notes/warnings
+ swearing
+ consumption of alcohol
+ vague mentions of suicide
+ here be the obligatory sort-of-festive chapter, which is now over a week late. but I had a lot of fun writing it, so hopefully it will also be somewhat enjoyable to read. happy new year, everybody!
music: i think i like it, by fake blood
Weakness
As the world outside L's headquarters enters the festive season, Watari's culinary pursuits become more and more Christmas-oriented. So far this year, he has made cherry-and-almond fruitcake, coconut-ice fudge, and spearmint candy canes. Now he has constructed an honest-to-god gingerbread house as big as an en-suite.
So L does the only sensible thing he can think of.
He moves in.
"This is the least mature thing you have ever done," Rae says disapprovingly, sulking in one delicious syrup-flavoured corner.
L breaks off a lump of cement icing as big as his fist, and crunches it pointedly. The death god snorts and turns away.
"And why all the sugar, anyway? Don't you ever want to eat anything else?"
L thinks that is perhaps the most unnecessary question he has ever encountered.
"Why would I want to do that?" he asks happily.
"Because most people do. Seriously, have you ever eaten savoury food in your life?"
L points one accusing finger in its general direction.
"Never say that word in my presence again," he declares, and then inserts a pinch of gingerbread into his mouth with exaggerated reverence.
"What, savoury? Savoury, savoury, savoury, savoury."
L throws his pen at the Shinigami's head. It bounces off with a jaunty click.
"Too slow," L grins. "Didn't make yourself immaterial in time."
"Fuck you."
"Oh, your words, they wound me. I shall have to use the death note now, my resolve has been flattened by the sheer magnitude of your witty reply," L replies dramatically. He is rather enjoying this.
"I will kill you, in the end," Rae snaps balefully.
"Such a long way away," L replies. "It isn't even Christmas yet."
"I can wait, you know."
"Fascinating," L murmurs, and swivels his computer around so that both of them can view the screen. "What do you think of this autopsy report?"
Rae scans the screen briefly, and then reaches for the mouse.
"Huh. Blunt instrument wasn't the cause of death. Based on the wounds around the neck, the victim was probably garroted before being beaten."
"Which means it wasn't the husband," L continues.
"So it must be the grandmother," Rae finishes. "Shit. They've got the wrong person in custody."
"I'm glad you agree," L replies cheerfully. Working with Rae makes him feel ridiculously validated, sometimes. "I will contact the police right away."
L is busy celebrating his successful case from yesterday - a celebration which mostly involves attempting to give himself type two diabetes - when Rae raps on the door of his half-eaten gingerbread cottage.
"Wha iff it?" L asks, around a mouthful of gooey cake.
"Hallo, wicked old witch," Rae beams. "Thought you might like to know that the serial rapist situation in Sydney is continuing to get worse, and the federal police are completely incapable of catching the perpetrator."
L groans. He is really not ready to go back to Australia yet. Too many memories of Grace.
"Have they given him a nickname yet?"
"Negative," Rae confirms. "But this is your sort of case, right?"
"You do not choose my cases for me," L warns the death god. "And I only take cases in which I am personally interested."
"Uh huh," Rae says, examining his face sceptically. L looks away. "The two most recent victims were a Mrs Vicky Jones, attacked just outside the Droughtmaster Hotel, Newcastle, and a Ms Lisa Fu, attacked inside her own home in Ipswich."
"And I'm a terrible person for not immediately jetting down there and saving whatever poor woman is next on his list, am I right?" L enquires boredly. He pulls a piece of white chocolate from the ground beside his feet and sucks on it.
"Well, I thought you might care to know that both incidents occurred last night. Between nine fifty-two and nine fifty-seven pm. Both of them. Apparently, there is preliminary DNA evidence to support the time of the attacks, and the fact that it was the same attacker."
L blinks.
"In two places at once?" he murmurs, pressing his thumb to his lower lip and gazing at his sticky ceiling. "Oh."
Rae shoves its face into his personal space, staring into his one good eye with both of its own.
"You're interested," it says decisively. "Better get your team together, Miss Marple."
Forty-eight hours later, he's sitting in another revoltingly warm Australian hotel room, shuffling through a pile of case reports.
"How did you even find out about this case?" Raye asks admiringly. "It hasn't even made international news."
L isn't about to tell him that he keeps company with a probably-evil Shinigami that spends most of its free time scouring the news pages on the internet, and therefore picks up on potential cases before they even reach the headlines. Instead, he gives Raye his best withering, one-eyed stare, and diverts his attention back to the piece of paper dangling from his fingers. He cannot read for hours on end any more. He cannot do a lot of things the way he used to.
"I don't understand at all," Naomi says, frowning. "Clearly the DNA is being planted by a number of rapists onto different victims, right? But if they're trying to frame this guy, why schedule two attacks so implausibly close together?"
"Because this person has wronged many other people, perhaps through one or more sexual or other crimes that never made it to court," L theorises. "Or perhaps he is already a dead man, and this is simply a pack of criminals attempting to escape being caught by confusing the evidence. Or alternatively, there is no conspiracy at all, and we are simply dealing with -"
"Two people with similar DNA in two different places," Rae says quickly. "Two rapists. Identical twins."
"Twins," L finishes, staring up at his Shinigami in amusement. "Yes. Twins."
"Actually, based on the witness statements," Naomi comments, "that would make a lot of sense."
L stops off in Brisbane on the way home, for no reason other than the fact that some thoughtful and misguided soul has placed little tributes in memory of all the victims of Steve. He visits the cemetery on his own, and finds Grace's plaque wedged between the graves of her parents.
He has never really understood the term 'pay your respects'. Why would the dead want respect from the living? They are either completely inanimate and rotting, or in some new and removed world.
L hopes the next world is different from this one. He hopes it has monsters for Grace, and ridiculous sandwiches for Matsuda, and...
He hangs his head. Grace's tribute is woefully inadequate, and simply reads 'this beautiful little girl is safe with her parents'. It does not mention pears, or complicated hairstyles, or giant skellingtons, or toffee overdoses, and L thinks that perhaps whoever it was shouldn't have written anything at all. What good is a generic epitaph? They might as well have left a blank space.
"Don't tell me you actually miss her," Rae says, without any real venom in its voice. It ambles over to him, picking its way through mounds of dirt and decaying flowers.
"Of course I do," he replies softly.
The wind is howling through the trees. He wishes it would rain. He wishes for a lot of things, really. He hates the fact that if he had been forced to choose between saving Grace and saving Mello, Grace would still be dead. Aren't decent people supposed to save children over adults?
L has always considered one life to have equal value to any other, young or old. Maybe that makes him evil, too. He ought to ask Rae.
"Yeah," the Shinigami admits awkwardly. "Me too."
"I understand why you hate me," L tells it. "She helped me to understand. I am flawed."
"To err is human," Rae replies diplomatically, completely out of character, and L squints up at it.
"Why were you so upset when she was taken?" he demands. "Surely you knew when she would die."
The death god moves until it is standing directly in front of him, bladed wings stretching skyward.
"Do you honestly not remember? Her name and lifespan became blurred before her death."
L touches his chin.
"I do recall that," he says politely. "I presume her unusual condition was somehow caused by the gorgon?"
"I'm sure it was," Rae says, sounding far too confident. L shoves his thumb between his teeth.
You are not sure at all, he thinks. And the more he thinks about the gorgon case, the more it unnerves him. And it's not just Grace, or Rae's sight, or the loss of his own eye. It's...well, everything. He cannot locate a single police report on Holland, or any details about the man being kept in custody.
Of course, he knows intellectually that no justice system - Australian or otherwise - would ever lose Holland or even grant the man bail. It's not possible that he has escaped, so it must simply be that Mail's hacking skills are not yet sufficient to access the top-security police files in this country.
