Light's been...thinking. Preoccupied, really, is probably a better word. He's sitting in his room with his head in his hands, eyes half closed and mind awhirl in a way it hasn't been since he first picked up the Death Note
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He hears something tap at the window, from deep in his reverie, and whirls around, distracted enough that he's a little jumpy. And speak of the devil, he can't help but think, or even think of, apparently.
And then he thinks to wonder how she got outside his window, and stands up, staring at her with noticeably cool eyes.
Just what I needed.
But she's already proven that she can get in where she wants, so he goes over and yanks the window open, schooling his expression to stillness and trying to get his thoughts to do the same. "I'd appreciate it," he says stiffly, "If you used the door."
Pandora looks terribly amused as she eases herself to sit on the windowsill, though she's not technically entering just yet. "Aaaw, so conventional, Light-kun," she tells him, and proffers him the box with the cake in it. "Here - I think this might be a token of my good faith."
...Light stares at the cake, looks at her, looks back at the cake in moderate horror. Just how far did she go digging through his memories? Because between the name and the goddamn cake-
"I'm not really a sweets person," he says, a little acridly, "And I would appreciate it if you didn't call me that."
But on the other hand, he seems - resigned. After all, he's realized by now that there's not much he can do about her. And he is feeling curiously melancholy. It's not a good night to spend alone.
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This time is no exception.
She's levitating in front of his window, in the dark, holding a box (inside, there's macha-flavored cake).
And she'll politely tap at the window, even if she could blast in at her whim.
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And then he thinks to wonder how she got outside his window, and stands up, staring at her with noticeably cool eyes.
Just what I needed.
But she's already proven that she can get in where she wants, so he goes over and yanks the window open, schooling his expression to stillness and trying to get his thoughts to do the same. "I'd appreciate it," he says stiffly, "If you used the door."
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"I'm not really a sweets person," he says, a little acridly, "And I would appreciate it if you didn't call me that."
But on the other hand, he seems - resigned. After all, he's realized by now that there's not much he can do about her. And he is feeling curiously melancholy. It's not a good night to spend alone.
Reply
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