notes/warnings
+ more tinkering with the death note universe in general.
+ more swearing. also, this is a fairly short chapter.
+ disclaimer: political/religious/moral elements to this fic do not necessarily represent my own views, nor are they specifically intended to cause debate. mostly, I'm interested in different possible interpretations of the rules of the death note and how they might apply.
Fault
Raye lays Naomi out on their bed, gently maneuvering her head onto her favourite pillow. All he can think about is how she can't feel its softness. All he can think about is how cold she must be.
"She hated these shoes," he tells no-one.
The others are milling around, but they don't merit even the tiniest portion of his attention. They aren't important. Even L isn't fucking important. Not now.
It's too late.
They were meant to build a home together. They were meant to have a life. Raye wanted a herb garden. He wanted dogs. He wanted Naomi to sit at home and write ridiculously long and thoughtful letters to L. He wanted the two of them to get bored and watch bad daytime television and bicker over nothing.
He wanted eternity.
"This isn't even her favourite watch," he says, thickly. "She's not even…god. The last time I saw her, I shot at her."
He is a terrible person. The worst. Horrible. Filthy. L makes people filthy. He makes them become like him.
"She was a good woman," Watari says, his polite voice jarring Raye from his thoughts.
"She was your employee," Raye tells him, bitingly. "You didn't even know her. None of you did!"
When he died, Naomi went out and tried to get revenge. She was always stronger than him. Now she is nothing. A fragile, temporary body. She'll decay, and there will be nothing he can do. There will be nothing of her left to look at. She will vanish from the world, just another victim of faux-Kira.
"Wasn't it her second favourite, though?" L asks quietly, examining her wrist as if he has any right to be near her. "Anyway, it doesn't matter. She isn't here, Raye. This isn't her."
"Fuck you," Raye says venomously. "This is her. You might have taken everything else away from me, but this is my wife!"
"She's somewhere else," L continues blithely. "She's ahead of us, now."
"What if there's nothing?" Raye asks. "What if she can still feel? What if she knows we've given up on her? She's still here, damnit! She has to be."
She isn't. He knows she isn't. And L is right. This is an empty shell. She is gone.
And what's worse is she went without him. They were supposed to be together. They're soul-mates. They're married. They're not Mail and his fucking unrequited love interest. They aren't meant to be tragic.
Raye climbs on the bed with her. Her skin isn't soft to touch any more. Her hand doesn't mould around his own.
It's over.
Raye stares at her face, trying to take in as much as he possibly can. He has to remember everything. Every curve, every freckle, every hair.
He must not ever, ever forget.
Eventually, Watari manages to steer L back outside, away from the others, and into the nearest lockable office. L stands in front of the plush armchair and stares at the steaming teacup on the coffee table.
He does not sit, and he does not drink. He smells fetid. The skin on his face has surpassed 'sallow' and is slowly starting to turn grey, so that the dark bags under his eyes almost blend in.
If Watari had known there were going to be countless afterlives, if he'd known L would never be able to stop, maybe he would never have gotten him started in the first place.
Maybe.
"The Chief of Police is awaiting our report," Watari says briskly. "Do you wish to speak with him directly?"
There's no point in being kind. L doesn't understand kindness. Not when it is directed at him, anyway.
"No," L murmurs, his gaze fixed to some point over Watari's left shoulder. "Please tell him that faux-Kira was killed by one of my men after threatening me. The Chief himself knows about the notebook, please tell him that it was destroyed."
"What?" Rae demands, and Watari isn't quite sure when it entered the room. "That's an outright lie."
You don't know L very well, do you? Watari thinks.
"It is what people need to hear," L says, dismissively. "The human public is not ready to know about the existence of your kind, Rae. Watari, the preliminary brief from the officers on site suggest that all of Takada's supporters were taken in for questioning. Based on these facts, please tell the Chief of Police that I am confident that the case is successfully closed."
Watari nods once, almost deferentially.
L turns to Rae with a watery smile.
"That was a lie, too," he points out. "That we were successful. I didn't save anyone at all, and yet, I will claim to be a hero. I am exactly the sort of person you think I am."
