionally scarred more often.
"Yes, basil…"
Out of the corner of his eyes, he watched the younger male twitch.
And again.
Somehow L doubted it was because of the odd ingredient. 'He scares too easily. I would have thought that one as intelligent as Yagami-kun would have been corrupted… repeatedly, but then… He has his standards.' "It adds a zest to the flavor."
"In strawberry cake." The brunette's tone was deadpan. The detective was inwardly smirking at how he had burned little Light's corneas.
"Do you cook, Light-kun?"
"Not particularly… I've never really tried." The flicker of supposed disinterest, faint dip of tone, the subtle turn of his normally offensive posture – sometimes L's suspect could speak so clearly he was yelling.
"You couldn't boil water."
"Shut up, Ryuzaki."
Then there were those 'no duhs.'
A smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth as L disposed of his doughnut, his other hand finishing the document on the screen. "Then Light-kun will not need to pry into my recipe."
Yes, the world's greatest detective(s) was sitting in a five star hotel, handcuffed to someone seven years his junior, his tongue doing ungodly things to a doughnut and typing a strawberry cheesecake recipe into a lap top filled with files about a seemingly omnipotent, unknown mass murderer. Bet your nights aren't that fun.
Back at Wammy's, despite his antisocial personality and the then-teen's general vibes of 'leave me the fuck alone unless you want your pride and intellect mocked to Hell,' the young man had found a group that had caught his interest. They had come across each other almost a decade ago, when little Miheal and Mail were pains in the brooding teenager's behind. Of course he didn't know their names yet.
Little Blondie had dared to try and steal the genius's chocolate, and considering that he had just been dragged back to the orphanage that was not a good thing. Blondie ended up with a black eye. L walked away with a rabies shot and what looked like the world's worst hickie.
It was a small price to pay for not losing – even if his morals were somewhat against pushing around rabid, five-year old midgets (still, it wasn't L's fault, per say, that Miheal happened to crash into the fridge; it was a badly position refrigerator).
Either way, the redhead that had been laughing his head off at the scene grew up to be a chain smoker and computer expert, so much to the point that at the age of fourteen he was being sought after by some of the world's best known companies (Microsoft and Apple to name a few). L still considered him a late bloomer. But that did not stop him from planting a few requests here and there. The kid could be trusted, and that was worth a good percentage of his fortune.
At that moment, Mail was being sent a copy of an infamous cake recipe, laced with a request to infiltrate a number of government agencies and private home systems. Under the guise of an apparently single hotmail account, a system had been erected by the residents of Wammy's to keep private messages private. The messages themselves could be deciphered in a matter of days if somehow found and their true significance revealed, but the protection that surrounded it baffled even the system's creators. L did not even bother to try and explain it. He only knew how to use it, though did so sparingly, just to be safe.
He did not trust what was not entirely his.
The system could not even belong to anyone. The work of countless child protégés and successful unknowns, all somehow linked to the orphanages' founder, had come together to form something full proof that would expose the secrets of basil-ed cheesecake. Not one person could unravel it. The original creatures each only formed a fraction of the program, which was updated at a seemingly random, unknown schedule. L didn't really care, as long as the redhead got 'Infiltrate Yagami, Soichiro's personal network' from '3 cups of refined sugar.'
"I still do not see how the main ingredient in pesto can be used for something… sweet." The expression on his face made it obvious Light didn't like how saccharine he thought it to be.
L could only smirk at the obviously recalled hint of trivia. "You know nothing of the culinary arts; do you, Light-kun?"
"How could you tell, Ryuzaki?" The exasperated sigh, the supposedly defensive posture as his suspect crossed his arms over his chest and mock glared at his superior on the bed, it was all perfect. They had been at their little game all day. Back jibes and not-quite-snide comments tossing between them, like old friends. What bothered L was not the show they performed, but rather, how the brunette was always so willing to humor him. Light did not ride on jokes. Light did not agree to (purposely) idiotic suggestions – even if just to entertain their omnipresent audience. Light did not make considerate suggestions to his fellow prisoner. But most importantly, Light did not watch L.
The lines of cat and mouse had blurred so gracelessly that it was obvious that both roles were played at once. Now, L found himself being forced into the mouse's position, not because he was being trapped, but because he was being let. The perceptive teen seemed to be taking more time with observing his supposed prey. And as a result was less aware of his actions.
'Why has Yagami-kun decided on such a sacrifice?' The detective was readily insulted because of it.
Light thought he could be sloppy.
Innocence was never brought into the equation. Yet the whole situation redirected L's attention from everyone else.
"Your eyes, they moved upwards." It was the sign of a memory being retrieved from the dominant hemisphere of the human brain, which just happened to be the left. It was rather ironic how the mind worked backwards depending on perspectives. "You tensed, Light-kun, inadvertently, at the mention of cooking while you prepared to wave off a comment. A detached subject wouldn't have affected you so, and when you're to be praised… You smirk."
That guise of a smile L was so familiar with had slid on almost immediately. He could honestly say he welcomed the expression. It meant his suspect was listening.
His tone lightened noticeably while he plucked at a chocolate doughnut, choosing to eat the delicacy piece by piece rather than exert effort by taking bites. Crumbs fell on the bed. It was Light's suggestion that they relax after all. There was no reason to not take out his suspicions on a guiltless duvet. "It's alright that you aren't good at everything, Light-kun. You aren't God."
