Thank you for your patience in waiting for this update. If you don't want spoilers, please skip the warnings listed below.'

warnings: swearing; brief and non-graphic mention of child abuse; m/m sex; bad sex (which turns into better sex, kinda); biting/blood; L's trashy tattoos; manipulation; weird textual experimentation; not much plot (one of these days, plot will happen), +12K long.

Hodie Mihi, Cras Tibi

Cody and Daniel are discussing what names to write down next when the network reality show that's playing in the background cuts out, interrupted by a special broadcast.

He's been in Chicago for over a week now, and even though Daniel's been great, and his grandmother more than welcoming, Cody still doesn't feel entirely at ease. Except for Tami and Ryuk, Cody isn't really used to being around anyone, isn't accustomed to having a friend. He misses the independence of being on the road in his Tioga, of being alone with his notebook and Ryuk's rotten-sweet apple smell. He jumps a little every time Daniel opens his mouth with a new idea for how they can use the notebook to make the world better.

"Here's a good one," he says, looking up from his laptop, a handful of cheese popcorn in his hand. "One of the South Side gang leaders. He uses little kids as drug mules because if they get caught, they only get juvie." Daniel smiles at Cody with his white teeth that make Cody feel so awkward about his dingy yellow ones.

Ryuk pokes his head down from the top bunk bed, his grin wide and ghoulish. "Maybe you guys should watch the TV."

Cody leans forward in the beanbag chair while Daniel reaches for the remote, turning up the volume.

According to new reports from the FBI, they've found a possible suspect in the Angel of Mercy deaths that have swept across the Great Lakes area this Spring. The person in question is a caucasian male between the ages of eighteen and twenty-five, who may go by the alias 'Cody Jackson,' 'Cody Brown,' or 'Cody Jenkins.'

A photograph flashes on the screen and Cody flinches - more at the sight of Tami, though, than anything else. They'd taken the picture at a K-Mart photo studio so that Tami would have something to post on the blog where she wrote about all their trials and tribulations, then waited for the donations to roll in.

The suspect is thought to have volunteered at the hospitals where a number of Angel of Mercy deaths were reported, and, in an especially curious twist, is said to have convincingly passed himself off as a fifteen year old girl.

"Shit," Daniel breathes, and even though Cody hasn't uttered a word, he turns to him and lays a reassuring hand on Cody's shoulder. "Look, don't worry. That picture doesn't even look like you."

The suspect's last known place of residence is in Cuyahoga Falls, Ohio, where he lived with his mother, a woman who called herself Tami Jenkins. According to residents of Cuyahoga Falls, Tami presented herself as the mother of a cancer-stricken daughter in order to collect both money and special favors.

Cody smiles a little at that. At least the world will know, now, what Tami was really like. Soon enough they'll even start to understand what Cody is, and who made him that way.

The video switches over to one of the stupid old cows from Tami's church, who looks as if she's put on lipstick for the first time in her life now that she's finally on camera.

"She seemed like a real sweet lady," the cow enthuses. "Her daughter, too. Real sweet, maybe a little slow."

"It's okay, man. We'll come up with a plan…and don't worry about my grandma, she never watches the TV. Well, nothing but Spanish soap operas, anyway..."

Daniel is still talking, his thick eyebrows furrowed with worry, but Cody feels calm, almost relieved. He knew this day would come. He's a bad person, and bad people are usually caught, sooner or later. He just thought it would be later.

"I wonder how they found out so much about me," he wonders aloud. He figured that the FBI would look into the hospital volunteers, eventually, but he didn't think they'd track him back to Cuyahoga Falls. He'd been careful not to use any identification that would connect him to that place.

"Maybe the FBI is working with L."

"L?"

Daniel turns toward him, the blue light of the television highlighting the sharp angles of his face. "I read about him on this forum. He's like a crime-solving mastermind, but his identity's a complete secret. Supposedly there's no case he can't solve." His face collapses slightly as he realizes his mistake. "I mean, there's no way he can solve this one, though. Whoever heard of murder by heart attack?"

The TV switches over to a commercial for fabric softener. Daniel mutes it, and the silence that falls over them is too stark, like harsh sunlight.

"Even if he is helping the FBI, it doesn't matter. If he comes for me, I'll be able to see his name, and so will you," Cody says finally, and Daniel nods resolutely.

Overhead, though, Ryuk lets out a small laugh that makes Cody's heart stutter.

Forty-eight hours earlier

Light never focused on field work during his time with the NPA. He sat back under the banner of "L," sending out footsoldiers and commandos like a general overseeing a vast battlefield, carefully combing through the intel and evidence that others brought back to him. He would have likely pursued field work more vigorously if he hadn't had the second job of maintaining Kira's influence. If the Death Note had never come to him at all, then the thrill of hands-on police work would have proven too tantalizing to pass up, would have been necessary, even, as the only immediate, direct way to engage with the fight for justice.

With the Death Note more or less out of his hands for the time being, Light distracts himself from its absence by taking pleasure in the slow burn of the investigation, clues rearranging themselves like cards in a deck. They drive South-East, away from Detroit, and L's fingers rearrange themselves around the steering wheel of the van, loose and only half-attentive. His fingernails are too long, sharp enough to leave scratch-marks. He should do something about that.

"What?" L asks, catching Light's lingering eyes.

"Nothing." Light looks away, but not so quickly that L will miss the unsavory smile on his face. All thoughts inspired by L are unsavory and somehow unavoidable, like ducking through a dark tangle of forest that leaves one covered in spider webs and the dull odor of mushrooms, and yet the forest outside the van's window is beginning to thin out, giving way to dirt roads and country houses. Then come the traffic lights, the intersections crowned by fast food restaurants and convenience stores.

The town of Cuyahoga Falls, Ohio could be home to a murderer like the Angel, not because there is anything particularly foreboding about the place, but because Light knows that murderers come from everywhere, and there is no place on this earth untainted by their presence. As a town it's small but not tiny by U.S. standards. With fewer than fifty-thousand residents, it's a hilly, wooded burgh located on the fringes of Cuyahoga Valley National Park, the only park of such repute in the state of Ohio, and a huge draw for fishing and hiking enthusiasts.

The Cuyahoga Falls police station doesn't just welcome them, but appears downright excited to have both the FBI and L's representatives show up for their investigation.

"We rarely get the FBI down here, let alone folks who work for the 'Big L,'" the Chief says when he introduces them to the highest-ranking officers in the department, all of them gathered in a large conference room with shiny, 1970s-style wood panelling on the walls.

The Big L, Light thinks with a smirk, wondering how such euphemisms sit with L himself. L certainly isn't required to tag along after FBI agents, masquerading as one of his own lackies. As far as Light knows, the first L had rarely done that, preferring to stay hidden behind his computer screen while dictating events through Watari. Even so, this world's L probably gets an egotistical thrill when people talk enthusiastically about him, unaware that the man himself is right under their nose.

(Not unlike the thrill you got when people talked about Kira in your presence)

Light winces a little against what he imagines is a burgeoning headache. He needs to take better care of himself, drink more water.

"Thanks, folks," Penber says in a home-down way, his partner, Leo Krause, following in much the same fashion. L, Light, and Maki stand off to one side of the Agents, skipping over introductions, per L's own request. L holds a digital video camera in one hand, a half-eaten sprinkled donut in the other.

