Archive of Our Own

They didn’t give him the electric chair, nor lethal injection, nor firing squad.

His head rolled.

When it saw L, L swears it smiled.

—

He can’t stop thinking about it.

Light marched to his death with his head held high, led by masked Interpol officials, with very few people in attendance. L, Watari. Soichiro. Matsuda. The rest of the task force had declined the invitation. Two high-ranking Japanese officials. The director of the FBI.

He did not have a mask nor a blindfold. He observed the gallery, avoided looking at his father, and knelt before the guillotine like it was his divine right.

He turned his head to watch L. It was difficult to make out what he might be thinking. It wasn’t hard to discern the anger in his eyes, but there was far more there, layers and layers of things that L simply hadn’t had enough time with him to disentangle. Every thought, every emotional response, L wanted to understand, but there was no—

Whoosh.

—time.

—

Misa was first. She fought.

—

Soichiro’s stiff upper lip might have been admirable in other circumstances. Here, L felt only pity.

Watari put a hand on his shoulder and spoke to him in quiet tones. L found himself next to Matsuda, watching tears fall into his hands.

“Why did he do it?” he asked, not for the first time, not for the last time. “Why did he make us do that to him? He was so young.”

L looked at the ground and blinked to brush away the specter of Light’s head. Why did it smile?

“I imagine,” he said, voice dry, “he was quite bored.”

—

L’s fingers tap and his mind races and he must—

“Watari.”

“Yes, Ryuzaki?”

“Ensure Light’s head and body are preserved.” He pauses. “Together, if possible.”

“…As you wish.”

—

He rereads Frankenstein; or, The Modern Prometheus.

He stares into the old feed of his surveillance of the Yagami household and watches Light. He watches the way apples are brought in by his mother, taken by Light, but never eaten inside. He always takes the apples outside to eat them. Is he even eating them? Why does his mother buy them for him? Sometimes he brings one to his room, places it on his desk, and ignores it while doing his homework. Sometimes he seems almost amused.

L scours every angle he has of the footage when two petty criminals were broadcasted and died by Kira’s hand and there was no way Light could have known about them. There was no way he could have. But Kira is dead now and the murders have stopped. There was some trick that L just cannot discern.

There was always a trick. There was always a game. Is that why Light was so angry? Because he lost, or because L didn’t play fair?

—

Light’s body, dressed in a suit, is held in cold storage with his head preserved in a clear box beside it. His hair is so soft.

L has him transferred to a facility he had built with a basement dedicated to the purpose of containing Kira. Watari moves with him and tells L about the many cases his aid has been requested on. L declines them all.

—

Kira. Kira. How did he do it? How did an average—far above average, in every sense—high school boy come into such a terrifying power? How did Light Yagami go from a tennis champion, to the number one student in Japan, to the most prolific and enigmatic serial killer of all time?

L wonders if regret is the bitter aftertaste on his tongue, or shame. He won.

Did he?

—

L runs his knuckles along steel bars and gazes at the room beyond them. What was he thinking? There were too many ways to win. There was only one way to win.

It was him or Light. It was always him or Light. Had Light been able, he would have done the same. He would have done the same.

Why couldn’t he? Why didn’t he? What prevented him from merely choking L to death in his hotel room? Did Kira object to dirtying his hands? Was he too frightened by the potential of capture? He could have stolen his father’s firearm. He could have stabbed L with a knife or a shard of glass. He could have smothered him with a pillow.

He didn’t. But he would have killed L, he would have done it gleefully, the instant he learned L’s name.

He didn’t.

He died.

What was his plan? Would it have killed L, had he allowed Light to go through with it?

—

Victor Frankenstein discovered a previously unknown but elemental principle to life, which gave him the ability to animate his handcrafted creature. He was horrified. L would have been delighted.

He sits cross-legged in front of Light. His eyes are closed and the muscles around his mouth are relaxed. There is no tension in his face. He looks calm. He looks empty. Every thought that once lit up his face has gone from him. Every calculation has come up undefined. There is no more. L ripped them from him and gave him no dignity. L let the Japanese government decide how Kira should be executed and, like the avaricious royalty and nobility of France, Kira’s head was removed from his body.

A perfect mind disconnected from the well-maintained body that allowed it to work. It is crueler than L would have liked.

Light’s body has been perfectly preserved. It lays on a soft table looking exactly the same as it did when he inhabited it. If not for the absence of his head on his body, L would expect Light to beckon him for a game of chess. If not for the absence of his body from his head, L would expect Light’s eyes to open and fix him with a gaze too intense to be innocent.

L has in front of him a body, and a head. It is very cold in this room. Light seems perfectly comfortable.

—

Electric signals can stimulate movement in the muscles of the dead. Hooked up to an expensive and somewhat cumbersome machine, Light’s fingers twitch, then his arms. His torso is bare, dress shirt, suit jacket, and red tie neatly folded and placed aside to allow the electrodes contact with his flesh.

L has placed the box with his head above his stump of a neck.

“Are you Kira?”

Light jerks on the table.

L sighs. They both know the answer. Besides, what does he want, a confession? He just wants Light back. He wants to play with him again. He wants to try to understand.

—

This is, perhaps, not the best use of a detective’s time.

