notes/warnings

+ swearing/grief/misdirected anger.

+ this is the fiftieth chapter! and yet practically nothing happens! yay!

Measure

The door to Raye's room is unlocked. Mail pushes it aside and ambles over to sit on the floor by the window.

Raye notices him almost immediately.

"Where did you go?" he demands.

"I was speaking with L," Mail informs him, and braces himself for the inevitable barrage of L-directed hatred and spite.

But Raye stays silent, staring at Mail with bleary, unfocused eyes.

"Oh," he says, eventually. "I see."

It is probably safe to presume that Mail and Raye have also forgotten parts of the Takada case already, but L ought to ask them later just to be sure. It is possible that the hell-god affects people to varying extents, and with various amounts of speed.

Why not me, then?

It doesn't make any sense that the hell-god is deliberately leaving his mind intact. Which means that he must have blocked her, somehow. Or perhaps there is some wall between them, meaning that he is as unattainable to her as she is to him?

Such a concept is bordering on ridiculous, though. I'm not particularly special. I'm not even particularly intelligent.

So, what, then? Is the death note protecting him?

That doesn't make any sense either. Takada had a note in her own hell, and it didn't help her to escape the hell-god's clutches. And if the death note was really some sort of mind-control repellant, then surely Rae's memory wouldn't be affected, either. And Rae has definitely forgotten certain parts of the Holland case.

Perhaps she simply…cannot be bothered with me?

L spins idly on his chair. He feels weak and light-headed, and he keeps thinking in circles.

This isn't something he can tackle. Not yet. Not on his own. Perhaps, if he encounters another person in hell, he will have another opportunity.

That's what Grianna does, isn't it?

How long has she been searching?

And on top of everything else, Rae is still convinced that he will use the notebook. That he will be forced to use it, and not because of his attachment to his Shinigami.

Why? What would be the point in him using it? He refuses to kill out of anger, or hatred, or judgment, because he refuses to emulate Light. And what is the point of mercy-killing someone? If they are a good person, all they'll do is end up in the next world. And if someone needs relief from pain or suffering, then they can choose death for themselves. L doesn't need to intervene.

The only scenario in which he can even envisage himself writing down a name would be if Light came back. Rae has repeatedly told him that such a thing cannot happen, but then, Rae is obviously uninformed about certain aspects of the afterlife, so L cannot be confident in its assurances.

And if Rae is banking on L using the notebook to defeat Light, then it might even have lied to him deliberately.

The death note can be tied to an event, even if I don't know when it will occur.

Is that what Rae is counting on? That he'll write down Light's name on the condition that Light will one day show up in this world? And then he'll get proof of that by whether Rae becomes king or not?

L has to admit that the thought of such peace of mind is sorely tempting. But if that is Rae's plan, then Rae must be confident that Light will show up. After all, it desperately wants to be king.

Although, what was it Rae had said?

'You don't use it to kill innocent people. Not using it at all is better than using it out of spite, or greed, or revenge.'

So it has some standards, at least.

Or it is just a really good liar.

Either way, the probability of Light actually appearing in the second world are somewhere between ten and fifty percent.

And holy hell, that's a huge range. L is never this vague. Too many variables. Everything has too many variables, and he feels.

He feels.

The tray of scones is still sitting on the table. They're stale, and dry, and crumbly to touch, but L breaks off a piece anyway and shoves it into his mouth.

Food.

He's been hungry for so long. There have been so many things. More important things. Rae and Naomi and Raye and Light and Watari and the hell-god and everything. He needs to be as functional as possible. He needs.

The scone tastes awful. Reluctantly, L reaches for more.

This place isn't any good now, either.

The darkness is stifling, and the air is too thick. Raye feels ill. And he is thoroughly sick of looking at Naomi's clothes, and shoes, and possessions. Without her, they're just meaningless objects. Pointless trash. Raye wants to incinerate them all. He wants to be free from this place. But outside isn't any better, he knows that, he knows! He is trapped. Drifting, anchorless, unable to make sense of anything.

He can't even grieve properly any more. It's like he's worn out all of his emotional resources. She is the debilitating absence in his world, and he has already run out of tears to shed. There isn't anything but her.