Given L's tone, Watari can presume that the Shinigami has a very low – and utterly incorrect – opinion of his morality.
Can you honestly not get rid of this thing? Watari wonders, eyeing Rae with benevolent dislike. What does it do to you? What does it say when you are frightened and alone?
L is strong. He's always strong. He was raised to be strong.
It's not okay to abuse someone, just because they're strong.
"I think you should eat something," Rae says, awkwardly. "You don't usually go more than a few hours without food."
Watari doesn't so much as raise an eyebrow, but he notes and logs that comment, too.
Maybe you're helping him, and maybe you're hindering him.
But you had better remember this, Shinigami; L is not alone.
"No, thank you," L says, grimly. "Watari. What have we missed?"
Ah, yes.
"News of the new Kira became widespread on the third day," Watari replies, dutifully. "Since then, much of the developed world has been gripped by hysteria and fear."
"Were there any riots?" L asks.
"I imagine so, but nothing sufficiently sensational to be broadcast on any of the monitored news networks."
L rubs one toe against the carpet.
"I see. What about the talk shows, and our international contacts? Were there any reports of people having lost loved ones to Kira? Or colleagues, or acquaintances?"
Watari tilts his head.
"I am not sure what you are asking," he admits. "Of course people lost loved ones. Thousands of people were killed. I imagine most of them had family and friends."
"What about court records? Medical records? Tax records? Is there any evidence – anecdotal or otherwise – that any of Takada's victims actually had lives before being killed?"
"Are you seriously telling me you don't think any of those people were real?" Rae asks, scathingly.
"I am not certain," L says, slowly. "Roper was real, certainly. But…how could any god let so many people be killed, just to put someone through hell? And Holland's case, too, seemed to fade into nothing once it was over."
He chews on his lip, and for a moment he actually looks like his old self, functional and determined and calm.
Watari thinks that this is probably about the hell-god. Another supernatural being, trying to make L dance in the palm of his hand.
He feels himself grow angry, defensive on L's behalf, but he doesn't say anything at all. It's not his place.
L calls all the shots.
"I suppose it's probably good to check," Rae says, grudgingly.
"Watari, please scour all government databases and media sources for any evidence of the prior existence of any of faux-Kira's victims. Report any findings to me immediately, without delay. I suspect we may be dealing with something similar to a Shinigami, that may also have the ability to alter memory. I do not yet know if it means us any harm."
"Yes, L."
"If my predictions are correct," L continues, "then the public panic should die down almost immediately, and people may soon start acting as if this never happened. Even…even my colleagues may forget."
He's damaged, and he's in mourning, and he's beaten, and he's still going to start making plans against a possibly-omnipotent god.
L is everything Watari wasn't strong enough to be, and damnit, he deserves to be happy.
"I understand," Watari asserts. "I will contact the Chief of Police now, and commence researching at once."
When the others come to take Naomi away, Raye holds her right up until the very last second.
He wants to punch L in the teeth. He wants to fight tooth and nail for another few precious seconds with his wife. But he doesn't.
Naomi wouldn't have wanted that.
He was never meant to be the one left behind.
"She was sick," Mail comments, leaning against the doorway. "We never found out why she was sick."
"It was Kira, wasn't it?" Raye says, darkly. "It was Takada, inside her head. Sucking the life out of her."
"Naomi was sick for months," L points out. "Takada would have only had control over her after her name was written down."
Raye rounds on him as soon as he speaks, eyes glittering with sheer loathing.
"You're the one who gave them her name. You sent her in there. You!"
"Yes," L acquiesces. "It was my fault."
Raye tenses up, as if readying for a fight, and then he sags, curling in on himself like an infant. Not enough energy to follow through with his own rage.
"Why?" he asks, plaintive and loud. "Why did you do it? You…you…monster!"
"I think we should split up, now," Mail says, with a strange authority. "This is fuckin' pointless."
"But we still don't know why she died of a heart attack," L murmurs.