All the same, it makes him uneasy. Because it's...it's not just..it's...
He has trouble, sometimes, remembering Holland. Remembering the final details of that awful case. And it was barely six months ago, there's no reason he ought to be forgetting, and yet every time he thinks about it, his mind just relaxes, as if...
As if he is being tampered with.
"But even so," he continues evenly. "You would have viewed her life span prior to her unusual symptoms, correct?"
"Of course. I knew she was going to die soon," Rae snaps, suddenly defensive. "But she didn't have to die like that, for fuck's sake."
L does not rise to the bait, or try to reroute the blame that Rae is subtly applying to him. Something has become apparent to him, something he had previously overlooked.
"Soon?" he echoes, incredulously, and the death god stares at him. "Soon? What is 'soon'? I thought your kind knew time of death to the absolute second. Why, then, did you not stop looking for her the instant that she died?"
"Oh, shut up," Rae snarls. "I don't need your pseudo-sanctimonious attitude, Lawliet. We Shinigami are not as simple as you might imagine. The time of death of a human being is not an easy thought to hold on to, when visual cues are removed."
"You...forgot," L states, eyes wide. "You...you forgot her time of death? But you had seen it within a week of her death. And you cared for her, surely the last thing you'd want would be to forget...oh. Oh. Is it some sort of defensive mechanism? You will be utterly disassembled if you save a human, so you lose the ability to know time of death of anyone you care about?"
"No! I just...I told you, it isn't easy to remember."
Not easy to remember.
"Yes," L replies finally, mind racing. "I know what you mean."
Stranger, and stranger still.
Something is not right.
Apparently, all the criminal masterminds are working extra hard over the festive season, because he's barely touch down in London before L has a rather panicked FBI agent on the phone. Government diplomat suspected of selling classified information to Saudi Arabia. A horribly political situation he'd rather not get caught up in.
"If we were to get caught spying on the suspect, there is a seventy-one percent chance that the resulting international incident would be unacceptably drastic and damaging," L murmurs.
"That's why we're calling you," the woman replies shakily. She introduced herself as Eli Denwood, but L is fairly sure it's an alias. "If anyone can pull this off with a minimum of risk, it's you, L."
"What part of seventy-one percent do you misunderstand?" L asks irritably.
His bad eye is aching, and he's tired and emotional. He wants a day off, but he isn't sure what he'd do with it. And Mail's face is so pale it's almost grey, and he keeps staring off into space for hours at a time and then making ridiculous, vaguely-hopeful suggestions about what 'normal people do'.
He breaks L's heart, every second of every day. L suspects that probably means he loves Mail a heck of a lot more than he admits to himself.
His son, after all. His son. The only one he has left.
"But you would have a way, right?" supposedly-Denwood bleats. "You always have a way. Money is no object."
"No, but international security is," L tells her fiercely.
A thin hand closes over his shoulder.
"You have agents that would not get caught, you know," Rae whispers. "One hundred percent guaranteed."
L stares at the Shinigami blankly.
You. What are you up to?
"Of course, if I do manage to find evidence, the FBI will eventually either have to accuse him and deal with the political consequences, or…ignore him."
"One moment," L says, and places maybe-Denwood on hold. "That is precisely why I don't want to get involved in this matter, Rae. There would be no easy resolution, no matter what we do, no matter how hard the evidence."
"Unless, if guilty, he inexplicably died. That would be beneficial," Rae leers, and L scowls at it.
"Sometimes you are very little help, Shinigami," he says darkly, his own mind already racing, sorting through the options and possibilities.
If we find this man innocent – or even if we don't – we could abort a lot of bad feelings and perhaps avoid a lot of collateral damage by coming up with a neutral result.
Even if L edits his progress report significantly, he himself should probably know whether the diplomat is a spy or not. Yes. He reaches for the phone.
"You'll do it," Rae says lightly. "You'll do it. I know you."
L really wishes it couldn't predict him quite so accurately.
Rae's evidence points to the diplomat having nothing more than a healthy – and expected – interest in foreign affairs. L is somewhat surprised that the death god hasn't attempted to lie in order to convince him to use the note.
As far as Rae's morality goes, he has come to just one firm conclusion. It is this: for now, he will reserve judgement. The Shinigami will prove itself, one way or the other. People always do.
The next case is fairly clear-cut, a hacker of unknown identity who has stolen millions of pounds through use of online banking websites. L and Mail spend three days straight researching and gathering data. L doesn't move from his chair, body stiff from crouching, fingers cramped from typing, eyes gritty from lack of sleep. He tells himself that he's just interested, and dedicated, and that he wants Mail to be successful.
The truth is, he wants to work this one out. Rae helping is all very well and good, and L is grateful for its support, really, but.
But L is still the best.
And he needs to prove that, because. Because he does.
He eats six kilograms of crème brulee, and in the end, it is still the Shinigami who finds the clue. The key to the hacker's identity. The tiny error in coding that L should have seen.
Should have seen.
It doesn't stop there. The Swedish government contacts him about a sudden outbreak in strange psychotic illnesses in Stockholm city. L packs up his team and goes, without a second thought. Within two days, he has collected exhaustive case reports on all nineteen affected citizens, including all movements and interactions over the past five weeks.
He spends about half an hour searching for common events before Rae works it out.
"It's the Golden Day Pharmacy," it says confidently. "Every single case has visited there in the past few weeks. That, coupled with the complete lack of genetic inclination and medical history of mental illness, and I'd say that...shit."
"What?" L asks loudly, not bothering to hide his annoyance.
"Every single victim is female," Rae announces. "And each of them bought a particular brand of contraceptive pill on their last visit to the pharmacy. L, is it possible that -"
"The pill is spiked," L says, a revelation.
And sure enough, a day later an assay reveals that a whole batch of oestrogen-based medication has been tainted with a psychosis-inducing antidepressant, and they have a disgruntled and terrifyingly insane drug-company employee in custody.
Another case closed. L wishes he could feel better about the whole situation.
L winds up solving five cases between the beginning of December, and Christmas. One every four days. A new record for him.
"Huh. The pattern for the latest murder-suicide doesn't fit," Rae muses. "The victim died too slowly. I'm suspicious it might be a copycat."
Except…it's not really his record. The Shinigami is responsible for most – if not all – of their recent successes. L is painfully aware of that.
Rae is presently sprawled in front of his computer, with most of his notes spread out on the floor beside it, and a pencil between its bleached-white jaws. It is obviously deep in thought. It is also sitting in his spot.
And it just came to the same conclusion that he'd been about to voice. Really.
"When I asked you for your help," L says petulantly, "I didn't mean you could just take over from me, you know."
"Mm," the death god replies dismissively. "I still can't decide if the autopsy report is a fake, though. We think some of the cult leaders are in the medical field, right?"
L snatches the sheaf of paper from its bony fingertips, absolutely aware that he is acting like a child. Immaturity is his goddamned right, his one pay-off for the constant stress and danger of his job, and he'll throw a tantrum if he wants to.
"Hey!"
"You," L says sharply, and then stops, heavy with the realisation that he's too tired to have this fight.
What is he going to say? Stop being better than me? Stop catching criminals so I can re-align my wilting ego? Stop acting like a reasonable person, it's creepy?
This…this is his problem. He is becoming outdated. Becoming old. L knows he used to be capable of solving cases faster than the Shinigami could keep up.
So either he's gotten worse, Rae has improved, or Rae…actually hasn't changed, and simply wasn't applying itself before.
"Me what?" Rae challenges, and L feels another wave of exasperation at the fact that it hasn't lost its temper with him.
