Redeemer

L ripped the door open and his distraught ghost tumbled inside, sopping from head to toe. Light pushed the obscenely long locks from his face—his stained white shirt plastered to pallid skin, jeans soaked through with mud and debris, finger tips bloody—and he held up his hands with wild and extremely distressed animation. “Do you know how long I have been out there screaming?!”

The detective was still too stunned to truly process it, but his brain was doing the math even if his heart wasn’t.

Light was beside himself, “Do you know what it takes to get out of a fucking mausoleum like that from the inside?!?! Oh my god—” and he pressed his wet, bloody, dirty hands to his head, slumping down onto the floor. It was quite apparent he’d just been through a horrible ordeal…to put it mildly.

“You did it,” he croaked a moment later. “You went through with it—”

And Light’s face twisted upward—he still looked shattered, and L knew all to well how he was feeling from the opposite perspective.

“I can’t believe it—I can’t believe you did that to me—knowing what I had to face—knowing what my fate is supposed to be—and you did that to me!!” He was sobbing like a wretch, and L only then noticed he was shaking, trembling deep down to the core—in fact they both were.

The detective dropped to his knees and without hesitation crushed his no-longer-dead lover close. Light wrapped himself around L, hanging on for dear life, still breathless with overwhelming anxiety. “You fucker!! I should hate you! I should fucking hate you!!”

Yeah, probably, but L had spent most of the day hating himself, and Light seemed to see that quickly; though he was still too upset to even bring it to attention. “Oh my god, oh my god,” he was sobbing—distressed was an understatement just then, but L held him tightly and Light was clinging to him despite himself.

“Okay, okay,” he breathed, trying to bring himself down from near-hysterics; “We play by your rules now—I get it—no more, I’ll leave them alone, I don’t care—I just, I just can’t go through this shit, L, I can’t do it—you can’t do this to me, you can’t—you fucking killed me! You fucking buried me!”

Yeah, he was about to go off the deep end, and L grabbed him by the shoulders, hauling him back to get a grip—“Light, you’re alive,” he stressed, catching that amber gaze with his own—pressing the meaning hard.

Light sucked back his fit, his eyes wide, still stunned, still reeling with shock. “Yeah,” he said, “And you wouldn’t be right now, but luckily I took out all my goddamn aggression on the mausoleum—now I’m just done, I’m done L—what happened? What the fuck happened? Did you think I was going to kill them? You think I did the trade so I could find out their names? What the fuck was going through your head?!”

“Light,” and L took his fretful lover by the face. “Just breathe, alright?—breathe.”

Light winced, but shut up all the same, breathing in deep, his gaze locked with L’s—and he saw the misery there, he saw the anguish that had mapped the detective’s pale face these last many hours.

“You look worse than I do,” Light said after a moment—and L actually smiled, pulling him close and pressing his lips to Light’s clammy forehead. “One day maybe I’ll tell you about the 12 hours I spent praying for death,” he said, “But right now, let’s just get you dried off before you get sick.”

Light settled against him, his nerves finally beginning to calm. “I don’t think that’s something I have to worry about anymore,” he muttered.

* * *

Light was in a bathrobe, huddled in L’s arms, the two stretched out on the long antique brocade couch near the piano. Right now, L was not exactly sure how to go about this revelation to anyone else in the house, so he wasn’t really going to make the attempt until morning.

“The Shinigami Mark,” he said, arms locked around his lover’s warming body. And Light’s hair was ridiculously long, cascading in reddish amber waves over the side of the cushion as it dried.

“What?”

“It heals you” L continued “—it’s like a safeguard against death… It also seems to grow your hair whenever it does so.”

“Nails too,” Light muttered against L’s chest, “But I tore them off trying to claw my way out of a bloody crypt for several hours. The mark didn’t even occur to me—I just figured you fucked up the dosage and buried me alive.”

“Not possible,” L said resolutely. “I made sure the dosage was exact, the last thing I wanted you to do was suffer.”

“That’s comforting,” Light grumbled. “Remind me to thank you.”

“But we’re even now,” L said, Light’s legs tangled with his, hand unconsciously clinging to L’s shoulder.

“A death for a death?—Brilliant, L,” Light muttered. “Only you would justify it like that.”

“It’s reasonable considering the rationale of our overall relationship.”

Light scoffed, “Sort of like lying here in the arms of my would-be murderer?”

“It wasn’t murder,” L said flatly. “It was execution.”

“As if that makes it all okay,” Light grumbled. “Goddamnit, L. Goddamnit.”

* * *

He woke with a start, a sharp gasp upon his lips as eyes flew open to take in the dim lighting of the study and as an afterthought, the blanket that had been set over him. Mello sat up, instantly assaulted by the pounding headache that forced him to wait a moment before even entertaining the thought of rising off the couch.

It was storming in earnest now and too easy to attribute the loud banging he'd heard in his sleep to the raging elements outside. The irony of the storm was not lost on him - it felt too righteous. A perfect reflection all four of them shared in one way or another. With a hazy sense of detachment, Mello mustered the strength to push himself up. The rum bottle offered no further comforts as it had been drained and abandoned some hours prior. Sure as hell explained the throbbing in his head, though. Goddamnit.

The lights were flicked off as he slid from the study. The stairs were too far away and themselves a whole other challenge of epic proportions. If he at all heard the faint sound of voices from within the music room, it never once registered as he passed within close proximity, spotting the brightly lit room and attributing it to L and his sleeplessness.

Matt was just coherent enough to ask him if he was alright upon entering the shared bedroom. Mello exhaled, pushing the door firmly shut behind him. His lover was sitting up in bed, the dim light of his PSP illuminating the small radius around him and giving Mello a clear view of his lover's drawn features.

"What time is it?" Mello dodged the question with another more objective point, peeling his shirt off.

"Practically four." Matt replied upon consulting the bedside table.

"Shit. What are you still doing up?"

"Been up with Linda. She only just finally got to sleep half hour ago."