He knows Raye is hurting. He knows Raye will never, ever forgive him. And he knows, maybe one day, Raye will shoot him in the chest with a cheap revolver and finally feel okay again, because that's how much he hates L.
And that's fine. That is how things out to be. But L can't process right now. This isn't done. It isn't over. Some parts of this case do not make sense.
A little longer. Just a little longer.
"Unless…"
L turns to his Shinigami. It doesn't usually trail off at the beginning of a sentence. It doesn't usually exhibit any sort of uncertainty at all.
"Unless what?"
"Unless it wasn't the instruction to summon you. Unless it was the word 'suicide' that voided the whole entry."
L props himself up against the wall. He doesn't crouch. He doesn't touch his lips. He doesn't let himself get too comfortable, because he can't.
"Explain," he says, simply.
"'When the cause of an individual's death is either suicide or accident," Rae recites, "if the death leads to the death of more than the intended, the person will die of a heart attack instead'. One of the most basic rules of the notebook."
"I have read the rules, you know," L says irritably. "I still don't see the connection. The form of Naomi's suicide was never specified. There is no way another person could possibly have been reliably and directly killed no matter which avenue she used."
"Avenue," Raye echoes, getting abruptly to his feet. "Avenue. I. I need to."
He runs gracelessly in the direction of the nearest bathroom. L cannot blame him. They are talking about Naomi's death. Naomi is dead.
And he didn't save anyone at all.
And Buzz. Oh god, he'd forgotten about Buzz. Is the other detective going to show up to laugh in his face, to laugh at his failure? Is he going to try and overpower L and steal his identity?
Could he really be Light? Still? After all this time? Despite what happened to Takada?
Maybe.
L thinks he might have preferred meeting Light to this. He would have rather died - by any means necessary - than lose Naomi. Than have to deal with his own, massive, catastrophic failure. Than be this person, here and now. The one who survived by pushing others to their deaths.
I should have gone to Roper's house.
I should have gone to Roper's house.
I should have gone in there myself.
He did this. He is wholly responsible.
"Is it possible that no matter how Naomi killed herself, she would have killed Takada first?" Mail asks. "I mean, Naomi was super strong. And she would have been really fuckin' angry. I shot Takada, by the way. I shot her."
L wants to tell him to shut up, but he realises that murdering Takada might be the most important thing Mail has ever done in his entire life.
Is this what Raye has to look forward to? Is he just going to become like you?
"No. I am confident that force of emotion alone does not allow one to override the notebook."
"What if Naomi not killing Takada is 'impossible to think of', huh?" Mail continues, and he's grinning. Maniacally. In any other situation, L would be happy for him.
"The death note doesn't work that way," Rae snaps. "It doesn't care how much someone wants something. But."
"But," L prompts.
"Well, thinking back, I've killed proportionately very few people by anything more complicated than a heart attack," Rae muses. "And only half of those people again would have been female. I wouldn't…I wouldn't necessarily have noticed if…"
L glowers at his Shinigami. It seems to be struggling for words, and he's not sure how much more of this he can take.
Just a little longer. Not yet. Not yet.
"I'm not actually sure what the death note classifies as a 'person'," Rae finishes lamely. "Um. I mean, when it comes down to it. In terms of, like, age. And things."
L is suddenly overcome with a wave of horror. Of nausea. Of dank, horrifying possibility.
"Not that," he breathes. "Anything but that."
"Huh?" Mail asks. "What are you….oh. Shit."
L tugs his phone from his pocket and dials Watari. It takes him five attempts to get the number right.
"I need you to check something for me," he says, shakily. "Now."
Whew. It's finally over. Ryuk is never, ever taking another order ever again. Honestly, some of that woman's little fabricated scenarios go on for a ridiculously long time. And he has better things to do.
But it's not as though this hasn't been useful. It's not as though he hasn't learned anything.
Ryuk steps across the threshold. The king doesn't even bother to look around.
"What is it?" he asks, coldly. His voice echoes around him, even though there are no walls, and nothing but flat, dead land for miles in every direction.
"Er…I had a question. About the queen," Ryuk replies, faltering a little.
