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Chapter Text

Days in Handcuffs: 2

Light never wakes up before L. Somehow L is always awake before him with the coffee made and a doughnut box perched at the edge of the bed where he hunches over a steaming cup and writes email after endless email to Watari, to the director of the CIA, to the task force.

The second night they'd been chained together, Light had actually attempted to stay up and wait him out, but L's got years—decades?—of sleep deprivation experience on him, and Light's not surprised when he's confronted by L's bent back and the damn near constant irritation of itching in his left arm when he awakens the next morning.

Because the handcuff itches.

Light broke his arm as a kid in jujitsu and had to have a cast for six weeks. The handcuff itches like the cast did, only now he can't stick a chopstick down the edge of the metal cuff and scratch until he draws blood and the itching stops, like he did when he was little.

Now, he has a minder.

"Good morning, Raito-kun," L says without looking away from the glow of his screen. The chain jangles as L twists slightly to face him. "Did you sleep well?"

"Yes," Light lies easily, because his mother raised him to be polite. Even when you're handcuffed to someone else against your will.

Even when the handcuff itches like crazy.

L offers him a powdered doughnut. He refuses it, still politely, and putters over to the kitchenette to pour himself coffee.

The tea spoon L is holding is slightly pointed. It might work as well as a chopstick once had…

Light slugs his coffee—mouth blisters be damned—and ignores his handcuffed arm, letting it hang like dead weight. He retrieves all of what he knows about itching—it's not pain, but it rides the same neural network, and some theories he'd read claimed that diverting the pain network away from what itched could cause it to stop.

But then he'd have to hurt himself, and L would want to know why.

L always wants to know why.

He discards the idea of self-harm when he realizes the scalding burn of the coffee did nothing to distract from the itching. If pain is going to work, it's going to have to be severe—and that's something L will notice. His father will notice. Hell, Matsuda might notice.

"Something is bothering you," L says.

Light's dead arm twitches. "What makes you say that?"

"You have been standing there for several minutes without focusing on anything, and you have already had coffee. You are distracted."

Light never asked for this: to be constantly watched by someone who thinks you're a serial killer is bad enough, but having his every innocuous, even normal, action questioned and examined like a rat in a cage?

He focuses for a moment on Kira: on catching the real one, on being free. Free to scratch my damn arm again , he thinks without conscious permission. Unless I'm Kira also invades uninvited, and he clamps down on that thought before it can go any further. L must be getting to him.

He's not Kira. He'd remember if he was.

He sets the coffee cup down, returns to the main room and stretches out on his bed again. He closes his eyes, breathes, and keeps his right arm from moving over to scratch his left with great internal effort. The skin of his wrist is rough and abraded, pinkish-red; the cuff is too tight for him to fit his nails under easily. The effort would be useless, and humiliating.

"It's stupid," Light says, honest. He is always honest with Ryuzaki, even when he doesn't tell him the entire truth. "I don't want to bother you with it."

"Tell me." And that is L's intensely serious investigator voice, right there.

Light holds up his offending arm and stares at it. "My arm itches."

L blinks. "So scratch it, then."

"Under the cuff," Light says. "It itches." It has itched for two days on and off, and though he hasn't picked at it with his fingernails yet, he's tempted.

L stares at him, his wide unnerving stare, and asks, "Is that all?"

Light turns away and drops his arm. "Yes."

L laughs.

He has never heard L laugh before this, and when he does, it is not what he expected. If he'd thought about L laughing at all—which he hadn't, really—he would have imagined something higher-pitched, froglike perhaps, or cricket-ish, like his posture. Something that shook his shoulders a bit, leaving him looking even more like a nervous wreck.

L's laugh is—something else. He grips his feet, arms crossing over one another as he lands on his back on the mattress, the sound coming from low in his chest. It's deep and rhythmic, and reminds Light that L is probably older than he looks. The arc L makes with his arms folds his body into his chest, making the laugh echo cavernously, almost like a maniacal villain's in a movie.

Well, Light thinks. If the shoe fits…

But L's not a villain, not really. Ethically challenged, maybe, but not Dr. Evil, no matter how much his laugh bounces off the walls.

When he finally stops laughing, he uncurls in a single fluid motion and sits up. He restores his serious expression, then opens the drawer of his nightstand.

L reaches into the drawer and hands Light two bottles: one of anti-itch cream, and one of Vaseline. Then he produces the handcuff key from somewhere Light doesn't see and uses it to adjust a setting on the cuff, so that it hangs looser.

"Thank you," Light says as he rubs ointment around his wrist.

L smiles his tiny, mouth-quirked-up smile. The smile collapses when he notices the red chafing marks on Light's skin. "Next time, Raito-kun should not wait so long before asking for help."

"All right, I won't. Thanks." Automatically polite. Light sets the ointment aside when he's done with it. His eyes flick to the Vaseline. "Do I even want to ask why you have lubricant in that drawer?"

L's expression does not alter in its dispassionate seriousness, but the corner of his mouth twitches upward slightly. "Do not ask questions you already know the answer to, Yagami-kun."

Chapter Text

Days in Handcuffs: 5

L never gets used to time zones.

Born in Asia, raised in England, his body's internal clock never quite knows what time it is, which makes it that much easier for him to stay awake on a near-constant basis.

He'd also trained himself, years ago, to function better on four hours of sleep a night than most people function on eight. Sleep—the terrifying blank helpless vulnerability of it—may be the only thing he's really afraid of. Not even Kira imposes such fear on him, because he doesn't need Kira to live.

Because sleep horrifies him deep in the parts of himself that can still be horrified, he rings it around with rituals, routines and patterns that most ordinary people would find crazy. These rituals make sleep possible, and bearable for short periods.

L does them because he doesn't like waking up afraid. It feels too much like being a child.

He knows Light finds his rituals insane, because he's told him so. Several times, now. But the routine is the routine, and he will not tolerate the pain and mental fog that will follow if he abandons it.

Upon waking, he tucks his chin to his chest, eyes still closed, and breathes to a count of ten. Then he springs his feet up off the white carpet and crouches into his ordinary sitting stance on the floor for a few minutes, comfortable.

Never more than two minutes. He counts the seconds with his breath. He reminds himself that his hip flexors need strengthening and his legs and spine need full extension. The way he sits every day has warped his bones, but not his muscles; he can't manipulate them the same way and he's in too much pain during the day if he fails to stretch in the morning.

"Why don't you just sit like a normal person?" Light had asked him after he'd explained the reasoning behind his stretches.

L has explained that before as well, and didn't dignify the question with a response. If he were to explain it in plain terms, he'd probably say that the stretches allow him to adapt his body to the needs of his mind.

Not that his body hasn't already made plenty of sacrifices in that cause. The nub of bone and fluid holding his head in forward position is likely permanent. His hips are shifted too far forward and down on both sides; he grew up sitting in his normal posture for eight hours a day or more and his body adjusted to fit.

By the time he's done stretching, his legs are tingling and sore around the hamstrings and calves. He cracks his knuckles idly and stands, stretched skin moving over twitching muscles like leather pulled over a beaten drum as he shuffles to the bathroom and turns on the shower, the chain connecting him and Light scraping dully across the white bathroom tile.

What comes next in the ritual is not something he shares with anyone, not even Watari, much less Light. He keeps the noise down as much as he can and flushes the toilet to get rid of the evidence when he's done.

When he looks up, he avoids his own eyes in the mirror. If he makes the mistake of looking into them, he doesn't know what will happen next, but he knows that whatever does will not help him solve the current case.

In these rare moments of aloneness, he remembers what it was like before Light, when he would wake up and stretch and not need to hide anything, not need to hide from himself. He remembers A and B, M and N with a regretful longing that he identifies as a twisted sort of homesickness. He recognizes himself as someone warped by all the compromises he's been forced to make, but he doesn't think about it.

There are problems in life, as in mathematics, that have no solution.

L showers comfortably clenched around himself. He brushes his teeth, though more than half of them are fake now anyhow. When he's done Light is awake ready to take his turn, and L dresses and picks up doughnuts or cake or more coffee, more sugar—whatever Watari had left him on the nightstand the night before.

The human brain runs purely on sugar. All other fuels need to be converted first before they are useful to neurological functioning. L makes sure his brain has a steady supply of ready fuel.

Light hates sugar. L doesn't get it. Then again, Light seems to be planning to live for a while.

L never thought he had that long to live, and his most useful attribute is his brain. He will see it fed.

Light usually rolls out of bed and turns on the shower right away, but this morning it is quiet. This is unusual: a broken routine.

L hates when the routine breaks. He hates it even more when he doesn't know why.

Then, Light's voice, coming from the bathroom: "Ryuzaki, can you come in here please?"

He abandons his doughnut with a twinge of sadness and opens the door of the bathroom. Light is there, in sleep-rumpled pajamas, staring at the toilet bowl.

It is full of vomit.

He knows he flushed it; he always flushes it. Free-floating anxiety impinges itself on his consciousness, but he throttles it down before it can shake his equilibrium. His face feels warm.

There is silence while L and Light look everywhere but at each other.

"Are you…sick?" Light asks. He sounds sincerely concerned, and L is not sure if he's being manipulated or not, though he usually assumes he is, where Light is considered.

L has never lied, to Light or the Task Force or anyone. The omission of truth is not a lie. He doesn’t lie now. "No."

Light gives him a tight nod. "How long have you—done this?" Light asks, torn between curiosity and the impetus to not ask uncomfortable questions of someone he's literally chained to.

L shrugs. "I require sugar for mental functioning, but the calories would weigh me down." Make his preferred sitting positions impossible. Turn him into a sumo wrestler or grotesque hacker.

L thinks, again, about compromises.

Light nods, Adam's apple tight in his throat, and says, "I get it. But—I wish you wouldn't."

L regards him with curiosity. If Light is Kira, he's performing a fairly good rendition of someone who cares about L being bulimic. He reminds himself of how easy it generally is for Light to manipulate people—to make people think he cares about them. "It is not your choice," L settles on after a moment. "Please do not concern yourself."

Light flinches and looks down.

He flushes the toilet.

Water swirls over the evidence. L takes a deep breath and leaves the bathroom, closing the door behind him.

Chapter Text

Days in Handcuffs: 5

L has, so far, respected Light's privacy for showers and bathroom activities, but this respect does not extend to dressing. When Light asks him why not, L explains that many weapons—makeshift, stolen, or snuck in—can be concealed in or under clothes.

The point is valid, especially since they don't yet know Kira's murder weapon. (Assuming that there is a murder weapon, and that Kira's not just a vengeful death god. Which L assumes, because shinigami definitely can't be real.)

Valid point or not—most of L's points are valid—there is no time of day Light hates more than dressing. Dressing always makes him miss having his own room and space and privacy . He suspects most of the trouble comes from L seeing him before he puts his face on. Preparing to meet people has always been something he's been able to do alone, before even his mother sees him. He's accustomed to having half an hour or so in the morning to get himself looking like…himself. Bright and clear and clean, like his name.

No one's like that immediately upon waking up.

Well, maybe L is. He's never actually seen L wake up. Or fall asleep.

Light tries to make the most of his time in the shower, but if his shower goes too long, he uses all the hot water, because L showers before he does. And he emerges from the shower looking like an emaciated drowned rat, eyes in the mirror full of a peculiar honesty that he's only ever noticed when he's alone.

Dressing in the same room as L is uncomfortable for all the ordinary reasons that being partially naked in a room with another person is uncomfortable: the vulnerability, the self-consciousness, the embarrassment. L shows no specific interest in him in the morning, but the generalized interest in Light as a serial killer suspect is always there.

Today he's not sure he wants to put up with L's constant examination. He is stunned at the revelation of L's bulimia. He probably should have figured that out himself—L eats nothing but junk, doesn't exercise except for his weird stretches and occasional bouts of tennis, and doesn't gain weight.