Mail's phone goes off, and the unexpected noise is both jarring and renewing. A momentary distraction. Raye is the worst person in the world for wanting to escape.

"Hang on," Mail mutters. "I'll ask him. Raye?"

Mail looks right at him, with flat emotionless eyes, and Raye realises just how disgusting he feels, all sweat and grease and slobber and tears. The bed stinks. Mail stinks. He hates this place.

"What?" he grunts.

"L thinks it's time-"

"I don't give a fuck what he thinks!"

"…that we do something for your wife," Mail finishes, steadily. "He says that if you haven't thought about it already, you need to. He also says that he'll arrange anything that you want. Money is no object, of course."

"Watari," Raye murmurs, narrowing his eyes.

"Huh?"

"Watari," he clarifies. "This is Watari's doing, not L's. L doesn't have this sort of compassion."

Mail raises one eyebrow at him.

"Actually, he does," he replies, quietly.

"Fuck that. Did you see what he did? To his own…his own…"

"He was the one who looked after me, remember?" Mail says, sharply.

"Not everything is fucking about you," Raye snarls. "You think you have it so much harder than everyone else, but you don't. You're not special. Fuck off and leave me alone."

"Fine," Mail replies, his voice still strangely even. "You don't need to ask twice."

He slams the door when he leaves, and Raye feels briefly satisfied.

Raye feels satisfied for roughly twenty seconds. But the room is dank and huge and empty, and Naomi has been everywhere. They had sex on the fucking dresser, once, and now Raye can't stop looking at it. He feels swallowed up and claustrophobic. He feels like he's rotting from the inside out.

So many things he should have said. And there is no escape.

Mail is piss-poor company, but it's even worse without him.

Stops you from going completely mad.

In a rush of adrenaline, Raye gets up clumsily, fumbles with the door, and staggers into the blindingly lit, too-clean hallway.

Fuck this.

Nothing is different.

He finds his way to Mail's office with one hand over his eyes.

"What do you want?" Mail asks, sounding exasperated. It's been less than a minute since Raye cussed him out, after all.

And Raye still loathes him for existing. For supporting L. For everything. But he's a real person, and he exists outside of the confines of Raye's tortured mind. He is something other than a memorial to Naomi, and that's. That's good. Maybe.

What the hell is wrong with me?

His wife is dead. He should be able to mourn for months without stopping.

Memorial to Naomi.

"I want," he says, and then stops to think. "I want…I want to bury her. I don't want her to burn. I don't want her to hurt any more. And I want…flowers, I think. And some sort of message."

Mail's expression softens a little.

"All right," he murmurs. "Do you want any help with it?"

"There's a call for you on mobile six," Watari announces pleasantly.

L frowns.

Aside from being the point of contact with Grint Street Police Station, that particular phone hasn't been used in the past year.

L wonders if something has happened with one of Takada's accomplices.

"Patch it through to my office," L replies. "And bring me a pot of honey, please."

L would usually have Watari screen his calls, but Watari's mind is not presently reliable. And it's not as if L has anything better to do.

"Hello?"

"Hello, L. How are you?"

The syntax and voice filter are disturbingly familiar. L feels his chest tighten, his muscles tense.

You.

What are you doing calling me again?

"Mister…Buzz, wasn't it?" he replies, as calmly as possible. "What do you want?"

"I wanted to speak to L, please."

There isn't any way they can trace the call. L is safe. As long as he limits how long he keeps the connection open, he is safe.

"So why did you call me, then?" he asks, bluntly. As far as Buzz is concerned, he is Bert Smith. And Smith isn't known to have even had contact with L.

"Because I believe that you are either him, or working for him. Either way, there's a fairly good chance he's monitoring this call right now."

You can't possibly be Light.

Please.

"That would make two nosy detectives following me," L drawls. "I doubt it very much."

"I see."

Buzz's mechanical voice trails off into a polite silence. L finds himself analyzing every word, every syllable, every nuance, desperately trying to convince himself that it can't be Light.

Light would enjoy talking to me anonymously like this, though. If he's feeling confident enough, then he might spend months just contacting me occasionally, frightening me a little more each time, and not revealing his identity until I'm completely vulnerable and disturbed.