The CFPD already examined the evidence Penber sent them nearly four hours ago, and has since compiled a slapdash follow-up report that begins with a full-color, high resolution studio photograph of what looks, on first glance, to be a mother and daughter. Light notes that the mother is gracelessly overweight and appears to be sliding into the middlest part of middle age, her hair a wild nest of unkempt, graying curls, her wire-rimmed glasses far too small for her ruddy face. She clasps a slender, awkward teen to her ample chest, the teen's smile so toothy and forced as to suggest an internal scream of desperation. The complexion is infant-smooth and, minus a few small blemishes, quite peachy in tone. These details, combined with the polka-dot knit cap perched on the teen's bare head and the huge, nearly bulbous blue eyes (further magnified by a pair of thick-lensed glasses), results in a fairly androgynous appearance. There is no mistaking, however, that it's the same person featured in Cody Jackson and Cody Brown's fake I.D.s.

"This is a photograph provided by one of the local radio stations," one of the Sergeants explains, pacing in front of the beamed image. "In December they held an on-air fundraiser for their tri-annual 'Community Cares' feature, which focuses on helping out a local family in need. Tami and Cody Jenkins were the family profiled, and they claimed to be seeking out donations so that Tami could take daughter Cody, a cancer patient, to Disney World for New Years. The radio station was able to raise almost fifteen hundred dollars for them."

The Sergeant presents the rest of what the department has scraped together. Tami and Cody Jenkins arrived in town seven or eight months ago, immediately establishing themselves in one of the more 'clannish' churches in town. One of the department's lower ranking officers was a member of that same church, and helped direct the department to the radio broadcast.

Light watches Penber and Krause scratch down notes while L and Maki remain fairly motionless on either side of him. He feels the beat of their minds - L's especially. Knows that L is adding to the tapestry of his growing Angel profile, stitching in mother-and-child con artists completely absent of pride or honor, who hide behind poverty, religion, and illness in order to cheat decent people who don't know any better.

It makes Light sick.

Clicking the projector off, the Sergeant faces Penber and Krause, a nervous smile twitching on her face. "The Jenkins family was renting a house down on Lookout Avenue. We have the landlord, Hank Landry, waiting for you in an interview room."

Hank Landry is a rail-thin man in his sixties, with sickly yellow teeth and brittle, straw-like hair. Penber brings him a paper cup of water while Maki shoots him a lukewarm smile.

"You didn't have Tami Jenkins fill out a housing application? Or run a credit check?" She taps her pen against a legal pad.

"Nope, there wasn't a need for it." Landry takes a drink of water and swishes it between his cheeks. "She had the first six months rent in cash."

"And you didn't find that suspicious?"

He shrugs his scrawny shoulders. "Not really. Wasn't none of my business, either way."

"Did you ever speak with the daughter, Cody Jenkins?"

"No, but saw 'em at the grocery store once," he says, scratching a design into the side of his styrofoam cup. "Figured the daughter was a retard, because of how she didn't speak and by the way the mom treated her. You know, guiding her this way and that, like you would a six year old."

Maki makes a subdued noise that might be irritation. "And Tami? When was the last time you saw her?"

He tips his head back. "Two months, I reckon? She came by with another bundle of cash, about five months worth, said that she and Cody were gonna do some traveling, but that they'd be back at the end of summer."

"How did she seem?" It's L this time, his face pale and expressionless. "Excited? Anticipatory?"

Landry pulls loose a wedge of styrofoam and holds it in quaking fingers. "Same as she always did. Chipper, I s'pose. She's a busybody type."

Penber shakes his black hair out of his eyes. "We'd like to search the property and would appreciate your cooperation in the matter, Mr. Landry."

"Sure. Alright." Landry blinks at them, his nod jittery.

Maki labels Landry a 'speed freak' a short while later, when they're en route to the house on Lookout Avenue. "And a slum lord, too. No wonder he took the cash without question."

Lookout Avenue backs up to a steep, weed-choked ravine that flattens out into a noisy, thumping train yard. The one-story house is a perfect square, its phlegm-colored paint peeling at the corners, the single tree out front just beginning to bud out in blossoms.

Landry unlocks the front door with a jailer's heavy ring of keys, and Penber and Krause enter first, followed by the Chief and one of his Sergeants. Light starts to step forward, but L tugs him back by the sleeve, fingers rougher than winter branches..

"Five month's rent paid in advance." L squints at the house. "Do you think the Angel truly planned to return, or was he simply delaying what would be found here?"

Maki is the first to answer. "He paid for the RV in cash, which seems like the actions of someone ready to flee and never look back."

"If that's true, he didn't get very far," Light notes. "Detroit is only a little over three hours away. Maybe he was afraid to leave the house alone for too long."

"And what about Tami Jenkins? She gave the cash to Landry, so where is she now?" Maki frowns, fiddling with the buttons of her blazer. "Could be a hint waiting for us inside."

An odd smile snakes its way over L's features. "Yes. I think there will be something in this house that will be useful to us. Something that the Angel was unable to hide, but wanted to keep others from seeing for as long as possible."

Light enters the house with his breath held, as if preparing himself for a rancid stench, but when he does finally inhale the air is stuffy, the only odor on it dust. The front door enters directly onto a living room crowded with plain, functional furnishings, most of them in varying shades of brown. Mail has piled up on the floor beneath the door slot, almost all of it advertisements addressed to "Current Resident." Penber points out the lack of personal mail to his partner, citing it as confirmation that 'Tami Jenkins' has no real identity or credit history.

"How common is this?" Light asks in undertone to L. "U.S. Citizens slipping under the radar and hiding their identities?"

"No numbers off the top of my head," L says. "It was easier in the pre-digital age, but given that the Angel has already demonstrated hacking skills, it's possible he knows how to navigate TOR and the dark web in search of convincing fake IDs and identities to steal. Such acts are easier to get away with if you don't use your stolen identity for monetary purchases."

"Hence paying for everything in cash and living a humble existence," Maki says, lifting a well-read knitting guidebook from the coffee table. Beneath the table sits a large basket filled with different colors and weights of yarn. "And making crafts. My mom's a knitter. Where are the needles? The unfinished scarves and sweaters?" She pokes the yarn basket with the toe of her shoe.

Light runs his gloved fingers over the edges of a framed poster of purple flowers, captioned with boldface that makes his lips twitch in a dark smile - With God All Things are Possible. Three hand-painted woodcuts have been mounted above it, spelling out Faith, Hope, and Charity in scrolling letters. While lifting the poster slightly away from the wall and searching out the frame's underside, his fingers catch on something that turns out to be a neon-yellow pricetag sticker, which he holds up to the others.

"What's 'Goodwill'?"

Maki looks up from the couch cushion she's upturned. "A non-profit organization. They accept donations and sell them for cheap in their shops." She tucks the cushion back in with the others and comes close enough to inspect the pricetag. "Ninety-nine cents, huh? A bargain." She squints at the woodcuts, a frown gnawing at the corners of her mouth.

"What is it?" Light prompts.

"'Faith,' 'Hope,' and 'Charity' are described in Corinthians, but I've always thought of them as a Catholic affectation. Tami and Cody Jenkins went to a Baptist church."

Light stares at the woodcuts, taking in the curlicue leaves and flowers painted on them. "Maybe Tami just thought they were cute and uplifting. Like the poster. Or maybe there's a discrepancy here. Or here," he says, pointing to the 64-inch LCD television barely fits on its console, the shelf space below overflowing with DVDs.

