notes/warnings
+ still mostly rubbish
+ possible overuse of the word 'damnit'.
Toll
The plane ride is smooth. They have a tail wind, and the view is mostly ocean. Watari is a good pilot. The seat is plush under L's bare feet, and the ice-cream is plentiful.
But he still feels uneasy.
Rae lounges across several chairs, like the lord it probably is. Or lady, maybe. L watches the Shinigami leisurely. It seems to be made entirely of bone and fire, but it moves with sinew, like a cat. It's theoretically more aesthetically pleasing than either Ryuk or Rem, if one is prepared to disregard the eyes.
L is absolutely not prepared to disregard the eyes. They remind him of something straight out of his worst nightmares. The sort he used to have when he was seven, and he'd only just…
Never mind that now.
"I have a question," he says, and then presses the back of the spoon to his lips. It's pleasantly cold.
"Go on," Rae says magnanimously.
"Why have you not offered me the deal?"
Rae tilts its head at him, a gesture so much like his own that he is momentarily disturbed.
I spend far too much of my life with this damned thing.
"What deal would that be, Lawliet?"
"Feigning stupidity? I'd expect a little more maturity from the heir to the king," L says with dignity.
Rae pushes itself into a sitting position, crossing its inhumanly long legs in front of the chair.
"They say one is often brought down to the level of one's company," Rae points out. "Do you think I enjoy spending every hour tailing an oversized child with an oversized ego and an overinflated reputation."
"Touche," L says. "And congratulations on neatly avoiding the question at hand."
Rae stretches its arms, and L is sure he can hear the pseudo-bones click into place as it does.
"You are referring to the Shinigami eye deal," it states.
Never stupid, are you? L thinks grimly.
"Correct," he agrees, observing the death god carefully. "I might consider it, you know. Not for the purpose of the note, but because it would be useful as a detective to immediately know the true name of every person I see."
He'd also see every person's intended date of death. Which would mean he'd know if anyone started killing with a death note again, because people would be dying before their life spans indicated. It could be...advantageous
"Just as I predicted, then. I knew you would want to use that power for your own fulfilment, and not for the greater good," Rae says, sounding smug. "Hm. So you'd genuinely sacrifice half of your remaining life span for my eyes, would you?"
My eyes?
No, he does not want Rae's eyes. He knows the death god is merely using a colloquialism; humans don't actually obtain the physical eyes, just the visual power. All the same, the thought makes the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. He's convinced that Rae's are not just Shinigami eyes. They're insane Shinigami eyes. And he wants as little to do with them as possible.
But the ability. That is the thing. A name to a face.
"I might, if you ask nicely," L says, and he's completely aware that he's being petty and immature. Rae brings out the worst in him, and that irritates him. He needs to be more detached.
He's been thinking that about a lot of things, lately.
"Well, I'm not," Rae says cheerfully. "Sorry, L. The eyes are not a part of our deal."
L scratches his chin. A predicted outcome, but not the one he'd deemed most likely.
"I thought you'd have given anything to shorten my life," L says. "I understand our relationship is strictly professional, but you're not exactly fond of me."
"I can't say I'm surprised that your deductive abilities have failed you yet again," the Shinigami jeers. "But I'm sure you understand that I'm here under special circumstances. Giving you the eyes is not a part of the conditions of this arrangement."
"It's an assessment, really, isn't it?" L asks. "You are being assessed as to the strength of your character. And perhaps…yes, perhaps I am, too."
It all comes down to which of them is stronger. L's will against Rae's will. Human versus death god. Hardly fair.
Either L destroys his own principles, or Rae will never sit on that throne.
"There is also another reason," the death god adds. "But I'm not quite ready to tell you that, yet. I think I'll savour it for another few years or so."
It laughs again, a high, cold giggle.
L shrugs and goes back to his ice-cream. It is chocolate-chip, after all.
When Matsuda gets up at seven, he's had just over an hour's worth of sleep. He staggers to the coffee machine, and is briefly grateful that none of the others have come to talk to him yet.