"I still won't use the note," he replies, uselessly vicious, hand snapping open and shut at his side.
Rae squints at him.
"Yeah, okay. And this is your, what, seventh night without sleep?"
Ah. Right. That might explain some portion of his foul mood, then.
Not that he's about to admit to it.
"Do not change the subject," he replies harshly. "I do not yet understand this new game, Shinigami, but I promise you, you will lose."
He has beaten people before, without knowing all of the rules.
The one and only time he and Rae played chess, they wound up with a stalemate.
The next time, L needs to win.
L sleeps fitfully, tossing from side to side, jerking himself almost awake every fifteen minutes or so. When he dreams, he dreams of his mother, thick black hair pouring over her shoulders, perfectly manicured hand wrapped around his own like a vice. He is always small, in his dreams of her, always six years old, always weak and frightened.
And she smiles at him – a feral smile, Light's smile – and he looks away from her face and sees the people milling all around them. A whole room full of ordinary people, unsuspecting and busy, oblivious to the madly-grinning woman and the uncomfortable boy. And then he sees bomb in her hand, intricately crafted, already counting down.
The perfect weapon.
She turns to him and ruffles his hair, and the little screen counts from six to five, and then she's holding him, holding him in her arms as the bomb goes off and blows everyone away, so many people.
L sits bolt upright, cold sweat plastering his shirt to his back, hands shaking in his lap.
It was only a nightmare, he tells himself firmly, but he feels utterly wrecked, all the same. He always dreams about her when he's feeling less than confident, when things are getting bad. He has never truly been able to escape her. If she could see him right now, struggling with cases, being routinely outclassed by a psychopathic monster, she'd laugh so hard she'd probably fall over.
She always had high expectations of him, after all.
In all his six years of knowing her, he never once worked out how to disarm her explosives. She had a way of making them so complex that they were practically impenetrable.
Even to him. Especially to him.
And he knows he will not beat her twice. If he ever runs into her again, she will end him. And everyone around him. Just to prove a point. She will set a trap that he cannot fathom, and laugh at him as he becomes more and more frustrated and panicked, and watch the light die from his eyes as his heart gives out in his chest, and...
Oh yes, the Shyster could beat him. Easily. She is the single most dangerous thing he has ever known. Far more dangerous than any little boy with a book.
But in his nightmares, she is always wearing an expression that never belonged to her, and she always holds him when he dies. Because even now, even knowing she is the one person he ought to fear above all others, it is still Light that chills him to the core.
If hell ever cracks open above his head, and he has to fight with one of them, he'd choose his mother any day. Just so he never has to see that face again.
"Fuck!"
He is oddly comforted by Rae's single, emphatic utterance, and he lets himself relax a little, curling against the head of his bed.
"What is it?" he asks, mostly for something to say.
"Nothing new," Rae mutters, and it sounds the way he feels, unbalanced and unnerved, like it isn't quite awake.
"I have a theory," L tells it softly. "The more thoughtful the individual, the more vivid the nightmare."
"Huh," Rae muses. "So what's your excuse, then?"
L manages a watery smile.
"Very funny."
"Yeah," Rae says, miserably.
"Yeah," L agrees uselessly, and the conversation stalls after that.
L inwardly curses his good memory, and wishes he could not recall the cold, smooth texture of his mother's wedding ring digging into his wrist. Or the exact scent of Light's cologne, musk and peppermint and spice, some brand that is still popular in much of the Eastern world that makes him want to throw up every time he smells it on some unknowing passer-by.
He wants to forget.
"You ought to go back to sleep," Rae says finally, and it still sounds distant and distracted. "You're still grumpy."
"I dreamed about my mother," L says, without really thinking about it. "I think maybe I need to start medicating myself so I can sleep properly."
Because enough is enough. He shouldn't be haunted by people he's already beaten, by people who will spend the rest of eternity in hell. He's being silly even theorising about meeting them again. They are both gone, lost, buried. Forever.
He hopes.
"At least you have that option," Rae replies bitterly, shifting against the wall. "I don't even fucking understand that boy. I don't know what he wants!"
"What boy?" L queries gently, sinking back into his own mattress. Rae might be a murderous, egotistical, hell-eyed skeleton-god, but it is neither Light nor Emma, and that is all he cares about right now.
"The boy from the room!" Rae replies, as if he ought to know already.
L blinks at the ceiling a few times. That nagging feeling is back with a vengeance, reminding him that he's still uncertain as to whether or not the death god's situation is ultimately a lie.
Because if it is, he doesn't think Rae knows.
"What room?" he prompts, as encouragingly as he can manage. "Tell me what happens in this waking nightmare of yours. I might be able to help you figure it out."
"There's nothing to figure out," the Shinigami complains. "I know what it is. It's some sort of test, or something. I think the king keeps sending it to me as a measure of consistency. It's just…that boy. He's starting to annoy me."
"Oh?"
Rae lifts its head and stares at him for a long moment. L thinks its eyes might be slightly duller than usual.
"Fine," it sighs. "Whatever. It's not like we've got anything better to do, not since I solved the murder-suicide case."
That comment stings, but L doesn't let it show on his face. No point giving Rae the satisfaction, after all.
"You already know about my fears," L points out mildly. "You could give something back, you know."
"You could use the death note, you know," Rae fires back.
"Yes, I could," L agrees. "This boy?"
"Look, I don't know who the fuck he is, or anything. I have this…vague, vague recollection that I might have met him once before, a long time ago, but I don't understand why it's him in my dream."
"I see."
Rae folds its long legs up underneath itself, until it is sitting cross-legged, the way that L never does. It props its elbows up on its knees, clearly unhappy.
"So, it always goes exactly the same. I'm sitting on a chair-"
"A chair, or a throne?"
"A chair, douche. Are you listening, or not?"
"I am."
"I start out sitting on an ordinary chair in some unidentified room, high up off the ground. To my immediate left is a window, large enough to take up half the wall, and clean enough that one could mistake it for an open space."
It has mentioned windows before. L sticks his thumb in his mouth and adjusts his posture for maximum comfort. Knowing how much Rae loves the sound of its own voice, this might take a while.
"I see."
"And there's someone else sitting to my right, but I don't really pay them much attention at the start. They're sitting on a chair, identical to mine. There is nothing else in the room. No humans, no furniture, no other gods. No doors. No way out. And I'm always looking straight ahead, at the wall."
"This is possibly the most boring nightmare I have ever heard," L notes primly.
"Tell me about it. Anyway, I'm pretty sure the window represents my future kingdom. The view from it is amazing. You can see for miles and miles, all greenery and buildings. In the dream, I know all of this without actually shifting my gaze from the wall."
"The view is of the human world, then?" L estimates.
"Yes."
Does this mean you believe that one day Shinigami will rule our worlds, as well?
We will see about that.
"Strange. So then what?"
"There is…this thing," Rae says, with palpable reverence. "Out of the corner of my eye, I see a flash of this glittering, wonderous thing. Outside. On the ground. Underneath my window."
"Your crown?"
"It must be," Rae agrees. "And that's why the rest doesn't make any sense at all. I move to turn my head so I can see the thing properly, and this stupid kid grabs my right shoulder, so I look at him instead."
"But you don't know who he is?"
"I think…the one time I met him…he was important, somehow?" Rae asks, rubbing its forehead. "But I can't imagine how. It must have been a long time ago."
"So he stops you from looking at your crown, and you think that means you might fail in your quest," L surmises. "Are you sure he isn't me?"
"He is definitely not you," Rae says firmly. "He bothers me because, in the dream, I care about what he thinks, at least a little. And he always says the same thing."
"Yes?"
"Don't look," Rae repeats, in a high, whiny voice. "Don't look out the window. Why wouldn't I look? Who is he to tell me what to do?"