Weren't they going to be a beady-eyed bunch come morning. Hoping the conversation would be dropped there, Mello cursed inwardly when his lover's eyes descended to the small screen, but the comment was on his lips - "You didn't answer my question." Fuck.

"I've got a headache," the blonde answered truthfully, climbing into bed and promptly plopping face down against the pillows.

"Happens when you drink that much in one sitting."

"I'm not drunk, Matt."

"I know," the redhead commented, peering down at him. "And cursing fate for that fact."

A sigh. Bastard was right. Minutes passed and when it seemed that the conversation had indeed come to a close, Mello murmured quietly into the pillows. "I owe you an apology..."

"Mell, don't-"

"Shut up and let me say what I have to say."

The redhead clamped his mouth shut, throwing the switch on the PSP that would put it on hold until further notice and set the device down on the nightstand. A cigarette was lit instead, but his attention was upon his lover.

"I'm sorry about this morning." Mello said at last. "You were justified in your actions. I wasn't simply blowing smoke up your arse by saying you were better than that, I meant it. But you were right. You've been right - but even knowing that I..."

A hand fell to his spine and Mello exhaled a shuddering breath, fingers tightening into the pillows. "It doesn't matter..."

"It does and we both know it."

"No, it doesn't. It's done and over with. Shit, yea, I've been pissed. I've been pissed off for a very long time over this whole situation but-"

"But you've put up with it for reasons I can't even begin to comprehend."

Matt chuckled quietly, sadly. "I know the feeling." And he leaned closer, resting against him, offering the comfort Mello had denied through the entirety of the day. "You've always done what you wanted, so it did not come to me as a surprise. What bothered me is not knowing where the games started and where they ended. What bothered me was the fact that he'd managed to get both you and L on his side in the worst way possible."

"Shouldn't have pulled a gun on you..."

"Mello, let it go..." a faint whisper against his shoulder. Mello nodded briefly and clung onto those pillows as if they were his one and last salvation.

Of salvation there was nothing. In fact, he felt all the more lost now than he had a quarter of an hour prior. "I can't do this..." he whispered brokenly, not even realizing it he was speaking it aloud. "I can't do this!"

“Mello, please don’t,” And Matt was curling tighter against him from behind, as though trying to crush that pain away—and truly, if he’d been disturbed by Mello’s reactions to Light while he lived, then his consequent grief over Kira’s death made it that much harder to bear.

But Mello couldn’t press out the thoughts—the fear he knew Light had agonized over regarding his fate, all that they had done to save him from it, to try and out smart it—how he’d sworn to protect him…Gott helfe mir!—and L. L who loved no other the way he’d loved Light, L had brought himself to do it, because no one else had earned the right to take Kira’s life but him. He’d killed his lover—his beloved …to save them? Did it have to come to this? Did it truly?

Mello didn’t realize it, but he was sobbing into the pillow, shoulders shuddering even beneath the anchoring weight of Matt’s body; and the world was so black just then. So utterly and incomprehensibly black…

* * *

Morning came on with frightening clarity. Of the storm there was nothing but sodden ground and fallen leaves. Linda was in the kitchen. Cooking herself a full English breakfast regardless of whether or not she would be able to eat it all. It was a distraction. And one she welcomed with open arms—hard to believe just twenty four hours prior she had been sitting in this same kitchen, eating pancakes with Kira—no, Light. It had been too much to handle in such a short amount of time; two weeks whirring by, and the last two days blurring completely.

Linda made it out onto the veranda despite the dampness. Drying off a chair and the table upon which breakfast was set. On her lap, however, was another distraction as she dug out a sketchbook and charcoals, letting her inner conflict release through the images taking shape beneath the guidance of her hand. Twice she forced herself to stop as the graceful features she shaded with utmost perfection took on the most troubling identity. Twice she realized it was Light's own eyes upon the stark white pages, staring past her into something only he could see. And twice she had flipped the pages, biting the inside of her cheek.

It was cruel how the mind worked. That despite all her efforts to put aside what had happened yesterday - how could she?! - it crept back in one way or another. Of that first hand experience of Kira's worst moments there was no recollection—none she willingly summoned at least—and all that was left was the smooth charm, the intellect, the alluring laughter, the sultry intelligence in those eyes so molten, so seductive she could imagine losing herself in them. But it was not for her loss—for there truly was none—but for L's. It troubled her: the silence, the detachment. What of him now? What thoughts could possibly be steamrolling through his mind now when there was no chance of salvation - when he had sealed his lover's fate just as surely as his own?

They would lose him…if they hadn't lost him already.

* * *

L brought him clothes, in fact, in the wee hours of early dawn, they’d gone into the downstairs washroom and bathed—Light scrubbing away the dirt of his own crypt from beneath his fingernails. If he’d ripped them off clawing his way out like he claimed, they’d healed over night—he seemed to take the time to note that.

Neither he nor L had any intention of revisiting the master bedroom. L had gone in there to retrieve some things, but tightly shut the door on his way back out. And now Light was standing at the music room window, jeans and black button down he wore untucked, collar open, sleeves rolled up.

The storm had come and gone and the sun was golden outside and L came up behind him, slipping grateful arms around that narrow body, resting his head between Light’s shoulder blades. He hadn’t apologized—wasn’t going to, they were even, and only they it seemed, could kill each other, and resurrect, and still be in love when the darkness parted the next morning.

“No one’s up yet?” Light muttered.

“Kitchen’s awake, I smell breakfast… no one else yet.”

“You’re speaking English,” Light said and L hadn’t realized.

“Oh,” he said, still in English. “I hadn’t realized.”

“I’m not used to your accent,” Light replied; “I don’t think I would recognize your voice in a dark room.” And L’s was a deep voice, lilting, and sometimes he added a certain sing-song effect to the ends of his words.

“You need to polish up,” he murmured. “It doesn’t suit you to refuse to speak English, even if you are ashamed of your pronunciation. You perfect everything else—time to perfect that.”

“You’re my professor now?”

“I’m Mello’s, it’s not a far stretch…actually, I should give him a few lectures, I’m presently making him rely only on texts.”