He doesn't like dealing with the king. He always winds up feeling really, really small. And kind of hungry. But he always feels hungry, so that might be unrelated.
"I'm sure you do, but I am not inclined to entertain fools today," the king rumbles. He taps his bejeweled claws against the side of his head, rhythmic and impatient.
Oh god. Ryuk hates it when he gets upset.
"Uh, should I come back tomorrow?"
He really wants to get back to Emma. She's…well, she's special. She's a special human. No one has ever really cared about what he wants before.
The king finally meets his gaze. Stares at him with massive, empty, jet-black eyes. Sometimes Ryuk feels like those eyes can pierce right through his soul. And Ryuk doesn't even have a soul.
"Spit it out," the king demands. The tiny pebbles that litter the ground seem to vibrate with every syllable he speaks. "I would rather not see you again for a long time."
"She…she made a mistake, today," Ryuk blurts out. "I've just never seen her make one before. That's all."
The king snorts dismissively.
"She is a Shinigami, still. She has the right to shorten the lives of humans whenever she wants."
"But she doesn't need them, right?" Ryuk probes. "Kai was telling me that she hasn't killed in millions of years. What does she live off?"
"She has been around far longer than you or I," the king tells him, with something like amusement. "In a way, she has become her note. And it has become her. She is not the same as us."
"She has become her…what does that even mean?"
The king smiles at him, slow and liquid and malevolent.
"Run along, Ryuk," he commands. "This conversation is over."
L feels the clarity slowly return to his mind. The signs of the hell-god's mind control are even more obvious now that he's looking for them.
He made mistakes. He asked someone – a randomly-selected police officer, practically just a passer-by – to hand him the notebook. If Takada's Shinigami had not claimed the note at precisely that moment, then Constable Wicks would have seen him, for certain. And then she would have panicked. And then he would have suddenly been explaining killer notebooks and gods and hell to a huge group of angry, disbelieving police officers.
He might have wound up in jail. And all those men and women might never have felt safe again.
Grief or no, L never should have made a mistake like that. But he recalls, now, how muzzy he felt. How nothing around him seemed to be real, how he was focused only on Naomi and his own guilt.
The hell-god can get him when he's vulnerable, it seems. Weigh down his mind. Change him, and make him stupid. It's like the way Rae was able to torment him when he was inebriated.
Only.
Rae's hands.
"L, are you okay?" Mail asks, suddenly. "You're just staring into space."
L stares at him balefully.
Am I okay?
Am I okay?
Do you honestly not understand what happened out there, today?
Do you not care about ANYONE except him?
After all Naomi's done for you, you ungrateful…
"Of course he's not okay," Rae snarls. "Leave him alone, for pity's fucking sake."
"I fuckin' know that," Mail says, maybe a little awkwardly. "I was just worried it was something else."
"Please mind your own business, Mail," L says, and his throat feels scratchy and disused.
It isn't fair to get angry at Mail. Or at Rae, or at Takada, or even at Light. And he wants to be angry at Light. All the time.
But this, this is his fault. L's fault. Entirely.
Now that he thinks back, there are other things, too. Takada was sometimes completely under-funded, and at other times seemed to be able to afford almost luxuriously cutting-edge technology, with no financial explanation at all.
Strange. The Gorgon case was much better put-together than this one. Is the god of hell losing his touch? Her touch? Are the hells becoming shabby and incongruent?
What does that mean? Mello might come back? Light might come back?
Light might already be here.
No. Grianna said that those who came to the real world always did so to be tested. The test does not necessarily mimic the hell. So it is only during the testing stage that people might break free.
Grianna. Was she even real? Was anyone associated with Kiyomi Takada real? L supposes he'll find out in a few months time, depending on whether everyone around him forgets about this case completely.
Rae touches his sleeve, ever so gently, ever so briefly. L sort of wants to cling to it.
"Watari left cake," it says, simply. "You should eat."
"I do not need cake. Please mind your own business too, Rae," he pleads, quietly.
"Did you miss the part four years ago where I said you were stuck with me?" Rae asks, angrily. "You don't get to just send me away because you feel like it, you know."