"How old is this child?"
"I don't know. Sixteen? Seventeen?"
L raises his eyebrows.
"Older than I expected. So what do you do?"
"I always look," Rae says proudly. "I never let him get to me. I always look. And the thing…it's amazing. I never quite make out the shape of it, but it is my future. My everything. I spend hours sometimes, just staring at it. It is wonderful."
"And this is what you call a bad dream?"
"That bit is not bad," Rae says amenably. "But then, eventually, I want to see what his reaction is. I want him to see that I defied him. I want him to know he can't order me around. So I look to my right once more – just for a moment – and he's…he's always."
"Turned into something else?"
"Gone, L. He's always gone. No doors. No other windows. And…the chair is gone, too. It's as if he was never there. It's impossible."
"But he is the one you have to beat, in order to become king, right?" L queries uncertainly. "Isn't it good, that he's gone?"
"Of course it is," Rae says fiercely. "In the dream, I am bereft, but I am convinced that is just part of the test. I think the Shinigami king is presenting me with someone I cared about a long time ago, so that I might prove I am unaffected by human persuasion."
"That is still odd," L counters. "Why would the king test you in so many different ways? Why are your rules so very different from every other member of your kind, Rae? Why are there so many things you do not know?"
"Do not know?" Rae parrots. "What is that supposed to mean? I know everything there is to know, Lawliet."
"Well, I intend to test that statement in a moment," L says, because he has had enough of this. "But first, I want you to answer me one question, honestly. Just one. Just once."
"Eh, depends on the question."
"Are you, or were you ever, human?" L enunciates, peering at the Shinigami's face. It is unlikely. Rae does not behave like any sort of human he has ever met. But the circumstances are so strange, and so many unusual things have been happening, and sometimes he feels like Rae is being railroaded into something, and he just. He wants to know. Because he despises the idea of hell, and he's prepared to help practically anyone escape from the place.
Practically.
"What?" Rae asks, with a surprised little laugh. "What? No. I have always been a god."
L studies the death god for a few seconds, but its visage belies nothing, and the change in eye colour can probably be attributed to the moonlight that bleaches the room.
Besides, it's the answer he predicted. There is only a six percent chance that Rae is human.
"All right," he concedes. "Then I believe that your king is playing games with you."
"Oh, really?"
"Yes. If you want to prove me incorrect, please tell me what you know about redemption?"
"Redemption?" Rae snorts. "Do you want a general definition of the word, or are you referring to something specific?"
Why don't you know? I don't understand.
Or is this an elaborate ploy to earn my sympathy? Are you that clever, Rae?
Am I that stupid?
"I see," L murmurs. "You see, Rae, other Shinigami know that redemption is a phenomenon associated directly with hell, by which those who are sentenced to hell are given one opportunity to prove themselves a good person. If they are successful, they are released into the next world, whatever that is."
Rae stares at him, open-mouthed.
"You're making this up," it tells him. "Aren't you?"
"Rem told me about it," L whispers. "I do not understand why, or how, it has been kept from you for so long. Were you...always designated to be the future king? Have your people put so much effort into testing you? Or is this some sort of practical joke, Rae?"
Rae shakes its head slowly, clearly trying to process the implications of what L has just said.
"So…you're telling me that every human gets a chance to get out of hell?" it asks carefully.
"Yes."
"When? After how many days?"
"That is not known to them, or to anyone else. According to Rem, great effort is made to prevent people from knowing when their chance will occur, lest they be able to lie to save themselves."
"So for anyone in hell, this chance could come hundreds, possibly thousands, of years later?" the death god sputters.
"From what I understand of it, that is correct," L informs it. "Even if you have been a Shinigami for half an eternity, if you were ever human, you might still be in hell, awaiting testing."
"And if they fail the test?"
"Hell, forever."
Rae gets up from the floor and comes at him suddenly, hovering so that their faces are about an inch apart, expression so intense L's eye hurts just looking at it.
"And if they pass…they die and go to the third world?" it repeats. "Just making sure I have this straight."
"Correct again," L tells it quietly. "You ought to go to your leader, and demand to know why he has kept you in the dark. This makes no sense to me, Rae."
Rae moves back a little, eyes darting from side to side, wearing the same expression as it does when it's trying to solve a particularly difficult case.
And then it stops, and lets out a bark of laughter.
L frowns.
"Is something funny?"
"You," Rae manages. "Oh god. You."
It devolves into high-pitched, hysterical giggles, clutching its sides and collapsing theatrically back onto the floor. L watches in bemusement.
Now what? If this was part of your ploy to earn my trust, you've just given everything away.
"You," Rae breathes, wiping its eyes. "You…and to think I was actually worried. To think I've been trying all this time for no good reason. Hah. The king must have been laughing himself sick at me. Ha. And all along, he's assigned me an easy task. I don't even have to do anything at all!"
"What do you mean?" L asks suspiciously.
"Thank you, L Lawliet," the Shinigami replies sweetly. "Now I can relax. Now that I know you will definitely use the death note."
This is awesome. This is possibly the most awesome thing ever.
He's late, and the queen always gets annoyed when he is late, and she's hilarious when she's annoyed, so he's kinda looking forward to seeing her again.
Sure enough, she appears beside him suddenly, as if summoned by thought, her dinky little angel-wings rustling gently in the breeze.
"Heya," he says brightly.
"You are late," she replies pettily, frowning and crossing her arms. She's tiny. He doesn't understand why the others are so afraid of her, really. He's always just found her to be kind of...cool.
"Oh, yeah, sorry about that," he says flippantly. He holds out one hand, showing off his latest treasure. "But have you seen this stuff? Definitely worth being late for. It's like, human-world apples, right? But not only are they covered in sugar-water, they're wrapped in sweet bread!"
The queen sighs.
"That is called an apple pie, Ryuk."
"I know! I wish I had discovered it years ago. I would have never left the human realm."
That lady made some for him. She is officially his most favourite human. She promised to keep him entertained forever, and so far, she's kept her word beautifully.
Humans are so much fun.
She won't be happy that the queen has summoned him back here to the second world again, and Ryuk hopes this meeting won't take too long. Of course, his new assignment will start soon, and that will take up a lot of his time, too. Travelling between the different human worlds is tricky and annoying, but he'll have to do it. He doesn't want his newest friend to get upset and ignore him.
"You scarcely leave the human realm anyway," Jas informs him haughtily. "Don't think that anything you do gets past me, Ryuk."
He has to fight to keep the smile from his face.
Oh really, queenie?
"Of course," he says aloud, and shoves the piece of pie sideways into his mouth. "Mmmmnnnhhhmmm!"
"Believe it or not," she says icily, "I didn't call you out here to discuss the finer points of human pastries."
"Mmfff?"
He's not really listening. The flavour is explosively fantastic, the texture divine.
He needs to get some more.
"You have sixty days before your next job begins," Jas tells him. "You need to remember to accrue enough human lives to ensure you can go for several months without using your note."
"Eh?" he asks, confused. "Aren't you going to give me a second note for this?"
"No. The king has issued an explicit order. No more extra death notes for you."
"Awww," he complains. "Why am I even doing this job for you, if there's nothing in it for me?"
The queen regards him intently.
"All Shinigami must work for me as required," she informs him briskly. "That is part of your dues, Ryuk. None of the others are paid. I traded you favours because I believed you and I were somewhat close."
Believed? Past tense? Uh oh. Is she on to me?
"Why do you need us, anyway?" he asks, jovially trying to change the subject. "You're omnipotent, aren't you? Why don't you do everything and leave us out of it altogether?"
"I never claimed to be omnipotent," the queen snaps. "I am talented and powerful, but that is not the same thing."
