Again, he found himself transfixed and on edge, his huge and owlish eyes ever-wider as they took in every pulse, every long, shallow breath as it inflated and sunk from his strange bedfellow's chest.
He wasn't sure if this made him even stranger than he already was, but he knew it was of little consequence. What did it matter? The concept of being strange was a useless one. All that really mattered was intelligence, and he was certainly not lacking in that area. For now, he let himself watch.
The transformation was as startling as the night before. In sleep, Light went from a severe, formidable individual and a possibly avdersary to a bewitchingly crimeless stranger. His hair was more disheveled tonight, and in sleep he had rolled, curling the blankets around him and exposing his right shoulder to the detective's scrutiny. Seduced by the chance to see a part of him that he had never seen- Light insisted on closing the door on the chain, even when it was only to change clothing, and Ryuzaki had no reason to object- he remained careful not to wake him.
Outside, it was raining. Pale light infiltrated the room through the large windows, but it did not create the dramatic glow of last night, only dark shadows and hazy shapes. But L was used to the dark- he lived and breathed it, spent hours in it's company. If he had been aware of the need for reassurance, the night would have been that for him, but as it was it remained only a good friend who hid his only weakness from the world and gave him time to be without his own, sometimes spiteful, conscience.
He tore his thirsty gaze away and watched the rain poor down, shoving his itching hands in his pockets. L was reasonable. The marbled light diffused itself on Light's skin and made him into something worth the risk that proximity offered, but it did not make Ryuzaki into someone he was not, dazed enough to reach out and with the shaking, whorled pads of his elongated fingers brush that skin, no.
But he wanted to.
He ran his fingers over the clouded, moisture-dripping window instead. He gazed pointedly outwards and, carefully controlling his impulse, sighed. His death lay angellic beside him, and he could only just bear to watch his breath fog on the window and run his fingers through his own thick, dark hair- he was finicky, now more than usual. One might go so far as to save L was unnerved. He traced the patterns underneath his pale reflection's eyes, the thick, dark lines that gave his expression it's own unique intensity- what was it Mello had called him as he hung onto his legs for dear life, desperate that he shouldn't leave so soon after he'd arrived? Stupid panda, he'd said. Looking at Mello was, in many ways, like looking at mirror image of himself, yet had never yearned for anyone's affection, or approval, the way he knew that Mello yearned for his. Children were supposed to be that way, but not L. Not Near, either, though Near was something different, someone L could not connect with. Two strange, silent people lost in their own world were an impossible prospect for friendship.
They were on his mind often, far more often than he had expected. When he was done thinking of the investigation, he thought of them, compulsively.
The killings continued, but Light slept on beside him, and he was beginning to feel apprehensive about that. His instincts- instincts he had honed for years and prided himself on- could not be incorrect, and yet there was no way he could be right, this time. Light was not Kira, could not be. Perhaps it was, after all, only his capacity for deadliness, not the threat itself, that drew the raven-haired detective to him like a suicidal, drunken moth to it's flame.
Only the second night, but this addiction grew in L already, something so forbidden and so tentative that it was not yet strong enough to expose to the light and let reality wreak it's havoc upon.
This equilibrium was reserved for the witching hours, where he could star with selfish eyes and be held accountable to nobody, especially the only person who was really dangerous enough to eradicate the man with the keenest intellect, the least emotional baggage, the sharpest mind of all; The greatest detective in the world knew of only one individual who was capable enough to murder L- himself.
Hey, reader! Glad you're still with me, and sorry for the wait! I know it hasn't progressed much, but I'll give it to you straight: I'm not the kind of writer who enjoys writing fireworks. I like to get inside a character's head and quite literally just make them think. But things will change, slowly. Remember: It's only the second night! -Owl