"Since I am not your L, I wish to request that you don't call me again," L continues. "I need to keep this line available for business purposes."

"I'm afraid that isn't all," Buzz tells him. "I have one more question for you, Detective Smith."

"Please make it brief, Detective…ah…"

"Buzz will do just fine."

Damn you, L thinks. If it is Light, then Light must know who he is. Light wouldn't waste his time chasing anyone else like this, not while L is still alive. If Light is in this world, then he'll be forced to seek L and destroy him. He enjoyed it too much last time to deny himself that pleasure for long.

If he kills me, and I manage to stop him in the process, then I've still won. I've still protected the world from him, so I've still won.

And he won't understand that point of view, because he doesn't understand what it is to not be selfish.

Is that L's only defense? To self-destruct?

Maybe he'd get to see Naomi again.

"Detective Buzz. It sounds a little like the title of a tacky magazine," L quips.

"Perhaps. Anyway, I have seen the news, and it seems that faux-Kira has been killed, and her army taken into custody," Buzz says blithely. "Tell me, Detective Smith, did you win, or did you lose?"

L fumbles almost drops the handset.

What?

What sort of a question is that to ask?

Winning. Losing.

There's no denying it, you sound like Light.

L used to think like that too, when he was younger. When he was still alive, and thought he could never be beaten. But Light…Light never grew up. Light just grew more evil.

"I…I don't know what you mean," he says, gruffly.

"Did you actually manage to defeat faux-Kira, or did the situation just suddenly resolve?" Buzz elaborates. "It seems the news has already stopped focusing on that case, which is unusual given the recency and scale of the crime."

You…you have some immunity to the hell-god, L thinks. It's true that his team hasn't yet completely forgotten Takada, but none of them have been able to recognise the strangeness in the media, either.

It makes sense, if Buzz is Light. Light was at least as smart as L. And that would indicate that intelligence is somehow protective against the hell-god. L might be able to use that to his advantage, somehow.

Or is it determination? Glory-seeking? Some other trait they both shared?

No. L and Light have nothing in common. Not now. L has gone out of his way to become a different person.

If Buzz is Light.

Sixty-three percent probability. Frighteningly good odds. If Buzz is someone else, then they ought to pool their resources together against the hell-god. But L cannot do that without first admitting to being L. Buzz has set this up perfectly.

And he can't. He can't take that risk. Buzz might be Light. And if he is Light, then he's counting on it.

"Faux-Kira was captured by agents of L," he says, curtly. "As you ought to know, Buzz. Have you only come to rub my failure in my face? And what do you mean, 'just suddenly resolve'?"

There is another pause.

"I see," Buzz says, thoughtfully. "Thank you. That is all I wanted to know. Perhaps we shall meet in person someday, Detective Smith."

Buzz hangs up with a jolly-sounding click, and L feels inexplicably cold in the temperature-controlled office.

Meet in person?

Was that a threat, Light?

If you come back now, Rae might take your side.

Rae will definitely take your side.

That was the one thing Light couldn't do last time. He couldn't turn someone L loved against him, because L didn't care for anyone else.

Now, though. Now he loves Rae. And Rae hates him. And Rae definitely still supports the original Kira, despite the fact that it seems to loathe all of his followers.

So, really, we never would have worked out.

But, if Rae had continued to care for him, maybe L could have changed its mind. Now, it is too late. And that's fine.

Light is L's burden to bear. If Light comes back, L will deal with him. He will protect society from him one more time, and that will be enough. If Rae despises him, if Rae watches over Light's shoulder as L dies, if Rae spits on his corpse, then L will accept all of that.

L's job is to save people. Not to be comfortable. Not to be happy. Not to fall in love. To save people.

And he is not yet defeated.

"Lilies," Raye says, decisively. "White lilies. For purity. It's what she'd want."

He's contemplated every possible flower and colour combination, laboring to find the perfect representation of Naomi.

"Wouldn't she prefer a bouquet of guns, really?" Mail deadpans.

Raye glares at him sourly.

Because, yes.

Yes, she would. She was never the fragile, adoring, lovestruck wife Raye wanted. She never had time for things like flowers. But she's fucking dead now, and Raye is going to fucking give her flowers because it's the last chance he'll ever fucking get.