He hadn't figured it out, though, and L must have revealed it on purpose. L never would let something that important just…slip, like that.

Light assumes, then, that L wants Light to know that he's bulimic. Why? To make him seem more approachable, more human? Less like a robotic investigator cum drill sergeant that runs every aspect of his life without ever raising his voice?

If he really wants to know, he's going to have to ask L about it.

He doesn't want to.

He reaches for the shelf above the toilet where he's placed his clothes for the day to protect them from the moisture of the shower. He sits on the closed toilet lid and begins the actual act of dressing before L can do something like knock on the door and ask if he's fallen in.

Not that L has ever done that, but Light's fairly sure he's never taken this long in the bathroom before.

He directs his full attention to his clothes.

Dressing in handcuffs is not impossible, but it is as awkward as Light expected when he'd first learned that he and L would be chained together for an indefinite period. The underwear is awkward, not because it's difficult to put on, but because the chain jangles as he shimmies into them. Residual water from the shower sprays outward in all directions, leaving fine droplets on his clothes.

Pants are easy, thank whatever God there is, but shirts are irritating. He has to be in the same room with L while he changes into a clean shirt, and he shouldn't have to. This bothers him in the same irrational way that L's constant attention and examination bother him.

Whatever L may think, he does not need to be watched like this. Light knows he gave himself up for voluntary observation and that L is within his rights given the circumstances, but putting on a shirt—and taking one off— always feels like being pinned to a wall.

He is dependent on L. He is not used to being dependent on anyone. But it's either that, or go around in soiled clothing, which Light also refuses to do.

L gets around the shirt problem by wearing sweaters with sleeves that have Velcro tracking up and down from wrist to armpit; all he has to do is pull his shirt on over his head and seal the Velcro, leaving a gap for the cuff. The chain doesn't get caught at all.

Light does not have special Velcro sweaters and doesn't ask for any. He's a little disturbed that L has sweaters like that on hand. Just how many suspected criminals has he been chained to?

He lets that line of thought go—better not to think about it, really. He's stuck with his ordinary shirts from home, that his mom brings pressed from the house every week. Drawing his arm through the sleeve drags the chain with it—there's no way around that unless he wants to destroy his shirts.

And so, twice a day—to change into pajamas and into normal clothes—Light is released from the handcuffs for ten seconds or so, for the simple and necessitous reason that he can’t go around without a shirt like some sort of caveman.

Every time he is released, he tries to see where L stashes the key, but he keeps shifting its position. It is so small it is almost impossible to track. He knows L keeps it on him, but short of knocking him unconscious and taking it, he doesn't know how to get at it.

Even if he managed to free himself from the cuffs, there are cameras everywhere. No escape. Claustrophobic, but the feeling is familiar, as if he's been watched like this before.

Except he doesn't remember being under surveillance before. Who would want to watch him? He knows his life is boring. He studies, he goes to school, he eats and sleeps. Most of this is by design; he's had a plan for his life for as long as he can remember, and detours from the plan, while potentially interesting, run the risk of derailing his life entirely.

The Kira investigation is the most important thing that has ever happened to him. Misa is the most interesting thing to happen to him in a long time, and he's not even all that interested in her. He fails to understand why she likes him so much when he pays no attention to her at all.

L interests him, but he doesn't interrogate that feeling, or track it. That way madness—or worse, friendship—lies.

Becoming friends with his captor, no matter how interesting, is something he's cautious about and suspicious of. He's read up on Stockholm Syndrome, and he'd rather not be a textbook case.

He opens the door of the bathroom. L is waiting for him, fully dressed, the weight of his stare bearing down just like usual; just like he hadn't revealed that he's a genius with a severe eating disorder.

L lets Light go long enough to get his shirt on. Then, he asks, "Breakfast?"

Light grimaces, but politeness saves him. "Good idea, Ryuzaki."

The chain locks around his arm.

Chapter Text

Days in Handcuffs: 5

Breakfast is donuts, coffee, tea, and a picked-over fruit plate. A few crescent rolls that look like they've been processed to within an inch of their lives round out the spread.

Light has the brief, but worrying thought that he might murder someone for an egg flit through his mind. Then he reaches for a donut and pours himself a cup of coffee.

Mogi and Matsuda are at the breakfast table ahead of them—Matsuda looks like he hasn't slept in about a week—and Misa is there as well. Like L, she never really appears tired, but he puts that down to makeup on her part.

She's also not chained to L 24/7, which probably helps with sleep quality. And quantity.

L piles a plate with powdered donuts in a spiral-like configuration that might have some sort of mathematical or pattern-seeking meaning, though it's probably just L being strange. He eats from the outside edge of the spiral inward, white confectioner's sugar blending right in to his clothes. He starts eating before sitting down, choosing the chair across from Matsuda—leaving Light, logically, to sit across from Misa.

Of course.

Nibbling his single donut, Light tips what remains of the fruit plate onto his own plate and adds a crescent roll to it.

The thought that L is bulimic forces itself to the front of his mind again. He's not sure why. Probably because a week of breakfasts like this had already made him think that L was malnourished. If Light has to keep eating like this, he'll start getting concerned about rickets. Or scurvy. (There's no citrus on the fruit plate.)

Misa pouts at the chocolate donut on her plate as if it's personally offended her. "Can't we have something else for breakfast for a change?"

"Like what?" Light asks, pretending vague interest for reasons he doesn't quite understand. He's not even sure Misa understands why she likes him. It's just a fact they've both accepted.

"I don't know," she says, twirling a hand through her hair and looking as bored as Light feels. "Eggs? Sausage? Bacon?"

"I didn't know you ate meat," L says softly without looking away from his donuts.

Her lips purse. "What are you? Vegetarian?"

"Yes," L answers matter-of-factly, and that's all.

Light shrugs. "I wouldn't mind eggs, myself." He frowns. "Eggs are vegetarian, so we could have them."

L nods like he's not really paying attention.

Light doesn't blame him; the conversation is inane. He greets Matsuda with more politeness than is strictly necessary, then asks what he's working on for the Kira case.

"Oh, you know," Matsuda says, scratching the back of his neck and coloring from the embarrassment of being singled out. "Lots of leads. Got to check them all out."

"Anything I can help with?" Light asks.

L jerks on the chain a little as if to remind him that he's there, but Light keeps his attention on Matsuda. "Um, maybe?" Matsuda begins tentatively, leaning forward. "I canvassed the area around the bus route Raye Penber took when he died—made a list of suspects to maybe check out along the route. I could use some help with the footwork, if…" He pauses in his rapid, nervous explanation to glance at L.

L doesn't acknowledge Matsuda. Light almost snorts. He knows L's not about to leave this building—or let Light leave, either. But he likes the idea of getting out of here for a while. Seeing something else besides the same rooms and the same halls and the world through glass.

When he'd leaned in to explain his leads, Matsuda's hair had fallen into his eyes, calling to attention his desperate need of a haircut. Light runs a surreptitious hand through his own hair and realizes he could probably use one, too.

He hasn't been outside in weeks.

He's got his scissors in his sewing kit; maybe he can do something with those.

After breakfast.

Misa inhales her doughnut in one go, barely chewing, as if she doesn't want to taste it. Then she places her hand in one of Light's, shoving Matsuda out of her way. "So, we're going on a date tonight, right? You promised."

"Uh, I did?" He doesn't remember any such thing, and he glances at L for help—support? confirmation that he's not nuts?—before he remembers that asking his captor for help, even implicitly, can't be a good idea.

"Uh, sure, I guess," he says. L doesn't say anything. Misa squeals and clamps down on his hand like she never wants to let him go.

Who knows what he and L are doing tonight.

Light forces a smile so he won't roll his eyes and tell Misa what he really thinks, which is that whatever relationship they have is a charade pulled over their mutual experience of the Kira case. He looks at her a little too long, staring, wondering what draws her to him.

Objectively, she is physically beautiful. Cute. Sweet. Not terribly bright, but not unusually stupid either. A light surrounds her: charisma; L has used it and she needs it for her acting and modeling careers, but Light is not drawn in. He's seen the hint of crazy behind her eyes: he knows that if he asked her to do something—anything—she would do it without hesitation.

But he doesn't know why.

Light examines his own life carefully, like an observer from the outside. The presence of this unexamined, unexamining person makes no sense to him. There are holes in his memory of her where there should be certainty: how they met, why they'd remained in one another's orbit, why Misa had decided he'd hung the moon and the stars with it.

"I wanna go up to the roof," Misa says, eyes sparkling and guileless, strangely empty for all their seeming warmth. "Can we go?"

Light shrugs and gestures to L. "You'll have to ask Ryuzaki."

Misa turns a pouting smile on L.

"Perhaps a rooftop visit could be arranged tonight," L says without looking directly at her.

Light spends the rest of the meal in silence, blushing furiously when Misa pulls him forward for a kiss on the cheek before she saunters off to God knows where. It's not that he's embarrassed, exactly—more like bewilderingly confused. He wishes Misa didn't feel so free to touch him; he has never talked with her about public displays of affection before, and she clearly doesn't understand how much they bother him.

In the back of his mind, as if remembering something from a far remove, he knows he'd kissed her at least once. He thinks he'd done it to make her shut up.

Nothing in his current experience seems to contradict the memory.

L tugs Light toward their shared workstation, in front of the gigantic screens with their humming white electric light. Watari brings more coffee, and L spins from his chair to retrieve it, leaving Light standing in front of L's chair.

Light thinks for a moment, then sits in his chair, taking his brief and somewhat petty revenge.

There is only one consistent way to needle L that he knows of, and that's routine disruption. Even punching L doesn't seem to faze him, but messing with his routine and habits makes the corners of his eyes twitch and his shoulders lock forward.

Light is confused and thwarted and more than a little childlike. He wants L to feel the same way—at least for a second or two.

When L returns with coffee, he surveys Light with an expression that is very like disappointment. "I understand that you are upset," L says. "Because I won't allow you to go outside on your own, or investigate independently. Is that right? Or is it because you wanted me to intervene with Misa-san at breakfast? Maybe both?"

Light ducks his head slightly and doesn't answer.

L makes a sound that is very like an exasperated sigh, and Light permits himself a tiny smile of victory. The sigh makes him wonder, in an abstract way, if L really cares about him at all or if Light's just an annoying puzzle piece that doesn't fit where it's supposed to yet.

He suspects it's the latter. The idea unsettles him, not because he expects L to be his friend—far from it—but because the suspicion gives him the conviction that L doesn't care about anything. Or anyone. Only the puzzle.

That can't be healthy.

"I need to go outside," Light says, and is stunned at how nakedly the plea comes out. He hadn't realized until he said it how much he wanted the simple freedom of stepping foot outside this place. Even if L still had him on a chain.

L's eyes widen at his tone. He sets his coffee cup down on the desk and offers Light his full attention. "Why?" He looks concerned. "Do you need something that is not here?"

Light almost snorts. The list of things this place doesn't have is longer than the list of things it does. All the money in the world can't make up for Light's lost home. He stares at his hands. He wants a haircut. He wants his room. He wants his prep courses and his stupid sister asking for help and his mother's pride in him.

These are the things he can't have.

He yanks on his hair. "I wanted to cut this."

L nods slowly. "May I?"

Light's eyes narrow. "May you what?"

"Cut your hair. It's generally easier if another person does it."

True. But L is still mad at him for disrupting him; Light sees it, and knows how pissed off L is right now.

"Maybe later."

"Now is as good a time as any," L says airly. He retrieves a pair of scissors from his office drawer—chain stretching almost as far as it will go—and returns.

L peers over Light's shoulder and invades his space, making the scissors slip sideways and taking a much-longer-than-intended chunk out of Light's hair.