L cannot do anything with that declaration right now, but he files it away in his own mind. Because if he ever, ever feels happy again, even just for a moment, he's going to want to remember that.
I wish you would never ever leave me.
But that's selfish, isn't it?
He's not selfish. He's not Light. And right now, Rae is just irritating. Just a thorn in his side.
"Do what you want," L tells it, stolidly. "But I will ignore you."
Rae snorts.
"You haven't slept in weeks and you haven't eaten anything all day," it points out. "What is your brain running on, exactly? Pure stupidity?"
Oh. Banter.
"Don't," L whispers. "Don't. I can't. Not right now."
Rae looks him right in the eye, and that alone is almost too much to bear.
"Not right now," it agrees, reluctantly. "But soon."
L nods, limply. That is all he can hope for. Rae's eyes are the colour of mud, the colour of the expensive wooden coffee table. Rae is so damaged L isn't sure if it will ever be whole again.
And here he is, stewing in his own misery, completely self-centered. Worse than Light.
Raye Penber appears in the doorway. His face is pale and streaky and puffy from crying. He looks dreadful.
"I don't even know what to do," he says, sounding helpless and horribly self-deprecating. "I don't even know. I don't."
"Come in," Mail tells him. "Sit here. We're not quite done yet."
In any other situation, L would have reprimanded him for doling out orders. But then, in any other situation, Mail wouldn't be giving orders in the first place. L needs a stand-in, and Raye needs direct instruction. Mail is doing well.
Raye collapses in one of the armchairs, and buries his face in his hands.
L checks his watch. It's been fifteen minutes. He wishes Watari would hurry up and get back to him.
Not knowing is worse than knowing.
Or maybe…maybe not. But Raye ought to know. If it kills him, he still has a right to know.
L gazes around the room, searching for a distraction. Something. Anything. A few more moments of not having to think about the day's events.
This office was the main briefing room. Back when they were a group. When they had Naomi, and Matsuda, and Wedy.
And god, Wedy. Marvin was right to accuse him of not caring about her. He was so debilitated by Matsuda's death that he barely gave her a second thought. And she deserved better than that.
She might have been a criminal, but she was somewhat loyal to him. They had a history dating back long before the original Kira case. Hell, the first time she'd agreed to work for L he hadn't even entered puberty. And he'd admired her talents so much that he'd drawn up a conditional ongoing contract, then and there. After a few cases, they even had their own code to recognise each other. She'd say 'what's a boy like you doing in a dump like this?'. And L would say 'looking for trouble'. Simple, ordinary conversation, but it meant something. Of course, in the end, he developed a flair for seeing through her expert disguises, and she his.
Perhaps there was a time that he even considered taking her on, as his sole partner, his equal. It's probably a good thing he never did. No single person could handle him all on their own. No-one could ever keep up with him. When he finally decided he couldn't do this alone, he employed a whole team. It was better that way.
It was meant to prevent him from getting attached.
Now L is attached to all of them. Every last one. From the grieving psychopaths to the injured skeletons. Even the little girls he barely knows. And the gods of death who were technically responsible for killing him. All of them.
He's hopeless. He's too old for this. He's too brittle.
He didn't save anyone at all. And there are no more opportunities, now. The case is closed. The hell-god has been and gone. L failed, pure and simple.
When Watari knocks on the door, L actually flinches.
"Come in," he says, and he hates the audible tremor in his voice. Everyone knows. Everyone knows he isn't coping.
Isn't going to cope.
Soon.
Watari steps into the room. He never makes any noise when he walks, despite his heavy shoes. And he never makes small talk, either. He always gets right to the point.
He looks right at L, and nods. Once.
Affirmative.
No no no no no!
L's mind spirals deeper into chaos, into nothingness. He's ruined everything. He's destroyed everyone. He's done this.
"You confirmed it?" he asks, unnecessarily. Watari doesn't waste words or gestures.
Perhaps it's time Watari replaced him. Succeeded him. Anyone else might do a better job.
"Yes, L."