“L…” and Light paused, “How are you going to tell them?”

It was a firm silence that followed. “I don’t know,” the detective said at last. “They are each affected in a terrible way—for different reasons—I can’t just…”

“Blurt it out like you do everything else?”

L lifted his head and Light crooked a gaze over his shoulder at him.

L went to speak but the words didn’t come so quickly, “…I’ll call a meeting,” he said at last.

* * *

Breakfast was… called. For lack of a better word. Though when L stuck his head out on the veranda and saw Linda had already handled that part of his plan, he apologized; eyes glanced at her sketch book, looking rather…puzzled? He certainly wasn’t being despondent the way he had been the previous day, instead he looked almost anxious.

“Then please just come inside for a meeting,” he said, and slid back into the cool shadows of the house.

Linda closed the book on the last drawing she’d been working on…after five more tries to not draw Light, she finally did, and found herself sketching L in beside him—as though she had the power to put them back together and give them peace. The thought made her face hurt and she shut the book, and left it on the bench in the sun.

* * *

Mello looked like he’d been up all night drinking, even if he wasn’t exactly hung over, and Matt came down the stairs behind the blonde looking…lost. Ironically L was waiting at the bottom for them, finger in his mouth, chewing it nervously.

“I’ve had breakfast made,” the detective said, “Linda has already eaten—but I want us all in the dinning room to speak on something.”

Mello nodded listlessly, and Matt’s jaw tightened. At this point neither of them wanted to hear any more revelations—because they just wouldn’t be good. L would announce he was killing himself, or some such business, and then it would just suffice to give up the plot then and there. Regardless they followed the detective to the dining room, where a full setting had been laid, even though no one seemed to have an appetite…

Ironically, L took his seat at the head of the table, and was somewhat nervously heaping his plate with every powdery gooey confection he could locate. All eyes were on him, and the doctor seemed heavily concerned. This was the detective in denial, dealing with grief—or some other heavy business at work in his brilliant and tormented mind.

“I have been agonizing over this for several hours now—since late last night actually,” L said, promptly constructing what looked like a building in the center of his plate—he wasn’t making any eye contact with anyone, but his demeanor, for lack of a better term, seemed somewhat…hyper. Like a sugar rush out of nowhere. Not that he was happy, just that he was anxious—and disturbingly so.

Linda looked like she wanted to cry because she’d no doubt attributed it to his grief, and the deconstruction of life as he knew it. L didn’t notice her expression so he didn’t comment on it. Mello wasn’t looking at him at all, and Matt was trying his best to be natural.

“It was suggested to me to face you and say it simply, but I can’t do that,” L continued; “So I’m not going to face you as I say… Kira’s still alive.”

It was a general sense of silent confusion that crossed each of their faces, but the reactions that followed beyond the initial puzzlement differed greatly. Linda looked faint, as if she didn't quite know how to react but assumed that L's statement just as his behavior that morning was bred out of grief. "L..." she whispered, the single syllable sounding choked. Sad. It was the sort of tone applied to a child who could not accept the death of a parent, though somehow this felt worse than that.

Matt on the other hand, simply stared at him, the silent surprise morphing into disbelief and worry—for L's sake because clearly, he was not speaking rationally anymore. It made little sense after what they had witnessed the previous day, after what they'd been told, after the rites spoken beneath the first wave of the storm that raged suitably through the rest of the night.

Beside him, Mello stared and then... laughed. A sort of quiet cackle that was soon hushed by the press of his hand. No one else thought it was particularly funny, and truthfully neither did he, but something somewhere in the back of his mind had snapped. Call it sleep depravation; call it grief, the effects of alcohol still in his system. Call it fucking madness. At this point, it likely was. But he could not stop. "L," he said when he managed to control himself long enough to speak. "Don't do this, for the love of God. Whatever this happens to be, don't do it..."

L blinked, at last looking at each one of them in turn. “Ah,” he said. “You all think this is some madness bred of a grief-stricken mind. So did I, last night, when he showed up outside the veranda doors in the middle of a rainstorm. The best explanation I can offer, is that—like with the car accidents, and the heart attack—so too, a lethal combination of sodium thiopental, pancuronium bromide and potassium chloride was counteracted by the piece of Death Note Light put inside himself. I considered that despite a 5 gram dosage of sodium thiopental, in which case consciousness is usually regained after 5-6 half lives, or roughly 57-69 hours, the timing was off—but considering the other two injections were intended to kill him, a discrepancy in the half life of the first one was quite laughable since the shinigami mark healed him of all three—that was perhaps the only madness I can see after the fact…so far.” He shoved a cupcake into his mouth. “Luckily, I have the evidence to back this up before the lot of you call the men in white coats on me.” L swallowed his Nutella-glazed confection and smiled, “He’s in the music room.”

Dr. Gregory blotted his forehead with his napkin. It was clear from his reaction that he maintained the belief L had snapped and was now quite delusional. “I think I’d like to give you something to help you sleep,” he said. “The brain does funny things under duress—and such duress as this.”

L looked at him flatly, nutella smeared finger planted firmly between two plump lips. “You can give me something after you check the music room,” the detective replied. Though he seemed a tad bit agitated that no one believed him. Of course, it didn’t escape L at that moment…that maybe…yes, it was possible he had snapped after all; and if he walked into the music room and found it empty…

His eyes went owlish as he considered the possibility. Oh it wasn’t unheard of to concoct some elaborate fantasy to alleviate the worst kind of grief based on facts that would make sense in a fictional fabrication just to ease the mind…what if he’d imagined it? What if Light really was dead?—the elements of the night before had all the design of a stereotypical horror movie—of pure unbridled fantasy right down to the length of Light’s hair…what if he was dead?

The suddenly blank expression on L’s face spoke in droves of what had just crossed his mind, and seemed to confirm the doctor’s analysis—which was, quite frankly the most disturbing thing yet.

“L,” the doctor said gently, “Let’s get you upstairs so you can get some rest, alright? This is very common in cases of intense grief—it's nothing to worry about...”