L hums the sixth movement of Brahm’s Requiem to himself, mumbles, “Der Tod ist verschlungen in den Sieg,” death is swallowed up in victory, pushing a curved needle into Light’s cold flesh, out again, sutures appearing in a neat line around Light’s neck. He has Light’s head in his lap and takes the occasional break to brush his fingers over Light’s cheeks, through his hair. He almost slides Light’s eyes open but doesn’t. He almost leans down.

He used to be suffused with such life. L took it for granted. He was quick and clever, vulpine, always a laugh or a smile and it really seemed like there was something behind it. Was there? Sometimes Light would look at him with the gaze of a predator. Then his eyes would soften again, go a little wide, golden-brown eyelashes framing warm amber, doe-like, innocent. He could seem so innocent.

How did he do it? L is a liar, but not like that. Light was a liar too proud to let it go unnoticed. He was a trickster who craved recognition. The only reason L ever had any inkling Light Yagami may be Kira was because Light let him. Light, at his family’s dinner table, casual as anything, responding to the alleged threat of fifteen-hundred investigators entering Japan, said, “This is just a ruse to put pressure on Kira. But it’s pretty obvious. So I bet Kira’s figured that out, too,” and L knew.

Try to catch me, he said. Try to prove it.

L did. And he didn’t.

—

It’s uncomfortable, sleeping in such frigid temperatures, but L has always enjoyed bundling up. He had a mattress, pillows, and blankets brought into Light’s room and currently wraps his chilly fingers around a thermos filled with hot tea, sweetened with more honey than even he normally uses.

Honey. He’s afraid to open Light’s eyes. He doesn’t want to see them accuse him.

Worse, he doesn’t want to see them blank, lifeless. He doesn’t want to go unrecognized.

They are both monsters. Like calls to like.

He watches a cartoon that, through his investigation, he became aware Light used to enjoy. It is silly and lighthearted and the colors are bright and the music is calm.

He sips his tea. He shivers.

—

What is the essential nature of life? There must be a body, there must be a mind, there must be a soul. Must there be a heart? Must there be a will?

Someone can exist, depressed out of the desire to live, and still be alive. A will is not necessary. A physical heart is essential but the concept of love, or care, is not. A pitiless, amoral bastard is still alive so long as their heart beats.

L still lives, after all.

A mind, a body, a soul. A soul. Where has Light’s soul gone?

If he can find it—if he can summon it—

It’s foolish. He of all people knows it’s foolish. Light’s head has been severed from his body. His brain is dead. Cosmetic stitches reattaching the flesh does nothing to mend the insides. Even if L could somehow grasp Light’s soul from the aether and funnel it back into his body, he could never live again. He’s dead.

He’s dead.

—

Shinigami. God of death. Kira.

L, do you know gods of death love apples?

Apples uneaten. Apples taunting the cameras.

We can confirm each other when we meet by showing our Shinigami.

Light said it must be some reference to their killing power. He said Shinigami can’t possibly exist. Of course. They can’t possibly.

Then how did Kira kill his victims?

“How did you do it?” L murmurs, lips hovering over Light’s forehead, fingers sweeping his hair behind his ears. He feels along the seam of Light’s neck, over sutures that do nothing to mend the skin. He almost wants to slip his fingers in. Or his tongue.

He settles back on Light’s thighs and sighs. Every one of Light’s secrets died with him.

It’s unacceptable. He should have… he should have won differently. He should have brought Light to his cage, not his execution. He should have let Kira thrash and scream against his walls, not march proudly to his death.

He doesn’t want stoicism. He doesn’t want smiles. He wants vitriol and rage. He wants the insanity that must exist behind Light’s pleasant demeanor. Must have existed.

Kira was insane. Kira thought he was a god.

Light has never been more mortal.

—

“No.”

“Ryuzaki, you cannot keep on like this. Let him go. You must get back to work.”

“I’m going to bring him back.”

“It’s—that is not possible. Even if it was, you would be a fool to return Kira to the world. You did what you had to to protect humanity. Do not squander your work.”

“I did what I had to to win, but this isn’t winning. This isn’t victory.”

“L—”

“Bring me tea, please, Watari, and extra honey. Two thermoses, if you can.”

“...Yes. Must you… hold him like that?”

“I am attempting to immerse myself in his thoughts. Oh, please bring an apple, as well.”

“I will not abide by this forever. The world needs you, L. This is obsessive. Unhealthy. You must return to work soon.”

“Tea, please, Watari.”

“It is just a body. It will not come back to life.”

“Tea, please. Watari.”

—

Chin propped on Light’s shoulder, legs framing the body with his front to Light’s back, L holds his hands and tries to imagine what they must have done to end so many lives. How many more would be dead had L allowed him to continue?

Would he have held L’s body like this? How would he have killed L?

What does it feel like when your heart stops?

Discomfort in the chest. Pressure, squeezing, pain. Pain in the arms, back, neck, jaw, stomach. Shortness of breath. Going lightheaded.

And knowing. Knowing.

Light’s hands are still soft. They were soft when he died and L has kept them that way with unscented lotion, despite the chill of his containment. L never felt them when Light was alive. Not directly. On his shoulder, sometimes, through his shirt. Sometimes Light would hand something to him and their fingers were close. Close.