He's not sure what he wants to say, but he is sure that if any of them turn up right now, without warning, he'll probably tell them everything whether he ought to or not.
It's easier to think rationally with the sun permeating the room and some distance between himself and last night. There's still a chance L was either hallucinating or sleepwalking (and talking). True, it's unlikely that L takes mind-altering drugs, which means that the latter is the only real conceivable alternative.
And he didn't exactly seem to wake up when Watari came in, Matsuda thinks, and then scrubs at his hair.
Shut up shut up shut up.
If L had been asleep, it's not surprising that his nightmare involved death notes and Shinigami. The Kira case haunts L like it does the rest of them, Matsuda is certain of that. Light probably contributes at least one-fifth of the bags under L's eyes on any given night, at least according to M's calculations.
M. M will absolutely go off the rails if he even suspects L has a death note. Heck, he's mentally unstable at the best of times. In fact, after M had died and arrived here, L hadn't been able to find him for about a month. He was eventually located trying to blow up the Tracking Library in Washington, as if that would somehow help. L had to use considerable influence just to get him out of jail.
Of course, Matsuda hadn't been around for that part, but he'd heard the story from Raye.
And Raye, for his own part, is somewhat distrustful of L. And Naomi has already requested not to be told anything that she would need to keep secret from her husband.
No, Matsuda absolutely cannot talk to any of the others without discussing it with L first. Otherwise, the results might be disastrous.
Fine then. It's decided.
Matsuda takes a long swig of his coffee, feeling marginally better. L has asked him to stay on CCTV monitoring, but he figures it won't hurt to do a little more research on Bufu, first. Just in case he can find something useful. He sits down at his computer and cracks his knuckles. Mail taught him the basics of hacking soon after he'd joined the team. If a website has low security, Matsuda can usually garner some information from it.
Yotsuba will have ridiculously high security, of course, but Bufu himself might not. He's practically a nobody, according to Wedy. So it's worth a shot. Matsuda opens up his explorer and begins working.
Hacking is a mentally-demanding task, and he loses himself in the codes and lists of names. He finds Bufu's facebook page, and trawls through his contacts. He comes across a copy of a recent plane ticket in his name. He locates a news article about Bufu's youngest daughter, music captain of her school.
Before Matsuda realises it, four hours have passed, and both Naomi and Raye are standing in the doorway, smiling at him.
"Hi," he says brightly. "Sorry I didn't see you there."
"That's all right," N says. "Just checking to make sure you're okay, stuck in here by yourself."
"I'm doing fine," he says, honestly.
"L tells me he's prepared to trust you now," Raye says sternly. "I really hope he's not wrong, Touta."
Matsuda hangs his head a little. Why can't they all just trust him?
"You don't need to speak to me that way. I am an adult, you know," he says glumly.
"I know," Naomi says gently.
"Sometimes you even act like it," Raye adds, and then there's the distinctive rustle of elbow being discretely driven into ribs.
"So, what do you guys think of Maddox?" Matsuda asks. "Did L mention who he really is?"
"L hasn't mentioned anything to us," Naomi says with a little sigh.
"But then, why would he?" Raye adds, sounding strangely bitter. And maybe a little winded. "We're just not as important as him."
"Huh?"
"It's nothing," Naomi tells him. "Yesterday L decided to remind us that he's an egotistical and self-centred prima donna. I guess we'd forgotten."
Raye balls his hands into fists. Whatever L said, it had apparently upset him. A lot.
"I still can't believe he spoke to you that -"
"Baby, enough," Naomi commands. "Look, Matsuda, we know nothing about Maddox except that L trusts him enough to go and meet him. The only thing we can do about it is what we've always done, which is rely on L's better judgement."
"I think we'll be fine," Matsuda says meekly. "L almost never misjudges people."
"I like the way you emphasise 'never' and not 'almost'," Raye says. "If he had misjudged a little less frequently, we might all still be alive."