“Wait." This came from Matt, "Before you do that," he said, gaze lifting to the doctor. "While I agree that L needs his rest I--" and he paused, scrutinizing the group for a moment before letting his attention fall on the detective. Something was different—did the others not see it? Sure, L was grief-stricken, but there was something in his eyes that had not been there the previous night. Despite the doubt clouding over by the doctor's prognosis, there was life there. By god, he was even eating again, despite the anxiety with which he did so. "I think we should at least do as he asks."

Of course despite the life that was flickering in L’s previously dead eyes—this new consideration on the part of his mental state had him stricken to the spot. On the one hand—it was sublimely disturbing that he could let his own wits get away from him like this—on the other hand…if it was true… he couldn’t complete the thought.

“Thank you Matt,” and his voice barely scraped above a whisper; “I suddenly find myself…” the words tapered off as though L had finished his sentence, but only in his own mind.

That was it for the doctor and he rose. “Very well,” he said, “We’ll check the music room.”

Linda frowned. What would the ramifications be when they found the room empty? The potential devastation hung in the air like a hammer about to drop. L needed to be shuffled off to bed and given a sedative—not have his every delusion brutally confirmed for what it was. Nonetheless, it was there in Matt’s face, some grave curiosity entertaining the potential that…L…wasn’t lying? Linda’s frown deepened—didn’t they see how detrimental this was to L’s health? God!

“Doctor,” she began in protest, albeit gentle protest.

Mello however had stood by that point. “I’ll check,” he said, cutting her off.

“Lead the way then, please, Mello,” Dr. Gregory muttered, and L was stepping off his chair, but looking very much like he’d just fallen into the twilight zone—back to being completely despondent. He’d been hard at work all night on this fabrication hadn’t he? Worked his mind back to a functioning level with the belief that Light had come back to him—that all would be well. This crushing blow was too much for him to bear, and Linda wanted to yell for them all to see that—but it was too late, they were moving into the hall, and crossing the distance back to the music room.

The Dr. had his hand on L’s shoulder when Mello wrapped his fingers around the doorknob, and the blonde took a breath—knowing inherently what Linda had already surmised on her own. This was bad. This was miserable—and the room was… empty.

Mello saw it first, his eyes scanning the lofty space, immaculate as it had been last night, but for the tray of untouched food Linda had left as dinner. No sign of anyone or anything else, and Mello, with a sigh of defeat, let the door swing open so the rest of them could see.

L blinked, gaze scanning the emptiness—empty like that feeling in the bottom of his stomach. “Ah,” he said after a moment and his voice was gravely distant. “Seems I’m mistaken.”

Linda clapped a hand over her mouth, her eyes flooding with heavy tears. He was lost wasn’t he? He was so utterly lost.

“It’s alright,” the doctor was saying, wrapping a firm arm around L’s slumped shoulders and guiding him away from the door. Mello could barely face him, and Matt looked perplexed, but it seemed L’s mind was that powerful to craft such a thorough delusion that even he wanted to buy it for just a moment—for the detective’s sake.

“You’re gonna lie down, and things will be better when you wake up,” the doctor murmured; but L had slipped back into shock, the group of them actually knit around him for support as they turned to head toward the stairs.

It didn’t help his frame of mind at that moment when a far too familiar figure moved out of the kitchen—cup of coffee firmly in hand. Dr. Gregory saw him first, since he was the only one paying attention well enough to put the pieces together—his reaction, however, was typical—jaw dropped, no sound came out.

It was a domino effect as the other pairs of eyes turned toward him—and there he was, handsome and glowing and looking rather flawless, long silky mane of amber-red hair neatly brushed and draped over one shoulder.

Light sipped his coffee, and seemed satisfied at the reaction. “Judging by the looks on your faces,” he said smoothly, “I assume you didn’t believe him.”

That was all he had to say, because at that moment, L hit the floor—out cold.

Linda would have likely fainted too if not for the fact that L had done it for her. Instead she dropped to her knees beside his fallen form. But her eyes, God help her, kept drifting upward to look upon what might as well have been an apparition... or an angel…

But it wasn't. Oh god, it wasn't, because Light looked too good, too real, too solid to be anything other than real thing. And even though Matt looked grim, there was also a deeply rooted sense of relief because L wasn't lying. L hadn't been making shit up. It wasn't a fragment of his imagination as everyone had been quick to believe. So Kira lived and goddamned if he couldn't feel too ticked off or disappointed over the fact. The redhead’s eyes shifted to his lover, slightly behind the group as he had been the last out of the music room. But Mello had yet to say a word, had yet to truly react much...

When he did, however, it was immediate. Mello stalked the distance to the kitchen doors within seconds. He slapped the coffee out of Light's hand and shoved Kira back against the wall. "You bloodysonofafuckingbitch!" Mello snarled in English knowing quite well Light understood each and every word. "Do that again and I'll fucking kill you myself!" The anger was in place but there reflected in those was the truth behind the last twenty four hours—a truth that had been kept out of their bedroom games. He cared. He cared enough to mourn him through the goddamned night. But just as he had come on strong, his grip soon loosened, head bowing.

Goddamnit...

Light could have said something sly and irritating about dying not being part of his plan and such; but he recognized Mello’s outburst for what it was; because just like with L, Kira was learning best how to read the blonde. He saw it, he knew it, he’d felt it the other night when they’d made love in the study—and much to Matt’s horror, instead of shoving Mello off and getting defensive, Light pulled him into an embrace, one that Mello all too quickly returned—head buried in shame and relief against Light’s chest, arms roped tightly around him as those elegant fingers folded soothingly across the nape of his neck. Light was merciful and said nothing to compound Mello’s state—even more merciful perhaps that he did not shoot Matt a sinister gaze trumpeting his victory; his eyes drawn downward, those long lashes humble and modest—or at least seemingly so until Mello collected himself and finally drew back of his own accord.

“We should get L upstairs,” Light said after a moment, to break the awkward silence. “He’s been through a lot.”