If we don’t take out this “You can kill L” part… I’ll die, and Light laughed. He said it was just a joke, stretched out with his hands behind his head like he’d never been more comfortable, like this was just what they did with each other, like the idea of L dying was such a casual possibility that he may as well relax for when the inevitable came to pass.

L brings their joined hands to Light’s heart. He taps on it in a steady pattern and makes the sound with his mouth quietly, thump-thump, thump-thump, thump-thump.

Thump-thump…

He stops, and lets Light’s hand fall. It hits his lap and stays. L’s hand presses to Light’s chest.

His heart is still in there. He just needs to get it beating again.

—

Defibrillators.

They are not meant for use on a person with no heartbeat, let alone a person who has died.

L stops when Light’s skin starts to singe.

—

Must he hook Light up to a lightning rod and wait for a storm?

He performs CPR. He pinches Light’s nose and breathes air into his lungs. Light’s lips are cold.

L is aware, extremely aware, that he is behaving irrationally. Light’s head was chopped off. There is nothing anyone can do that would bring him back to life. There is no reason to keep him. There is no soul that he can funnel back into Light.

He lights a candle and reads aloud Endgame by Samuel Beckett. He asks Light if it’s over.

—

With precise hands and a tweezer, L goes about picking every seed off a strawberry and placing them in a neat pile on a plate.

Then he slices an apple in half, carefully extracts each seed from its core, and adds them to the pile.

He puts the first half of the apple in a pot with rich soil, sliced-side up. He places the strawberry on top. Then the second half of the apple, sliced-side down. He buries them and smooths the soil.

They will not grow. Nothing will grow.

He opens Light’s mouth and places a single strawberry seed under his tongue.

It will not grow.

—

He has been awake for three days.

Hallucinations are common after one has been awake for long enough. At a certain point, they are expected.

This, surely, is the reason that he is seeing Light Yagami’s mouth tremble.

Sat in a chair beside him, head resting on his knee, L just stares.

Light’s eyes flicker beneath his eyelids like REM sleep. His eyebrows draw together slightly.

He looks as if he is in pain.

L’s hand reaches out before he’s aware it’s moving. His fingers brush across Light’s hair. He strokes a fingertip down the bridge of Light’s nose, gently, gently.

Light’s face stills, then relaxes. He is serene again. He was never moving at all. He is dead.

He is dead and he cannot come back.

L must bring him back.

—

“Has L died as well? You have made your choice, Ryuzaki. The world is better for it. This was your duty.”

“L is not dead. Leave us alone, please.”

“You must eat. You must leave this room. Let me—”

“Don’t touch him! Leave us alone!”

“Ryuzaki, you are behaving—”

“I am not a child. Do not speak to me like that. I am not interested in whatever cases you have for me. The world means nothing to me. Stop bringing it up like I should care.”

“Your duty is to the world. You are the only one who can—”

“Leave us alone.”

—

Light’s finger twitches.

Did it? L grabs Light’s hand and brings it up towards his face, turning it from side to side, examining golden skin with a bit of a dull pallor, smooth nails, veins and bones and tendons.

He places the hand back by Light’s side. He returns to his book. The words swim. He can’t focus. The letters on the page start to spell out things like Kira, and Light, and I win, and it’s nothing, it’s nonsense. He really ought to get some sleep.

He can’t. This is his third night awake. After seeing Light move earlier—seeing him move now—

L sets his book aside and presses his ear to Light’s chest.

Thump-thump, thump-thump, thump…

It fades away. It was never real.

L slumps forward. He shivers. He has a blanket wrapped around himself but the chill permeates to his bones. He can’t shake it.

“Queen to f7,” he mumbles. “I win.”

“Scholar’s mate is a beginner level checkmate,” Light says, “I would never fall for that.”

“Shh. You’re dead.”

Light says nothing more and his chest did not move when he spoke. L is a detective. He knows what that means.

—

The electrodes make him flop like a dying fish, down to the gaping mouth. Better than no animation at all. L removes the attachments once he’s had his fill of Light’s wriggling corpse and with great care slides Light’s shirt back on, buttons him up slowly, tucks it in, wraps him up in his suit jacket. He gets the tie under Light’s collar, around his neck, slides the knot up towards his throat, a gentle caress. He cannot bring himself to do more but—but once the tie is secure, he leans down and presses his lips to the knot. Then he lets the tie go. He gets off of Light’s lap.

—

“Kurou Otoharada.”

Light is still.

“Lind L. Tailor.”

Light does not move.

“Raye Penber.”

Like stone.

“Naomi Misora.”

Nothing.

L takes a deep breath.

“L Lawliet.”

Light’s eyes snap open.

No, they don’t. Light doesn’t move.

Yes, they do. Light stares at L with the fury of a burning sun. His mouth opens—

No, it doesn’t. Light is a corpse. He does not move.

Yes, he does. His fingers reach for L, falter, start to scrabble at his own throat, at the line of stitches tentatively keeping his head attached to his body. He’s going to rip them.

“Don’t,” L says, hands catching Light’s wrists and pinning them to the table on either side. He hovers over Light, staring down at him. The eye contact makes his heart stop.