"If I want your opinion," he says, viciously, "I will ask for it."

"Okay," Mail replies. "Lilies it is. They aren't in season, but we're not exactly short on money. What about the headstone?"

And Raye hates him. Raye hates him for being good at this, for being the perfect widower, for being able to genuinely grieve for years on end. But more than that, Raye hates him for his stupid, fairytale-tragic romance. He hates the fact that Mail got to go and throw roses into the sea and weep and somehow have it actually be relevant to the one he lost.

And he hates him for never actually having a relationship with Mello, because in a way, that must make things a lot easier. When Raye thinks of his wife, he remembers her flaws and their arguments and a problem-filled, ordinary marriage. He can't put her up on the pedestal where he wants her.

"We can't put her name on it," Raye says, grudgingly. "There's…there's still a risk that someone might use that against us."

It's sickening that he's thinking of the team at a time like this. He doesn't even belong here. He hates L, and he hates this life.

But what the hell else is he going to do?

Right here, right now, this is good. This is something useful that he can do for Naomi. He can leave the bed and sit up straight and walk around the building and honestly say it's for her.

And not go back to that room.

Raye wishes he could just plan her funeral forever.

"We could use an abbreviation, though. Or an alias," Mail muses. "And there's room for some sort of message, too. Have you decided on the location yet?"

Raye wonders if Mail is trying to live vicariously through him. He never got to bury Mello – ha – and he never got to properly say goodbye.

But he's useful, right now. And he's the only one in the building with any real sense of empathy. And he's better than Raye's own company.

"Somewhere with a good view," Raye replies.

She'd like that.

He's pretty sure, anyway.

That afternoon, someone blows up a train in Glasgow. Nineteen dead, a whopping eighty-six people injured.

And what does the great detective do? He, who apparently cares so much about humanity? He sits in his office, and eats pineapple upside-down cake. And does nothing.

Because L doesn't care about saving people. That's just an excuse. All he wants is fame and power, and he'll do anything to get it.

Evil.

Rae knew it all along, of course. And despite being unable to question witnesses, collect samples, or make phone calls, it is still ten thousand times the detective L will ever be. Ten thousand times the hero.

The world is lucky it has me.

Rae changes the laptop password, and hides it in the attic. Just in case. L won't ever get a single shred of information out of it ever again.

A railway hijacking isn't a particularly unusual event, but Rae will visit the scene of the crime, anyway. The concept of getting away from this festering place is undeniably attractive.

Rae accidentally runs into L in the hall. The man is as insipid-looking as always, hunched and thin and filthy despite his recent shower.

Why did I ever take you seriously?

You're just a waste of everybody's time.

Rae doesn't make eye contact. Doesn't bother with an insult or an accusation. It was fun, at the beginning, to see L squirm and cower. It was fun to hurt him, just for the sake of it. It was fun to be the monster under his bed. Comfortable, to just relax and be the sadistic sociopath that Rae was never able to be before.

Now, though, it's just boring and pointless. L will do exactly what Rae wants him to do. And then he'll die.

Just like everyone else that gets in my way.

And that's fine. L isn't worth so much as a second glance.

"Good evening, Shinigami," he says, softly.

Hello, L. Did you know that you're going to die, soon? Did you know that you'll never be able to stop me?

Did you know?

L doesn't know anything at all, of course. L is stupid, and Rae flies right past him.

L calls again. Gets the answering machine again.

"Hello, this is the Tracking Library. Our staff are unavailable right now. Please note that records cannot be given out over the phone. If you have another request, leave a message after the tone."

He hangs up abruptly. He's not really sure what else he was expecting.

The funeral is a sombre one, which is unusual in the second world. Raye speaks, voice wavering and strained, but he mentions nothing of hope, nothing of the possibility of a third world.

Privately, Mail judges him for that. If he really, truly loved her, then he'd do anything just to be near her. He'd take that chance. He'd die, because then they might be together again.

But Raye has never been able to understand his own fucking privilege. Or maybe, deep down, he wants a break. He wants to live life without Naomi, just once.

Mail can't forgive him for that, either.