"Yeah, that's a pricey piece of equipment for someone who decorates with ninety-nine cent Goodwill castoffs." Maki says.

"Mr. Landry," L directs at the landlord, who stands nervously by the front door, keeping well out of everyone's way. "You say the house came with the furnishings. Does that include the television?"

"Nope, no electronics," Landry says, shaking his head. "Tenants provide those."

"That's a brand new blu-ray DVD player," L points out, still discretely filming everything with his camera.

Light touches a finger to his chin, his eyes swiftly combing over the whole of the room. Despite the domestic touches - slippers next to the easy chair, a pair of reading glasses on a bookshelf - the more he looks, the more the whole space feels like a carefully arranged set piece.

"The most telling details are out in the open," Light says in an undertone to L, who gives a noncommittal nod. "We should move on to other rooms."

While the Agents and Officers continue to ransack every single drawer and shelf in the living room, Light glides by them and into the kitchen, where he opens the refrigerator. It's very clean, and while the contents are minimal, what contents there are seem significant - cartons of fruit punch and chocolate milk, cups of pudding and applesauce.

He shuts the refrigerator and moves to the cabinets, his eyes briefly catching on a yellow stool that's been budged up against a narrow door. A pantry, maybe. Or stairs leading to a basement.

(Don't look behind the door)

L and Maki enter the kitchen and check the refrigerator, just as Light did. The cabinets hold a similar arrangement of junky, child-like fare: fruity cereal with marshmallows; macaroni and cheese in dinosaur shapes; pre-packaged strawberry cupcakes; goldfish crackers.

"Looks like they were on the Ryuzaki diet," Maki remarks, coming up behind Light.

"No, I only eat cupcakes that come from a real bakery," L says, though Light thinks he catches a flicker of longing in his eye when he shuts the cabinet door.

The house's bedrooms also project an aura of having been arranged with care and deliberance, the smaller of the two crammed with furniture yet curiously devoid of personality, at least on a first glance. The twin bed is covered in a quilt that's patterned with colorful, marching animals, two giraffes, two penguins, two elephants, and so on, all of them tottering toward Noah's Ark. Propped up on the pillow are a fuzzy-haired babydoll and some kind of toy robot. The walls are bare, more or less, but riddled with holes and pieces of tape, suggesting they used to have more decoration.

"It's like a little kid's room," Maki says, looking over the sparse display of books on the desk. The carpet beneath the desk has heavy indentations from where computer equipment used to sit.

L picks up a copy of Oliver Twist. "This is beginning to feel didactic. The Angel wants someone to walk through this house and see the life he was made to live." His white fingers stroke the book's spine. "Made into a criminal while still a child, made to change his gender identity and age, made to do things he felt he had no choice in."

Though Light accepts L's observation, the Angel's logic - or lack thererof - is maddening to him. If Cody didn't like participating in criminal activities, then he should have done something about it.

"He could have left his sad story on a note instead of re-decorating," Light observes drily.

L puts Oliver Twist back on the desk. "Spoken like someone who has always known the value of their own voice, and never doubted that it would be heard." The words are followed by a frustratingly enigmatic smile.

Light frowns at him. "I'm going to check out the other bedroom."

It's in this bedroom where Light finds the hard evidence of Tami Jenkins' fraudulent activities. Most of it is on immediate display: a dozen or so fake IDs on the dresser next to several physician's prescription pads; bottle after bottle of pills for almost every ailment under the sun; an external computer hard drive that probably contains more of the sordid specifics.

Light sighs and looks around the room again. Generically feminine. Lots of crime and mystery novels in strategic piles. But what became of the actual Tami Jenkins? What became of her remains? For there is no doubt in Light's mind that upon finding the Death Note, the Angel made sure to write Tami's name down first.

Perhaps Cody was somehow clever enough to have instructed that Tami die in a way that would ensure her body would never be found. Just like Light did with Misora.

"Find anything?" Misora - Maki asks as she enters the bedroom, lifting her eyebrows at Light.

He points at the dresser. "External hard drive and a few other things here."

Moving aside to give her room, Light brushes past L as he wanders in.

"Light -" L starts, his fingers grazing Light's wrist.

"I'll tell P to come in and have a look at what we found," Light says, cutting him off and slipping into the hallway.

(Don't look behind the door)

There's a room they missed. That door in the kitchen - maybe it's just a pantry or a laundry room, but someone ought to check, just to be sure. Light will be the one to do it.

His shoes are quiet on the sun-dappled linoleum, though the door itself creaks ominously when pulled, opening onto an abrupt staircase. Light peers down into the dark for a moment, clammy air nipping at his ankles, but when he yanks the cord dangling overhead, the basement remains stubbornly dim. There's enough light from the kitchen to guide him down the stairs safely, yet he hesitates.

(Don't go down there alone)

Light snorts softly to himself. He's in a house full of law enforcement officers, most of them armed. This is probably the safest place to be in all of Ohio.

The stairs are just as creaky as the door, ending at a low-ceilinged basement that Light estimates runs beneath just over half the house. Two small, square windows, mostly shadowed by weeds, let in the only light, revealing a landscape of what Light imagines are typical 'basement things,' at least in the States. Wash machine, furnace, utility sink. At the far end of the room there's a massive freezer, the kind that opens from the top.

Light takes careful steps toward the freezer, somehow unnerved by the sheer size of it. White, dented and scraped on one side, humming more audibly than one would expect. Why would two people need a freezer so large? Thinking about the possible reasons makes breathing difficult, makes thinking difficult. He needs air, he's got to let some air in. He reaches for the freezer handle.

(Don't open that. Not yet)

His fingers pause against the metal, and the solid and ordinary feel of it clears his thoughts a little. So many things in the house have been staged, even the stool in front of the basement door, practically mocking anyone who might pass by - nope, nothing to see here. The freezer might just be another set piece for the Angel's life story.

He thinks of his own room back home, back in his first life, when he still lived in his parents' home. The specially-selected honor student books filling his library; the cartography tools and the chess set; the crease-free bedding and special hangers used for hanging up ties. Items once significant that ceased being anything other than parts of a Light Yagami costume when he found the Death Note and became Kira.

The dozen or so black pens. The special desk drawer, rigged to ignite.

Light's hand falls away from the freezer handle and fishes a penlight out of his suit jacket. Training the beam at the freezer's seams and hinges, he circles the behemoth, his throat going dry when he finds a telltale length of wire dangling from the back. It leads to something large covered in a pile of dirty tarps. Light lifts the edge of one, raising it just high enough to glimpse the heavy blue cans marked 'flammable.' He sucks in a breath and drops the tarp.

(See?)

"Munchausen by proxy," L says from around a vividly pink lollipop. "Typically seen as a form of abuse in which a caregiver falsely claims that their charge is suffering a health problem. In most cases the caregiver is looking for attention, but in the case of Tami and Cody, it appears that it was a method for conning others."

"But how do we know that Cody didn't willingly collaborate with Tami in these cons?" Matsuda asks. "Up until the point where he killed her and stuffed her in a freezer, I mean." He gives Light an incredulous look. "It's lucky you spotted that trap before opening it."

"Yes," Light says. It figures Matsuda would regard solid police word as 'luck.' L had come down the stairs just after Light discovered the kerosene, and the CFPD Chief wasted no time radioing in their two-person bomb squad to disarm the freezer. Inside, beneath bags of frozen chicken fingers and popsicles, lay the body of Tami Jenkins, real name unknown - for now.