"And that's why some humans are involved in the hells of other humans, and that sort of thing, is that right?" he asks. "Because you're too weak to do everything."
"I am not weak," she hisses. "And I tire of speaking with you. Here, this is your script. Remember that you must follow it to the letter. You may not say or do anything outside of the script. You will be focusing on one particular individual, but you will also be interacting with another. The latter will see through all but the cleverest of facades. You need to be prepared."
He needs some more apple pie, actually. But still. A new project, and the queen is obviously angry with him. His life ought to get interesting for a little while. He's looking forward to it.
And when he's done here, his new friend will be waiting in the third world. Awesome.
"Yeah, yeah, I know," he assures her, with a wave of his hand. "I have another question. Shidoh said he saw you scribbling in a white notebook, but everyone knows you don't have a death note of your own. What's up with that?"
The queen scowls at him sourly.
"My note is nothing to do with you, Ryuk."
"Is it how you control hell? Is it? Is it?" he goads excitedly. "Can I see it?"
There are rumours. There are even other Shinigami that claim to have seen the queen's note. They say she can detail the most intricate reality, or summon the most complex circumstances, for any human whose name and face she has seen.
If that is true, her note would be the most fantastic toy in the world. Oh, the fun he could have.
"You are guessing," she replies firmly. "And no, you may not see it. There are certain things that should not ever fall into non-god hands, and you are a little too fond of humans for my liking."
Wow. She is really good.
"Okay, no problem," he replies casually.
He has plenty of time. He's just testing out the waters, after all.
"Good,"
Jas hands him the scroll that details exactly what he needs to do when dealing with his soon-to-be new human companion. A familiar face, a blast from his past. Silly girl doesn't even know she's in hell. Should be a bit of a laugh.
"Thanks. Guess I'll see you around, right?"
"Yes," she informs him. "Now, please go. I have better things to do."
"You mean you're going to go back to mooning over Keehl," Ryuk translates. "Geeze, if you love him so much, why don't you just release him from his false reality and keep him by your side. Surely you could make him fall for you, right?"
"You say the most disgusting things," she says distastefully. "As it stands, I have no power over the human heart. Which often makes it a useful tool for testing people."
"Ahh," Ryuk replies. "Got it."
"And yourself, Ryuk?" the queen asks, tone suddenly dangerously saccharine. "Gotten, say, unnecessarily fond of any humans lately? You're not still seeing your last assignment, are you?"
He gulps. She doesn't know, does she? Surely she's been too busy to pay any attention to what he does.
"Eh, she was a bit of fun," he replies lightly. "No big deal."
"Oh," Jas says, voice thick with disbelief. "Oh. Well, that is good news."
"Yeah," Ryuk says, shifting uncomfortably. "Anyway, gotta go. Things to do. Apples to eat."
"Of course," the queen responds, turning away from him. "Oh. And Ryuk?"
"Er, yes?"
He's already edging away from her, wings stretching up into the air.
"If I ever find out that you helped Wakefield get out of hell, I will have you disintegrated. Permanently."
"That's great to know," he squeaks, and bolts.
Jas hates him. Heh. His life is hilarious.
Christmas day arrives, and L celebrates by sleeping until midday, and deliberately ignoring little wine-and-cheese party the Penbers are holding in the kitchen.
"No festive food today, Watari," he requests politely. "I want something ordinary and boring, please."
Watari makes him blueberry pancakes, which are perfectly scrumptious and everything L needs right now.
Well, other than a functioning eye. And Mello.
Rae has been...quiet. Not just quiet, but abnormally quiet. Not the sort of smug, malevolent silence it oozed when he first met it, or the cold, vindictive wordlessness of the days following Grace's death. Instead, it is companionably quiet, staring over his shoulder at his computer screen and occasionally taking food from his plate, and discussing things with him like it actually values his opinion.
Presumably, the massive attitude adjustment is because it believes he will use the note. Which makes sense. Even if its personality is compatible to his own - which is unlikely, L likes to think - it would be impossible for them to get along when pitted against each other under such extreme circumstances.
So now, he predicts, Rae will simply become a bearable, ordinary Shinigami up until ten seconds before the end of the five-year period, at which point it will kill him in a blaze of fury for not using the note.
He does not understand. He does not understand at all. Why should the existance of redemption make him use the note. He cannot save Mello with it. He cannot restore Grace, or Matsuda. This is nonsensical. Why should it be certain he will use the note?
He will not use it. He will not.
"More sugar, huh?" it queries, floating over to his chair. "Have you ever tried switching from tea to coffee? You might find the caffeine to be more helpful to your deductive powers."
He also isn't sure whether the damn thing is mocking him or not.
"An excess of caffeine causes a temporary state of increased alertness that then results in an opposing, somnolent effect a few hours later," he tells it quietly. "I am happy with my present maintenance regime, thank you."
"Whatever. I just think you could be even better if you tried new things," it tells him, ambling over to the window. L cannot help but notice just how much time it spends around windows, now. And despite Rae's claims, L is more certain than ever that the Shinigami is being lied to. Or manipulated in some way.
Too many rules. Too many. And no good reasons for most of them.
And who was that boy? L suspects Rae may have fallen for him at some point, possibly he was even Rae's first human love. Which means what? Is Rae like Rem, always falling for someone?
No, that isn't possible. Wasn't there a time when he declared Rae the least human creature he has ever met?
L throws his spoon against the table. It's Christmas day. He might not want to celebrate, but he's not going to angst into an empty plate, either. This is a time for families. He is going to go and find his.
Rae, unsurprisingly, trails after him.
He knows things have been bad for everyone else. Oh sure, they've been solving cases, but L is injured, and that man and that lady seem to be more and more disheartened with their boss, and Watari keeps fuckin' hinting that maybe he should think about what's going to happen when he succeeds L.
When. Not even 'if'. When.
Mail tugs sharply at his curtains, until the infuriatingly bright sunlight has been banished from the room. He can't think with that stuff glaring into his eyes. The night isn't much better at this time of year. Too many lights.
So very festive.
Mello used to love Christmas. He used to love every fucking celebration there was, just the same way he loved chocolate, and L, and designer clothes.
He'd never really subscribed to traditional gender roles. Or any gender roles at all. Mello had amazing hair and fabulous outfits, and he didn't give a shit if people thought he was a girl, as long as they thought he was attractive.
So proud, so superficial. So perfect. He used to buy Mail games for Christmas, even though he always claimed to despise the habit. If he was in a particularly good mood, he would even play a little himself. Two-person pac-man, with Mello lounging at his side, and the smell of pine trees permeating the room. Some of the happiest memories of Mail's life.
He takes another drag of his cigarette. He's filled his wardrobe with hundreds of cartons, and Watari restocks it on a weekly basis, so he never runs out. L's doing, again. L does everything he possibly can for Mail.
The problem is, L can't do anything for him. And squatting on the ash-riddled floor of his bedroom looking at him mournfully is not going to make him suddenly go out and have lunch with the Penbers, or sing carols at the top of his voice, or agree to be L's heir, or - heaven forbid - forget Mello.
All it is doing is irritating him.
"Haven't you got a case to solve, or something?" he demands.
"I think I deserve a break," L says, in a tone that implies he's simply making conversation, and probably doesn't particularly agree with the things he is saying.
"Whatever. Can you go and break somewhere else, please?"
"Normal people spend Christmas with other people," L reminds him.
"We spent last Christmas together. It didn't help anything," Mail complains.
L tilts his head, birdlike and delicate.
"Other people eat a lot of fo-"
"No."
"Ah," L says, visibly disappointed. "Hm. We could go and see the city lights, tonight."
"What the fuck?" Mail sputters. "I don't care about how normal people spend Christmas. All I want to know is how other people grieve."