Kira?

His heart hasn’t stopped. That’s stupid. And Light isn’t alive, and he’s not moving, and he’s not staring up at L. L sighs. He lets Light go and slumps back into his chair.

He hears a dry cackle from somewhere up above him.

“Shut up,” Light mutters, “Ryu…”

“I’m not saying anything,” L says. The laughter redoubles, an awful sort of wheezing, echoing against the walls. It has no apparent source. “And you’re dead, so I don’t know why you’re talking.”

He really has been up for too long, because then Light says, “I’m not dead.”

“Well, that’s a very nice thought, but I’m not the type to take the word of my hallucinations all too seriously. While I have you here, though, do you happen to know what that laughter is?”

L props his cheek in his palm with an elbow on Light’s table and gazes down at him. He draws tiny circles on Light’s chest with the index finger of his other hand.

Light smiles.

“You must be imagining it.”

“Of course.”

“You really should get some sleep, L.”

“I really can’t.”

Light lifts a hand and taps the tip of L’s nose and it feels real. His finger is cold and it touches L’s skin with the appropriate amount of pressure and it makes L’s breath shudder.

“I bet the laughing will go away if you sleep.”

How does his voice sound so warm? He’s so cold. L is so cold. He sounds sweet and while the crinkle around his eyes does read as somewhat sinister it’s also so nice, so nice to see it. He missed Light so much. He doesn’t want to sleep. He wants to keep talking with him.

“It’s already going away,” L says. His hand creeps up to Light’s neck and he presses two fingers in over his carotid artery.

Nothing.

“Well, I’m awfully tired,” Light says. His hand pulls L’s away from his neck and holds it on his chest. “I’d like to sleep, I think. It would be nice to rest together, wouldn’t it?”

L’s eyes slip half shut. He can’t contain a yawn. The smoothness of Light’s voice seeps over every fold of his brain, suspends him in honey. “There’s not enough room on your table for us both.”

“We could go somewhere else.”

“I can’t move you. You need to stay in here. I suppose we could both fit on my mattress, but it’s just a twin.”

“I don’t mind,” Light says. His thumb strokes over the back of L’s hand. “Can you help me over there?”

L can barely support himself when he wobbles to his feet, let alone fathom how he’s supposed to bring Light—literal dead weight—over to his mattress. Light helps more than a dead body ought to be able to, but L still has to do a lot of the work adjusting him, propping his head up on one of L’s many pillows, getting him tucked in. He slips in next to him, hesitates, then turns on his side and places his head on Light’s chest.

He swears he can hear a heart beating. He swears he can.

But it’ll be gone when he wakes up.

Light is being far too nice to him.

“Don’t be gone when I wake,” he murmurs, eyes sliding closed. His hand clutches at the front of Light’s shirt. Light’s hand rests on his head, fingers touching unwashed hair, then moves to his back instead.

“Of course not,” Light whispers, “I’ll be here with you. Always.”

—

He can’t breathe.

Pressure on the back of his head, his thighs, and he can’t breathe.

His nose and mouth are engulfed in Light’s pillow. Light’s pillow. But that can’t be right. Light’s dead.

He must be dreaming.

“Damn you, L,” Light hisses, “damn you! I’ll send you straight to Hell myself for everything you’ve done to me. It doesn’t exist, you know. They’ll make it just for you. You ruined everything. I can’t wait until you’re dead. Do you know how many times I’ve dreamt about this?”

L has dreamt about this more times than he’d like to admit. It feels very real this time, though. Light’s nails dig into his scalp.

“You killed me. You killed me. You cheated. Did you think you fucking won? I would have beaten you. I would have. I had a fucking plan and if you just let me go through with it like a decent fucking opponent—if you didn’t get so impatient, if you didn’t get so scared—I can’t believe you. I can’t believe you. Coward. I thought you had more honor than that. And now look at you. Pathetic. Your regret is fucking embarrassing. Absolutely pathetic.”

The edges of his consciousness start to fade and L’s body jolts before his mind processes it.

His limbs flail, legs kick, hand manages to grab at Light’s arm and yank him to the side. Light swears, trying to hold on, but his fingers slip and L rolls, bucking him off like a bull eager to gore its rider, and gasps for air the moment his face is freed from its confines.

“Light—Yagami,” he wheezes, pushing his exhausted body up onto hands and knees, turning to stare towards Light, collapsed off the side of the mattress, “you—are—Kira.”

“No I’m not,” Light coughs, his arms shaking as he tries to sit up. “I’m dead.”

“Yes. You are. I am dreaming.”

“You’re dreaming,” Light agrees, and now L is starting to get suspicious.

He squints towards Light, heaving his body into its prime position for deductive reasoning, toes digging into the mattress. He examines the stitching around Light’s neck—surely the sutures can’t hold the full weight of his head, allow it to maneuver like that—and the trembling in Light’s hands. He’s pushed himself away from the mattress until his back hit the base of the table his body rested on for so many days. Or weeks. Or… however long. Years? L’s lost track.

“You were executed,” L says slowly, taking in Light’s heaving chest, “I had you executed.”

“Ryuk,” says Light, looking up at nothing, “give me another one.”