The damn friendly casualness that had befallen them throughout the day should have died an explosively painful death. Ever since Light had spoken those utterly insulting words, the dark haired detective had been dealing with the urge to rip out his suspect's esophagus, the rage hidden beneath layers of carefully placed cloaks. The only comfort he took was from the knowing that the younger male experienced the same anger somewhere.
It was unfortunate that any direct questioning would lead him no where, seeing as the response would probably be an arousing speech on the importance of teamwork. Probably. The inspector did not know which would have been more aggravating: being fed more cheesy bullshit or having someone (read Matsuda) bawling over it. Everything about Light Yagami had been clouded from that day with his irritation, but an eye for an eye it was going to be.
"Of course, Ryuzaki." Light's laugh was clipped. L hoped he hadn't only hit a nerve, but plowed through an entire field of axioms. "I suppose I have my -"
"Just like Kira."
"Cooking skills to thank for that." The brunette looked genuinely startled – or slapped. The boy really had the funniest face. Nevertheless, his playfully feigned arrogance was cut short, and L was graced with the appearance of a half-hearted grin. With tangible exasperation, he added, "I suppose another fifteen percent of suspicion or so was added because Kira also happens to be a hopeless cook?"
"Oh? I believe Kira would make an exquisite chef. A visionary… possibly creative… very particular about his ingredients, but he's rather… incapable at handling his instruments." L paused, raising his to eye-level and gazing at his pale palm as if it held something. Slowly, his fingers curled into a fist, save for the middle and index. With peculiar slowness, he air-quoted himself. "No… His or her faults are elsewhere. But nothing everything will link you to Kira, Light-kun. Is it not possible for friends to speak of casual matters? Kira is just a criminal. We cannot let someone so mediocre control our time."
And L was the Queen of England.
L wasn't sure if he found determined stoicism or so-obviously-a-virgin as his favorite of his suspect's expressions.
"Though… the power of Kira – all of them so far – could have been something of a godsend. To kill without touching, is that not miraculous?"
'Is it because you promised revenge for your father that you are so concerned with the killer, Yagami-kun?' L merely nodded, accepting the question and apparently considering it while he chewed on a peppermint. "They are merely humans, wielding something beyond explanation. They are not gods themselves, and have already proved this… Necessary deaths, after all, haven't happened."
"What do you mean?"
"I am still alive." L's body tensed before the words properly left his lips. His companion's features had contorted, their forced nonchalance twisted into a smirk so revolting the detective almost unlocked their handcuffs. It was not the look of a proud fighter, awaiting a challenge, which so suited the teen while they worked on the case. Instead, he looked like a child pulling the wings of a butterfly.
"Oh yes, Ryuzaki, you are alive."
'When do you plan to kill me, Yagami-kun?'
It was not a case of if.
"I want to thank you for today, L. It was the most fun I've had in ages."
He should have screamed.
ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo
L Lawliet was a fat child. He was not endearingly chubby, nor plump and huggable, but fat, obese and round. Turned on his side, you would swear he could be bounced, and there was talk about giving the boy his own postal code. You couldn't help but squeeze those pudgy cheeks.
But now his skin felt so foreign.
At three years of age, his mother was determined to force vegetables into her sugar-loving son, or something (that even partially) resembled a balanced died. If things hadn't happened as they did, L would probably have remained spherical, being forced to consume other food groups instead of his steady intake of sugar and confusing his body into dealing with the unnatural balance. There was a time when he wondered daily if such an exchange held its merits. Natural and abnormal could not walk hand-in-hand.
He was also sleeping ten hours a night.
What a long time…
The future world's greatest detective was still a victim to his nightly cravings, which was the reason he was tiptoeing past his parents' room, towards a locked door that led to the attic, his large body possessing more grace than any other child in first grade. A selection of sweets to put Willy Wonka to shame awaited him.
Soon, from directly above his parents' bed, separated by only the floor, L could hear his mother creeping out of bed, presumably to check if her son had been indulging again.
Antoinette Solange meant well, as did her husband Murgatroyd Lawliet, but that was no reason for their son to obey them.
'She'll go to my room first, find the bed empty and hurry to the tree house.' He had purposely allowed himself to be seen, transferring a meager portion of his treasury to his wooden sanctuary. His parents had predictably remained silent about what they saw. 'That gives me five to ten minutes before she heads back… She won't run. When she checks again and finds me asleep, she'll just assume she was dreaming. The evidence would be stacked against her. Hm… Four minutes.'
Once, the most difficult case he had was smuggling an apple tart past a loving mother and loosening a few boards to seal the deal. He was a long way off from having his word become law.
I can hear the lecture already, the smell of her perfume…To strong vanilla… Getting ready for work and decided to yank off the covers…
His eyes were still dry, filled with the view of the full moon outside a dusty window. He stopped watching the moon before he reached Wammy's. The too sweet caramel roamed over his tongue, tingling sensitive taste buds, mixing with the chocolate in a delicate balance of sweet swirls.
You can't forget perfection.
He didn't notice a pair of red eyes on the other side of the attic.
ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo
The light wasn't unforgiving as before, rather a dim, green hue that outlined his form. A bright spotlight contrasted with the shine from far away, dancing before his eyes while a hum filled his ears. It was muffled. Everything was muffled. The seat was uncomfortable, hands clutching a foreign object too tightly. Nothing could be heard.
'What the…' "HELICOPTER!?"
Bang.
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so… who's going
'what the fuck?!'
:3
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