Light almost loses it—gets so mad he grabs the scissors to stab L with them in an impulse that feels frighteningly familiar—but he holds still.

He looks L in the eyes. "Thanks for that."

L has the decency to look a bit sheepish. He takes the next lock of hair in hand more gently and measures it against the first one he cut, taking his time, chewing on the thumb of his other hand. Nervous.

Matsuda chooses this moment to ping them from the main meeting room. L gets up to answer the summons and Light follows because the handcuff demands it.

Matsuda's face appears on the computer screen in front of them. Matsuda's talking a mile a minute.

"A suspect?" L asks after the breathless rush of words from Matsuda. "What makes you think that?"

"Here," Matsuda says. "The witness, Naomi Misora, dropped this package off in her P.O. box before she died. She was casing the bus route that Raye Penber died on—anyway, she found someone who might have seen something. It's all on the map, here." Matsuda holds a map of Kanto up to the screen, neatly marked with red and green lines.

"Very nice," L says, sounding almost surprised. "I will investigate this tomorrow morning. Please pull together all of the materials from the P.O. box for me to review."

"Yes, L," Matsuda says with boyish earnestness. His hair falls into his eyes. Then his face disappears from the screen.

L looks down at the scissors in his hand. Carefully, deliberately, L evens out Light's haircut on all sides. By the time he's done fixing it, it's too short, but at least it's level and neat again.

Light looks at himself in the reflection of the dead computer screens and feels quietly satisfied.

Maybe he and L should gang up on Matsuda.

L hovers in the doorway of the room. "Next time," L says quietly, "sit in your own chair."

Chapter Text

Days in Handcuffs: 8

The first touch of the wind on his skin has Light clutching the doorpost, head spinning in the bright light and open air.

It's a lead—the first real lead they've had in weeks. Matsuda's foot campaign really had paid off: Naomi Misora's sources had been whispers, but those whispers had spread through the neighborhood and generated hints—so many hints, from so many sources, that L had stayed up for two nights straight comparing the details of each potential witness in spreadsheets, diagrams, images.

His final conclusion—85% certainty—had been that Kira is in the city, nearby. So nearby, they could almost walk—but not quite.

Kira is near. That is the only reason L is even tempted to leave the building that Light thinks of as his prison.

Until they make plans to leave, Light doesn't even realize that L has thought of this place as home all along—because L is afraid of going outside.

No, that's not it. Light looks over at L, connected to him by the chain and looking bored. Light's met L outside plenty of times—they've played tennis together, even—but he's never really been outside as L. Known, potentially, to the rest of the world. He's always hidden behind an alias.

Now, Light knows who he is. He could tell anyone they meet, anyone at all. That's—a kind of power. As Light breathes in fresh air and the commingling smells of the flower shop and kissaten across the street, he feels alive and somehow dangerous.

L catches his eye, skin bright and pale in the morning sunlight, and waves toward an oncoming car. A taxi in Tokyo—like Light needed more evidence that L has money to burn. He moves ahead of Light and opens the green door, then slides in, chain yanking Light forward.

Light composes himself and shuts the car door. The taxi driver isn't anyone he recognizes. "Isn't Matsuda coming with us?" Light asks under his breath, not sure how much this driver knows about who they are.

"No," L replies. "The rest of the Task Force shouldn't know about this. It would be cruel to get their hopes up if this doesn't work out."

Light lifts a hand to his eyes. "My father will worry."

"Watari knows where we are. Everything will be fine."

Being reassured by L…somehow makes him feel worse. "Where are we going?"

The taxi driver grunts assent.

"Akio's," L says, "a bar off of Toyoma street."

"I know it," the driver says, and shifts into gear.

***

Three panicked minutes later, they arrive at Akio's in a blur of speed. Light yanks the door open immediately and gets out, feeling dizzy.

"Are you all right, Raito-kun?" L pulls money out of his pants pocket absent-mindedly as if nothing strange has happened. "Haven't you taken a taxi before?"

"No," Light says with his head between his knees.

L hands exact change to the driver, who answers back with an obscenely polite version of "thank you" that only service people ever use, and the car is gone.

"Oh," L says, a little put out. "But the subway, then?"

"The subway," Light says, lifting his head and hoping the world won't spin away from him, "is nothing like that. I think we were going two hundred kilometers an hour."

"Only a hundred or so, for a while, yes," L agrees. "But he got us here quickly, didn't he?"

"I think I left my stomach at the Task Force building."

L's smile is wide and shows off teeth that are too perfect for all the sugar he eats. "I am sorry, Raito-kun," he says, not sounding sorry at all. "Can I help?"

You could undo the handcuffs, Light thinks but doesn't say. As his heart rate returns to normal, he takes note of all the details surrounding him—sun, wind, clouds.

Rain.

The sun is still out, but a raindrop hits him squarely on the nose.

"I'm fine," Light grits out, straightening to his full height as his queasy gut makes a noise of protest. Another raindrop hits Light's head, and another; the water in the air makes L's hair poof up like a cartoon's.

Having confirmed Light's physical stability if nothing else, L walks briskly toward the pockmarked wooden door of Akio's at top speed.

And where L goes, Light goes. It's the way they are, now. Maybe forever, if they don't catch Kira.

As Light follows, he asks, "Who is this suspect?"

Chapter Text

Days in Handcuffs: 8

"This place is—" L throws up his hands hopelessly. "Colloquial language supplies the word 'dive,' but I don't think that's sufficient."

Light nods in horrified agreement.

Akio's is dimly lit, full of smoke even at this early hour. The building is low and cramped; even though there are only a dozen or so patrons, the limitations of the space make the bar look packed. There are two windows behind the bar, but one of them is broken; someone has tacked up rice paper over the hole. Between the windows, a battered flat-screen television hangs, picture faded by the glare of the light behind it. The channel is on some sports game or other; Light doesn’t pay attention beyond that. There are pickled—vegetables?—in jars next to the barkeeper's head, most of them covered in dust. When Light looks at the floor, he sees a variety of nicks and gouges in what appears to be layers upon layers of unchanged tatami. 

Ah, I see. Instead of changing the floor, they replace it by putting a new one over the filthy, soiled one.

The counter itself is covered in graffiti, some of it obscene, all of it badly spelled. He hovers one hand over it and feels something in the air like oil—or alcohol or (he gets one clear smell) vomit. Light tries to remember when he had his last immune booster.

"This may be the filthiest place in all of Japan," L says under his breath. His tone is fascinated; his cheeks flush. He idles up to the bar in his zombie shuffle and plants his white-clad butt onto a barstool that has probably never been cleaned. The chain tinkles between them, and the sound draws the brief attention of one of the patrons. Otherwise, everyone ignores them.

L gestures for him to sit down at an open stool. Light keeps standing. 

L orders something that sounds like an American drink—maybe a European one?—and the bartender grunts and tells him they don't have it. L's shoulders scrunch in disappointment and he asks the bartender for something again—gin and tonic.

"Flavored?"

"Sure."

The bartender turns away to begin making L's drink. L rolls his shoulders for a moment—a shrug?—and asks, "Do you drink, Light?"

Light purses his lips in distaste. "I don't like the taste of it."

"That never stopped me."

Light rolls his eyes and bites back the impulse to inform L that he's ordered a fruity girl drink. L probably knows that already. Hell, that's probably all L orders. 

Adding alcohol to a diet already comprised of mostly sugar is also somewhat worrying.

"Is it," Light begins, unsure of where to stand, knowing he shouldn't sit, and not knowing why they're here, of all places. "Is it even safe to talk here?"

"Not in Japanese," L says breezily as the bartender brings up his drink, not bothering with the polite regard that even the taxi driver had given. "Perhaps not English, either," he says in English while giving the bartender his creepy stare. "French?"

"I don't speak French."

L sighs. "Shame." He takes one sip of his drink and wrinkles his nose. "I rarely say this, but I think the alcohol content of this drink is too high," he says in English.

English it is. "Why are we here?"

L checks his watch under the table. "The suspect should make an appearance in twenty minutes, give or take."

"How do you know?"

"Matsuda's tailing him."

"Why aren't we tailing him?"

L gives him a baffled look. "Not to be rude, Raito-kun, but we do kind of stand out. Me, especially. Matsuda is bland. No one will notice him unless he does something stupid."

Light is tempted to put his face in his hands. "You mean like he did the last time? And the time before? And the time before?"

"Hush, Raito-kun," L says, a bit put out. "How many police officers have been brave enough to go after Kira in the first place?"

Well. True. Light doesn't give the Task Force much credit, his father excepted, because he's always known how brave his father is. He shrugs. "Sorry," he says. "I guess I just wanted to complain."

L smiles his enigmatic smile and takes a very small sip of his drink.

"That reminds me," Light says in English. "You were going to tell me about the suspect…"

Behind them, the door opens, letting in slightly better-smelling air from outside. A man enters—either off work or taking a break, judging by the suit and tie. When he sits next to them at the bar, L tenses, and Light takes a closer (though surreptitious) look at the newcomer.

He's tall, heavyset, not exactly fat, and his jaw looks like it's been broken at least once. Unsteady glittering eyes make his face look like a pig's. He also sweats like one, enhancing the disgustingness of the immediate atmosphere.

The man orders a drink, and L's shoulders gradually slump to normal. He's writing in a notebook, shoulders tense. He looks over his shoulder, in L's direction, and L sets down his drink—more than three-quarters full—to nakedly observe the disgusting man, like an insect specimen pinned to a foam board.

All of Light's questions die in his throat. He knows exactly who he's looking at, and when Matsuda enters less than a minute later, Light is not surprised.

The only thing that surprises him is how common Kira seems. He swipes a sip of L's drink and uses the movement to get a look at the man's crinkled eyes—small to start with, and pressed further shut by the fat on his face. There's no cleverness or spark of intellect there to interest him; this is not the anti-L. 

In that moment, Light is so disappointed that he almost makes the mistake of letting it show. 

Matsuda takes a seat next to L and orders water. The bartender snorts and puts something that smells like vodka in a tall glass. Matsuda, wisely, leaves his drink alone and strikes up a conversation about yet another sudden Tokyo downpour.

The man closes his notebook and shifts attention to his mobile phone. Light cranes his neck to see and notices that the man’s opened a news site. His eyes flick to the television, but it’s still the same boring sports program. He and L glance at one another--

--and the television changes to a breaking news podcast: Takeda Nobuhiro, wealthy businessman with controlling interest against Yotsuba Corp., suddenly dropped dead of a heart attack.

Matsuda reacts first, and that’s bad for all of them: he pulls his gun on the Kira suspect, and the man rises brandishing both fists. One goes to Matsuda’s gut and bends him practically in half; another makes a successful effort to grab the gun. By this time the bartender has picked up an aluminum bat and has moved to break up the fight, but the Kira suspect points the gun at the window behind the bar, takes aim, and shatters it with two quick shots.

Light shields his eyes. Next to him, L is perfectly still: he stares at the suspect with the same rapt attention as before.

And there that suspect goes, fleeing out of the bar that now has two broken windows—and neither L nor Light had even heard him speak. This is terrible. 

Light rises from his stool, and L follows a fraction of a second later, unsteady on his feet. When they’re both upright and facing the door, L starts shaking and clinging to Light’s shoulders: they are about to fall--

“Whoa!” Light says, catching them both and restoring his balance as L uses him as a support pillar.  “Are you injured?” He can’t be drunk; he hasn’t drunk enough. “Are you shot?”

L shakes his head. "I'm going to regret saying this," L says, "but I should have eaten before we left.”

Chapter Text

Days in Handcuffs: 8

Here's the situation: L and Light have chased their Kira suspect into the street, into the open—this is excellent progress. L calculates that the person they are pursuing has an 80% of either being one of the Kiras, or of working for one. Matsuda is pursuing the suspect on foot, with Light and L poised to follow, but...