Ah. Yes. That makes no sense. He is dreaming.

He half regrets fighting Light off of him. He does deserve it, doesn’t he? Light deserves it. He did cheat. And he’s always known Hell isn’t real.

“Give me another one!” Light repeats, agitated. He gets hands on L’s chair and uses it to claw his way to his feet before collapsing into it. His hand comes to his wrist and he freezes, icy gaze turning to L. “Where’s my watch?”

L blinks. He slowly raises his limp hand, the face of the watch towards Light.

Light’s spine goes rigid.

Then he says, sickly sweet, “Could I please have that back, Ryuzaki?”

“I like wearing it.” L sets his hand on his knee and swipes his other thumb over the face. “It’s nice. Your father gave this to you, didn’t he?”

“What does that matter?” Light says, his smile strained. His knee bounces. “It’s mine. You won’t give a dead man his watch?”

L sighs, cheek resting on the back of his hand. “You just seem quite alive for a dead man. But such is the logic of dreams, I suppose. Next I know, you’ll morph into Beyond and catch fire.”

Light blinks, stares. He brings his shaking hands up towards his head and wiggles his fingers, making a whooshing sound with his mouth.

“Ah.” L presses a thumb to his lip. “Very convincing. Well, Light, I’m not quite sure what you want from me.”

“I want you dead,” Light says, smiling.

L nods sagely. “Of course. Any other requests?”

“I want to be the one to do it.”

“It’s actually rather difficult to kill a person, you know. Physically. Humans are quite resilient and generally try their best to stay alive.”

“Would you?”

L shrugs. He fought Light off, but this is a dream, and it’s also something his body did without much conscious input. You can’t kill yourself just by holding your breath. Your body won’t let you.

“You shouldn’t.” He’s still smiling. He leans forward, elbows on his knees. “Would you let me have my watch? It’s not real, anyway.”

“Your watch?”

“Any of this.”

“Hmm.” L considers this. It’s hard to argue against—he’s in conversation with Light Yagami, which is distinctly impossible considering the circumstances in the real world. Light, Kira, tried to kill him, and really, he should have been able to, if he actually was alive. L was asleep. Light’s grip should have been firm enough to restrain and end him.

He is shaking—on the off chance L is awake and Light really has come back to life, it’s possible that his prolonged stint of being dead has affected his muscles or nervous system to a significant degree. It’s also possible, L supposes, that he is awake and merely caught in an intense psychotic episode. It’s far more likely than Light really being alive, anyway.

He lifts his head and fiddles with the clasp of the watch. Light watches, eyes sharp as a dagger.

His eyes don’t have the blue tinge of a corpse’s anymore. L sighs.

“My dreams aren’t usually like this,” he says, tugging at the ends of his sleeves, tapping the watch. “You haven’t kissed me once. Who is Ryuk?”

“I haven’t—what?”

Now Light goes slack-jawed as he stares at L, and L is really starting to get suspicious.

God, he’s exhausted. He can’t let himself sink into a reality where Light Yagami is alive again. He’s dreaming. He’s in psychosis. Anything but the impossible is happening. He needs Watari here.

“Who is Ryuk?” asks L again as he slips a hand to the button of his jeans, pressing three times in rapid succession.

“Kissed you?” Light leans back in the chair now, hands on his thighs, seeming incredulous. His eyes, normal-colored, alive-looking eyes, flick down to L’s lips. L wishes he had ice cream. It would be nice if Watari brought some, but he won’t.

If he’s dreaming, it likely won’t be Watari at all who enters the room. If he’s hallucinating, Watari will tell him. If Light is alive, well…

“I would’ve thought you might do it while smothering me,” L murmurs, eyes half closed, “on the back of my head or my spine. Or perhaps I wouldn’t suffocate in a pillow at all, but against your lips. But you, Kira, just want me dead. You do not care to indulge my fantasies.”

“Kira has indulged you plenty,” Light says, now honey-smooth, silk-sweet. “Kira can do whatever you want him to. I just wanted to play, L. Will you play with me more?”

L sighs out something misty. “Yes.”

Light slides from L’s chair to his knees and crawls forward. His shoulders still tremble. His severed neck somehow holds his head up and his gaze is liquid, hot. L shudders, warmth blooming in his stomach despite the chill of the room.

Settling on his heels in front of L, Light’s hands slide up L’s shins, rest atop his on his knees. The fingers of his left hand inch forward to caress L’s wrist.

“A kiss from Kira?” Light murmurs, leaning forward. For the life of him, L can’t find a flaw in his face. This is dreamlike but there is no haze, no hesitation around the edges. “That’s what L wants?”

“Yes,” L whispers.

Light’s hands are cool but not frigid. One of them holds his wrist while the other curls fingers against L’s cheek, soft, trembling, and then Light’s leaning forward, L’s eyes are slipping shut, and—

“Ryuzaki!” the door says as it swings open, heavy footsteps halting. “What is—Kira?”

Oh dear.

At L’s insistence, this room has no cameras—the door merely detects his entry and exit. The shock in Watari’s voice cannot possibly bode well.

Light’s expression shifts in an instant, going cold and furious, and his fingers slip from L’s face and wrist. L misses the weight of them. His wrist feels empty without Light’s touch.