"We don't know." L sucks the lolly into his cheek. "But I don't think that willingness matters. Based on what was found in the house, Tami used Cody from a young age, both amplifying and inventing medical issues in order to deceive people into offering them financial support. The Angel believes he was raised to be a criminal, and that's the story he wants us to see."

The task force is gathered in the Cuyahoga Falls Inn's most deluxe suite, which isn't much larger than a regular-sized hotel room. Several pizza boxes are balanced on any surface they'll fit, most of the food picked over except for a few slices of all-veggie and a scattering of leftover crusts.

"Story?" Matsuda gestures at the laptop that Mello and Matt are looming over, watching L's recorded footage from the house. "Is that what this is? Does he want others to feel sorry for him?"

"Possibly, though that may not be the primary goal," Light says, feeling the weight of L's eyes on him. "The Angel has never been able to speak for himself or assert his own identity. That's what this is. An assertion."

Too bad, then, that the identity the Angel was so bent on embodying was that of criminal. A criminal who actively tries to punish the system of justice, whether it's killing off jury members or setting traps to kill cops. Taking a drink of soda and wincing against the sweetness, Light briefly meditates on how Kira brings the stories of criminals to an abrupt conclusion, no matter how compelling their backstory is. That's the only just and righteous way to put the Death Note to use.

(How do you know? You never even tried any other methods)

Another sip of soda, another wince.

"But what if I do feel sorry for him?" Matsuda asks, his cheeks pinker than usual, perhaps owing to the three or four beers he downed with his pizza. "Those pictures and recordings you found on the hard drive, especially -" he hiccups softly into the back of his hand. "It makes me sick. Who could do that to their own child? Put them in the same room with someone who, who lusts for..." he trails off, turns faintly green. Matt and Mello regard him with flat curiosity, younger than Matsuda but immeasurably less naive.

(For now, at least. This isn't the Matsuda who shot you, but someday it might be)

"The photographs were likely taken for blackmail purposes," L says, though he rips the lolly from his mouth with a vigor that suggests it's developed a bad taste. "Most of the men in them were people with much to lose, if their predilections came to light."

"Does that honestly make it any better?" Matsuda's voice cracks.

"No." L hesitates, then slips the candy back into his mouth. "Matsuda, you can feel sorry for the Angel and still acknowledge that he's a murderer."

Matsuda's face turns red now, and his fingers dig into his kneecaps. "I don't like it."

Maki sighs and rolls off the bed to her feet. "Come on," she stretches out a hand to Matsuda. "Let's go check out the waterfalls behind the hotel. I wouldn't mind a walk and the path is lit up at night, so why not?"

Matsuda looks away, ducking his head. "I'm okay, really."

"Yeah, well it's too hot in here and stinks of garlic. Let's go." She grips him carefully by the shoulder and guides him to the door.

The room feels much larger without Matsuda's emotions clouding it.

"When should we follow up on the Ford Tioga?" Matt asks L. "I tracked down three online leads, adverts all from around two months ago."

From his owl-like crouch at the head of the bed, L wastes no time in answering. "First thing in the morning, please. The Angel may have left the house as some kind of display or effigy for the authorities, but the RV is something he intended to keep secret, and it may serve as the key to tracking him down."

"What about the fingerprints and DNA found in the house on Lookout Avenue?" Mello pulls away from the laptop and turns his sharp blue eyes on L. "How long does it take the FBI's forensics unit to sort that out?"

"Anywhere from twenty-four to seventy-two hours."

"I guess we have no choice but to wait, then." Mello nibbles on his pinky and leans into Matt's back. "I hate waiting."

They raid L's stash of sweets, Matt helping Mello dig around for the chocolate that L seems to be only occasionally in the mood for. Then it's time for a re-watch of the footage while L takes a shower, and Light is grateful when they choose to focus on that instead of making forced small talk. The last thing he needs is a reminder that L is still using his teenage whiz-kids as babysitters.

"I'm surprised you're still awake," L says once he's finally out of the bathroom and Matt and Mello have left for their own room across the hallway. "It's been a long day."

"That it has," Light says, trailing his fingers against the rain-smeared window. It doesn't open, but he can still hear the faint rumble of the river's falls a few stories below. The stairwell of Detroit's FBI Field Office seems very far away, in terms of both time and geography.

"Did you find Matsuda's distress off-putting?" L is near-drowning in pajama pants too big for him, a hooded sweatshirt zipped all the way up to his throat.

The question surprises Light until he remembers that L believes this is the first time he's worked with Matsuda. "No," he answers, moving away from the windows. "It's understandable that he would feel conflicted, given the details of the case."

"Oh?" L shakes out a pillow and sets it in the middle of his bed. "Are you conflicted?"

Light looks up from the collection of empty soda bottles and beer cans he's tidying on the television stand. "No," he smiles. "Why would I be?" The need to play an emotionally-fraught and surly teenager has come to an end. It's time for Light to peel back the costume, to show more of himself.

"So you're comfortably able to both feel empathy for the Angel and yet condemn him for what he does. That's good." L drags his laptop to the bed and perches on the pillow like some kind of rangy, watchful bird, his damp hair clinging to the sharp planes of his jaw.

"Are you surprised?" Light gives him an indulgent smile, lowering himself onto the edge of his own bed. "You didn't think you were the only one capable of holding two seemingly paradoxical viewpoints at once, did you?"

"Not at all." L's marble skin is awash with the bluish hue of the laptop screen. "But I do wonder if by 'empathy' you're referring to the more literal definition of the word - the ability to adopt another person's point of view - or if you're employing its colloquial usage, a term to denote compassion or pity."

Light neatly crosses his wrists together in his lap. "Being able to adopt a criminal's point of view and determine how they perceive their own actions is crucial for someone working in law enforcement. I'd better have that kind of empathy, if I want to work for the NPA in the future," Light says. "But an excess of compassion and pity can get in the way of good police work."

L is cocking his head like he does when he thinks he has the philosophical high ground. "A confident statement for someone with so little law enforcement experience."

"It's not a statement that requires any special experience," Light responds with a shrug. "The Angel may have been raised in a criminal environment, but he didn't need to become a criminal, himself. I might have compassion if he was completely robbed of his free will and never had any other options, but that's not the case here."

"Then following that logic, unless someone has been forcibly mind-controlled from birth, they always have 'options.'" L waves a hand, unimpressed.

Light crosses his arms together more tightly. "A lot of criminals feel justified in what they do. That doesn't mean they shouldn't be held accountable."

"Mmm." L's smile is strange, even as he appears to nod in agreement. Not triumphant, exactly, but something close to that. He shuts his laptop and leans over, tucking it under the bed. "Tell me…" he begins, his voice temporarily muffled, then he pops back upright and sits on the edge of the mattress, almost directly across from Light. "Do you think you would be so driven to capture criminals if you weren't victimized by one?" His eyes are wide for the answer.

A memory that isn't his own flinches over Light - the sting of a needle, the never-ending darkness, the smell of mold and mortar - long enough to nearly chill him before he shakes it off.

"I wanted to capture criminals before that," he says flatly. "Genesis was the first criminal I tried to capture, remember?"

(That wasn't you, though. That was -)

"And the Woodsman was the criminal who victimized me, and in turn was also the first criminal I tried to capture." L says absently, as if he's merely thinking aloud.