Mail clutches his rosary, which has been worn away to three beads, a broken cross, and a piece of decaying string.

Just once, then. Just once, for someone else.

It can't hurt, can it?

Please look after her. God. Whoever you are. Please take care of Naomi.

Please look after Mello, as well. Let them both be happy.

Raye is crouched on the ground, one hand clutching at the cool, dark earth, the other hand fisted in the sleeve of Mail's jacket.

This is the first time in almost six years that Mail has been able to truly relate to someone else. Raye doesn't want to be alone right now. Contact with another human being doesn't ease the pain at all, but without it, one becomes psychotic, nightmare-riddled and tormented.

Still, Mail hates being touched. He turns his head to hide his grimace.

The Shinigami isn't here. Nobody is here, except the three of them. L is standing a good six feet away, staring at the ground. His mask slips a little, and he pushes it back into place with his fingertips. His eye is red. Fuck. He's not taking Naomi's death any better than Raye.

You really cared for her, didn't you?

L is practically isolated now. Mail is the only member of his team left who doesn't hate him. Matsuda, and Naomi and Wedy and that little girl, they've all gone on ahead of him.

If L died, everything would be better for him. If Raye died, he'd be with his wife again.

They have options, the stupid bastards. They're just not fucking acknowledging them!

Hate you both.

Mail watches as Raye covertly glances at their boss, and loses his place in the verse when he sees that L is crying.

When they get back to base, Raye feels completely lost.

Naomi is laid to rest. Everything is done.

Now what?

How much longer does he has to stay in that room? When will it be okay for him to do some work again? If he doesn't grieve for long enough, he's disrespecting Naomi.

My life, my love.

I'm sorry.

And he is still sad. He's still broken. He's empty and scared and alone and he's never going to have anything that he wanted and isn't that enough? Can't he do something now?

What would the others think, if he took on a case?

The others.

Mail is sitting in one corner of the room, staring out the window.

And L.

L wept.

For Naomi. For her.

Raye has been wracking his mind all afternoon, but he still cannot think of a single reason why L would have pretended to cry.

So, you cared for her.

Well, fuck you.

She's gone.

You sent her to her death, and now she's GONE.

Raye is angry. Trembling with rage and blame and some warped sense of victory.

L is hurting.

L is hurting.

"You all right?" Mail asks. He makes the same enquiry every fifteen minutes or so.

L is a fucking asshole, but Raye has nowhere else to go. Like it or not, this is his home. Because this was Naomi's home.

"Not really," he answers, carefully. If he sounds too functional, Mail will be disgusted with him. After all, Mail still isn't 'all right'.

Fuck. When did Mail's opinion become so fucking important, anyway?

"That's to be expected."

"Yeah," Raye replies. "But I…I think I should stay here. I…I don't think I should leave."

"Ah," Mail says, attempting a smile and failing miserably. "Yeah. Naomi would probably be pleased to hear that."

Mail has become the barometer for the grieving process, Raye realizes. If he says that something is okay, then it's okay.

"Do you think it would be okay for me to clean our room?" he blurts out. "It's just…Naomi always hated dirt and mess."

Just being in here is making him feel grimy and revolting.

And…it is an insult to Naomi's memory, to keep her things in such a state of disarray, and filth.

Mail hesitates in the doorway.

"Uh…sure," he says quietly. "I guess."

It will take weeks to sort out all of Naomi's belongings, Raye muses.

It's the most comforting thought he's had all day.

It's strange, this sensation of knowing exactly what someone else is feeling. Not that Mail would ever have wished his predicament on anyone else, of course, but he feels a strange kinship with Raye nonetheless.

Still. It's not as if they're in the same situation. Not at all.

You are bound to see her again. I will never see him again.

Raye upends another of Naomi's jewelry boxes, and Mail attempts to leave the room unnoticed.

He badly needs a cigarette.

"I was thinking about wearing one of her rings on a chain around my neck," Raye says, thoughtfully. "What do you think?"

What do I think? You're the one who was fuckin' married to her.

But Mail gets it. It's like the rosary. Raye wants something with him, all of the time. And Mail can't walk away from this.

L never walked away from him.

So Mail goes and sits next to Raye, and tries to forget about his clamoring nicotine addiction, or the fact that Raye only seems to ask him questions when he's trying to leave.