That there was the understatement of a lifetime, taking into consideration what all of them had just gone through in the timeframe of a day. Let alone what L had endured through the length of the night.

* * *

Even if L’s prior explanation had been solidly formulated, it still… indicated only one thing. The one thing Mello had suggested seemingly a million nights ago during dinner. Light was becoming something altogether different. But what? What could all of this mean when L’s lethal injection had no lasting lethal effect? When the Death Note a week prior had failed in the end? When every single cut and scrape healed within minutes? What had Light become?

Something out of this world. Something of the next—of the shinigami world. And where was Ryuk when his answers were necessary? The death god wass completely elusive since Light had fallen into his coma. Was he at Bella’s side, mercifully keeping up the façade so that she did not suspect a thing? Mello doubted it – Ryuk never took sides as plainly as that. And, frankly, that was giving him far too much credit. Was he with Misa? It would make sense but… why not even drop in to check how his favorite human was doing?

Mello frowned and inserted a neat square of chocolate past his lips, chewing slowly. Thoughtfully.

What level of advantage had Kira just gained? He could not be killed easily—that much was certain. The Eyes, too, were a recent development which unnerved the living shit out of Mello regardless of whether or not his name was common knowledge. It hardly mattered. It was the principle alone that they’d lost every last trump card, every bit of an upper hand—even the kill switch damaged by the defibrillator, not that it would do much good now. But… Light was not out to kill them was he? In fact, he was being as cordial as he could under the abnormal circumstances.

It was Linda who had gathered the courage to approach Light once they were all kicked out of L’s room; hands wringing tightly in front of her, fidgeting as a result of borrowed nerve. “Are you truly… all right?” she asked, eyes just a little too wide.

God, his gaze was warm and inviting as he looked her in the eye to answer. Seemed as though he’d shed that unnatural snake skin that clung to his Kira persona, and what remained was very nearly perfect. Of course she knew better, he was on and off—her studies had proved as much, but so far since his remarkable resurrection—which truly bordered on divine—Light had remained the utmost picture of polite and humble civility. He did not insert himself into the situation, did not demand attention, did not antagonize or make cynical observations—and had certainly not blamed anyone for what his own ordeal must have been like the day before. If his prior behavior had been labeled “good” (the previous day’s fit notwithstanding) then his present behavior was immaculate.

Linda knew her question—and his forthcoming response—had perked the attention of Matt and Mello, even though neither of them turned to face the conversation.

“I wasn’t very alright last night,” Light said, mustering all the congeniality it took to not make that statement as grim as it was. “It took about 4 hours to get out of the crypt—I was in something of a panic, as you can imagine…or maybe not. It definitely felt like a horror movie.” He shrugged. “If L hadn’t already been in some state of shock, I might have unintentionally given him a heart attack with the way I surprised him—but once things were calm I think we were both much better off. I don’t feel any effect of the drugs, though he swears it was the proper dosage, so all I can think is to agree with his theory—it’s the Death Note at work. Ironically, I feel more clear-headed than I’ve felt in a long time—so I suppose I’m as alright as I can be. Except I’m in dire need of a proper haircut.” He smiled then, and that seemed to make everything suddenly so much…brighter. “And no, I’m not holding it against him,” he added after a thoughtful moment. Maybe it was the way he caught Matt suddenly glancing over his shoulder. “As L so eloquently put it to me last night—we’re even now. A death for a death.”

Of course the argument could have been made that L had never truly died during that particular attempt, but no one chimed in with that observation, which was likely for the best.

* * *

Upon Dr. Gregory’s stern orders, they’d filed out of the hall, descending to the bottom floor for something of a proper breakfast now that the crisis had been averted. Appetites still were not ravenous, but efforts were given. Even Linda, who had already picked at her own concoction earlier that morning, joined them with tea, sitting quietly in her usual spot at the table. Mello resorted to coffee upon setting eyes on it, and then as the caffeine mixed with the lingering effects of last night’s rum, he gripped his head, cringing as the throbbing headache returned ten fold. Perhaps something a bit more solid was in order.

It was a quiet affair all the same. Their worries on L at the present moment, although it did not even begin to compare to the previous night’s unspoken panic. Fate had one hell of a sense of humor as sitting there, eating breakfast with Kira in their midst had somehow become a widespread heartfelt relief.

Downright fucking comical.

“Can I ask you a question?” this came from Matt and his gaze was very much intent on Light as the latter took a sip of his coffee. Both Linda and Mello’s attention shot through the roof. The latter going as far as to warn him off.

“Matt…” he murmured quietly.

The redhead held up a hand, indicating that he was not out for blood – not this time at least – but did not look away from those slightly narrowed eyes. Good behavior aside, they did not like one another any better now than they had the previous day. Of course, without that mutual rage, it was a bit more… civil. Tense, but civil all the same. But Matt was not being testy, in fact, he was positively neutral at that point. “Are we to assume that you gained The Eyes in the same manner as all of this?”

Oh. Mello looked as if he was about to say something but decided against it at the very last moment, allowing the scene to play out. That was another detail he’d had some time to think about during his not-so-coherent hours the previous night. It had come back to him through his rum-induced haze because it was simply unexplainable.

…And because there was only one other case he knew of in which the deal had never been performed but in which The Eyes were present. A detail that Mello had yet to discuss with L...

Light sipped his coffee and took a moment to compose his thoughts on the matter. “That is going to be my theory, yes,” he said plainly. “because I can assure you, I never have and never will offer to make that deal with Ryuk. He’s tried plenty of times, it’s his gain moreso than mine—it’s half my remaining life after all.” Light set the coffee cup down.