"That you haven't captured yet," Light remarks, though he keeps his tone civil. He doesn't want to argue with L. Mostly, he doesn't want L to argue with him. Light wants to move past that, wants to get L on the same page, but the only page L is looking at is the one where they're both victims. Even so, Light can't regret all the effort he made to get L to see him as a traumatized victim, not when it's worked so well to get them moving in the same direction. "Anyway," he continues. "Our experiences only made us stronger, more equipped to do this kind of work."

'Yes," L says blandly, returning to his pillow-perch and unearthing another lolly from the pocket of his hoodie. Lemon-yellow, this time. "What better way to come to terms with being a helpless victim than to convince yourself that the experience has left you with a special advantage and insight into catching criminals."

"That might describe your career," Light says, giving a half-roll of his eyes. "It won't describe mine."

L slowly dislodges the lolly from his mouth. "I was quoting B. That's what he liked to say about me - that I was frantically running away from being victim by trying to avenge my mother's death and chase after the Woodsman."

Light relaxes. L wants to talk about himself, then. That's good. It's not just a crack for Light to squeeze through, it's practically an open door. Light sidles onto L's bed and sits across from him, cross-legged and still dressed in his dress shirt and suit trousers. That's okay, though; the hotel room has an iron.

"Let me try that." He pries at the the lollipop stick between L's lips.

"I didn't think you liked sweets," L says, though he opens his mouth far enough for the candy to slip out.

"I make an exception for citrus flavors."

L frowns at Light, palm open and waiting for the lolly's return. "Maki asked for a taste of my candy, once. I made her get her own. I'm surprised that you're not more worried about germs."

Light rolls the lollipop between his cheek and tongue and gives L a faint glare. "Don't be an idiot. I've already had your germs in my mouth today."

"That was your doing, not mine." But there's a flicker of a smile at the corner of his lips.

"Anyway." Light leans back on his palms. "Does it really matter what B said about you? You shouldn't be concerned about it."

"I'm not concerned." L pushes hair from his eyes and trails his fingers against his lips. The wind and rain has picked up to where it's lashing at the windows now, the occasional crack of thunder rumbling in the distance. "But when someone who can predict death tells you something about yourself, it seems wise to ponder it a little. Even if what he said was insignificant, it remains a fact that the only criminal I've been unable to capture is the one who I'm unable to have empathy for."

"Isn't empathy a tall order if it involve the person who killed your own mother?"

"It is a tall order." L shrugs restlessly. "But a lack of empathy may be a type of willful blindness."

Light steels his expression by sucking fiercely on the lolly first, half-certain that L is trying to bait him even though he looks far too distracted for it, his gaze trained on the windows, his fingers still tugging at his lower lip. "And too much empathy can cost a person their own principals, even their life," Light says, the words certain but not overly forceful. "Empathy is something that's earned through positive actions. Give out too much of it and you end up humanizing monsters - which is exactly what they want, of course."

Now L looks at him, eyes sharply curious under his fringe of damp, clean hair. "We are the monsters, Light. Humans. Every time there's something dangerous, lurking in the dark, it ends up being one of us."

"But there are people who never act that way, who would never dream of hurting anyone," Light protests, his voice rising. Apparently, they won't be able to keep things civil, after all.

"Maybe they've just never had to."

The way L says it is so flat, so stubbornly empty, that Light makes no move to check his scowl. He thrusts the lollipop back at L, who takes the stick between his thumb and forefinger.

"Your version of empathy, by the way, sounds a lot like expecting others to meet the same high standards you set for yourself," L adds with a maddening casualness. "Empathy is supposed to be about others, not about you." He regards the lollipop for a second or two before jamming it into his mouth.

So L was trying to bait him, after all. Light feels disgust and a distinct lack of surprise, even as his fingernails dig into the bedspread. L probably just can't stop himself from taking the opportunity when it presents itself.

"Are you judging me?" Light lets a pout slip into his voice. L just isn't ready to be on the same page yet. Until he is, Light will have to resort to other ways of getting under his skin.

"It was you who said you wanted to kill Genesis, in that moment when he was drowning your sister." L says, sounding suddenly far away. "You know better than most that decent people can be pushed to hurt others, under the right circumstances."

True anger starts to trickle through Light, dampening the back of his neck with sweat. "If I'd had the means to stop him, I would have. And I wouldn't have let his sad history slow me down. Hurting someone in self-defense isn't the same as hurting someone for pleasure, and you know it."

L only gives him that thousand-yard stare, his hair starting to dry now in a wayward muss. They're sitting knee-to-knee and it's funny how in these moments where L is most wrong, Light finds himself most wanting to kiss him. Once he would have wanted to punch him, but now - well, both are injuries, of a sort, one just works its damage over a slow, insidious duration of time.

"You're right." L's voice is a rasp, barely audible beneath the noise of the storm outside. "Hurting someone for pleasure is more pleasurable."

Light's lip twitches. "God, why do you say things like that?"

(You sound a lot more appalled than you feel, you know)

"To see how you'll react. I am still investigating you, after all. Plus, it makes for interesting conversation."

"Then stop investigating me."

"I can't. It's what I do. Always."

That's a lie, Light thinks. Because he's seen how not everyone is worth L's attention. L would spend more time pondering what flavor of sweet to eat than he would on the inner-workings of Matsuda's head, for example.

"Fine. But why bother when you've already decided that I'm unfathomable?" Light openly smirks. "Really, Ryuzaki. Aside from the events of my past, I'm pretty ordinary." He bows his head and takes a moment to imagine what Ryuk might have said from behind his shoulder, if he were here to witness this. He'd laugh, Ryuk. Light's certain of it.

"You wear a lot of things well, but false modesty isn't one of them." L is suddenly near enough for Light to feel and smell his lemon-scented breath, but Light can't rightly recall which one of them moved close first, their crossed legs practically overlapping in the middle of the mattress.

"I think you're going to be deeply let down if I ever draw the conclusion that you're an ordinary person, Light Yagami." The words cling to the air like a spell.

Light meets L's dark, bottomless eyes and smiles. "No, you'll be the one who's let down." Because you want a mystery you can never solve.

A crack of thunder reverberates through the room and someone lunges for the other -

(Not someone. You.)

And the lemon lolly ends up in Light's mouth for a jarring second or two before he wrests it loose and tosses it aside, his hands clamping down on the sleeves of L's hoodie and gathering the fabric tight in his hands so that he can haul L closer, chest to chest as they kiss frantically, an uneven mish-mash of lips and teeth and tongue. L's legs are looped around Light's hips, squeezing hard, his hands clawing mindlessly down Light's back, and one growl from deep in L's throat makes blood fill Light's skull with the loud thumping of his own heart. He cautions himself to slow down, take his time. No one can make Light Yagami act like some kind of animal. No one.

As testament to this inner declaration, he gentles his touch and ends the kiss with a soft peck to L's lips.

"Good," L says breathily, his eyes wild as he tries to pull away. "We can't do this."

"I agree. There's no need to rush." Light cups his hand to the side of L's face, the way he might have once done to placate Misa. The thought of L as a stand-in for Misa is absurd, and yet Light can't honestly say that he wishes she were here instead.

L lets out a sigh that turns into a thin laugh. "That's not what I meant. I'm no prude. Far from it. Which is precisely why this shouldn't happen." He scoots away, up to the head of the bed.

"I'm no prude, either. Or a virgin," Light announces. "I'm a consenting adult." And older than you think.