“Watari, I—”

“How is this possible? Ryuzaki, what did you do?”

“I don’t know. I don’t—I didn’t—Watari, am I dreaming? What is happening?”

L’s gaze flicks to Watari, staring at the two of them, mostly Light, in horror, to Light, who’s backed up again and has his legs pulled up in some imitation of L’s sit, his hands hidden between them and his body. His eyes are narrowed, staring at Watari, lips pursed. Then his face settles into something wider, more open, and his lips tremble.

“He’s been experimenting on me,” Light says, a plea lacing his voice. He shrinks into himself, leaned away from L. “He’s been—do you know what he’s been doing in here, Watari? I don’t know why I’m back, I don’t—he lied. He lied to convict me. He faked the evidence, you have to understand. Please let me out of here.”

Watari strides over to Light, gets hands on his upper arms, and hoists him to his feet. Light’s entire body shakes and from his fingers drops his watch, a compartment that L was unaware of opened. A piece of paper flutters to the ground.

It has red on it.

Eyes wide, Light stares down, then steps on it. He swallows. It strains against the sutures.

“What is that?” L asks, pulse thrumming. He can hardly hear over the blood roaring in his ears.

“Lift your foot,” Watari orders Light. He has not released him. Good. Good. What is that paper?

“It’s just—I—it’s just a piece of paper,” Light says. He turns his pleading gaze towards L. “I just wanted to try to write something down, to see if I really am alive. This could all just be—I could be hallucinating this all, in the seconds after my head was cut off. I could be about to die.”

“You are not about to die,” Watari says gruffly, then directs to L, “and you are not dreaming or hallucinating. L may have fabricated evidence to convict you, Kira, but this… supernatural occurrence is only further proof that he was correct in his accusation.”

L squints, watching Light’s trembling hands, then his eyes widen.

He shouts, “Watari, careful!”, noticing the glint of silver just before Light’s arm moves.

The needle plunges into Watari’s throat and the old man wheezes, spluttering, hands releasing Light. Light pulls the needle back. He drops to his knees, hands scrambling over the floor, until he finds the piece of paper again. With the needle, red, he tries to keep writing.

L’s shoulder collides with Light’s side, instinct inside screaming that whatever he does, whatever he does, he cannot let Light finish writing.

Light hisses, spits, all polite pretense dropped. He’s knocked over by the force of L’s tackle, back banging against the table, and they grapple on the floor, each breathing hard, each struggling against their own bodies as well as each other. Light’s limbs don’t seem to be cooperating with him right, his strength diminished by his death, and L’s battling a sense of exhaustion sunk deep into his bones. What little sleep he got before Light woke him up with attempted murder did nothing to ease his fatigue. He’s cold, he’s tired, and he just wants Light to stop.

“Light,” he begs, trying to pin Light down, but he keeps wiggling out of L’s grasp, “Light, stop. Please, stop. Whatever you’re doing, whatever Kira wants to do—I don’t want you dead. Let me bring you to your room.”

“Fuck you,” Light spits. His nails catch on L’s cheek and scratch down. He’s lost the needle and paper somewhere in the scuffle, now relying solely on his body and willpower. “I fucking hate you, I’m going to fucking kill you, you coward, cheater, corrupt bastard—if I can’t write your name I’ll just kill you with my fucking hands, I’ll choke you, I’ll watch the life leave your eyes, they look fucking dead anyway. What the hell do you mean, my room? Where the fuck are we?”

Knuckles hit his cheek but Light hasn’t managed to put great force behind them. L takes it, grabs Light’s collar, and bangs him against the floor, driving a wheeze out of him. Watari coughs somewhere behind them. L can only hope Light didn’t puncture anything vital. Hopefully, even if his trachea has been damaged, the wound is minor enough to not be life-threatening.

“Write my name?”

Is that it? Kira’s weapon?

A name and a face. A name and a face.

“L Lawliet. L fucking Lawliet.” Light’s hand finds L’s throat and yanks him to the side, slamming L’s shoulder into cold concrete, and he digs nails in tight as he can. L grabs his wrist, squeezing, staring into Light’s face, Kira’s face.

It may be an inopportune thought, but L finds himself considering that Light has never looked more gorgeous.

“I can’t believe you. I can’t believe L has been your name all along. I had half of it the whole time and I didn’t even know it. If only Misa hadn’t—” Light cuts himself off with a growl, raising the elbow of his free arm, and brings it down towards L’s face.

L jerks his head to the side. Light’s elbow makes contact with the ground and he swears, letting L’s throat go to hold it, and L immediately scrambles to throw his weight onto Light’s back, pushing him to the ground.

“Watari,” he says, urgent, hands forcing Light’s shoulders down as he writhes, “handcuffs, we need to cuff him immediately.”

“Yes,” Watari gasps, choked, and his hurried footsteps leave the room.

“You bastard,” Light hisses, struggling, muscles spasming, “you fucking—worthless—craven scum of a detective, heretic, couldn’t face me properly, determined to ruin my beautiful world, godkiller—”

“That sounds quite complimentary, Light,” L says, fingers tight holding Light’s wrists behind his back, weight heavy on his thighs. “Sorry, Kira. Do you have a preference?”