“Contrary to the belief that because Ryuk is shinigami he possesses a wealth of information on the matter—he does not,” Light continued rather astutely. “I can’t tell you how much I discovered about the actual Death Note that he never once took the time to deduce. Ryuk as a definitive source of information has never been applicable in my time as Kira. I asked him months ago what the possible ramifications would be of implanting the Death Note the way I did—and it’s not a very big piece at all, barely even an inch—Ryuk had no idea. He said it had never been done. As far as I’m concerned, this is new territory—it does not mean I’m not going to try and study it as much as I can, I think it’s obvious I’m the one with the most at stake…I won’t complain about it thus far however, but that truly goes without saying. I don’t believe that my recent battles with death and mutilation are where the whole thing stops. The Eyes are only another stage in what could be a long chain of events—or depending on the ability of the miniscule size of the piece itself, perhaps it just only has so much power to offer. Maybe it runs out, maybe it can fuel my newfound abilities only up to a select point.” He shrugged. “The Eyes are not permanent—I don’t have them right now. Seems they were ignited by my temper yesterday—it brought them on, and as I calmed down, they faded away. Maybe I need practice to utilize them, to learn how to control them as I see fit—or maybe their manifestation hinges on my physiological properties at any given time. It’s an experimental stage quite frankly and that’s really the best answer I can offer you.”

His eyes settled on Matt, and Light was as composed as perhaps they'd seen him in recent history. As composed as he used to be when he'd been maintaining his innocence around L and everyone else who wanted to nail him to the wall for being Kira. As per usual it was hard to tell false from genuine—if anything, the only thing that spoke most in his favor was that he still sat there among them, and had not, as of yet, aggressively pursued any—if not all—their lives, essentially freeing himself and his ambition to reign supreme as self-proclaimed God of the New World. With his abilities as they stood now—it would be remarkably easy for him to do...if only he was in possession of an actual notebook.

Maybe therein lay the rub.

A good an answer as any. Mello could not suppress a smile, however focused it down at the dark contents of his coffee. “Still you manage to speak objectively,” he pointed out, lifting his gaze to look at Light through the fall of blonde bangs. “As if little is going to change and you’ll go back in business the moment a notebook returns to your hands.” Only he had the balls to test him like this while L was gone, but even if it was a challenge, it was free from threat. In fact, it was downright lightweight by their usual standards.

Mello was positively ignoring the tennis-match type looks from both Linda at his side and Matt seated directly across from him. He wasn’t about to break eye contact just then with Kira. “And let’s say that you do find the opportunity in your spare time to continue about business as usual,” he continued, that smirk in place which made him seem a hell of a lot more like his usual self. It was refreshing. The coffee mug was held in his hands and he leaned forward against the table, lowering his head ever slightly without looking away from those amber eyes. “If we do the math with what information we have, there are currently two notebooks in Bella’s possession, another two – perhaps three counting your own – in Near’s possession, and another currently in Misa’s hands. Which, by the way,” he added as an afterthought. “Is recorded to have gone completely off the map. The Japanese task force have nothing but dust at her previous residence and have yet to find her tracks. Thought you’d like to know,” Mello concluded that particular train of thought casually and took a sip. “That’s five, if not six notebooks currently in human possession. We already know one of them is Ryuk’s, one is Rem’s, the other Gealus’.” He let that thought brew a few moments and leaned back in his chair. “Three accounted for whose owners are willing participants or otherwise out of the picture. That leaves two – if not three – unaccounted for.”

“What are you trying to get at?” Linda intervened at last, unable to take it much longer.

“What I’m getting at,” Mello returned, giving her only a moment’s glance before returning his attention to Light. “Is that if personal experience is anything to judge by, Shinigamis tend to be particularly possessive of their notebooks. Tool to their survival and all,” he waved a hand and tilted his head slightly. “So where the hell did those extras come from?” he asked. “Not only that but don’t you think it’s reason to start wondering why their rightful owners have yet to enter the picture?”

Light smiled demurely. “Firstly,” he said, “That is a question for Ryuk—for while the creep may not know all the ins and outs and laws of his own realm—he does have a habit of sniping notebooks at a five finger discount. My initial notebook did in fact belong to a shinigami by the name of Sidoh—Mello, I know he’s a personal acquaintance of yours being that he at last realized it was his notebook Ryuk had dropped in the human world years after the fact and came down to claim it just as you stole it from me. That notebook was returned to Sidoh by myself upon the conclusion of the LA incident. Whether it’s found its way back here, it’s very well possible. I don’t know how many shinigami are in existence, or if there’s even a set number. I get the impression there is. I also get the very distinct impression that they’re all bored out of their skulls and rarely do their jobs—which means there’s a plethora of notebooks lying around their world waiting for someone like Ryuk to pilfer them—and by the time their owners realize it, years of trouble have already ensued—if Sidoh is anything to judge by.”

Light poured himself a second cup. “My guess, judging from Ryuk’s present outlook on the games we humans play—and his initiation of the current deadline—is that he decided if one notebook could be this much fun—what about all 6 of the allotted active amount? It would stand very much to reason, that Ryuk is the cause for whatever notebooks are in play—and let’s assume there are indeed 6. So depending on when his fellow shinigami pull their heads out of their asses long enough to realize they’ve been robbed—is when the original owners will begin showing up to attempt to reclaim their property. What they’ll find is that they’re stuck in this world until the human owners relinquish ownership one way or another. Unless you come across an idealistic shinigami like Rem who gets emotionally involved in the affairs of humans, I wouldn't worry about them too much. Ryuk, I believe is a rare breed among them—one of the few who have any ambition and creativity.””

Light leaned back in his chair, crossing his legs. “There is also the possibility that Ryuk inspired some of his fellow shinigami to play this game as well, and there are more of his brethren floating around the 6 earthbound books. But I don’t think that’s likely. Simple observation that Ryuk has not been hanging around me 24/7 only alludes to the fact that he is serving as the shinigami for far more than just one or two books. Being that I’m the most experienced owner—I’m the least of his worries—hence why he’s not here. The fact that I was in a coma, meant there was no entertainment to be had either, so he went elsewhere for the time being.”