L drops his head and curls his body into the pillows, and Light is struck by the white skin of L's throat and hands, the white clothes that swallow him up against the white bedding. He's like an iceberg - one-forth of him above water, the rest hidden by the murkiest parts of the ocean, and Light idly wonders why he's always comparing L to nature. Because L is uncivilized, that's why.

"It's not just that. Sex always ends up as a weapon, no matter how I might otherwise intend it." L's gaze flicks onto Light's. "You'll get hurt."

Light lets out a long breath. There's something almost charming about how L cautions Light against him, how he insists on the enormity of his own threat. Though it is true that L can be dangerous. The way he thinks is dangerous, and it needs to be managed, but his thinking is no threat to Light.

But from the way L struggles to keep his gaze turned away, Light is positive that he isn't going to seriously turn this opportunity down. Not that Light was really planning on sex with L tonight, but now the word is in the air, effectively putting the possibility on the table, and L wouldn't be trying to talk himself out of it if a part of him wasn't interested. He's putting on a show of good morals and measured judgment because he has to, because he thinks it's what Light needs or expects. L doesn't understand that Light already knows just how wrong and twisted L is, that he's going to be the one to show him how to untwist, how to be right. Light is going to win, but to do so he has to maintain his confidence that L actually wants to change, wants to be a better person. And hasn't this L already shown signs of it? He's never handcuffed Light to his own person and he hasn't kept Light locked in a cell. And even if he does believe that Light is Kira, he doesn't badger Light with percentages every hour of the day.

This L doesn't speak of percentages at all.

"I don't believe that you'll hurt me," Light says, barely above a whisper, and L lifts his head, a faint frown curving his lips.

"Alright. Let's fuck, then."

Light blinks at the coarse words, but L's already crawling toward him, pulling Light on top of his whip-thin, bony body, knowing by now that Light will want him beneath. As it should be. They kiss long and slow until Light's lips feel stung, swollen, and L rocks his pelvis upward, as if to say get on with it. Light rests an experimental hand on L's sharp hipbone, still kissing him as his fingers slide under the waistband of L's pajama pants.

(You really did kill him, you know)

Sweat blurs Light's vision and his breathing picks up, though not with arousal, not really. Just touch him like you'd touch yourself, he thinks. Do what you'd do to Misa. You didn't have any particular attraction to her body parts, but you knew how to pleasure them well enough to where she'd keep quiet for a while. His thoughts are fierce but somehow not fast enough, and he covers up his hesitation by pressing a string of well-timed kisses down L's neck.

He can get this right. It's just seduction - he can do that. He's always been able to do that, if the prize was great enough. If the prize was Kira. And yet when he finally sucks in a deep breath and dives his fingers down the front of L's pajamas, Light discovers that L is scarcely hard at all, warm and soft and innocuous in his hand.

He's so surprised - so very nearly insulted - that any previous trepidation vanishes out of existence. Giving L's cock a few urgent tugs, Light recaptures his mouth, sucking on his lower lip and teasing their tongues together with finesse and concentration. L kisses Light back, but there's not so much as a twitch from the rest of him.

"What's wrong?" Light murmurs the words against L's neck to disguise any notes of frustration.

"Mm, what's that?" L sounds dazed. No. Tired?

(Bored)

"You're not…" Light squeezes him in demonstration.

Drawing his head back into the pillow, L regards Light with a slightly-furrowed brow. "Neither are you." He nudges his thigh against Light's groin.

Light brushes L's observation away. "What am I - how's this?" His strokes turn slow but more deliberate, and even though he isn't really looking at L very closely, it all at once soaks into Light that this L's actual flesh in his hands. A bolt of electricity seems to snap through him just as another roll of thunder and lightning makes the bedside lamp flicker.

L catches Light's chin between his thumb and knuckle, tilting his face back slightly. "You're not all here, Light." His voice comes out soft. "Why should I be?"

"I am, too," Light hisses at once, jerking his face away from L's touch. A hot flush races over his skin, igniting rage that L would dare to voice displeasure when he's barely moving, just lying there in complete disregard for Light's efforts. And Light hasn't even done this with a man before. Not like L has. L - who's stuffed his cock into someone he remembers as a demon, but actually lays bored in the presence of Light.

"You're not even looking at me."

"I don't want to." Disgusted, Light yanks his hand out of L's pajamas and sits up to his knees, still straddling L's legs. "Fine." He glares down at L, who is slack-mouthed and staring, his cheeks slightly colored, a minor detail that nonetheless cools Light's anger a shade or two. "I'm looking."

"If you're not doing this for the pleasure of it, then what other reason could you possibly have?" L says it as if he's simply wondering aloud, his fingers rubbing idly at his forehead. "You don't have to take me to bed to get me on your side. I'm already there, whether you know it or not."

"No, you aren't." Light pins L's shoulders to the bed - unnecessary, since it's obvious L's not going anywhere, but it feels good just the same. "You start arguments. You imply that I'm Kira. You're frequently horrible."

L lets out a wheeze that might be a laugh. "A moment ago you said I wouldn't hurt you."

"And you won't. You might be awful, but you can't hurt me."

L's eyes widen and glitter strangely. "Light, don't you like it a little, when I'm awful to you?"

The words are followed with a soft, somehow insidious pause, L's adam's apple bobbing in the column of his throat.

"I know I like it when you're awful to me." The top note of L's voice is lilting, almost sweet, like honey glazed over glass.

Light's head rings. He's positive it's the most obscene thing anyone's ever said to him, somehow, and yet it's these words - not L's lips or body against his - that stirs his blood and makes his cock jerk to life.

So this is what L meant, then. Sex as a weapon. But if this is how it's going to be, it's only fair that Light fight back. He doesn't want to be awful, but what choice does he have?

Fuck you anyway, L.

Light kisses him with bruising pressure, teeth nipping against lips as he pushes his hipbones into L's, ribs and shoulders jutting up against his like some harsh, formidable landscape. L has an erection now, finally, and Light palms it through the fabric of his pajama pants while struggling for the zipper of his sweatshirt, dragging it down and feeling the subtle heat of L's flesh against his fingers. Breathing heavily, head still ringing with noise, Light draws away from the kiss, preparing himself for the sickly white and no-doubt unsettling sight of L's bare chest.

It's the nipples that he notices first, small and so faintly pink they nearly blend in with the rest of L's skin, and perhaps Light only stares at them for so long because he doesn't quite comprehend the rest of what he sees. Finally, though, something shifts into place. Ink. Black ink, everywhere.

"What did you do to yourself?" He spits out, and L goes very still, his fingers still digging into Light's upper arms.

"They're tattoos," L says flatly, as if minorly annoyed by the question.

"But you, you don't -" Light falters. Here it is, undeniable visual evidence that this L is a completely different person than the one he knew before. That L would have never covered his skin with crude symbols, permanent ones, no less. "Why?" He's rolled away from L for now, and the other man half-sits up, leaning back on his elbows.

"So I don't forget."

The words are so low Light almost doesn't hear them.

"Forget what?" He watches as L pulls the sweatshirt off completely, showing more ink down his shoulders and along his ribs, a single letter "L" in the middle of his chest. A thin, looping line starts on L's hip and disappears into the waistband of his pajama pants, and despite himself Light wonders where it ends.

L trails a thumb beneath his collarbone, where there's a tattoo of a tiny dagger, a single drop of blood falling from it's tip, like a tear. "There's one for every case I've solved."