L is hypoglycemic, and crashing.

L tries to tell Light—something, anything, about Higuchi, about needing another hit of sugar untainted by alcohol—and feels himself going limp and fishmouthed and useless.

He focuses.

"I need something to eat," he says levelly. "And a bathroom that won't give me tetanus."

“Eat?” Light asks, incredulous. “Now?”

“Get me to a convenience store,” he says. “You and Matsuda can run after him and report back to me.”

A strange look flits across Light’s face: the freedom to move around without the chain is new for them both, and Light seems to want it, relish it. He mentally revises his percentages for Light being Kira--or working for one of the Kiras. 

He favors the idea of Light being Kira, and it is not because he doesn’t like or appreciate Light as a person--neither of those things are true, but they’re irrelevant. He likes the idea because Light is worthy of the role: not just capable of it, but suited to playing these kinds of dark cryptic games with the world’s greatest detective. He is good at getting under L’s skin; in the relatively short time they’ve spent together, he’s memorized L’s schedule and deliberately works with and around it, manipulating it when he desires to make L uncomfortable. Too smart to be an ordinary teenager--and too driven in the cause of justice to be sanguine about murderers walking the streets.

Light’s Kira percentages always hover around the low sixties to early eighties, and he revises them upward now. 

Light hoists him up and puts one of L’s arms over his shoulder. They shuffle forward, out of the bar and out to the uneven sidewalk. The bumps on the street meant to guide the blind make L’s footfalls into shuffling, and Light has to practically carry him to the sweets aisle of the nearest 7-Eleven. He plops him down there, puts a 500 yen coin in his hand, and sprints off toward the bar again. 

In the distance, L can see police cars lining up outside the bar. Well. Shots had been fired, he supposes--but the suspect is long gone. And, if L is right, the suspect is guilty of far worse than that.

L finds the melon bread in the bakery aisle and selects three of the biggest pieces, individually wrapped. He pays for them, and the cashier displays mild annoyance at not being given exact change, but L doesn't care. He wishes he could buy more.

He pays, bows a little in politeness and moves toward the corner of the store with the fax machine and USB charging area so that he can eat in peace. He is just about to sit down when the phone rings.

Yagami Souichirou. He sighs and receives the call. "Detective Yagami," L says, curling himself up in the corner under the fax machine while he inhales the first piece of his melon bread. "How nice to receive a call from you." His voice is muffled by chewing.

"Where are you, sir?" Souchirou Yagami says, and his register is mild but his tone is not; L suspects that if he'd been there in person the detective would be glaring daggers. "Where is my son?"

"I am in a convenience store off of 8th street," L says. "Light is with Matsuda chasing a Kira suspect. I was just about to call to confirm that Matsuda had reached out to you--"

And the phone goes dead.

L sighs and enjoys a few peaceful, quiet minutes with his stack of melon bread as a few store attendants hover around him, clearly signalling that he's blocking the fax and charging area, but they're too polite to ask him to move. He's not in a hurry, though. Light and Matsuda are faster than him in his current state, and detective Yagami is probably the most capable member of the task force--aside, maybe, for his son.

He should probably apologize for putting Light in the line of fire at some point. After his blood sugar stabilizes.

***

The news is not great. Both Matsuda and Light had managed to lose the suspect, and now he's seen all of their faces, which will make it impossible for them to sneak up on him again.

There is a silver lining: Matsuda had written down the license plate number of the car Higuchi had gotten into. And the car definitely didn't belong to Higuchi.

L has always suspected there was more than one Kira. He likes being proven right. 

Matsuda and Light come to pick him back up from the convenience store, and L restores the chain to Light's wrist as they figure out their next move. 

"The Task Force is tracing the plates right now," Matsuda says. "We should know where to go in a few minutes."

"That's assuming whoever it is goes back home," Light says before L gets a chance to. "That's not what I would do, if I were being followed."

"Very good, Raito-kun." Sugar races in his bloodstream, and possibilities dance before his eyes. "But we don't need to wait to find out where they're going."

Matsuda's eyes widen. "We don't?"

L shakes his head and takes out his cell phone. He dials 1--his speed dial for Watari. "Watari," he says, "get me a location on Higuchi Kyosuke."

Chapter Text

Days in Handcuffs: 8

Lest anyone should forget it, Watari is a bona fide genius. 

As soon as he'd gotten a lock on L's GPS location at Akio's, he'd assigned satellite surveillance for every patron leaving or entering the bar--including the Kira suspect. When L asks him to track Higuchi, he provides a location with no hesitation whatsoever.

Light is in awe. He hadn't thought so far ahead in this operation, but L had. They haven't lost Kira yet.

Watari's satellites track Higuchi to a gated community in downtown Tokyo, protected by armed guards. He provides a hypothetical entry route, and L and Light move to intercept Higuchi while Matsuda gathers his father and Mogi for backup.

The entry route to the gated community runs through the sewers. The manhole cover L leads him to is patterned with a pretty flower Light doesn't recognize; he thinks of it as superfluous decoration. L lifts the cover, and Light expects there to be a terrible smell, but he doesn't smell anything at all. He supposes Tokyo deserves its reputation for cleanliness. 

The gated community is some miles into Tokyo, and there's no way to shorten the route. As they walk, Light begins to wish he'd bought something at the convenience store with L: his stomach rumbles loudly and his head feels foggy from fatigue and lack of food and water. If only he'd had a nutritious breakfast--

--and then, a more mortifying problem becomes apparent. He'd had some gin and tonic when he'd taken a look at the suspect at that awful bar Akio's, and the liquid has finally caught up with him. 

He needs to go to the bathroom.

This need starts as a warm rush like a gentle reminder, but it sharpens as he takes each step forward. He takes a deep breath to steady himself, and keeps walking at a measured pace; he tells himself that he'll find a public toilet as soon as he leaves the sewers--or, failing that, he'll use the toilet in the suspect's house. With relief as the goal, he continues forward.
 
In fifteen minutes it starts to hurt to walk; in half an hour, setting his left foot down is agony that jolts his entire body from arches to spine, and L notices. 

"What is wrong, Raito-kun?" He looks at Light, who is practically hopping from foot to foot, and L smiles. "Ah. I see. You could pee in the sewer," L suggests. "That's what it's there for, after all."

Light grits his teeth. "I'll hold it," he says, mortified, feeling blood rushing to his face and urine racing to his bladder and there's no relief, no way to run away. The chain is only ten feet long: that's not enough distance to escape from this.

This really isn’t fair. He hadn’t even ordered a drink.

***

Light breaks half an hour later, and L reassures him that he won't invade his privacy while he relieves himself. Light thanks him and finds a dark corner, but he doesn't feel L's eyes leave him for a moment. Still, the relief is incredible, and being able to walk without pain isn't something he'll be taking for granted again in a hurry.

After that's taken care of, they move along edge of the sewer where it's drier; the center doesn't flow with water, exactly, but the condensation in the center is like an ooze. L coils the chain around his arm so that it doesn't drag in sewage, which also has the effect of making them stand closer together. When they reach an exit with a ladder, L calls Watari to confirm they're in the correct location.

Watari confirms this, and they climb the ladder, coming out some sixty or seventy yards outside the sort of opulent mansion that Light has only ever seen in magazines or movies. The entire building is bright-white, lit in fluorescent spotlights that reveal the presence of an inground pool in the back lot, and open-concept plexiglass forming most of the irregularly angled walls.

The house is not entirely transparent, but it would be difficult to sneak up on someone living here. It's a glass house: they can look in easily, but they can also be easily seen.

L subvocalizes something to Watari that Light doesn't quite catch. They edge closer to the front door, ten feet tall and lined with entirely clear columns carved in a Chinese style, and don't see anyone; the only guards in sight are outside a gate on the other side of an iron fence. Even if they're spotted, those guards won't be able to do much of anything, at least not in a hurry. 

The door, when they reach it, is open. Light moves to push the door open, and L grabs his arm. "Matsuda and detective Yagami are en route," he says. "We should wait for backup."

"To do that, we'd need to get to cover," Light says, "and there's no cover. It would be easier to hide inside."

A shadow appears in the doorway before he stops speaking. Reflexively, he steps to the side so that the opening door doesn't slam into him; L steps to the other side, and the chain comes up and gets caught in the edge of the door.

The man that opens the door is definitely Higuchi Kyousuke: same piggy eyes and swart forehead, same general lack of intelligent expression. The slump of his shoulders and red marks around his eyes make it look like they've roused him from a nap.

It takes Higuchi a few crucial seconds to recognize them in the growing dark, and those seconds mean everything, because Light is able to identify the placement and movement of the gun in his hand and snap into his hapkido training. He may be rusty, but he remembers that the average opponent in a fight has three seconds to react to the first blow. 

If they don't react in time, the fight may as well be over.

Light spreads his hands wide for a butterfly block and grips Higuchi's pistol, pointing it back at him as he twists under the fat man's arm. He frees the gun and positions himself behind Higuchi as L places himself firmly in front, blocking off all possibility of escape with hard high kicks to the chest and face.

In a movement so coordinated it is dance-like, Light tosses L the gun. He catches it, and their eyes meet; Light holds Higuchi's arms around his back while L pistol-whips him in the the skull. Higuchi slumps to the ground, face bleeding, and L and Light keep looking at one another, breathing hard.

"I wish the Task Force could have helped us with that," Light mutters after a time.

L grins, and the circles around his eyes and the set of his shoulders make him appear wolflike and predatory. "It's not our fault they can't follow directions." 

Chapter Text

Days in Handcuffs: 8/9

"They're late."

Light paces back and forth while L stands still, the chain jangling between them a harsh and strident sound in the stillness, surrounded yet again by glass walls. "They'll be here," L answers.

"What if he wakes up?" Light asks, gesturing to the chair where they've duct taped Higuchi. Light has expressed concerns about the bonds holding, but L has captured criminals for Interpol before. It will hold--at least long enough for one or the other of them to knock him out again.

"We could search him," Light suggests after a long pause.

"The Task Force might accuse us of tampering with evidence."

"If we wait, he might get away," Light says. "It's just the two of us."

"And we have a gun," L says. He's still holding it like an alien object. He knows how to use guns--he's spent plenty of time on the shooting range with Watari, and his vision is excellent. But he doesn't like them. There is a reason he used it as a bludgeon and not for its intended purpose. In his opinion, guns make it too easy to kill people. "And I don't seem to recall us having the slightest bit of insecurity subduing the man."

Light shifts from foot to foot. "I can't just sit here, doing nothing, waiting. I need--" He takes a deep breath. "I need some proof that his guy is really Kira."

"Is there any reason to doubt the intelligence the task force has gathered? He's part of Yotsuba Corp. The sudden deaths in the past week that weren't criminals all benefit them. Circumstantially, it looks like he's guilty."

"Yes," Light says, "but look at him. Honestly. He just--when I first saw him, I thought he couldn't possibly be Kira. He's too stupid, too easy to follow, too easy to beat." He pauses. "When I think about your televised conference where you drew out the first Kira, the sense I get is that Kira's probably as smart as you are. More impulsive, but not stupid. Or greedy. The first Kira only killed criminals."

"Motives change," L says. "Unless you're suggesting what I think you're suggesting."

"That there's more than one Kira?" Light asks, but it's mostly rhetorical. "I'm almost certain of it. I think if we search him, we'll find something--a business card, a murder weapon, something we can use to tie him to the brain behind these mass murders."

Light's face is flush, his skin pale; he's up way past his bedtime and hasn't eaten dinner, and passion makes him sway on his feet like a madman. "How far away are they?" he asks.