Light’s eyes fluttered upward to meet Mello’s again. “So let’s do the math then. Bella for certain has at least one book. It’s very possible she’s torn pages out and spread them around multiple assistants, but there is no proof she had more than one book. Near has at least 3—two of the original 3 from the Kira case—Rem’s and Gelus’—and my current book which he took from me two weeks ago. Misa has 1 book—my second—which I relinquished ownership of several weeks ago. That leaves one book unaccounted for to make the allotted six. Maybe Bella does indeed have it, but that would mean she only has two. I will verify that she did originally have two—Matt swiped one during the chapel shootout when they took L. I took it from Matt during the escape—Misa has it now, so that was my second book. Again, in conclusion, that leaves one book unaccounted for. Bella’s or not. And of course, Ryuk has his own book…which does not count for the six because it does not belong to any humans—it remains his, always has been. Ryuk may have dropped the initial notebook—but he never actually dropped his own.”

Mello lifted his mug with a slight nod. “I stand corrected,” he allowed and drained the caffeinated contents. “But my main point becomes that there is far too much activity going on for it not to have become noticeable. Bored or downright incompetent as most shinigami may be – there’s got to be someone other than Ryuk who’s paying attention. Especially all the ruckus he’s come to create. It’s worthy of bloody popcorn by now,” he stated blandly, and then added. “You had a second point?”

Linda coughed, practically choking on the powdered sugar that topped off the pastry she had picked out and decided to bite into at that precise moment. As if the conversation was not utterly bizarre to begin with – let’s face it, she had yet to have much experience regarding other-worldly matters – the casual tones with which both sat there to discuss these matters over bloody coffee was simply mind boggling.

“In all honesty,” Light said, politely handing Linda a napkin for her sugar, “I’m not concerned with the shinigami. The notebooks—while here—belong to the humans who hold them. The shinigami themselves are unable to take them back by force. If they are creative and smart…maybe they devise a plan to have the notebooks fall back into their hands—but I get the impression the reason why Ryuk is the way he is, is because he’s been down here too long. And he’s been around L and I. Other shinigami don’t think like him—in his words, they’re concerned with gambling in their own realm, and not much else. He only ever came down here because he was bored. If nothing else, he is most likely providing entertainment for his friends, as to whether they want to partake—I suppose we cross that bridge when we get there, because what can we really do in the meantime.” Light shrugged. “Sometimes a desperate shinigami is the best kind.” And he was alluding to Rem.

“Maybe so.” Mello had to agree – Rem had been a burden by what he understood of that mess, but carried out her job as Light had intended her to in the end. Granted, it was through that fucked up course of events that L very nearly lost his life and Watari was lost to them completely. A point which albeit not discussed had not been forgotten. And even though neither Linda nor Matt alluded to it, the look that flickered across Mello’s features indicated that he had indeed not forgotten. It was an attack too close to home for comfort.

“But through all this you’ve completely ignored my initial comment.”

“I suppose I have,” Light said, eyes trailing along a variety of distractions on the table. He’d detected the unspoken sentiment regarding Wammy’s founder. “I do however want to say—and I’ve said this to L before—that although I take responsibility for what happened to Watari—Rem was never directed to go that far. Her target was L, and L only. I had nothing against Watari—I was actually very fond of him and I did not intend to see him harmed. Ultimately his death saved L’s life…Rem ran out of time. She was one letter off of L’s real name-I didn’t know at the time because I did not know L’s real name. I assumed what was written in Rem’s notebook was the entire thing; being that L used the timing of Watari’s death to convincingly fake his own. It was a near miss on both our parts—and a spontaneous ploy on his. But for what it’s worth, I apologize.”

That was likely to be one of the very few apologies anyone had ever received regarding Kira and his intricate plans and the sacrifices made along the way and because of it, there was no outburst, although it looked as though each had sought to interrupt at first. Linda was quiet but accepted it with a brief nod. Matt was occupying himself with looking elsewhere – the table cloth seemed like a good spot – and rotating his pack of cigarettes by tapping each corner against the table lightly. A wonder he had yet to light up. Mello’s silence, however, was short-lived. “It’s times like these that I can’t tell whether you’re genuine or full of shit,” he murmured, his tone a mockery of affection as there was certainly no threat to be detected. “But I appreciate it nonetheless.”

“I can assure you in regards to Watari—it’s genuine,” Light replied somewhat softly. “Like I said, I had nothing against him—he did nothing but good for people. We got along fine for the short time I was in his company. It wasn’t until I saw what it did to L later on that I truly understood the loss—and like I said, for that I’m sorry.” He let it sink in between pauses. “In regards to your initial statement, Mello…” and Light lifted his gaze—which unlike a moment ago was now unreadable. “I suppose I am what I’ve always been…it’s the nature of the beast, isn’t it?”

Mello scoffed with a slight shake of his head, but it seemed as if the response pleased him because that faint smirk was back and he said nothing to counter it.

“I’ve got work to do,” Matt muttered several minutes later, having had more than his fill of Kira’s company for the duration of the morning. He needed time to recharge. The statement seemed to have brought the same conclusion to Linda’s own thoughts, although she appeared momentarily troubled. “L cancelled half the case last night…”

“Ignore that for now,” Mello told her. “And continue as you were as the conditions no longer apply.”

Fair enough. Linda nodded in compliance, excusing herself as she rose to accompany Matt from the dining room. Mello had his own work to attend to, but was honestly surprised that his two peers had vacated in unison like that. It had been sudden and almost a bit too conscious. Aspirin was swallowed and chased by practically half the newly poured cup of java. Just the thought of the pages that awaited him heightened the throbbing at his temples.

“I’m going to assume you have a lot of work to do,” Light observed, sipping his coffee and pretending not to notice that Linda and Matt had left as promptly as they did. Seemed even when he wasn’t trying to be intimidating, he rubbed people wrong.

“How are you doing with the texts, anyway?” he said, seeming to want to change the subject from his innate and murderous nature to something a tad more mundane and potentially non-antagonistic. “You know—if you need any help—I sort of know the material backward and forward.” He smiled a bit at that—that flirtatious sort of smile, honeyed gaze up through long hair.

Mello lifted a brow, his reaction non-assuming. “L’s told you then,” he muttered.