"Oh. At Christmas? Very, very quietly. And also, quite bitterly."
"Excellent," Mail retorts, flopping down onto the edge of his stinking mattress. "I've got that down pat, then."
"Sometimes they also...clean things?" L ventures.
"No."
"I am simply trying to help, Mail," L reasons.
"Yes. Do you think you could go and help someone else, now?"
He feels especially bad, today. It must be showing on his face, too. L has never been this tenacious before. The man is fucking climbing onto his bed.
"Get away from me," Mail warns, huddling against the wall. "Or I'll fuckin' kick you."
"I realised something today," L says, staring at the wall. Mail is somewhat comforted by the lack of direct eye-contact. Probably intentional.
"Don't you do that most days?" Mail asks sarcastically.
"Yes," L says gently, picking at the lint on Mail's quilt. "But today I realised that you are the closest thing I have to family here. Of all the people in this world, you are the one I love the most."
"Don't tell me that," Mail snarls. "I don't want to know."
He's not self-absorbed enough that he's missed the fact that L is broken. It's only a matter of time, now that he's lost his eye. That lady said so herself. He always used to be so proud and confident, and now he's struggling and talking to himself and walking around with a hangdog expression on his face like he isn't really sure what's going on any more.
Mail thinks maybe it all started with that little girl. Or...no, when they lost Matsuda. Or maybe it was earlier than that, when he realised they'd lost Mello.
That is the one reason Mail tolerates his former mentor. L loved Mello. He only spends time with Mail because he has been robbed of his favourite.
And that is exactly as it ought to be.
"But it's the truth," L mumbles, tucking his chin onto his knees. His eyes stray to some random point in the middle distance. There isn't anything there, but he stares intently anyway.
Maybe he's going mad, too. Mail's not sure he really wants the company.
"Have you been drinking?" he demands. He's heard that alchohol can make people say a lot of stupid shit, and it is something that people do around Christmas, so maybe L...
Hold on.
Isn't alchohol something people use when they're grieving, too?
"No."
Mail raises his head.
"Those people...do they have any wine left?" he queries.
"You can call them N and R, you know," L reprimands. "And yes, I believe they have one or two bottles left over. Why?"
"This is possibly the worst idea you have ever had," L says courteously. His protege is lying slumped against the wall, one hand wrapped around a half-full bottle of wine.
"Meh."
The faint pink colour staining his cheeks serves only to make him look even more sickly, like a starving man running a fever. L wonders whether the alchohol will have a drastic effect on his system. The Penbers' can manage two entire bottles between the two of them without moving past 'vaguely tipsy', so perhaps he'll be fine.
"Do you...feel better, M?"
"Absolutely not," Mail replies with certainty. "This is shit. Everything is shit. I want Mel back."
"He's...he's in hell," L points out carefully. "He cannot come back."
"I fuckin' know!"
L is not entirely sure what he's meant to be doing here. Mail rocks forward onto the balls of his feet - a parody of L's own crouch - and starts tracing the pattern on the wall.
"You love me, and I love him, and he's gone, and nobody gets what they want. Hah."
L rubs at the back of his neck.
"I, ah, do not have romantic feelings for you," he hazards, distinctly uncomfortable.
"Thank fuck for that," Mail declares. He tugs at the topmost buttons of his trench coat, and then reefs his undershirt up to his neck. L stares at his chest, which seems to be made entirely of ribs.
"There's no space," the younger man continues sadly. "No space left over for anyone else. I don't care about you at all. I don't. I can't."
"That is acceptable," L murmurs. "That is exactly as it should be."
The tattoo is huge, each letter a few inches high, eating up the entire top half of Mail's torso. Mail traces it tenderly, so differently to the way he treats the rest of his body. He's still battered and scarred from the many times he's let criminals kick the shit out of him during cases.
Sometimes, L thinks that maybe Mail is beyond grieving, now. Sometimes L thinks he might just be dying, very, very slowly.
Mail takes another sip and sighs.
"It burns. I like it."
"Maybe you should slow down," L suggests. "Have you ever had wine before?"
"Nope. Mel used to drink vodka. I used to swear I'd never touch the stuff. Nicotine is my vice, not alcohol. Ha. Doesn't really matter what I said to him now, does it?"
"It matters," L says quietly. "Everything matters."
If he ever gets Mello back, L is going to ask him - no, beg him - to spend all his time with Mail.
Mello would probably listen to him, too. He always used to worship L. Used to want to be just like him.
L touches his eyepatch. Some hero he turned out to be. Broken and alone, sleepless and frightened, unable to save anybody, succeeded in his own job by a demon.
He should have spent more time with his kids when he had the chance. Maybe they would all still be alive. And together.
"He was my favourite," L confesses suddenly. "He was my chosen successor, not Near. I wanted him."
Mail sits up abruptly and glares at him.
"Don't you dare," he rasps. "Don't you dare tell me that now! Why didn't you tell him?"
"Because...I..."
Because he had always been too busy. Because it had never occurred to him that he could possibly be killed. Because by the time he realised, Light had destroyed him in every possible way, so that all L could think of was submitting and waiting and losing.
"Damn you!" Mail yells. "Why didn't you tell him? How dare you admit to it now, when he can't...fucking...when..."
"I know," L says, edging closer to him. "I know. Believe me. I know."
Mail turns away shakily.
"You don't know anything," he snarls. "You don't know how much he suffered. You don't know how hard he worked. You don't know anything because you weren't there!"
Ah yes, very true. L is a rotten mentor, and always has been. He is somewhat glad that Rae is still in his bedroom, solving cases for him. He doesn't need someone adding insult to injury. It's hard enough dealing with the aftermath of Mello. It's hard enough just thinking about Mello.
And how is he ever going to save him, with one eye and death on the horizon in just over a year?
Mail doesn't speak for a while. He eventually slides down the wall and lays on the floor, bringing the bottle to his lips every so often. It's hard to tell whether he is intoxicated, or simply in the throes of despair.
Eventually, he kicks out, the toe of his boot connecting smartly with L's ankle.
"Hey."
"What is it?" L queries.
"Can I tell you a secret?"
L lifts one eyebrow.
"Are you drunk, Mail?"
"I dunno. Do you want to hear it, or not?"
"Yes," L decides. "Tell me your secret."
"I let them catch me."
L blinks, turns that statement over in his head a few times, and then gives up.
"Who caught you? When?"
Mail just grins, a miserable little curl of the lip, nothing more. He must be somewhat relaxed, because he never, ever smiles. No matter what.
"I took my foot off the pedal. I could have gone faster, I could have outrun them all. That was the plan. Lidner didn't send the guards after me until I had enough time to get away, driving at maximum speed. But...I didn't."
L stares at him blankly, and then presses his hand to his good eye.
"Mail," he says weakly. "Please don't tell me that you deliberately got yourself shot."
"Yup," the younger man says savagely. "Mel had made all these plans to keep me safe, to protect me. But I knew he was going to get himself killed, so..."
"So you made plans to die that day, as well," L breathes. "Dear god. Mail. Have you never placed any value on your own life?"
"Have you?" Mail asks bitingly. "I didn't want to live. I just wanted to go with him. I thought...heh. I thought that if we died together, nothing could ever keep us apart. Ever. Thought it would be the two of us for all eternity."
He doesn't...he doesn't want to know. None of this. This is not his business. He should not have to hear it.
"Stop talking," L begs. "Stop telling me these things. Do you not understand that I care for you?"
"And instead," Mail continues cruelly, "I will never see him again. All of that for nothing."
"Stop it!"
"I can't stop it," Mail tells him sombrely. "I'm drunk."