"So they're trophies?" Light upper light curls slightly.

"I'm not surprised you'd call them that," L's gaze is level. "And who knows, maybe they are, in a way. But I started doing them on impulse. There was no plan to it."

"You gave these to yourself?" Light is unapologetically baffled. "How?"

L slips off the bed and disappears into the bathroom, returning with a toiletry case that he sets on the nightstand and opens, removing what looks like a zippered school-supply bag. He dumps the contents out onto the sheets: two bottles of ink, a plastic case of sewing needles, alcohol, pencils. L sits back onto the bed and picks one of the pencils up, showing Light the needle stuck into the eraser end. "With this. It's called stick-and-poke."

"It's called disgusting." Light pushes L's hand away, but L seems unconcerned, tucking the supplies back into his bag and zipping it shut.

"You're entitled to your opinion," L says rustily, and he looks more tired than usual, the circles under his eyes more shadowed. "But with all the bad things I've done, I don't want to forget the good, either."

Light shrinks against the headboard, unsettled by L. Unsettled by his own curiosity.

Who are you, L?

(You wanted to see beneath the surface, didn't you?)

"Why so much fear of forgetting?" he finally asks. "You don't have a brain tumor, do you? Or early-onset dementia?" His laughter is weak.

"Not that I know of." L puts the bag of supplies back in the toiletry case. "But I don't expect to be L forever. At some point I will go too far, get too dirty, and it will be time for me to stop. Before I end up in the position of doing more bad than good."

Light keeps tugging on the edge of the bedspread. For some reason, he's still sort of hard. "What all this about getting too 'dirty?' You're already dirty. That's why the authorities need you in the first place - they can't break their own rules. You've said as much yourself."

"This may surprise you, but there are lines even I won't cross," L says dryly, leaning back onto his elbows again.

The way his muscles move under the ink-stained skin is horrible. Fascinating. It makes Light think of ink soaking into paper, names unfurling, one after the other.

"But given enough time," L continues, "You either compromise your own values or you become obsolete. And then someone replaces you."

Light curls his lip again, hiding it with a half-smile. Only someone inherently weak would think something like that. You compromise nothing if you learn how to adapt and evolve, L.

"So." Light sits up from the headboard, leans forward enough to touch one of the tattoos on L's shoulder. He expects it to feel remarkable, somehow, but it's just ordinary skin, cool to the touch. "All these scribbles are a reminder of your values?" Mocking disbelief colors his voice.

The tattoo is a crescent moon. Tsuki.

"They're ugly, by the way." Light's voice is softer than he intended. "They suit you."

L ignores the comment but turns on Light with his huge, dark eyes. "Where should I put Kira's scribble, Light? Do you want to pick the spot?"

You're so ugly. Only someone truly understanding would ever want you.

It's the last thought Light has before he pulls L to him.

He forgets about performance, he forgets about trying. Why should he have to try? He's Light Yagami, he's Kira. And L is just a man he killed, once, but he's alive now and once they both have their clothes off the difference between his naked body and Light's is so striking it ought to be sketched out on a mural. L is skinny and scared and inked up, his cock thicker than Light expected and curved up just slightly in a way that Light can't stop staring at. Light is fit and healthy, skin like mellow gold, and he knows he really does look like a God, sent down to have his way with some poor, wayward, millionaire gutter rat.

L practically climbs into Light's lap, only to spit into Light's palm - gross, of course he does - then lowering it to their erections, pressed tip to tip. Light manages to palm both of them together, stroking in a tight grip that makes L moan and curl into his shoulder. When Light looks down he can see how L's hollowed abdomen is drawn tight, muscles quivering more with each jerk of Light's hand, and he smiles hard at the thought of making L orgasm, again and again, until he's empty and gasping and has nothing left. It doesn't matter that it isn't really possible - it's the thought that counts, and it's a thought that makes Light tug faster, harder, until L's clawing at his arms and hissing in his ear.

"Slow down or we'll both come." His black hair gets caught in Light's open, panting mouth. "We were going to fuck, remember?"

It's barely a question, and he twists off the edge of the bed, obscenely lithe, and rummages around in the toiletry case for condoms and a bottle of lube, tossing them all-too casually between Light's legs.

Light touches the lube with tented, hesitant fingers. It seems like something perverts would keep around, and his expression must reveal his distaste because L grabs it from him and gets to business, opening the condom packet and rolling it down Light's length, then squeezing glop everywhere.

L gives him one last kiss before lying down onto his back, teething hard on Light's bottom lip and spilling words into his mouth: "don't be afraid to leave a mark."

And then Light's pushing into L and it isn't easy, it's the work of careful half-inches, so tight and snug that the pressure might hurt if it weren't so smotheringly intense, punching Light's vision out with white-hot stars. If it causes L pain, too, he doesn't show it, though Light can feel the slight tremble of thighs against his hips. Light takes it slow not out of consideration but because he has to, and several minutes of heavy, labored breathing pass before he can move with more ease, the grip of L's ass around his cock completely unlike anything he's ever felt before. He sits back on his knees far enough so that he can watch himself move in-and-out, mesmerized by what bodies can do, by what they can feel.

"Oh god, fuck." A litany of Japanese curses fall from his lips and L chuckles at that a little, then rocks his pelvis up in response, meeting Light's thrusts with such enthusiasm that he lets out some curses of his own.

That's right, Light thinks dimly. You can't be trusted with your own body, your own brilliant mind. You'll never make the perfect use of it that I will. He spreads himself over L's torso, buries his face against the crook of his shoulder and bites hard, his hands skating almost gently down L's ribcage. L is hard and bony all over but his skin surprisingly soft, like something bruiseable that needs to be covered by armor. And his lungs are rising and falling inside his chest like an animal, and there's blood migrating under his skin and Light just wants to be inside him though he doesn't really know why. Not when it's supposed to be the other way around and L's supposed to be the one begging, whimpering for Light's touch like Misa did, like Kou. L's supposed to want Light inside him, and surely he does, but even as Light is biting into L's shoulder and tasting blood, actual blood, it doesn't seem like nearly enough.

L gasps once, mutters 'good,' and tightens his hold on Light's hips, practically forcing Light into him.

Light wonders if he's all here. His breath is loud and he's groaning in a way that he doesn't even recognize, and it feels like all his senses are about to shatter, dissolve like sugar in a rush of hot water. There's a monstrous orgasm building up through his balls and belly, so monstrous it might as well be an actual monster. When he comes maybe it's Light 2 that will burst out of him, stamping this Light out of existence once and for all. Who else but Light 2 could be feeling this way?

(Not now. This is all you.)

Some emotion he can't name prickles at the back of Light's throat.

Light is on such a power trip right now.

L would probably find it sad and boring if it didn't involve the intimate handling of his own body, but Light's cock is a good one and his face is beautiful even when it's glazed with a sheen of sweat.

The dual experience took a few minutes to get used to - one part of him has never done this with a man (not on the receiving end, anyway), and the other, L the Second, is used to it, and already knows just how position his hips and legs for maximum contact.

He didn't expect that they'd end up fucking tonight, but they're probably not fucking the way that Light envisioned - with L tenderly melting under his touch, calling his name - so that suits L just fine.

You don't get to pretend with me, anymore. Not when we're like this. L smiles when he feels Light push into him with hesitation, unsure of something for once in his damn life.