"Now that's really enough," Naomi says, crossly. "Could you guys possibly fight a little less frequently? I feel like I have four kids, instead of none."
"We could change that," Raye says, the anger in his voice diminishing with every syllable.
"Not yet," Naomi replies, with conviction.
Matsuda feels vaguely uncomfortable. He's never had much of an inside view of the Penber's marriage, and he would prefer to keep it that way.
Then again, at least they're actually together. Which is better than Mail's situation, who - as L once put it - is in love with someone who quite possibly has never even looked at him twice.
And who is, you know, in hell. Which sucks even more.
"Earth to T," Naomi waves a hand in his face.
"Sorry, I spaced out," Matsuda says hurriedly, and Raye snorts in disgust.
"That's okay, you're entitled to relax every so often," Naomi tells him. "Anyway, we mostly dropped by to let you know we're going out for a while."
"Oh?"
"Yes, L's sending us to a bar in Paddington, to chase down a possible contact of your snipers. I believe this is based off information you discovered, actually."
"Yes, it is," Matsuda replies. "So you're trying to locate Bufu?"
"That's right," Naomi tells him. "It's quite a good lead. You should be proud of it."
"Thanks," Matsuda says dutifully.
Inwardly, however, he's aggravated. It's his lead. He should be the one to follow it up. They can't incapacitate him like this and then accuse him of being useless. It's not fair.
He wants to bring Bufu down. He can do it. L thinks he can do it, he's sure.
"We'll be back this evening," Raye adds. "Try to stay out of trouble."
Matsuda grins winningly and salutes him.
"I will," he promises.
And he means it.
Matsuda's good mood fades rapidly. He's bored. He's sick of being stuck in the same damn room all day. Everybody else gets to leave. Everybody else gets to go on missions and collect evidence and spy on suspects. Well, except Mail, but he chooses not to leave the building.
But Matsuda, he's forced to stay.
Look at all the evidence I've gathered so far, he thinks glumly, tapping his forehead rhythmically against the desk. If they just let me handle this on my own, I'm sure I could solve it quickly.
And didn't L say he trusts me? Then why is he leaving me here to stare at the walls? I should be out there, making him feel safer.
And oh god, isn't that the biggest compliment anyone has ever paid him? He makes L feel secure. Matsuda kind of wants to marry him, just so he can keep doing that every day of his life, and finally feel useful.
After all, it's not like Wedy considers me to be particularly useful, he thinks miserably.
Anyway, that wouldn't be so good, because L is a guy, and Matsuda is pretty sure he's not romantically attracted to guys. A platonic marriage, then. He's sure such a thing exists. The internet says so, after all.
Matsuda checks the clock again. Four forty-two. He's been playing on social networking sites for hours, but he still has a whole lot more time to kill before L gets back and he can finally ask him about the Shinigami.
Matsuda's phone rings, vibrating across the polished wooden desk until it drops into his lap and bounces on the floor. He snatches it up, checks the caller ID, and answers it quickly.
"Wedy!"
"Hey babe. You going stir crazy yet?"
"Oh, no, not me. I'm doing fine," he says, in what he hopes is a manly and attractive tone of voice. He can feel his cheeks heating up already. Wedy makes him feel about five times more clunky and stupid than anyone else in the world.
She also makes him really, really happy.
She chuckles at him, and his knees give a little.
"Glad to hear it. Guess who I've just spotted."
Right to the point. No small talk, no flirting. Matsuda sighs.
"Who?"
"Terry Bufu himself," she says sweetly. "He's with an accountant across the road as we speak."
"Wow," Matsuda says, jealously. "You ought to follow him, then. I'm sure L would appreciate your help."
She sounds like she's in a cafe. He can hear the clink of crockery in the background, and the traffic noises are too quiet for her to be standing out on the street. Man, he misses being outside.
"Of course," she says, sounding offended, and Matsuda flinches. "I don't need your permission or your guidance. I am interested in your company, however. He's been in there a long time, and he's not showing any signs of leaving soon. It's getting boring."