L texts Watari. The message he gets back states that the task force will be there in fifteen minutes. "Can you wait half an hour to perform the search?" L asks, adding in the time it will take to strip the scene and perform initial forensic analysis.

"No," Light says. The answer is definite. "The longer I sit here, the more I think that the real Kira is using the time to pounce on us--make his next move." He approaches L and bends down to his level; they are close and face to face. "It's just us here," he says. "And the guy's knocked out. If I search him a bit first before the task force gets here, who would know?" 

Until recently, Light had been part of the task force himself. L bites his thumb idly and considers. Light's assessment of this situation is not strictly accurate; Watari would also know, because L doesn't hide things from Watari. The question he needs to ask himself is if it's worth the risk to trust Light's hunch. Light has always shown unusual perception into the inner workings of the first Kira. Perhaps it wouldn't hurt to indulge him.

L makes an inviting gesture with his hand. "By all means," he says, and Light's eyes widen: he hadn't expected L to say yes. "But be careful," he warns as Light moves toward the chair where Higuchi is bound. "If he comes to, he may not be entirely helpless. We still don't know how Kira kills people."

Light offers him a weak smile. "Thanks, Ryuzaki. I'll be careful."

He puts his back to L and focuses on Higuchi. He starts at the top of the man's head and works down, emptying his shirt and pants pockets, progressing to an inner pocket in his jacket. He pulls out a series of ordinary objects: pens, a stubbed pencil, business cards, a cell phone--and, very last, out of the jacket pocket, a little black notebook.

L watches every muscle in Light's back seize and tense at the same time. Every object that he'd confiscated from Higuchi except the notebook goes clattering to the floor--cell phone unfortunately included; hopefully it isn't broken.

For a moment that stretches, Light stands utterly still with the notebook in his hands.

"Raito-kun?" L asks. "What is it? What did you find?"

Light doesn't respond, doesn't move. L moves around him in a wide arc, trying to get a glimpse of his expression.

His expression stuns L, because L had not thought it possible for Light to be so starkly terrified by anything: even the high-speed run with the taxi earlier this afternoon, which had turned Light's knuckles white, had not altered his face into such a rictus of paralyzing dread.

"What is it?" L prods again, keeping his voice quiet. 

Light opens the notebook and ghosts his hands over a page. He closes his eyes. "The murder weapon," he says. "I think." He holds it out to L, and L sees a list of names, scrawled hastily at first but then neater, in nice uniform rows. The handwriting alternates between neat and sloppy, and when L extends his own hand to take a closer look, Light slaps it away.

"Raito," he says. They look at one another. "What are you so afraid of?"

"I--" His mouth opens. No sound comes out.

At that moment, detective Yagami comes bursting through the glass door in a frenzy of haste, followed up by Mogi and a slightly dawdling Matsuda. Not that L blames Matsuda: he's been up tailing this suspect with them since dawn, and sixteen-hour shifts don't tend to do much for people's energy. 

Detective Yagami tears the tape from Higuchi's wrists and replaces it with real handcuffs. Higuchi groans a little when the tape rips out the fine hairs of his arms, but he doesn't fully come to yet. Then detective Yagami takes stock of the situation as a whole, and assigns Mogi to retrieve evidence bags and gloves. Mogi does so, while Matsuda starts dusting the scene for fingerprints and using forensic liquid in a spray bottle to search for signs of blood.

That would all make perfect sense--if Kira killed in an ordinary way. The detective looks to L to confirm each decision made, and he acquiesces with a little shrug. No harm in covering all the bases. 

As soon as his father had come in, Light had dropped Higuchi's notebook; it sits atop the pile of Higuchi's belongings, waiting to be categorized and sorted into evidence. Light sneaks surreptitious glances at it while being lectured by his father that he should have waited for backup, that he could have gotten himself killed, etc. This would all be very touching, but L has already said his internal apologies for putting Light in danger, and besides, Light's decisions, as much than his, are why they're here right now: catching at least one of the Kira killers. He finds detective Yagami's concern over his son common and mundane, so he ignores it.

Something that is interesting is the fixed fear on Light's face. It's been there since he touched the notebook, and it remains through his conversation with detective Yagami, so much so that he pauses mid-lecture to put his hand on his son's shoulder. "I understand that you're shaken up, son," detective Yagami says, and the creases at the corners of his eyes look like cracks in stone: he is the picture of the wise and benevolent patriarch. He glances at L. "I'll book the suspect and take him downtown," he says. Then, to Light: "Get back to headquarters and get some rest."

Light nods, and his Adam's apple bobs in his throat. If L didn't know any better, he would say that there are actual tears floating in the corners of his eyes.

Light, crying? Impossible. Well, not impossible, but it's not honest--and he realizes something, and as the puzzle piece slots home in his head, he smiles.

Fascinating.

Though detective Yagami hadn't seemed to realize it, Light had been lying to him since the moment his father had opened the door. L doesn't know why--but he'd bet his own life that he's right.

Mogi and Matsuda clear out after collecting evidence. Watari is sending a cab for them. As they wait, somewhere deeper in the house where they sit, a grandfather clock strikes the midnight hour: twelve dull chimes that echo in space. 

"So," L says casually. "Want to tell me why you lied to your father?"

Light startles for a moment, then shakes his head. "Of course--I should have known," he says. "I bet you're going to tell me."

L chews his thumbnail. "I guess I could." 

He assumes that Light knows something about the notebook. In his panic, he had slipped up and called it a murder weapon, even though that doesn't make much sense; no one in history has ever managed to kill someone with a piece of paper. Still, many of the names listed there match known Kira victims--though Light hadn't had a real chance to verify that, either. Neither of them had.  

Light's Kira percentages tick up in his mind. He is almost certain that if Light is not Kira, then he's his accomplice. He leans toward the latter explanation currently because of how terrified Light had looked when he'd picked up the notebook. A killer like Kira might be exalted or joyous when rediscovering their weapon--their means to dispense justice. L understands that aspect of Kira well, and there is no fear mixed up in it. Kira thinks of himself like God, and gods fear nothing--why should they?

L looks at the floor because he doesn't want to watch Light lie to him when he says: "Or you could tell me."

Light surprises him. He expects him to scoff or misdirect, but instead he steps forward, tilts L's chin up with his hand, looks L straight in the eyes and says: "I'm the first Kira."

Chapter Text

Days in Handcuffs: 9

When Light touches Misa's Death Note again, he gets a feeling like being turned inside out: everything he's ever done, felt, or imagined comes flooding to the surface at once. He tries to hide it, crush it down, but that only causes more memories and pieces of memory to come flooding upward: helping Sayu with homework. Finding the Death Note. Thinking it was a joke; learning it wasn't. Ryuk. Rem. Being God. Being corrupted--

He remembers everything, and for a moment is he so stunned that he is scarcely able to move. He goes through the motions, tying up loose ends with his father and trying to keep L off his case while he processes this: processes the idea that everything that is happening now is a direct result of his own personal manipulations. It fascinates him. 

It also sickens him.

He is going to talk to Rem about her choice of partner with Higuchi. Just because he wanted someone greedy doesn't mean he wanted someone piggish and incompetent. 

Understanding how Misa fits into his life is something of a relief, though he still doesn't understand why she loves him. 

He might not be capable of loving anyone. But that's never bothered him before.

He cares about justice: that much is part of his core self, and even the Death Note hadn't changed that about him. Seeing how justice works up close and personal, his father's and L's brand of it, has convinced him that subjectivity exists even in situations that appear to be absolute. He sees the gray areas in himself through the lens of Higuchi, and somehow feels more tainted than he had when he'd physically thrown up on the streets of Tokyo, horrified at becoming a murderer for the first time.

Light's intentions have always been pure.

The Death Note doesn't care. That's not its purpose. He feels the muscles of his jaw slacken; his eyes seem permanently stuck open. He is having a panic attack in slow motion because he feels like he's been utterly, completely, and unsympathetically used. 

L doesn't give him time to process everything. He knows that Light lied to his father; Light should have expected that. He has always been transparent to L, which is why he'd had to go into such deep cover in the first place. But now he's in a situation where the first Death Note has been found, and the second is accessible; he can call back Ryuk at any time and--

--and?

He still doesn't know L's name. Even if he knew it, killing L isn't necessarily the right thing to do. He doesn't consider it the wrong thing, either; L is a different sort of monster than him, but he doesn't think killing him would do any good. The shadows of the people supporting L--Wedy, Watari, his detective personae--loom large in Light's consciousness; even killing L would not kill L, because the machine that produced him could make another.

Seeing Higuchi and, to a lesser extent, Misa under the influence of the Death Note makes him think that the Note has the power to influence his choices. Like L, he's the product of outside forces, exploiting both his weaknesses and talents--and that's something he's never been able to see from the outside before.

Well, he's not stupid. He's always known Ryuk was manipulating him, out of boredom or some other motive; it doesn't really matter. He doesn't need to understand the motivations of shinigami, but he does need to know why he acts the way he does--because if he can't pin that down, he's no better than a puppet being used to commit murder.

No better than the disgusting Higuchi. In some ways worse, because now he knows he's being manipulated; that his choices aren't his own; that the path he's on now wasn't orchestrated by him, Light, Kira, the man who would be God: oh, no. It was orchestrated by Ryuk, or perhaps the Death Note itself, for the only purpose that gods of death and implements of murder have: to kill a lot of people.

And Light finds himself asking a question he's never asked himself before: Is murder moral? Even for God?

L asks him to explain himself, and Light sees two options: to lie and pretend to be the innocent version of himself that was more purely true to his original intentions as a person, or to tell the truth and own who he's become. 

The right answer seems obvious, but he's not so sure. If he continues to lie, the Death Note will still have some hold over him, and will probably find some way of getting back into his hands; that was the original plan, after all. If he tells the truth, L may kill him--throw him in jail and lock away the key until Light walks the green mile on Death Row.

He looks at L. At L, who he has been chained to for more than a week and uncomfortably close to for months before that: L, who has examined what passes for the real Light closer than he has himself. L's fascination with Kira now makes perfect sense to Light in a way it never has before. As his Kira persona, Light had considered he and L equals, but it would be more accurate to say they're the same. They seek justice by whatever means necessary--even if those means are questionable, immoral, or illegal--and they seek it because, at core, they have the same desire: a fair world.

The only difference in method is that L doesn't kill when he can help it.

From the outside, without the influence of the Death Note to change his thinking, he considers that a significant difference. 

He also considers himself worthy of the death penalty. He's killed more people than every serial killer in history. Even if most of them were terrible, some of them weren't--and killing them had ultimately served him, and Ryuk, more than the world he'd desperately wanted to save.

He tells the truth: "I'm the first Kira."

L looks at him slant-eyed, thumb still partly in his mouth. His expression doesn't change. "I know," he says.

Light blinks.

"Is there something else?" L asks. "It's not that I'm not glad you told me--I think this has been the most successful day of the Kira investigation, by far--"

"--shut up, L," Light says, cutting him off, completely thrown by his utterly nonchalant reaction. "You can't know."

"Oh, but I can, Raito-kun," L says. He removes his thumb from his mouth and steeples his fingers. "Consider that I have suspected you from the beginning, and you are only confirming my suspicions. I do wonder why you would confess to me when I put absolutely no pressure on you at all, but I think you're going to tell me that soon enough."

Light blinks again. "I'm Kira. You're not afraid I'll kill you?"

L jerks his head toward the doorway. "I think you just let your father walk off with the murder weapon."

Well. True enough. "For all you know, I have another one."

"If that were the case, you would have used it by now. Assuming you knew my name." He smiles, and it's not unkind. "So, Raito. How about it? Why tell me this now?"