L has no idea what to do. His pseudo-son is a goddamn mess, and he has no idea how to fix this, how to fix any of this. In a brief fit of inspiration, he snatches the wine bottle from Mail's gloved fingers.
"You are not allowed to have any more of this," he says crossly.
"Yes I am," Mail informs the floor. "This is what other people do. Drink until they pass out. And I'm not even unintelligible yet. Give it back."
"No. I am sixty-two percent certain that this endeavour will have an undesirable outcome."
"Give it back."
"It won't help him, you know."
"Give it back!"
"And you, of all people, definitely should not be drinking alone."
"Hm," Mail says thoughtfully. "It's kind of sweet, you know. The wine. It's not sour, like spirits."
"Oh," L says.
He can feel another tremendously bad idea coming on.
By the time the bottle is empty, L's world is pleasantly warm and blurry, and slightly tilted to one side. He spends about half an hour explaining to Mail how to calculate the percentage possibility for any given sponge cake containing cream.
Then he realises that his protege-turned-son-type-thing is actually unconscious, and also it is very dark, and he would like to be in bed. He grips the wonderful bottle securely in his left hand, holding it with his whole fist to make sure it stays safe.
Wine. Wine is amazing. He feels so much better. He feels like throwing up and singing an opera at the same time. He feels like his problems are very far away, and possibly belong to someone else.
He can't understand why Mail is so sad. Like, crying sad. Clearly they are both awesome detectives and going to save Mello and the world and everything and why the hell is this hallway so long, anyway? He keeps walking diagonally and ending up smushed against the wall.
Two eyes. Two eyes would be lovely right now. But then he wouldn't be a pirate. He likes to be a pirate. He needs a parrot, maybe. He's never had a pet before. He thinks he'd quite like a cat. Cats are smart, but not very swashbuckling.
He locates his room, and opens the door by falling on it, which seems to be the logical thing to do. Then he decides that he only has a nine...no, eighty-four...no, nine percent chance of making it to his bed whilst remaining upright, so he drops to his hands and knees and attempts to navigate his floor.
He manages to avoid three piles of blue-jeans-and-white-shirts, and manages not to knock over a whole bunch of expensive equipment. His head is spinning quite delightfully, and he is possibly having more fun than he has ever had in his life before.
He likes wine. He thinks next time, he might try it mixed with hot chocolate. Or maple syrup. Or sugar cubes.
He finds his bed, and collapses next to it, punching the air in victory, because he is just such an awesome fucking detective-pirate.
Oh, wait. It's not his bed. It's his desk chair. The two look kind of similar, from way down here.
Green. Grace hated green. He kind of wants to cry, suddenly. She's so dead and far away, and he'd really like a hug from Matsuda, right about now. Also, there is a giant skeleton staring at him.
"Whaddayu want?" L says eloquently.
"What the hell is wrong with you?" Rae demands. Its voice is so annoying. It sounds like his mother, only she's a crazy evil psychopath. Hee.
L shrugs in reponse, which is kinda hard since he's presently lying on his back.
The Shinigami abandons his laptop and squats down beside him.
"Seriously. Have you been drugged again? L? Do you need help?"
L giggles. Drugs. Maybe he and Mail can try those next. Maybe he can get Mail to hallucinate himself a Mello and be happy again.
God, he is so brilliant.
"Nope. Wine."
"What? Someone spiked your drink? L. Snap out of it!"
"I spiked my drink," L informs it cheerfully. "Heh. Spiked is an amusing word."
"You...you got yourself drunk?" Rae demands, eyes glittering. L likes its ghastly, nightmare-inducing eyes. He wishes he could change the colours of random parts of his body at will. Then he'd be even better at disguising himself.
"Yup. Have you ever noticed how swirly the ceiling has become?"
Rae snorts dismissively.
"I see. And did you think that making yourself inebriated would somehow help the Williams' case?"
"You're solving the Williams' case," L points out, waving one hand in a circle for no particular reason. "S'not like you need me any more."
The death god subjects him to a long, calculating stare, during which L gets distracted and starts trying to unwind the weave in the carpet.
"Interesting. That's not the sort of thing you would usually admit to out loud," it says thoughtfully. "It's true, of course. I wonder how many of your other inhibitions have been altered, Lawliet."
Uh oh, L thinks, vaguely.
"I dunno," he says aloud.
"Huh," Rae replies, stretching out beside him. "Would you use the note?"
"I don't think so," L replies airily. His head feels stupid and heavy. The note is bad. He is certain of that, even if he cannot exactly recall why.
And anyway, obviously Rae doesn't actually intend to coerce him into killing someone, because it isn't stupid enough to ask directly for something like that. If it really wanted him to, it would be trying to trick him.
Coerce is a funny word, too.
"I think you should at least hold it for a little while," Rae counters. "I think you should have it in your hands and decide whether you really want to use it."
"You are already convinced that I am going to use it," L reminds it. "What's the point?"
"While that is true," the Shinigami agrees, "and I am certain you will use the note at least once before it is removed from your possession, it would be far better for me if you simply used it today. I have more important things to be doing."
It reaches for the notebook strapped to L's chest.
"You mean, things like becoming king and killing all the evil people," L surmises. "Let me tell you, that is a slippery slo- argh! Don't!"
Rae's fingers graze his skin and L attempts to climb the wall. Since his geographic skills have been someone addled by alcohol, he succeeds only in attempting to climb the floor, which is easier but less useful.
"What the hell?" Rae demands, glaring down at him. Then it pokes him again, lightly.
"Stop that!" L commands, flailing at its bony hand.
Rae rolls its terrible red eyes.
"Oh, what a big, tough detective you turned out to be, Lawliet."
It places the notebook beside him on the floor, open at the first page. There's a drawing on there, but L can't really make it out or remember what it was. He thinks maybe it might be a pickle. Or a narwhal. Everything is slightly fuzzy. His brain feels like it has been replaced with a lump of fudge.
He spends a good few minutes trying to tuck his shirt into his jeans, while Rae does something complicated with his computer, which mostly seems to involve bringing it down to L's level on the carpet.
L wishes he could stand up. That would be highly useful right now.
"Okay," Rae says, suddenly businesslike. "I have the perfect candidate for you, Lawliet."
Candidate sounds like 'candy'. L is sort of nauseous. He wishes the world would stay still long enough for him to catch up.
"Huh?"
"You're going to kill someone," Rae informs him. "Tonight. Look. This is Owen Dunborough. Eighty-seven. Part-time retiree, full-time gang leader. Despite his age, he still commands enough fear that his underlings follow his every instruction. In the past month, one hundred and ten people have been tortured and killed on his orders, including twelve children who were murdered in front of their parents. Additionally, he is suffering from a rare form of chronic heart failure, and is presently suffering from the end stages of bowel cancer."
"You say a lot of words," L comments diplomatically. He thinks there might be bugs living in the carpet. He likes bugs. Or maybe he hates them. He's not sure. Not one hundred percent sure, anyway.
"It should be him, L. He's evil, no one will be suspicious of his death, and you'd be doing him – and the rest of the world – a big favour. It would be an injustice to let him live."
L thinks if he looks really, really closely, he might be able to see the bugs. He's completely indifferent to bugs. One thousand percent indifferent. Lots of indifferent.
Also, his head hurts. And Rae is wording things…trickily. It is trying to trick him into something. He needs to come up with a clever response.
"No," he replies cleverly. "I will not kill him."
Ha. How can it possibly argue against such logic?
Rae seems strangely unperturbed.
"Oh well," it replies airily. "I've got all night to convince you, don't I?"
It touches his ribs again, and L attempts to drag himself out of reach, and succeeds only in finding the wall he was looking for earlier.
"You can't torture me," he says quickly. "You're not allowed to."