"My c-company?" he stammers.
She wants to see him? Again?
"Well, you're the one who made the connection to Bufu," she continues. "I thought you might wanna be involved."
He can't.
"I...I can't leave this place," Matsuda informs her sadly. "It's not safe. After what happened last time..."
"Well, it's up to you," she drawls. "But I assure you, there are no bugs or taps on or around the building you're staying in, and nobody seems to be spying on it, either."
"How do you know that?" he asks. "You've been staying local?"
"Yeah, I wanted to make sure you were safe," she says, offhandedly.
"You don't trust me either," Matsuda translates miserably. "Damnit!"
"Because two adults can't possibly look out for each other without one of them distrusting the other?" she asks sardonically. "Really. I'm sure you're capable. Because you're currently indisposed, I've been checking up on your neighbourhood every day - including this morning - and I assure you it's clean. Meaning that whoever was after you has given up."
Wedy's smart. Brilliant, in ways he could never hope to be. And she's convinced he's safe.
But L's also smart. Probably smarter. And he's convinced Matsuda is in danger.
Or maybe the Shinigami is making him paranoid.
The thing is, no-one actually has the right to tell him to stay put. He's not a prisoner to this room. L's his boss, not his parent. He can fire Matsuda, if he wants to, but he can't make him stay. And wasn't he hired to help solve crime, and not just run and hide from the first sign of trouble?
I need to go, Matsuda realises, suddenly. I need to do this. I need to keep being the person L can trust. I need to stand up to people like Eve.
L wants him to stay. Matsuda promised he'd stay.
Unless...unless this is a test. If L trusts Matsuda to make judgement calls on L's life, surely he'd trust him with his own.
Yes.
This must be a test.
"I wouldn't ask you if I thought you'd be in danger," Wedy adds. "I don't particularly want to have to shoot more thugs, just because they've threatened you."
"Where is this accountant?" Matsuda asks.
"About seven blocks away from your place," Wedy says. "The Clayton's mall along Starling Street. It should take you five minutes by car."
Naomi and Raye are busy. Watari and L are out of the country. No-one will ever know. Of course, he'll have to tell them if he obtains any vital information, but he doubts they'll be too upset if that's the case.
"I'll see you in ten," Matsuda says.
And for once in his life, he's absolutely certain that he's doing the right thing.
They abandon the plane about a mile from Terra Nova National Park, and drive the rest of the way. Their car is custom-made. It looks like an ordinary jeep, but it's completely encased in near-invisible bullet-proof glass. No sense in being careless.
There's also glass between the driver's seat and the passenger's seat, which gives L a little privacy. He rests his head against the cushion and stares at the scenery. It's pretty - everything is mostly green at this time of year, and the lakes are crystal clear and still - but he's travelled too much, and he no longer finds nature particularly inspiring.
"You're going to an awful lot of effort to meet this guy," Rae comments. "Is he really that special?"
"He is fairly extraordinary," L concedes. "And a very good man."
Rae apparently can't think of anything disparaging or unpleasant to say, because it doesn't respond.
About half an hour ago, Soichiro sent them a message detailing exactly where he'd be; the northmost point of the biggest lake. It's another fifteen minutes drive away.
"Well," Rae says suddenly, "this has been fascinating, but I'm getting heartily sick of your company. I've got better shows to see."
And with that, the Shinigami puts its feet down and gets out of the speeding car.
L cranes his neck so he can stare out of the back windscreen, watching it grow steadily smaller in the distance.
"What?" he asks no one in particular, a little dumbfounded.
Rae's never left him, except for scheduled meetings with the king. He'd prefer it gone, of course, but he'd like to know why.
Better shows to see? What does that mean, Shinigami? Where are you going?
It's not as if it can hurt anyone, he reminds himself. Shinigami can't touch or speak to any human who hasn't seen their death note, and L has Rae's only note strapped securely to his chest.
But still, it clearly knows something he doesn't. Or suspects something he doesn't. Either way, he's a little unnerved by its sudden disappearance.