The queen doesn't show up, Buzz doesn't call again, and Rae is barely ever around. L puts himself through a rigorous physical training program, just for something to do.

After all, he's the only one left who knows capoeira, now.

When life becomes doubtful, it is best to invest oneself in the stable and the grounded. Jas watches L closely, takes pride in every call he makes to the tracking library, counts his tears, and admires his strength of mind.

Your team is crumbling around you, and still you don't give up.

She's only made one mistake. L has made thousands.

If he can do it, then she can do it.

Very well. Then, she will go on being strong, too. She will fight her desire for Mello, her emotional exhaustion, her loathing for certain humans. She will be the fair and just god of hell, for all eternity.

Just as long as L stays strong.

With newfound enthusiasm, Raye sorts and stores Naomi's wedding dress, her favourite shoes, her beloved guns.

I'm doing this and I'm doing this for her and everything is all right, right now.

But the room gets cleaner and cleaner, and he finds an old brown jacket that she hated, and a business card from the Indian place across the street, and and and…

What if that franchise isn't in the third world?

We used to get the garlic luchi as a side-dish, and it was always the best part of the meal.

Raye doubles over, suddenly weak. It's such a stupid thing, such a pathetic ridiculous thought, but that's the point. They were married, their lives were supposed to be domestic and monotonous and now he's stuck in this place with people who don't care about him.

Raye feels his throat ache, his vision go blurry with tears. He howls into the carpet, unintelligibly miserable and frightened, shaking and unable to stop.

He hurts, damnit. He hurts.

"Yeah," Mail says gently. "I know."

L thumbs his lip, and regards the kettle-sized bowl of parfait on his desk.

All the sugar in the universe isn't any use if he doesn't have something to work on. He's been through all of his training regimes. The world is strangely quiet.

Is this your doing, hell-god?

No, the thought is ridiculous. Matsuda described a similar effect in the first world, after Light was finally destroyed. The criminal population has been decimated. Those that remain are still wary of drawing attention to themselves.

That won't last long, of course. They'll forget about faux-Kira, and the crime rate will climb, and L will find some other psychotic mastermind to battle.

But…until then…

L takes the death note from its holster under his shirt, and places it in front of him.

If he wrote a name down right now, his Shinigami would be able to get away from him. The note is the only thing that joins them.

The only thing left.

And Rae…Rae would be happy to leave. No, Rae would be relieved. Right now, it is avoiding him as much as it can, and it seems to disappear from the building completely for long periods of time. It is clearly still suffering from L's apparent treachery, and for that, he is sorry.

But no. He cannot write in the notebook. Not even now. Not even for Rae.

Misa wrote for the one she loved, and she still became a monster. A puppet-monster, but a monster nonetheless. Love, adoration, kinship. Such motives are no less dangerous than Light's own power-hunger and greed. The only motive that would be even remotely acceptable would be some sort of mercy-killing. Kindness. Benevolence. A death from which nothing could ever be gained – not even peace of mind – except for the victim themselves.

But no-one needs to be in the third world that badly. L has no reason to believe it would be any different to the second world.

His chest feels strangely bare, without the familiar leather pressed against it. He will have to get used to that, when the five years are up.

Soon. A matter of months now, and oh god how did he manage to forget that?

L stares at the notebook with a mounting sense of horror. When…when Rae leaves, he will no longer be the owner of the death note. He won't be able to see Rae. He won't be able to remember Rae, or any of this. Anything they had. Anything they might have been. He will have never had a Shinigami of his own, and he will have never fallen in love.

No.

No, that is not okay.

Deftly, almost reflexively, L opens up to the middle of the notebook and tears a thin piece of paper from the edge. The strip is no wider than a fingernail, slightly longer than a pencil.

If I keep a part of it, then my memories won't decay.

Those are the rules. L knows the rules.

He tucks the pilfered piece of paper into the compartment in his belt buckle. A security measure. L doesn't ever want to forget.

It's not as if Rae will ever know.

tbc

a/n

+ thank you for reading.

+ I'm not certain of the timing of the next update, hopefully a maximum of two weeks, though.

+ thank you.