“God.”

L laughs. “Bellerophon.”

Light thrashes. He snarls, “I would have won. It wasn’t my fucking fault someone decided he didn’t want to play by the rules anymore. You quit.”

Leaning down, L brushes his lips over the nape of Light’s neck, just below his hair, just above his collar. Light freezes. L feels his shiver.

“Let me take you to your room,” he whispers. “Kira is dead. Light may yet live.”

He lifts up again as Watari returns. Working together, Light is quickly handcuffed and pulled to his feet. His lips stay firmly pressed together, chin lifted in defiance.

L looks down.

The watch is there—its face shattered when it was dropped. Sorry, Mr. Yagami.

He can’t see the needle or paper anywhere.

Terror seizes his stomach.

“Watari,” he says slowly, “do you see that paper anywhere?”

Red dots Watari’s throat, and when he coughs again, there is blood on his lip. “I do not.”

Light has it. He must. They will have no choice but to search him. But with his wrists cuffed and two sets of eyes on him, it’s extremely unlikely he could manage to finish writing L’s name.

“We will strip him once he is situated,” L says. Light says nothing, but his eyes narrow and his fists clench behind his back. “As soon as possible. You will need medical attention.”

“I believe all of us may benefit from a doctor’s visit,” Watari replies lightly, then raises a fist to cover his mouth as he coughs. He reaches into his coat to pull out a handkerchief and dabs at his lips.

—

Light’s room.

It’s a cage.

A very comfortable one, to be sure. It is plush and stocked with books on all manner of subjects, consoles with video games (no Internet connection), decks of cards, an ornate chess set. The connected bathroom does not have a bathtub to negate the risk of Light drowning himself but the shower is large, the water pressure is strong, and it’s lined with products befitting the person who is probably the vainest teenager L has ever known.

Light’s lip curls when he sees it.

“This isn’t a room,” he says. “It’s a cell.”

The steel bars making up one wall do give that impression, L will admit.

To be fair, Light does have curtains he can draw to hide them from view. Of course, L has cameras in each corner of the room, so it won’t hide him from sight.

“A place I hope Kira can be comfortable,” L says, and marches Light inside.

On the other side of the bars is a desk, monitors, a couch, a minifridge. An office.

An office for L.

“Of course,” Light says, faux-cheerful, “as if I have a choice.”

“Didn’t you volunteer to be confined? I’m afraid to say I won’t be able to let you out until I’m convinced you’re not Kira. All my luck to you, really.”

They strip Light with detached efficiency. As his pants are coming off, Light decides to say, “I expect my father to be alerted of the developments. He would never allow this treatment.”

“As far as your father knows, you, Kira, are dead,” L says, smoothing his hands over Light’s pants, digging in each of his pockets. “I think it is best for both of you if things remain that way.”

They find the needle stuck in the fabric of Light’s suit jacket, woven through vertically, only a tiny glint of reddened silver visible. Light keeps a placid smile on his face the whole time, until he is standing in only underwear, hands cuffed behind his back, with a backdrop of a large, soft bed.

L swallows.

He’s seen Light like this before. He’s seen Light in less, over surveillance cameras. He hasn’t seen Light like this in person. Not after feeling Light’s breath ghost over his lips. Not after becoming familiar with the softness of his hands.

“Watari,” he says, “please go attend to your wound. Light will not be able to hurt me like this. I will handle the rest.”

“Ryuzaki, it is not—”

“Please, Watari. Take care of yourself.”

“Very well.”

The key passes from Watari to L (it’s a key and fingerprint scan—even if Light steals the key, he’d have to knock L out and use his unconscious hand to escape) and Watari vanishes, breath wheezing all the while. L locks his jaw, glancing at the needle atop Light’s clothing.

“I’m going to take your underwear off now.”

“Sure, L,” Light sighs, “because I definitely had the time to shove a piece of paper up my ass while we were fighting.”

L blinks. “Are you suggesting I should look there?”

“No,” Light smiles. “I’m suggesting that you should kill yourself.”

“Oh, alright. Well, if that’s all…”

He truly does expect Light to kick him when he pulls the fabric from his hips, but Light just stands there and steps out of them, ever cooperative. He has oscillated wildly between kindness and scorn, violence and simpering. It is impossible to tell when he’ll next snap.

L lifts the black briefs between two fingers, shaking them, opening them up and peering inside. No paper. He tosses them aside.

Light stands, bare, with hands behind his back, cuffed, his head tilted arrogantly. He still trembles. He will have to eat something soon. He will have to rest. He is alive.

“So?” he challenges. “Where will the great detective Lawliet search next?”

Light’s right. There’s no chance he could have maneuvered the paper inside of himself during their scuffle. At least, not anywhere downstairs.

Ah.

L clicks his tongue, approaching Light with a thumb on his lip.

“Open your mouth, please, Light.”

“Going to spit in it?” Light asks, fluttering his eyelashes.

He’s exhausted, and distracted, and that should not be working. It’s an incredibly transparent tactic. Despite himself, L wants. He aches. Light is alive. Kira is alive.

“I’d rather not have to force it.”

“Wouldn’t you?”

L’s eyes close and he lets his head fall back.