But there's nothing he can do about that.
When they finally arrive, L instructs Watari to park behind a small clump of trees, out of sight. He pulls on a hooded jacket. Sometimes his deductive powers have to take a back-seat to the need to stay incognito and still appear to be an ordinary person. He has a gun hidden under his shirt, and Watari has at least two in his jacket.
There's a figure standing under a small picnic shelter, facing away from them, staring out onto the lake.
"If it is him," L tells Watari, "you are to go back to the car and wait for me, do you understand?"
"Yes, L."
They approach the man together. L picks up every little detail. The build is right, but the hair is more grey than L remembers. He also has sunglasses on, and he's dressed too casually. L is mollified by this; it would have been more suspicious if this man looked exactly the way Yagami used to, before he died.
Death changes people. Finding out your son is a serial killer probably changes people, too.
L steps out in front of the man, who finally seems to see him. He pulls off his glasses, and his eyes underneath are tired and blank, reminiscent of Mail's. L gives him a tiny smile and signals to Watari.
"L," Soichiro says gruffly. "It's been a long time."
The short drive to the cafe is unremarkable. No one shoots at him. No one jumps up from behind the back seats. No mysterious gas starts leaking into the car.
By the time Matsuda arrives, he's fairly convinced that all of L's precautions have been pointless. Wedy is right. They're moved on.
She's sitting in a cushy-looking booth on the left hand side of the cafe. She has a black wig on today, big earrings, and a scarf over part of her head. She's smoking something long, thin, and exotic-looking. Matsuda suddenly feels woefully inadequate in his work shirt and tie.
Then Wedy gives him a tiny wave, and he hurries over to her. It's amazing to be out in the fresh air again, and he feels satisfied and renewed. The cafe is small and well-lit, the walls painted white and light blue. The other patrons seem to be mostly middle-aged women, each bearing more jewellery on one hand than Matsuda could ever afford in his life.
Not much chance of getting shot here, he thinks, comfortably. These women probably can't even scratch their nose without some help.
Wedy has selected the side of the booth that gives her the best view of Horace & Clatts Accounting, across the street. He guesses that is where Bufu was last seen. He goes to the opposite seat, but she gestures for him to sit next to her.
"There's only once entrance to that place," she says softly, pulling him down. "He'll have to leave by the front door."
"Oh," Matsuda says. "Uh...hi."
She kisses him on the cheek. It might be just for show, so that no-one thinks it's strange that they're sitting that way, but it makes him blindingly happy for a second. She smells amazing.
"Hi yourself. If you want to order something, go ahead, but we'll have to leave as soon as Bufu does, obviously."
"How long has he been in there?"
"Going half an hour, now. He didn't arrive by car, so he should be pretty easy to follow. Just stick with me."
"Man, if I learn how to tail people from you, one day I might be even better than Naomi and Raye," he says, excitedly.
"I thought you weren't supposed to say their names."
"Oh, right. Yeah, I'm not. I forget, though," he says, flustered. "And I don't really like referring to people as just letters. It dehumanises them, somehow."
Wedy takes a sip of her coffee. It seems to be the colour and consistency of tar.
"Why do you think he does it?"
Matsuda feels his eyebrows shoot up into his fringe.
"You think he'd prefer not to think of us as people?" he chokes. What a horrible thought.
But... he can imagine L thinking like that. The man is practically a machine.
Then again, L's been calling him by name the past few days. What does that mean? That L likes him?
A waitress appears beside him. She's tiny and cute, probably Japanese, and if Matsuda were here with anyone else, he'd probably hit on her.
"Can I get you anything, sir?"
"Oh, yes. I'll have a banana and mango smoothie, with extra yoghurt," he decides.
"And we'll pay now," Wedy adds. "So that we can leave at our leisure."
"Of course," the girl smiles. Matsuda hands her his credit card and tells her to charge for both drinks.
"Such a gentleman," Wedy says, when the waitress leaves. "What are you doing hanging around a girl like me, huh?"