"I'm not allowed to hurt you," Rae corrects. "This doesn't hurt, it's just unbearable. Honestly, I'm surprised I didn't think of this earlier."
L whimpers a little and tries to become one with the floor. He feels vulnerable and dizzy. He has trained himself to be resistant to all forms of torture, of course, but the inebriation is making him oversensitive and weak.
If he just writes a name, this will all be over. He will be rid of Rae. And he can clearly remember questioning whether categorically refusing the Shinigami's advice is always the right thing to do.
Maybe it has a point. Maybe he should just let it be king. If it takes the note from him immediately afterwards, then he can only kill one person, so he can hardly become Kira, right?
Rae puts the pen in his hand, and L is pleased that he still remembers how he is supposed to hold it.
"Owen Dunborough," it tells him again. "His photograph is on the screen. I'll spell it for you."
Ooh, a spelling game. L loves games. Or…wait. Maybe it was Near who loved games. L loves sugar. That's right. Sugar and bugs. But not in the same spoonful.
His stomach hurts. Maybe he won't have any more wine for a little while. At least five minutes.
Rae touches his shirt, and L reacts, pre-emptively curling into a ball and yelping.
Apparently, he also makes stupid noises when drunk.
"I'd hurry up, if I were you," the death god tells him, with an evil little smile.
"Oh," L says. He then waves the pen in the air a few times, because he has no idea where his notebook has actually gone, and he isn't entirely sure how to go about solving this problem.
Rae sighs at him, and moves the note until it is directly in front of him.
"Oh, thank you."
"You have five seconds to start writing, L."
L thinks five seconds is enough time to check for bugs first. He pushes his face into the carpet.
Hey, it's nice and dark down here.
The bugs have clearly all gone to bed for the night, because he still can't see any. Also, being awake requires far too many complicated decisions. He is comfortable. He shall sleep here.
Three seconds later, he is woken up again.
"Hey! No sleeping. Not yet!" Rae yells, grabbing him by the front of his shirt.
"Uhhghh."
"Write, damn you! O. W."
"Oh, right," L replies blearily, and tries to force his hand to grip properly and move in the correct way to make letters. "O. W."
"That's the carpet! Write on the paper!"
"Picky, picky," L grumbles. He wants to close his eyes again. He likes not being able to see anything. Blackness is fun. His hair is black. Mello's boots are black. No wonder Matt is sad all the time, without Mello's boots of fun around.
"What's taking so long, L?" Rae asks, voice sickly-sweet and dangerous.
"I have forgotten how to make a 'W'," L replies forlornly. "It starts off like an 'L', doesn't i- argh! No! No! Stop!"
"Not until you sober up," Rae snarls, tickling relentlessly. L flails clumsily at its hand, vaguely embarrassed by the noises he is making.
"I c-can't write like thisss," he gasps.
"But you're pretty amusing all the same. Wriggle, L. Wriggle."
L clutches tightly at his sides and tries to remember how to breathe. He's too tired, and too spinny for this rubbish, and his skin is possibly going to explode soon, and he can hardly think.
No one touches him. No one ever, ever touches him. Goddamnit. This isn't fair. He can't handle this.
"Go away," he breathes, utterly exhausted, clamping down on Rae's bony hand with both of his own. "Can't even see the page. Can't kill anyone today."
"Huh," Rae concedes. "But I suspect you will still be ticklish tomorrow, Lawliet."
L sucks in a deep breath, revering the absence of any sensation, trying to force his mind to work properly.
It doesn't care that much what I do tonight, he thinks. It still thinks it will win.
Probably it will win. Since it is invisible and can move at the speed of light, and has really cold hands. And he only has three eyes. Hold on, one eye. That's right. One. How can he possibly compete?
It releases his shirt, and he crumples up on his side, curling into a tight little ball. His head is presently resting on something hard and uncomfortable, which turns out to be Rae's foot.
"You're a fucking mess," the Shinigami tells him primly. "Seriously. I'm not even sure why the king considered you to be a challenge."
L hums to himself, painfully aware that Rae is in a position to start tormenting him again at any time. But the wine is starting to eat away at his consciousness, and his limbs are heavy, and he's willing to take whatever rest he can get.
He glances up at Rae, who is still, for once, and grins.
"Heh. You're doing it again. I wish I could do that."
"Do what?" the death god grumbles.
"That thing," L says expansively. "That thing where you make your eyes change colour."
Rae stiffens, and looks at him as if he's just threatened to use the note on an entire orphanage.
"What did you say?" it rasps.
"Huh? Oh, your eyes have gone brown. Again. I like them better this way. You should keep them."
"No," Rae says quietly. "No, that can't be. Your name is still…your name. Fuck. Your fucking name is…holy hell!"
L never finds out what his name is, because Rae promptly vanishes from his side. A few minutes pass, and L goes back to looking for bugs, because there doesn't seem to be anything else to do.
He sort of wants some tea.
"What the hell?" Rae roars from elsewhere, and then comes storming back into his bedroom. "My eyes are brown!"
"I said that," L informs it helpfully.
"You said it had happened before," Rae continues, panicked.
Heh. Serves it right for tormenting him.
"Yeah, we were talking about my mother," L confirms.
"Oh shit. Was your name blurry then?" Rae demands. If it had any skin, L is pretty certain it would be sweating profusely right now.
"I dunno. I can't see my own name. Why is this a big deal, anyway?"
"Because the eyes of a death god are fucking important, that's why!" Rae wails. "Especially mine!"
"Oh? Why? Because you're the heir to the throne?"
He wonders what a Shinigami throne looks like. It is hard to imagine that it could possibly be more comfortable than his favourite chair.
"No!" Rae gesticulates. "Not because of that, because of…because…it's like a catch. A challenge. It has something to do with the boy from my nightmares, I think. Anyway, forget that now. We need to fix this!"
"Why? What happens when your eyes go brown and stop working?"
"Everything ends," Rae whispers. "I would be…dear god, that's it. You've done this, haven't you? You. THIS IS ALL YOUR FAULT. FUCK YOU, LAWLIET!"
"Argh, no shouting," L complains, pressing his hands to his ears.
"WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?" Rae rages. "DAMN YOU, WHAT HAVE YOU DONE? ALL I ASKED WAS FOR YOU TO WRITE IN THE NOTEBOOK. THERE WAS NO REASON FOR THIS!"
L blinks at it. He would love to know what is actually going on, but he is excessively tired and his Shinigami appears to have gone mad.
And then he actually sees it happen, like the flick of a switch, brown-to-red.
"It's okay," he mumbles, stifling a yawn. "You're back."
"YOU FUCKING….wait, what? Oh. Your name is normal again," Rae manages weakly. It is shaking. Actually shaking. It looks like someone has just dropped a bomb on its head. It looks wrecked.
"Your eyes aren't supposed to change colour, huh?" he asks. "You won't die, will you? I'd have to do something about it, otherwise. I can't just let people die in my care."
Rae stares at him again, and L realises drowsily that it hasn't come all the way back. Its eyes are the colour of rust. Maybe he shouldn't tell it. It might shout again. Or die.
"Go to sleep," it tells him roughly.
He thinks maybe he should sit up with it. It seems distressed. Something has gone wrong. There are so many things he doesn't understand about the Shinigami.
He hopes, if nothing else, that he is able to remember this in the morning. His mind feels treacherous and unstable. He should climb into bed. He should drink a litre of water. He should talk to Rae. There are a lot of things he ought to do, right now.
Instead of doing any of them, he closes his eyes and goes to sleep.
tbc
a/n:
+ thank you so much for reading.
+ again, not sure when next chapter will be up. next chapter should be the beginning of the last huge arc for this story, so it might take my tiny brain a while to plot it all out. heh.