“If that’s what you want, by all means, I can oblige.”

Light leans closer. L can tell because breath warms his chin. Warms it. For so long, Light has been cold. No longer.

“If you want me to open my mouth,” he purrs, “shouldn’t I get on my knees for you?”

“You’d bite my dick off,” L mutters, and no, that is not the only reason he does not agree to Light’s suggestion, but it does feel like one of the most prescient.

“Oh, L,” he’s smiling, L can hear it, maybe he should look too, “I’d never hurt you.”

“Only kill me.”

L opens his eyes to see Light too close, the tip of his tongue teasing his bottom lip. “The little death, at least.”

“Just open your mouth, Light. Please.”

He’s so tired.

He remembers curling up to Light, head on his chest, feeling a hand on his back—

Light studies him. He says nothing. He does not move.

L sighs. “Surely you won’t even be able to write on it anymore. It’ll be wet from your saliva.”

Light’s lips shift. Then, they part, and reveal a small white piece of black-lined paper between his teeth. He can’t see all of the writing, but there is a scratchy red L going diagonally over a line.

He reaches forward. Light’s lips close again. They curve upwards. His jaw starts working.

“Stop,” L says, one hand grasping Light’s jaw, the other pushing fingers past his lips. He feels remarkably like a dog owner trying to extract something hazardous from their pet. He has half a mind to tell Light to drop it.

Light’s teeth are pearl-white and dangerous. Every time L tries to maneuver past them, a sharp snap has him retracting his fingers quickly. He reaches around the sides, towards Light’s molars, between his gums and his cheek, but the paper lays trapped on his tongue.

“Light,” L growls. He stops for a moment, holding Light’s jaw, holding his teeth, thumb and index finger stuck into his mouth, and slumps forward until his forehead contacts Light’s shoulder. “Please. Let me have it.”

He doesn’t hear anything. Until—

Light swallows.

L’s eyes shut. He’s so fucking tired.

“Are you kidding me?”

His fingers slide out of Light’s mouth and he releases his jaw, defeated.

“Oh, stop laughing,” Light says.

L doesn’t even have the energy to say I’m not. Instead, he backs up, and weakly gestures towards the dresser on one side of the room. “I’ll put pajamas on you now.”

“Will you, now? How benevolent.”

It’s regretful, to cover Light up, but seeing his legs covered and torso bare is arguably more enticing. His hands are still cuffed behind his back. L will have to release that, sometime.

It doesn’t have to be now.

He’s so tired. He wants Light. God, he wants Light.

“Are you tired?”

Light shrugs. “I think I got a decent amount of rest on account of being dead.”

L guides them until they’re sitting on the bed, shifting his knees up to his chest, wrapping arms around his shins as he gazes at Light. “Do you know how you came back?”

Light rolls his eyes. “No.”

Humming, L lets his body slump to the side until their shoulders brush. “I wonder if your killing power, your so-called Shinigami power, allowed you to defy death itself. Have you siphoned life from every person you killed? But… if so, why did it take so long for you to come back? Perhaps the separation of your head and body meant that whatever life-extending power you had was unable to take effect, and only because I reattached your head…”

“You really don’t know anything, do you?”

L smiles. “No. Please enlighten me, Kira.”

“I don’t know exactly what was going on while I was dead,” Light says, and he has not shifted away from L’s side, “but it seems like you were… trying things. All I can taste since waking up is strawberry. It seems like me coming back had more to do with you than me.”

“No. I would have never been able to resurrect you. It’s impossible. I was behaving extremely irrationally.”

“Well, how should I know? I was dead until I wasn’t, just like I was alive until I wasn’t.”

Pulling Light, L gets them both into the center of the bed and curls up while Light stretches out on his side. He mutters, “At least it’s better than the cot and having my feet bound, too.”

“I’ll take the handcuffs off tomorrow,” L murmurs, fingers trailing gently over Light’s front. His eyes are barely slits. “Promise.”

“I’m not sure how seriously I’ll take a promise from you,” Light says airily. “You understand.”

“Mhm.”

“I could kill you,” he whispers, pouring honey into L’s ears, “I want to. I will. It could be tonight. It could be tomorrow. It could be in a year. I’m going to kill you, L Lawliet.”

L yawns. “Yes, please.”

“Are you just a masochist, is that it? Do you want it or will you just accept it? You know you deserve it.”

“I deserve you,” L agrees, eyes unable to stay open any longer, “Kira.”

He slips one hand up to press two fingers into Light’s neck.

There it is. It’s beautiful. His pulse makes L’s heart flutter.

Kira wants him dead. Kira will try to kill him. L cannot explain to himself why he feels so comfortable falling asleep in his bed.

Maybe it’s the handcuffs. Maybe it’s the knowledge that, when Light does it, he will want to see the life leave L’s eyes, so L will have a chance to fight back. Once Watari is better, he will be able to watch on the cameras and intercept as necessary.

Light is back. Kira is alive. He is contained. His weapon is paper, but it is still so mysterious. Where did it come from? Is there more? What will happen now that it is within Light’s body?

They have time. They have time.

“Shut up,” he hears Light whisper through the fog. He feels lips on his cheek. “I have him.”