"Chasing bad guys," Matsuda replies, with a smile.
"So you are finally convinced that I am myself?" L asks. He's no stranger to meaningful silence, but he has better things to do than stand here staring at a lake.
"Yes," Soichiro murmurs. "It's...it's good to see you. I'm so used to the fact that you're dead, it's still a bit of a shock to see you walking around again."
"Well, I am still dead," L points out. "As are you."
"I honestly believed in him, you know. I honestly did," he says, barely a whisper, hanging his head.
"I imagine such is the role of a father," L tells him impatiently. "Listen. There are certain conditions I need you to stipulate when you agree to this contract."
Soichiro doesn't answer, so he continues.
"You need to insist on remote contact only. If they require a meeting in-person, I'll send you instructions to allow you to most completely disguise yourself."
"In case they recognise me?"
"Yes."
"You really do think of everything, don't you?"
What a silly thing to say, L thinks. The need to disguise oneself is not so abstract that only a detective would consider it.
"Of course, you'll need to move to London in order to appear to be spying on him, that will be unavoidable."
Soichiro raises one eyebrow.
"So Matsuda really is working for you?"
"Yes," L says calmly. "But that information is strictly classified. You are not to reveal that to anybody, including your employers, of course."
"Of course. You insult me, Ryuuzaki."
"It's just L, now," L reminds him. "We'll give you an apartment in London - although all official documentation will state that you bought it yourself - and there will be taps placed on the phone, which will be your only point of contact for your employers. When speaking to them, I want you to be compliant and interested. Once they assign you your first task, we'll take it from there."
"There is one thing I know already," Soichiro says. "They are suspicious that Matsuda seems to be travelling with the same group of people, but are unable to identify the other individuals, as of yet."
L touches his lips.
"Interesting. They're further along than I expected."
He knows Eve followed them from the United States back to London, of course, but they'd all travelled separately, and he'd presumed they'd simply been tailing Matsuda. As far as he knows, they can't have pinpointed the location of their London base, so the others should be safe.
Even so, perhaps he needs to increase the security level. Yes.
"When is Eve likely to contact you next?" he asks.
"Eve?"
"Matsuda named them."
The older man attempts a smile, and it looks like his face might crumble from the effort.
"I miss him."
"I'm not surprised," L says.
"They've been calling me every other day, offering increasing amounts of money," Soichiro says. "It shouldn't be more than forty-eight hours til they call again."
"Excellent," L says. "That is all I have to say, for now. I'll email you more detailed instructions when I arrive back in London."
"Wait," Soichiro says. "There's something I want you to see.
For a moment, he reminds L of Rem. He roots through his pockets.
"I had it with me when I arrived here. I don't know if you'll want to see it, but there' no-one else I can show it to."
He holds it out. It's a sheet of A4 paper, grubby and very old, folded into quarters. L takes it delicately and shakes it open.
Inside is a drawing from someone who obviously lacks both skill and anatomical perception. And a knowledge of the number of arms any one person ought to have. A child.
'My famly' reads the spastic-looking black scrawl across the top of the page. There are three people in the picture. Or at least, he presumes they're people. They may be brown lollipops with clothes on. There's one in a dress, with a scribble of dark hair, and a fat smiling blob cradled in her sticklike arms. There's another beside her, taller than the rest, with a moustache so exaggerated it takes up most of his face. The last is barely half the height of the first, holding a tennis racquet - or possibly a tea strainer - and sporting a mop of brown hair.
L regards Soichiro carefully. He's not sure what he's supposed to do with the picture.
"All children, I'm told, draw pictures of close relatives," he says, bewildered. "Most look very much like this."
"He was five."
L has just enough social understanding to resist telling Soichiro he's wasting time.
"I'm sorry?" he says, instead.
"He was just a child."
All mass murderers start out as children. L still doesn't see the significance.
Soichiro scrubs at his head with both hands.
"But he drew us. That means he must have loved us at some point, right?"
L thinks he might be crying.