L has a crystal-clear memory of what it was like to be in Light's position, both literally and figuratively. Right about now Light is probably thinking about how this fucking will 'fix' L, making him clean and right for Kira. L had thought as much when B lured him into the same trap, tantalizing him with the possibility that B could be tamed, normalized somehow, through sex and passion.

(You're going to feel let down if I'm not a monster, Lawli. So just cling to that belief as long as you like. And who knows, maybe it'll turn out that you're right? If you keep insisting I'm a monster then I just might have to do the polite thing and oblige you.)

It's a good thing he remembers B's words so well. It makes seducing Light that much easier - which isn't so much a seduction as an endless game of letting Light think he has the upper hand, that he's the one in control, then undermining that control in small but significant ways.

But there are consequences to this game. For B, what started as an act became an obsession, or maybe it was never completely an act in the first place. For B, the line between fantasy and reality wasn't just thin, it was irrelevant.

Lines can get so very thin for people like B, L, and Light.

Light makes himself into God and thinks he is the only person who can get his hands dirty and stay clean. It's just a hair away from what L does, it's just a line that's paper thin. And L knows he's probably drawn to line-crossers like B and Light because a part of him wants to cross, too.

How terrifying that the only thing that will prevent him from crossing is himself, a known liar and traitor.

"Oh god, fuck."

A drop of sweat falls from Light's brow and lands on L's cheek. L almost laughs at the unhinged, raw quality of Light's usually pitch-perfect voice, but it's a turn on, too, because L likes the look of Light better without all the pretty masks. Pleasure is gathering in his own lower belly, and despite the dull burn he wants more of Light, wants to see the last mask fall away, desperate enough to lift his hips off the bed and meet Light's rhythm directly.

It isn't until Light bites into his shoulder, though - breathing and snuffling like some kind of rabid beast - that L knows for sure he'll be able to finish. He slips his hand between their bodies and manages maybe a half-dozen ragged strokes before his whole body goes flush and taut. He comes with a whine while tugging hard on the back of Light's hair, and Light follows a minute or so after, moaning incoherently against L's neck as his entire body stiffens, then relaxes.

A span of time passes - only seconds, probably - in which Light feels very heavy and alive on top of L, all harsh breath and cooling sweat. When he finally rolls over, there's a smear of blood just below his lower lip, and a sticky glaze of semen on his chest. He looks like someone whose heart nearly crawled out his own throat.

L settles back on the pillow and stares up at the ceiling, gingerly touching the bite marks at the crook of his shoulder. He'll have to clean it soon, but the pain actually feels good, no mystery to it at all.

(Who d'you really think is worse, Lawli? The wolf, or the one who wants to tame the wolf for his own use?)

L hadn't known the answer to B's question then, but now he does: they deserve each other.

The cafe across the street from the hotel is kind of nice, Frank decides. There's a lot of fishing memorabilia on the walls: colorful poles and lures, and lots of photographs of the Cuyahoga river, sparkling under the late summer sun. He checks it all out while waiting for the barista to finish his cappuccino, and once he has his to-go cup in hand he carries it to one of the tables out front, opening up a copy The Wall Street Journal that he has no intention of reading.

He and the girl named Aura have been following the black van all over Ohio and Michigan for the last few days. Frank doesn't really know what they're supposed to be looking for, but he's gathered that the black van and its inhabitants are supposed to lead Aura to something she needs for Project Topaz.

Frank's curious, but he's not here to ask questions. He's here to do as he's told, and taking Aura's orders is easy enough.

The guys in the van are another story entirely. Some of them move like cops - the lady, especially, and weirdly, the Japanese kid, too. The blond kid and the ginger seem more like hired roadies, moving equipment around, stuffing their faces with junk food. The pale, skinny guy seems to do the least amount of work, so Frank figures he's probably the one in charge.

He's probably the one Aura talks about, too. The one she calls 'a boulder, rolling relentlessly uphill.'

The more Frank watches him from a distance, the more he can see it: the dark hollows under his eyes, the jumpy reflexes in his shoulders. This is a guy who doesn't know how to quit, let alone when.

Slim. That's the name Frank gives him.

He sips his drink and hides most of his face behind the newspaper while the ginger kid parks the van under the hotel's front canopy. The other Japanese guy, the one who smiles too much, is hanging on to an overloaded luggage cart while the blonde kid throws open the van's rear doors.

When Frank asked Aura why they didn't just bug the van, too, she'd insisted it wasn't necessary, but from the way she clutched that pendant around her neck Frank guessed that she was a little afraid, too. Of what, though, he really couldn't say. Aura's not the sort of woman who scares easily, he knows that much already.

But Slim and Co. hardly seem like the bad guys, here, running around helping the police and whatnot. Frank's pieced together that they're after that Angel of Death spook, and as far as he's concerned, the sooner they succeed, the better. Frank's dad died of a heart attack when he was just in his late forties, so he's always regarded that organ as no better than a ticking time bomb in his chest, anyway. The idea of someone having a weapon that can actually trigger cardiac arrest? Unthinkable. Find the bastard and chain him to a boulder at the bottom of the sea.

"Aiber?"

Frank scratches the back of his neck and takes another swallow of coffee. He should cut back on the caffeine, maybe.

"Aiber?"

He looks up at the sound of the voice this time, a shudder of surprise running through him when he sees Slim, standing across the street in front of the hotel's flagpole. The man looks more fatigued than ever, but now that he can see him directly, Frank realizes that Slim is actually pretty young, early or mid-twenties, and that he's looking at Frank as if he knows him.

"Aiber," he says again, and Frank realizes that it must be a name, though one he doesn't recognize. Best to play dumb, he decides, and gives Slim a tip of his coffee cup before folding up his paper and heading back inside the cafe.

Aura is at a booth near the far back, looking at her laptop. Frank slides in across from her and taps the top of the screen. "Your buddy Slim is on to us."

"What?" She frowns at him, like she thinks he's playing a prank.

"Slim saw me drinking my coffee out front. He thinks I'm someone named Aiber."

"Aiber? Who's Aiber?" Her frown deepens, making a crease appear between her eyes. "He shouldn't know who you are."

"He doesn't know who I am. That's what I'm saying. He thinks I'm someone else."

"Fucking hell." Aura slams the laptop shut, reaches for that damned pendant around her neck again.

"Aura. How dangerous is he?"

She blinks at the sound of her name. "Very. And now you know why. He's the best at what he does." She lets out a high, tinkle of a laugh that doesn't sound happy at all.

Frank grabs for her hand. "Let's go, then. Before he follows me in here."

They duck under a display of rowing oars and head for the back exit, neither of them daring to look behind.

NOTES:

Thanks, everyone, for waiting nearly four months for this update. It was a bitch to write, I won't lie, but I feel pretty satisfied with how things turned out.

As you can probably tell by now, this story isn't fluffy (despite the presence of some fluffy moments in early chapters). I like Lawlight best when they're being awful to each other; frankly, anything else just feels OOC to me.

For those who want conformation: the sections in parentheses and italics are indeed meant to represent Light 2's 'voice,' but no, Light can't actually hear it. What can I say? He's simply not listening, though sometimes intuition kicks in.

Lastly, I'd like to thank the new readers who left me comments recently - you really motivated me to finish this! Which goes to show that COMMENTS REALLY MATTER to writers, so please, please consider leaving one? I'd love to hear your questions, speculations, criticisms, or even just a brief one-liner. Thanks :)