The words are in his throat: he wants to tell L that he never meant it, that he started out thinking it was a game, that by the time he realized it wasn't it was too late, he'd been sucked in, and now his only chance of escape is never seeing or touching a Death Note again. He doesn't think that's possible; Rem is still around and needs him to protect Misa, which means he'll probably be in close proximity to at least one Note for a long time. The temptation to use the Note again, even knowing that he shouldn't, is compelling, and he's never resisted that temptation successfully before. He needs a more permanent, plausible solution.

He doesn't answer L.  Instead, he opens the drawer of a curio cabinet near a wall clock. He finds what he's looking for almost immediately: an old-fashioned letter opener, one side sharp and the other side dull. He lifts it out of the drawer and turns. L flinches, holding his arms up in a defensive position as the chain jangles between them.

Light does not intend to use it on him.

Light had never intended to hurt anyone that didn't absolutely deserve it.

He plunges the knife into his own wrist and makes a deep cut, vertical, that gushes more than he thought it would; he drops the letter opener before he can tackle the second wrist, and then L is on him, practically crawling on him and tying something tight around his elbow--

--and then he blacks out.

Chapter Text

Light passes out from blood loss before the cab arrives to take them back to headquarters, but L does not panic. Before Light hits the ground and knocks his head, he catches him, props him up and rips off the flimsy sleeve of his own sweater to make a tourniquet. It's crude, but it holds, and he's able to lay Light down at a more gentle angle before he ransacks the house for a First Aid kit.

He could call an ambulance, but that would necessitate an explanation to the Task Force about how and why Light had gotten into such a state. A plausible lie has already formed in L's mind: obviously, the second Kira must have found out about Higuchi's arrest and ambushed them. Light had taken a defensive wound from a knife. As to the identity of the second Kira, that's something that can be investigated later. This house is vacant and has supplies, and L can treat Light faster than a hospital can in any case.

He finds the First Aid kit in a cupboard outside the master bath. Only then does he realize that he's thinking of lying to protect Light, and the idea makes him stop dead, because he's usually not a liar unless the lie serves some greater purpose. He doesn't have time to think about that now: he picks up the First Aid kit and his hands shake; this is not the first suicide victim he's had to treat, but...

He remembers A's glassy eyes, bright, powerful, analytical even in death. He had failed her because he'd never understood her. B's voice echoes in his mind: "She loved you and you didn't care."

He cares. He's bad at showing emotions like that. As far as he can tell, they're not necessary to catch criminals.

By contrast to A, L had failed Light by understanding him perfectly. He doesn't understand Light's motives for this rash act, not completely, but he knows Light had done it to seize back control of the situation. Faced with being caught or being manipulated by outside forces and potentially saved or vindicated, Light had chosen to get caught--and had either been so frightened of his punishment or so disgusted by his own actions that he'd turned on himself.

But it's not too late to save Light. L pulls a proper tourniquet from the First Aid kit and adjusts it around the wound on Light's right arm. It's deep, but the knife had been so sharp that the surface of the cut is thin; by the time L has the tourniquet in place, most of the surface of the wound has scabbed completely over. 

When the cab comes, he pays the driver for coming out but chooses to stay in place; Light shouldn't be moved until his condition stabilizes. When the cab driver leaves, they are alone in the house in the middle of the night with Light slowly bleeding while L force-feeds him fluid and waits for him to wake up.

Sometime around three A.M., a cluster of swallows lands outside one of the room's giant windows, and L jerks awake from his half-doze to find Light staring at him with unsteady glittering eyes.

They look at one another, and the stare holds. For a moment, neither of them say anything.

"I didn't want you to see me this way." Light closes his eyes and thunks his head against the wall behind him.

"I didn't want you to see me throw up," L offers, trying to lighten the mood.

Light snorts. "Yeah. You and your eating disorder. Me and my impulsive suicidal tendencies. What a pair we make." He sighs and keeps his eyes closed.
  
L putters into the kitchen, hunched in on himself, and retrieves a glass of water for Light. It's been ages since he ate anything, but he's not hungry. Panic or adrenaline must be keeping his blood sugar stable. He holds the water up to Light's face, but Light raises his good arm to accept the cup and drink it himself.

This is good. Light is conscious, and strong enough to take fluids on his own. They may be able to get back to headquarters before dawn, at this rate.

"You can't let me have it," Light says. "Never. Never again."

"Have what?" L asks, though he's fairly certain of the answer.

"The Death Note," Light says. "You write a name--and picture someone's face, or look at it--and then they die. Forty seconds later. Heart attack."

L tilts his head. "That is a terrifying weapon." He's still not certain of the mechanism it works by, but the description matches all the Kira victims' death profiles, though there seems to be some discrepancy in needing a face and not a name in the case of the original second Kira.

"I know," Light says, "but I didn't think of it that way." He drains his water glass and sets it on the floor. "There's a sort of--a spirit. Shinigami. It's what gives the Death Note its power. I think--" He pauses, shakes his head. "No--I know the shinigami was using my sense of justice to kill people. But at the time," he says, looking at the ceiling, "it seemed like the right thing to do."

"The first Kira only killed criminals."

Light's expression twists in a bitter grin. "When you got too close for comfort, I hid the Death Note. Told the shinigami I gave it up. Lost all my memories, but I was still me. I knew I'd wind up with the Death Note again, eventually. That's what I thought I wanted...but now?" He forms his good hand into a fist, and the chain jangles on the hard floor. "I want to be free of it. You can't let me have it. Ever again."

"Okay," L says. "I won't."

"I mean it," he says. "I can't guarantee that I won't ever try to find it. It can't be destroyed. You have to put it somewhere that no one will ever find it, or use it."

L considers for a moment. "I believe I have just the place."

***

L has friends all over the world, at the highest echelons of government and law enforcement. These contacts are always invaluable, but when the problem is trying to destroy an object that can't be destroyed by ordinary physical means, his list of useful contacts shortens considerably. In the end, there's only one person he can think to call. 

Dr. Hamako Misora, scientist at CERN, and close cousin of the Kira victim Naomi Misora. She's part of a team of a dozen or so scientists that run experiments inside the Large Hadron Collider. When he tells her he has a potentially indestructible object for her team to test, she asks many questions about its mineral composition, hardness and tensile strength, but he leaves it to her to answer those questions. She sounds disappointed, but intrigued.

L takes the precaution of binding each page of the Death Note to the ones preceding them, creating a brick of glue and paper that can't be opened or written in. Then he packages it for Watari, who'll take care of the secure handling to Switzerland, and the research facility. Light watches him deface the Death Note with his shoulders tense, appearing taut as a plucked string, but he doesn't try to stop him. L wonders if he'd try to if he knew where the Death Note was going.

L's a bit curious which is more powerful: shinigami magic/technology, or a human machine meant to deconstruct all matter? The results will probably be useful to science.

Chapter Text

Days in Handcuffs: 10

In later years, Light will probably look back on this experience and laugh at himself. Or perhaps he'll be horrified at his own naivete. 

There's a taste in the back of his throat like old sweat and stale bread and iron: a consequence of blood loss, probably. He'd intended to kill himself. The concept seems a bit unreal to him, but it also makes a certain twisted kind of sense.

Somehow, the Death Note has lost its disillusioning pull over him. He looks at the bandaged cut on his arm as if it's a wound that belongs to someone else, but it's definitely his arm: he'd come back to himself, judged himself as a criminal worthy of punishment. That's...remarkable. From playing God...back to a teenage boy that cares about justice. The contrast has him reeling internally, unsure of which way's up, what to do next.

He's also mad at himself for being sucked into Ryuk's grand delusion. He's supposed to be smart, isn't he?

Ryuk. He'd wanted to tell L about the other Death Note, but the immediate crisis had consumed his attention. It is not until he and L are safely settled back at Task Force HQ that he remembers, and by then he's so exhausted that he sleeps like the dead for more than fifteen hours. When he wakes up, L is sitting on the bed next to his, plowing his way through a box of powdered doughnuts. Thankfully, he sends for steak and Scotch eggs for Light; he needs to get his iron up after the...incident.

Finding out L had lied to him for his father had twisted his stomach in knots that refuse to come undone. It had never occurred to him that L would save Kira. Hadn't this always been a death match--whoever falls last wins?

Apparently not. Kira's motives may have been simple, but L's don't appear to be. He doesn't fully understand his own motives, not right now, but he knows he wants to make the transition back to normal life as soon as possible. 

He waits for L to finish the doughnut he's working on, then clears his throat. "So," he begins.

L raises his eyebrow and looks at him. His face is bathed in the glow of his computer screen. "So?"

"There's another Death Note," Light says.

L nods. "Yes, I figured as much. Something you said when you were bleeding and half-conscious." His voice turns hard. For some reason, he cares that Light had tried to kill himself. He leaves Light to his own devices even less now, as if he feels personally responsible. 

He's not. This whole situation is Light's fault. Or Ryuk's. "Anyway...I should tell you where it is, so you can destroy it..."

"Already done," L says airily.

And Light freezes. "What?" This is unexpected. He may not want to be a mass murderer any longer, but he likes to think that even as Kira, he'd managed to cover his tracks.

"That first shinigami you mentioned must have contacted Misa. She left Task Force headquarters, went to the woods, and dug up a strange notebook." L shrugs. "Watari put two and two together. It's on a plane to Europe by now."

Light blinks. And blinks again.

"You seem surprised."

"I am surprised," he says, then runs his free hand through his hair as a self-soothing gesture. "I always knew she was stupid, but..."

"Hush, Raito-kun," L says in his low chastising tone, almost a whisper. "For all you know, the influence of the Death Note could work differently on her than it did on you. And besides," he says, "there's no guarantee you would ever have told me about the second Death Note on your own."

Also true. "You still don't trust me."

L quirks an eyebrow. "I trust you considerably more than I did, now that you can't kill me as easily."

Fair enough. 

"I had Watari swap Misa-san's Death Note with a lookalike," he says. "She probably doesn't know it was taken yet. Which reminds me," L says, "Misa-san requested you for a date tonight."

"She does that every night."

"Yes, but given your recent brush with death, she was unusually insistent. I agreed on our behalf."

"When?"

"When you were asleep."

Light groans and flops backwards onto his clean white bed. "Say I'm too sick or weak or something."

"No."

Light sits up and frowns. "What do you mean, no?"

"I said no. You will go see Misa-san."

Light sneers, letting a little of the petulant teenager come through, wholly neglecting politeness. "Why should I do what you say?"

"I am older, and therefore wiser."

Light scoffs. "You are not that much older than me."

L leans back, hands cupping his knees. "I know that what you are doing is emotionally immature, and that stringing her along as you have been hurts Misa more than it helps her. You were the one who said you didn't want to manipulate her feelings, if you recall."

"And who exactly made you the relationship expert? Last I checked, you live alone and don't see people at all unless you have to." Or unless you chain them to you, he mentally adds.

"Yes, but—"

"But what?"

"But I wasn't always that way." L pauses, and Light sits up, actively listening now because L never really talks about his past. "I grew up in an orphanage," L says. "Every child of a generation received a different letter designation, based on their aptitude for," L gestures expansively toward his laptop, "this kind of work. A was best. Z was worst. To put that in perspective, Z is currently the overseer of a major antiterrorist organization in northern Spain, so my cohort was more than capable."

Light nods noncommittally, but he's thinking. L is, well, L--and that's the center of the alphabet. The idea that there are twelve or thirteen people smarter and more capable than L intrigues Light. He almost asks if he can meet L's family...but L keeps talking.

"This kind of work is...damaging," L says. "Internally and externally. Not all of my cohort is alive. In some cases, isolation--being on missions away from home months or years at a time--broke them down." He looks Light in the eyes. "And other times, it was us--the cohort--that broke them."

Light tilts his head in confusion. "How?"