"I don't know," he answers, honestly. There's little to be gained from lying.
"I just. I was so proud of him. He was ambidextrous until he was eight. Do you think he's in hell?"
"You haven't checked the register?" L asks, surprised. "It's in Washington, you know. You could go and look."
"I don't want to know," Soichiro mutters. "I don't want to know that he's suffering."
Light's name is definitely registered as being in hell, but perhaps L shouldn't tell him that. There's also no point telling him about redemption, because he's absolutely confident Light is purely evil, and therefore, will never leave hell.
And thank god for that.
L looks at the picture in his hand again. Something small and damaging tugs at the corner of his memory. A long time ago. When he was still alive. His old home. A fridge, with a built-in ice machine, automatic door, the works.
What about the fridge?
And then he remembers.
Watari used to send him pictures that the orphans drew. He used to have one taped to that same fridge. A disturbing looking man with a huge grin and spiky black hair, wearing something vaguely blue and white, holding a spear (or a large arrow). In front of him was a very large lizard, with little crosses instead of eyes.
'L sleys a draGon,' the text read, in a script that was actually fairly neat and legible.
L remembers thinking that it was such a bizarre thing to draw. Dragons were mythical creatures, after all, and he was a detective who dealt solely with reality. Why would he slay a dragon?
It wasn't until much later that he'd finally understood what it meant. A metaphorical dragon. All murderer, perhaps, or a drug lord. Every villain L had ever brought to justice.
L slays the dragon. L always wins.
Such a childish notion.
He hadn't known the name of the child who'd drawn the picture, but Watari had told him the boy was originally from Russia. In one corner, in the same neat handwriting, had been the letters 'MK'.
L folds the paper closed again, perhaps with a little more force than is entirely warranted. Why doesn't he have Mello's picture with him? Mail got the crucifix. Why didn't L get anything?
Now he's being irrational. All over a picture Light drew. Even locked away in hell, the man still causes trouble for L.
"Here," he says, handing it back to Soichiro. "Thank you for showing me. I really should go."
"Yes," Soichiro says weakly. "I'll contact you when I hear from Eve."
He takes the picture back and places it gently back in his pocket.
"You have my word that I will not reveal to any member of my team your true identity," L adds. "I hope we hear from you soon."
"Understood. And thank you."
L shuffles back to the car. The grass under his feet is uncomfortably sharp, and he just wants to get back to base so he can start work again.
He glances back at Soichiro. He's sitting with his head in his hands, shaking.
Light never deserved you, L thinks. Not even for a moment. Never.
If only you could understand that.
Adam Creagh isn't anyone particularly important. In fact, in his entire life, he's never been particularly important. Middle of his class at school, dropped out of a series of traineeships in his late teens, and finally became a less-than-stellar hitman who generally earns a weekly wage akin to a chip-shop employee. Average. Boring. Unremarkable.
But this, this is different. This isn't his usual thing. There's a fuckload of money riding on this particular job, and even he's not stupid enough to screw it up.
He gets his coffee to go. The target and the brunette woman are staring out of the window, clearly watching something outside, but they'll leave eventually. And when they do, he needs to be ready.
He buys a bag of peanuts on a whim. They're disgustingly salty and perfect.
The doll is good-looking, tall and confident. Nice ass. She keeps making small gestures in the direction of the Horace and Clatts Accounting building across the road. He thinks they might be tailing someone in there. The target is supposedly ex-police, although Adam isn't sure how anyone so bumbling and incompetent could possibly have ever been a copper.
The girl, though. The girl will make things hard. He knows she's scanning the room behind her designer sunglasses. She obviously suspects an ambush. He'll have to be careful.
He can't fuck this up. So much money. He's gonna buy himself a mansion, and a pool full of whiskey, and a heck of a lot of sex.
A bald man comes out of the accountant's building, and the target and his girlfriend are immediately on their feet. Adam grips his coffee, and checks his guns are still in place.
Time to go.