"Fuuuuck," Mail says, eloquently.
L closes his eye. In his mind, he hears the bells. One more time. One more life. Sort of.
"I understand."
"What?" Raye growls. "What are you all talking about?"
This is maybe the worst thing L has ever had to do. He kind of wants to vomit. He wants to run away.
"Naomi," he says, in a rush, because he has to get it over with. "Naomi was-"
Rae flicks its thumb down the curve of his spine, and L chokes to a stop, momentarily rendered mute.
Oh god.
"Your wife wasn't sick," it tells Raye, sounding as clinical and unconcerned as Watari himself. "She was pregnant. Which is also possibly why the note couldn't control her."
"I'm sorry," L mumbles, the words spilling pointlessly into the ensuing silence. "I am so, so, sorry."
Raye looks from L to Mail to the fucking skeleton and back to L, in utter incomprehension.
"What are you talking about?" he says, once more. "What do you mean?"
Naomi is dead, and none of these…these fuckwits have a right to be talking about her at all. Especially when they're wrong.
"I'm pretty sure there's only one meaning assigned to that word," Rae informs him. "Pregnant. She was-"
"Shut up!" Raye yells, quickly. "No she wasn't!"
Wrong, wrong, wrong!
"This isn't fucking debatable," Rae says, obnoxiously.
"I'm afraid it is true," Watari intones.
"Shut up, old man," Raye howls. "You don't know anything! She can't have been pregnant, because if she was, then she would never have gone. She would have stayed here and she'd still be alive and we'd be together and everything would be fine!"
They're all fucking staring at him and L looks the most miserable that Raye has ever seen him look and Raye is fucking glad.
It's not true.
It's not true.
It can't be true, that he could have come so very, very close to everything he'd ever dreamed of, only to have all of it ripped away. Only to not even find out until it was already too late, because of L. Because of L.
A child. A part of him. A part of Naomi. L would never have been able to take her away from him, after that.
No.
No.
No!
It's bad enough that she's gone. She's gone and it's the end of the world and he cannot even fathom the fact that they might…
If he'd just made her go to a doctor.
If.
Rae presses his hands to the sides of his head and stares at the ceiling.
"What have I done?" he screams. "What have I done?"
L's head sinks, until it is almost between his knees. Raye gets up, clutching the arm of his chair with deathly-white hands.
Raye grieves loudly, and L grieves quietly.
"No," Raye says suddenly, with a sick little grin. "No, it wasn't me. It was you. It was you. What have you done?"
He staggers into the middle of the room, and points one finger accusingly at L.
"Yes," L agrees, mournfully. "It was my fault."
"It wasn't your fault, idiot," Rae tells him, sharply.
"You've destroyed everything!" Raye rages. "You, and no one else. You killed…you killed…you killed…"
Raye collapses onto the floor, sobbing and clawing at the carpet. The epitome of pitiful.
"That's enough," Mail says, getting to his feet. "The case is closed. None of you are going to make anything better by sitting here fuckin' staring at each other."
He feels like Mello. He can imagine Mello saying these words. He feels okay.
"I don't want to go back to my room," Raye says, desperately. "I want to stay right here. I want to stay with her."
"If you like," Mail tells him. "L? Go and do what you need to do."
Go and break. The world doesn't need you right now.
The world needs too much of L as it is. Even Mail can see that, and Mail barely cares about him at all.
"Yes," L says, sounding disorientated and confused. "Yes. I should. Go. And."
L struggles to his feet, and drags himself towards the door. He pauses in front of Watari.
"Please look after everything, Watari," he mutters. "Please take…take care of everyone. And everything."
"Fuck you," Raye shrieks at L's retreating form. "I hope you suffer! I hope you bleed!"
Mail turns to the Shinigami, and then covertly points at L's back.
"Definitely," Rae says, and then follows their boss out of the room.
Mail huffs his greasy hair out of his eyes. For the first time since he shot Takada, he realises that he's craving a smoke. Raye is still hurling poisonous insults in the general direction of the door.
This is going to be really fucking hard.
tbc
a/n
+ thank you for reading.