L shrugs. "For years, I focused ruthlessly on the puzzle of criminal behavior. It is still one of my favorite occupations. A and B were the head of our little household. B was younger than me," L says with a bitter grin, "and frequently played copycat. But he also wanted to understand criminal motives better.

"It led him to murder," L says. He pauses, then scans Light from head to toe. "A bit like you, to be honest. He didn't kill because he wanted to. He killed because that was his way of seeking answers." Another pause. "A discovered these--activities. And the reasons behind them."

"And A blamed you?"

"No," L says matter-of-factly. "She killed herself."

Neither one of them say anything for a full minute. Then: "It was herself she blamed," L says. "If she had talked to me--or B--or any of us, we might have told her that she hadn't let the family down. That it wasn't her fault." He lets out a slow breath. "Manipulation and lies have their uses, but they should not be used on anyone you care about," L says. "More to the point, you shouldn't have to pretend to care about someone. And Misa deserves better." 

"Better?"

"If you don't care for her, you can at least push her toward someone who does." Suddenly, he lifts out the handcuff key from a space under his armpit and unlocks the chain.

Light stares at him, wide-eyed. "You're letting me go?"

"To talk to Misa-san, yes," L says. "I think this will go better, if you talk with her alone."

Light would actually prefer the support.

That's when he realizes that he's failed the Stockholm Syndrome test. He and L have been bonded by trauma. L cares about his relationship with Misa. He cares about L's family.

His gut, already roiling, turns over. He looks down at his bare wrist.

Are they friends now? Is that what this means?

He doesn't know. A camera in the right corner of the room blinks red, on and off, tracking him. He stands up straight and goes to talk to Misa. 

***

Light finds Misa on the roof of the Task Force building, looking up at the stars. Her hair is done in two braids, and she's wearing a red silk nightie that can scarcely be called a dress. If she's cold, she doesn't say anything about it. Her face lights up when she sees him coming toward her, and she squeals, wrapping both arms around him in a fierce hug.

"I thought the third Kira got you," she says, her eyes round and appalled. 

"No chance of that," he says. "I see you have your memories back."

She gasps, and the smile she gives him is wide; all teeth. "You too! I'm so excited! We can work on creating the perfect world together, just like you always dreamed!"

Gently, he puts his hands on her shoulders and pushes her out to arms' length. He looks at her straight on and says, "Misa. I'm sorry. We can't do that anymore."

Her smile freezes to her face like it's stuck on. "What are you talking about?"

"I mean that I'm not Kira anymore," he says. "L took your Death Note, and mine, and we probably won't see them again."

She pouts. "You mean we lost," she says. Then her eyes brighten. "But--no! They haven't arrested us yet, so they can't know--"

"L knows," Light says. He's not sure why L hasn't arrested him yet, either. He knows L has his reasons. He remembers L's story about A; L patching him up as he bled out. Maybe L doesn't want to be responsible for yet another person losing their future. Maybe that's his motivation for Misa, too. She deserves better.

Misa's pout does not shift. "But you promised we were gonna fix the world together...Light, you can still do it! You can do anything! I believe in you!"

"That's sweet, Misa," he says, "but I think you're wrong." She tries to push forward and cling to him, as she often does, but he holds her still: not roughly, but firmly. "I don't think we can see each other, after this."

Tears form at the corners of Misa's eyes. "Why?"

"Because I promised Rem I'd keep you safe," Light says. "And that means you can't have anything to do with Kira."

She nods shakily after a moment. "But...it's just for a little while, right? You'll come back? We'll see each other again someday?"

He doesn't have it in him to break her heart. Her expression is too much like Sayu's after coming home from a disappointing date. "Maybe," he says. "But not for a very, very long time." He remembers what L said, and the right words suddenly come to him: "Misa. I want you to promise me something. Something important."

She nods. "Anything."

"I want you to be happy without Kira," he says. "Without the Death Note, without--me. I want you to know that you're talented and special and deserve to be happy." He pauses, gauging her reaction, checking if she's listening. "Do you understand?"

She doesn't answer for a moment. She breaks past his hold on her shoulders and grips him tight for a few seconds. Her hair smells like verbena. "I understand," she says. "I hate it, but--I'll try."

For the first time in his life, he gives her a genuine smile.

***

Light's coming back to his and L's room after talking to Misa when he feels a shiver go down his spine. He looks up and sees the familiar outline of black wings.

"Hello Light," Ryuk says in a raspy voice. "Did you miss me?"

"Not especially," he says.

"Ow, that's cold," Ryuk answers, alighting from his perch and standing directly in front of Light. "I thought you wanted us to come back, you know, when the heat's off."

Us? "Is Rem here?"

Ryuk shrugs. "She'll be here soon, probably. Haven't seen her in a coupla days. Probably tied up with your third Kira."

Or tied up wherever L had sent the Death Notes. But Light doesn't say that. "What do you want with me?"

"To pick up where we left off, of course! We were just getting started."

Light yawns. It's getting late. "Pass."

Ryuk stares at him with his bug eyes. "Huh?"

"I said, I'll pass," Light says. "I don't have the Death Note anymore or know where it is, and what I really want right now is to get some sleep. So if you'll just move a little to the left--"

Ryuk spreads his wings out wide and black and menacing. "Where is the Death Note, Light?"

"I don't know," he says. "Ask L if you're so curious."

Ryuk's eyes narrow. Then, slowly, by degrees, Ryuk's outline starts to fade gray-white, like he's being sucked into a white mist. He complains as he vanishes: "But it's not fair! I was only just starting to have fun, dammit!"

Light yawns again, and waves at Ryuk as he--what? Dematerializes? Goes back to his world? From a scientific standpoint, it's fascinating: watching a shinigami dissolve into particles and light. Light's delusions at playing God seem a bit trite and small by comparison.

Light should probably tell L that there are a lot more shinigami where Ryuk and Rem came from, and that more Death Notes may find a way to cross over into their world. 

He really should, but he's tired. Maybe later.

Chapter Text

Days in Handcuffs: 10

Light's eyes are closed and his breathing's starting to even out when L's voice startles him awake: "Raito-kun?"

"Yeah?" he mumbles, half-sitting up in bed.

"You are—or rather, were—Kira. I've been right about you this entire time."

Light yawns. "So?"

"So?" L almost looks peeved: his eyes are narrow slits and his mouth is drawn down at the corners. "I wasn't wrong."

"How nice for you." Light yawns again.

"Yes, it really is."

"You've been sitting on that all day, haven't you?" Light asks. "You being right." He closes his eyes.

"Yes, I suppose I have."

Light blinks his weary eyes open and stares at L for a moment. "You really are a child who hates to lose."

"Takes one to know one," he says, thumb coming up to circle his mouth.

"Then there's really only one thing left to say."

They're sitting close together now, eyes nailed together, focused and unblinking. Light can feel L's breath on his cheek. He swallows and says, "Can I borrow your lubricant?"

L's eyebrows shoot up, and he leans closer. "Was that supposed to be suggestive?" he asks with an artless grace that isn't fooling anyone.

"You," Light says, forgetting for the briefest of moments that he is a polite model citizen, "are an asshole."

L smiles, reels him in by the handcuff chain, and kisses him.

Chapter Text

Days in Handcuffs: 11

It's going to be one of those days. 

It's barely sunrise, light peeking in through the windows of the gigantic steel and glass industrial complex of the Kira Investigation HQ, but even so Souichirou wants to flee back home to his own bed and take a personal day. In his few hours of wakefulness, he had encountered an endless chain of problems, one after another—and progressively getting worse. 

The trouble had started with an early email to the Task Force from L, requesting them to put in a special breakfast order with the chef for steak and eggs. L's chef is unaccustomed to frying anything except batter in a pan, so L's request for eggs and meat for breakfast is met with suspicion. Knowing how L eats, Souichirou knows that this suspicion is likely justified, but he's just the messenger, here. When the chef proves herself incapable of getting the eggs not to stick to the pan, Souichirou helps her scramble them and scrape the not-burned parts onto plates. Then he shows her how to light the grill, and stays with her long enough to verify that the meat that hits the table later won't be rare. 

And that is enough cooking for him for the next ten years, thank you.

By this time he has a terrible headache. He should probably take that personal day. But there are no personal days for this Task Force: not while Kira is still at large. The thought steadies him.

After helping to prepare breakfast as far as he feels qualified to do, he resumes his ordinary morning activities. Usually he has Mogi's help, but Mogi's got to drop off his son for school on Saturdays, and Matsuda pulls the early shift on weekends.

Matsuda--is not a terrible person. He is also not a very good detective. He does not tell Matsuda this directly; no one does; it's not what's done. He expects to find Matsuda up and about making coffee and setting out the food that he and the chef had prepared for the others, but there's no one to be seen--

Except. Well. Misa Amane.

A very loud, very cutesy, very hungry Misa Amane, wondering where all the plates and cups and food are.

Souichirou is curious about the holdup himself, so he returns to the kitchen. He still has not had coffee or checked the rest of his email or the security monitors and there is a buzzing sort of pain behind his eyes. He contents himself with the thought that at least his day can't get any worse.

He opens the kitchen door, but he doesn't see the chef. There's a strange shuffling sound; he catches a glimpse of movement from the corner of his eye, turns, and finds L wedged in the space between one of the kitchen counters and the door. His cheeks are flushed and he's breathing a bit harder than usual. Automatically, Souichirou looks behind L and finds his son, still attached to him via chain.

Light is there, but he's in the same state as L; he looks like he's just gone for a run around the block. 

Souichirou is a detective. Several explanations arise in his mind for this state of affairs, but he really doesn't want to examine them before he's had coffee. 

L nods to acknowledge him, and says, "I hear you helped Ella cook breakfast this morning. Thank you. Light and I were just getting ready to bring it out."

Souichirou looks back and forth between Light and L's faces, trying to divine some hint of a lie, but neither one gives anything away. Still, he knows they're lying. He even thinks he knows why.

"Don't forget the coffee," he says with a sigh. "It's been a long morning."

***

Breakfast passes largely without incident, luring him into what is hopefully not a false sense of security. Everyone has bad days, he tells himself. You're probably past the worst of it.

With coffee in him and his emails answered--some requests from Interpol, one odd request from Watari to contact CERN--he feels restored, and goes down to the camera room to check in on Matsuda. It's his shift Saturday morning. He had missed breakfast, but Souichirou hopes that's because he's been holding down the fort.

Taking its cue from preceding events, the camera room presents Souichirou with a new and interesting set of challenges. When he enters, the room is entirely unmanned; the lights are off, probably left that way by the last one on shift--

--which had been him. Damn. He's going to have to reprimand Matsuda after all. He tries the main light switch, but the lights don't come on. Curious, he moves toward the corner of the room where the circuit breaker is, thinking to flip the circuit switch back and forth to restore power. If it's not a power issue, he'll have to call Maintenance to replace the overhead lights.

Resetting the circuit does not restore the lights, but he discovers something curious in the circuit box: a busted fuse. It looks almost like it had been cut. Immediately, the police officer in him rises to the fore; someone must have broken into the camera room, sabotaged and cut the power and--

--what? As far as he can tell, the surveillance monitors are still running; they're on the backup generator and can't be cut off from the circuit breaker. He won't be able to check if anyone's tampered with the footage until he gets the power back on, but the motive doesn't appear to be getting the security footage.

Before he can follow that train of thought further, his foot connects with something solid inside the dark room. He pitches forward, managing to catch himself with his hands on the wall before his head collides with it. Cautiously, he takes a step back and removes his keychain flashlight from his pocket, trying to determine what it is he'd tripped over.

The flashlight catches the amber of Light's eyes. Souichirou moves the flashlight a few centimeters left and finds L also sprawled out on the floor under the security screens, though L had managed to wedge himself beneath a desk for better cover.