He lets them get about half a block away before he starts following. He's got plenty of range on his gun, but he can't have them spotting him and getting away. He's lucky they were in his part of town at all. He could scarcely believe it when he'd gotten the call, not fifteen minutes ago, telling him to move out.
He doesn't understand a lot about the system, but apparently the big guys –whoever they are – had tapped all of the eftpos and automatic teller machines around London.
Stupid fucker shouldn't have used his card, he thinks, smugly.
He wonders who could possibly warrant such outlandish expense just to get close to them, but he doesn't dwell on it for too long. Not his place. Clearly this black-haired idiot is part of their greater plan, and that's all he needs to know.
They're definitely following baldy. Adam wonders if he's connected to the big guys. He wouldn't put it past them to be using someone as a lure.
Baldy takes a left, into a less-used sidestreet, apparently unaware of the little procession trailing behind him. Adam smirks to himself. There's almost no-one around down here. Perfect. He reaches for his gun.
And then the stupid fucking woman turns around and looks right at him.
"Can we help you, sir?" she asks coldly. Her hand closes protectively around that of her companion.
Adam blinks, pretending to have seen them for the first time. He slides his pistol into his palm. It's a tiny little thing, some new model they're making in Japan, or somewhere foreign like that. It's slightly smaller than a matchbox, completely hidden by his fist.
"You following this guy too?" he grunts. It's not the best line in the world, but it's all he can come up with. He's not good at this stuff, damnit.
"You're following him too?" the target asks, wide-eyed. He looks like he's barely out of his teens, and for a moment, Adam feels sorry for the guy.
"Don't talk to him," the woman says sharply. "You. Put your hands where I can see them."
He can see she's reaching into the pocket of her jeans.
Fuck, no time left. Baldy's not out of the picture, so he's going to have to hope that guy is on his side, and not about to call the cops.
"He owes me money," Adam says, as amiably as he can manage.
He doesn't move his arm from where it's resting by his side; he just lines up the barrel with her head. The target is standing close enough that he'll only have to readjust by a few degrees afterwards.
Two seconds.
His finger tugs on the trigger at the same time as he notes the realisation on her face. Too slow, lady.
Bang bang.
Adam gets her twice in the head. Adjust.
Bang bang.
Adam gets him square in the chest.
Bang.
One more for good fucking luck. There's a lot of money riding on this, after all.
Target eliminated.
He's running before they even hit the ground.
"Wedy!" Matsuda yells, panicked and frightened.
That man just shot her. She…there's blood pouring out of her head. She's leaning up against the filthy brick wall, screaming.
He needs to get up and go over to her, comfort her, bandage her head with his shirt. He needs to call her an ambulance at the very least.
But he can't move. He's on his knees in an alleyway and Wedy might be dying and he can't…fucking…move.
He really is pathet….path….something.
His chest hurts like there's a knife stuck between his ribs. Like maybe there actually is another Kira who's just prescribed him a heart attack.
Now, of all times, when he needs to live, because he needs to help whats-her-name. God he loves her. Blood is trickling through her fingers, and her voice hurts his ears. He presses the heel of one hand to his chest and comes away slippery and red.
He stares down.
The ground is red. Covered in red. Running out of him like bathwater.
He falls forward because he can't stop himself. The world is going grey and shimmery around the edges. He thinks someone might have approached Wedy, but he isn't sure.
He needs to get up. He can't feel his hands. Or his….those other things. Or his lungs.
No, he thinks vaguely, but he's not sure what exactly he means by that. Everything hurts. He's supposed to talk to L about a Shinisomething. Wedy is hurt. The world is fading.
No, no, no.
There's something else, too. Something tall staring down at him, right in front of his face, fading rapidly. A skeleton monster with nightmare eyes and wings made of steel.
It's laughing, and he doesn't know why.
And then there is nothing.
tbc
a/n:
+ thank you.
+ was not intending to have so much platonic matsuda/L in this fic. it just writes itself, I guess. :D
+ sab10067 - eighty-seven percent is a lot. wow.