Light laughed. “Of course not,” he said. “I saw the book in the study the other night,” and that comment was more insinuating than it was meant to be. “I assumed he’s having you study some of the material my education was weaned on.” He leaned then on his hand, that warm smile reflected in those gorgeous eyes. “Actually,” he said, “I’m planning to work on my English.”

Mello blinked at him. The comment had taken a moment to sink in since it was so very much out of character. He had to chuckle. “Oh?” the mirth was evident in the hitch of his voice. “L put you up to it, or where the hell did that motivation come from all of a sudden?”

Light chuckled, “He mentioned it— actually he had a very valid point—he said I strive to perfect everything else I do, but I have yet to perfect that. So I suppose it’s as good an endeavor as any. I don’t suppose I’ll ever see Japan again any time soon—if ever.”

“Who’s to say,” Mello shrugged, falling smoothly back into his practically-native English with a devilish glint. Hey, he was going to work on it, right? “But he’s right either way. Besides,” he added with a grin badly hidden behind the fingers that curled in front of his lips. “We’ve catered to you long enough.”

Light scoffed. “Catered to me eh? Well, of course—that was precisely what I was thinking while clawing out of a mausoleum last night.” There was a bit of devious spark in his eye, but truly no ill will there—ironically enough. “As for the English—you won’t be hearing a word from me until it’s perfected. Force of habit not to put my weaknesses on display.”

Despite the mention of the rather unpleasant events of the previous night, Mello let it go and actually laughed, pushing himself up at last. “I’ve already heard plenty of English out of you, but…” he paused for effect, letting the words linger as he swept around the table. “I suppose you were rather intoxicated at the time,” Mello teased, leaning ever slightly over Light’s shoulder in order to do so more effectively.

Light smiled, and that seduction crept in across those wanton lips. “Intoxicated or intoxicating?” He turned to catch Mello’s gaze as the blonde leaned over him—and they were of course, a breath away from each other.

“A bit of both, I’m afraid,” Mello said with mock thoughtfulness and he grinned, brushing his fingers through the lengthened silky strands at the back of Light’s neck. “Looks good,” he murmured quietly, breath warm against his ear. “I’ve got work to catch up on.” Two could play that game. But just as easily he had initiated it, Mello severed it, leaning back and letting those reddish tresses slip from between his fingers. “If I’m to beat you and all…” the comment was dropped lightly as he was already walking away. And there he had been, only minutes prior, hoping Light would not find out what he was up to. It figured.

“Beat me?” Light called after him; but Mello waved a hand in the air and continued on his way.

* * *

L was tangled in the bed sheets when next Dr. Gregory came to check on him; what had been neatly folded over him, was now twisted all to hell around his torso, his legs, caught in his fingers, which the doctor gently unfurled as best he could. The detective hadn’t woken, which may or may not have been a blessing considering how restless his sleep apparently was. However, despite it all, he was still very much out cold, and the doctor intended to let him sleep until the spell naturally wore off.

It had already been five hours since L had hit the floor—which meant this was most likely more sleep than he’d gotten in a week—maybe two. Nevertheless, Dr. Gregory had come to make sure he was alright, and to change the bandage on his arm. Seemed like more than just a day ago that the bloody little bastard downstairs had cut L open—so when the doctor unwound the wrappings he was at first nonchalant about the condition of the wound…until he realized it had only been a day ago. Nearly just 24 hours…

“Bloody hell,” he muttered, and summoned his nurse to go fetch Mello and no one else.

* * *

“You wanted to see me?” Mello asked hesitantly as he swept inside and closed the door firmly behind him. After all that had taken place recently, he wasn’t sure he wanted to hear any more revelations or medical news. In fact, he wanted no more news whatsoever. Ah, if only.

Mello inched to L’s bedside, practically fearing the worst - why else had the doctor called him up on his own like this? - but found nothing out of the ordinary aside from the length of time L had been under. It was a bit out of character, though desperately needed. "How is he doing?"

The doctor was taking L’s pulse, fingers pressed to his wrist, eyes on his watch. “He’s doing well, though his sleep seems particularly restless—and lengthy—he needs it.”

Mello blinked as if to say ‘then why—’ but Dr. Gregory interrupted the words before they could come out. “This,” he said, gently unfurling bandages which had only been lying across L’s injured arm. Mello’s gaze went to the limb Light had sliced up the day before—the wound was sealed, stitches had been removed as they were no longer necessary, and a scar was well on its way to healing completely.

Goddamnit L.

“Correct me if I’m wrong,” Dr. Gregory muttered; “But there is someone else around here who has this same talent, and we all know why.”

“ Are you sure this—” Mello began, but he knew the answer before he asked the question.

“Lacerations like the ones L suffered do not heal overnight,” Dr. Gregory replied. “And I’ve checked his other injuries—same effect. I’ve also done a full body exploration—no signs of any markings or implantation—but I will not be ruling that out. L’s of course as clever as they come—the possibilities are endless how and when he could have hidden such a thing. He’s either testing a theory, or stuck on matching his arch nemesis tit-for-tat.”

It didn't make sense. Mello looked down at L's sleeping form and crossed his arms, ransacking his mind to come up with a probable answer. "No one suspected these side effects prior to the incidents two weeks ago. He didn't have it then, because as you saw, he was still recovering from the damage at Bella's hands so..." he paused, puzzled. "Unless he's had a piece of the Death Note with him all this time, there was no other way for L to get his hands on it since the crash. It just doesn't make any sense."

Of course, he would not put it past L to have held onto a page, or something as little as a sliver for the sake of his experimentations and curiosity. If not safeguarding. But this was too unexpected. Unless it had been done the previous night? No, the timeframe did not fit. The results were far too strong far too quickly had it only been done the previous night. No. It couldn't have been. It took Light several weeks to reach the state he was currently at. He suffered plenty of injuries during that initial crash and the piece of the notebook was already in place for quite some time.

"Nothing to do until he wakes up," Mello murmured at last, giving up. "Let's keep this to ourselves for the time being and see where it leads."