At length, Light gets to his feet, and with an expression of timid remorse, hazards to say: "Uh..." He lets out a short, embarrassed laugh that sounds completely unnatural and a little too high in pitch. "The power went out," Light says. "Someone cut the fuse. We were trying to find the spare fuses, but L dropped them."

In the spirit of helpfulness, L lifts up a fusebox for Souichirou's inspection.

Souichirou meets Light's hopeful gaze with unsympathetic eyes. "Didn't you hear me come in?"

"I thought it was Matsuda," L replies without missing a beat. Light nods in confirmation. "He's supposed to be on shift, and I didn't want him to, er, help us." The slight stress he puts on 'help' tells Souichirou that L has a similar opinion of Matsuda.

"If we'd have known it was you, we would have asked for help right away," Light says earnestly.

"Uh huh," Souichirou says. The kitchen could have been explained away. This can't. And playing with power and messing with security footage could have significant consequences for the investigation.

Souichirou closes his eyes and takes a few deep breaths in a concerted effort to maintain his composure. As he blinks at L and Light in growing astonishment at their unaccustomed carelessness, his forlorn self-pity is suddenly interrupted by the distraction of bright light. Power has been restored--the prolonged outage had probably tapped the emergency power. In the new illumination, a streak of something on the floor catches Souichirou's eye. Something shiny. 

It is at this point that Souichirou decides that the rest of the day can go to hell, and that he'd be more than happy to put everything into Matsuda's clumsy, eager hands. Or Mogi's. Mogi cannot get here soon enough. 

Light's eyes flick to the floor as the lights turn on; his expression of mortification is brief, but there. L betrays nothing.
 
Souichirou furrows his brow strongly and fixes Light with what he hopes is a sufficiently disciplinary glare. Light's face goes a shade paler, but Souichirou thinks L is actually smiling. "Check the security footage while you're here," Souichirou says. He snatches the fuses from L. "I'll fix the circuit breaker. And if I get wind of any more tampering in this room, I'll stick a microcamera over in that corner. Clear?"

"Of course, detective," L says smoothly. "Good idea." Light nods woodenly.

Souichirou has a pretty good picture of what's going on here. He was Light's age once; he knows he's always admired L. He hadn't expected L to take advantage, but he also knows that Light can defend himself--and Light knows how to get help from him, handcuffs or not. 

So it isn't that he doesn't trust his son's judgement, generally speaking. But they're going to have to have words about being distracted at work. 

Both L and Light, distracted. This turn of events may be the worst thing to ever happen to the Kira investigation. 

Shame on him, for thinking his day couldn't get any worse. It can always get worse.

***
Rumors spread through Task Force HQ like wildfire: Souichirou knows he hasn't told anyone about L and Light's indiscretions, but they are apparently still not being careful, because by noon, it seems like everyone in the building knows.

Mogi tells him that they're on the tennis court; when last he'd checked, they'd been lifting weights and setting up punching bags and targets for an obstacle course run. "Hopefully they'll stay focused on that," Mogi offers. He doesn't offer any words of commentary or judgment, either, probably out of respect for Souichirou. He appreciates Mogi.

"I'll go get them," Souichirou says. If anyone's retinas should be scarred by whatever it is he sees, it should be his.

"Thanks, sir," Mogi says. "I honestly mean that." And he goes back to searching the criminal databases for Higuchi's acquaintances.

Predictably, L and Light are not training, unless training involves being entirely horizontal, unclothed from the waist up, and pressing faces together. Light is on top of L; they've set up a padded area behind two punching bags so it's a little hidden from direct observation, but absolutely everyone would be able to see them from above--in the upper floors of the Task Force building, for instance. Souichirou suppresses and internal sigh. He knows that sex makes people stupid, but he'd hoped that effect would be at least somewhat mitigated by genius.

He approaches the punching bag and experiences a series of wet sounds along with the visual image, and is no longer able to stand by: "Ahem."

L and Light freeze, all sound stops, and they roll apart from one another. Light looks up at him.

"Dad," Light says, out of breath for at least the third time today. "We were training." 

"Training?" Is that what the kids are calling it these days?

"Hand-to-hand combat," L supplies. "We got into an altercation with Higuchi, our Kira suspect. We were able to fight him off this time, of course, but the encounter left us desiring to hone our combat skills."

"Exactly," Light agrees, a little too enthusiastically.

"Then why are you still on the ground?"

"He head-butted me," Light says, and at the same time L says: "He tackled me."

They point to one another, and in unison, say, "Like he said."

Light stares at the ground. L flushes slightly pink. By slow degrees, they each stand up and put a fair amount of distance between them, about as much as the chain allows.

"Well," Souichirou says sternly, "maybe next time you can find somewhere other than right below Misa-san's room to do your 'training.'" 

Light flinches, and even L has the sense to appear ashamed of himself. "We won't ask you to make our explanations for us," L says.

"See that you don't," Souichirou says. "I'm legally responsible for my son, but I refuse to take on any responsibility for you. Sir. Except when it comes to your physical safety, of course."

The whole conversation is ridiculous. He can't unriddle the power dynamics here, but he desperately wants L and Light to be more careful and focus on the task at hand.

Turning on his heel, he returns to the kitchen to see what he can do about lunch. Maybe he'll drink an entire pot of coffee.

***

Fortunately, both L and Light seem to return to their senses after the noon hour. They crack Higuchi's cell phone and run through his immediate contacts for possible hits on the second Kira. L seems convinced that Higuchi is the first Kira, and though Light doesn't seem as sure, he also doesn't disagree.

After a productive few hours, a jilted Misa Amane enters the computer room, stiletto heels clacking on the floor. She walks up directly behind L's chair, but L does not turn to face her. Souichirou prepares himself to move; he guesses that she's either heard the circulating rumors, or that she'd seen the little display below her window.

Souichirou expects her to blow up on L, but when he doesn't face her, and when Light doesn't acknowledge her, she seems to lose her nerve. Instead, she approaches Souichirou, with hesitant steps. She extends one trembling finger toward Light, and says, "He's Kira." Light suddenly goes white. Then she walks out.

L looks at Light, who looks at L. Light lets out a slow breath. "Well, that could have been worse."

Souichirou blinks, then understands that Misa had been trying to take some kind of brief and petty revenge. Light has always had uncanny insights into the first Kira; perhaps she'd thought that by turning his father against him, she could hurt Light somehow.

Souichirou is not going to let anyone hurt Light if he can help it. Not even Light himself.

He makes one further mental note to talk to his son about discretion. L has no seeming need for social graces, but the usually orderly, mild-mannered Task Force has seen a number of upsets today. Even if L doesn't care about morale, he still does. He'd also like to completely confirm that Light is no longer under suspicion of being Kira, because if he's not, L's treatment of Light might be as one-sided and manipulative as it seems from the outside--in which case, he's going to have to intervene.

Another part of him, the part that had spent a significant portion of the morning chasing down breakfast, sorting out power outages, and discovering his son's gay romance, simply doesn't have the energy for intervention, and favors the option of ignoring the problem completely in the hopes that it will go away. This side of him wins him over momentarily, and he leaves the computer room in Matsuda's charge while he makes sure dinner preparations are forthcoming, then checks email on his phone to see if any responses have come back from CERN. He drinks another pot of coffee in the kitchen, relieved to be so tense.

It's five o'clock. The day is almost over. Dinner is in an hour. He can make it.

***

L and Light wisely choose to sit on opposite sides of the table during dinner. Misa is not present, having made herself perfectly clear on her stance on things over lunch, and Mogi brings his work notes to the table so that he doesn't have to talk to anyone. Souichirou admires that behavior and that approach: the work ethic, and the avoidance of conflict. Mogi is a good investigator and always has been, but Souichirou had not been aware of the depth of his emotional intelligence before. He could order Mogi to talk to L and Light about workplace power mechanics and public displays, but he would feel wrong putting that on Mogi.

Silently cursing his role of authority, Souichirou plays chaperone for the entire dinner service, staying behind to load plates on a tray for the dishwashers before preparing for his nightly rounds. He needs to check the locks, the cameras, and the confidential file cabinets to make sure everything is accounted for; then he has to make sure it's all clean and organized. Matsuda offers to help, but he declines, both because Matsuda isn't the best person for the task and because he shouldn't have to stay late to do a job he's not good at. He'd helped bring in Kira; that does count for something, though even that may not completely change Matsuda's reputation.

Rounds are quiet; most people in the building go home by 8:00 PM. He manages to get all the files locked down and squared away, then prepares for his final stop to lock up the camera room. When he gets there, he opens the door and peers into the shadows, but sees no evidence that the room is occupied by Light and L engaged in illicit activities. With the way his day has gone, however, such evidence is not to be trusted. 

Driven by instinct and braced for the worst, Souichirou takes a few steps inside the camera room. "Hello?" he calls, "is anyone in here?"

He'd been right to trust his instincts: they're in the computer room again, in the darkest corner underneath the desks. He permits himself a long sigh, and the tangle of limbs below him freezes in place.

He hears a whispered, "Oh, no," but he can't tell who said it. He might've said it himself. In his most commanding tone, he says: "What do you think you're doing?" He tries his best not to divulge the fact that he really doesn't want to know. 

L glances around the room shiftily. "Um... training?" he says speculatively. 

"Training."  Deadpan. 

"Yes?" Light offers.

"And how long have you been 'training' in that position?" 

Light bites his lip. "We're going half-speed?" 

Souichirou sighs. "Well maybe you should let L start out on top for a change." 

L sits up with a Cheshire grin. "I think that's a great idea," he says, shoving a surprised Light off of his lap.

Souichirou frowns and rests his forehead in his hand, partially covering his eyes. Now look what you've done... How can I fix this? Souichirou pinches his nose. His morning headache, banished by too much coffee, now returns full force, buzzing and all. "Look," he says, appealing to Light with a pained, almost pleading expression, "can't you two just find somewhere else for your 'training?' Your room, maybe? Someplace more...private?" 

"Well," Light says with a vexed expression, making it clear that he'd given the matter some thought, "that's what I wanted, but then Watari would find out right away and...granted, he knows already because everyone knows," he says in a rush. "We were stupid. I'm sorry, dad. But really it's better if everyone knows, isn't it? Not as easy to claim conflict of interest when everything's out in the open."

And that is not how any of this works at all, but Souichirou needs to focus on one problem at a time. "Since Watari already knows, I would recommend you keep training activities to your private rooms from now on." He looks to L. "Or do I need to assert my rights as a parent?"

Light gapes at him, but L just shrugs. "I'm certain that won't be necessary," L says, entirely serious. "I suppose we got carried away. It won't happen again."

Souichirou wants to believe him, he really does. But he doesn't actually believe him. L's lied plenty of times before. He expects he'll be running interference for these two for a while. He hopes Higuchi is the only Kira they have to deal with, because if the second Kira strikes again, well...the Task Force has degenerated into something like a monkey in a banana factory, and he won't be able to work effectively in these conditions.

He responds to L's assertion with a small nod, lacking the energy and patience for anything more. "Look," he says wearily, "why don't you two finish up your 'training' for the night and get to bed. It's late, you know." 

"Yes sir," Light says brightly. He and Light stand up, and Souichirou turns to leave.

As he leaves, he hears muttering: "....won't happen again? Really? Is that the best you could do?"

"I didn't see you coming up with any clever ideas," L says.

As the door closes behind Souichirou, the echoes fall silent and he finds himself gratefully alone with his thoughts, which turn primarily toward counting the years until his retirement. 

Dragging his feet, Souichirou plods to the sterile white room where he keeps his things in Headquarters, opens the refrigerator, and opens a bottle of sake. He pours a shot glass out but doesn't drink it; his head hurts too much. He sits on a stool at the kitchen counter and stares into his rice wine. 

This is going to be one of those years. 

The End