DN -- Chocolate Always Loves You Back X: What They're Calling It
Title: Chocolate Always Loves You Back
Chapter: 10. What They're Calling It
Fandom: Death Note
Pairing: Light/L
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 2,689
Warnings: AU
Summary: Light Yagami is not having a good Valentine's Day. Between the new guy with the candy fetish, his partner, Matsuda, and the unsettling new case... the chocolate may be the only thing that loves him at all.
Author's Note: Sleep. Good joke. XD ♥ eltea for betaing this when I couldn't stand to look at it anymore.
X - WHAT THEY’RE CALLING IT
Light was having a lot of trouble focusing on the newspaper.
In his defense, someone had written in to the advice columnist from Kissimmee, Florida.
It was times like this that Light was convinced that the universe had it in for him.
He huddled over the usual first coffee cup of the day, reveling in it, feeling his brain shake off sleep and stand to attention, and went to great lengths to pretend that he didn’t notice a burgeoning craving for tea.
On the way out the door, he double-checked in the mirror that he wasn’t wearing a color that would draw unsettling suspicions like disoriented butterflies. Sure enough, this shirt was blue-just blue. Light blue (he cringed inwardly), but none of the fey sky blue that lurked in his wardrobe, which was almost as bad as pink.
The sad thing was that Light looked excellent in the fey sky blue; it brought out his eyes.
Minor chromatic tragedies aside, Light had a workplace to go to and a job to do, and no one could criticize anything in his raiment today.
-
“You’re smiling,” Aizawa observed incredulously.
Light blinked, shifted his weight, and frowned. “No, I’m not,” he countered, unoptimistic about the presumable trajectory of this conversation.
“You were,” Aizawa persisted. “You never smile when you walk in; today you were smiling straight out of the elevator.” His eyes widened and then lit up, and Light resisted the urge to cower in terror. “What exactly happened this weekend to make you so happy to come in to work?” Aizawa inquired sweetly.
Sweetness was the last thing Light needed to be thinking about.
“Sorry to disappoint,” he managed to deadpan, “but we didn’t do anything more exciting than eating cookies and taking the kids to the beach.”
Aizawa grinned wickedly. “Is that what they’re calling it these days?”
He shortly changed his tune to a more amused than apologetic “I was kidding!” directed at Light’s retreating back.
Light pointedly ignored him.
On the upside, his coffee mug (“There was no Boston Coffee Party for a reason”) wouldn’t insult his integrity any time soon.
…not even when he actually was withholding information.
As far as Light was concerned, however, his personal life was his business and his alone, even among individuals who had worked rather hard to set him up with the root of the problem.
Unfortunately, as Light soon discovered, the files on his desk and a barrage of new emails weren’t any more conducive to concentration than the newspaper had been. All he could think about was Lawliet-him and Lawliet-the pair of them together, with the tea and the strawberries between them; Lawliet’s hand warm and tentative at his shoulder; the soft, dark hair greeting his fingers… He took the moment, played it, replayed it, rewound it, and played it again, in the painstaking slow-mo usually reserved for action movie stunt scenes.
There were far too many capital Ls in this email. Its author should be shot.
Preferably in painstaking slow-mo.
The dubious propositions of a few spam emails weren’t helping, either.
Wisely, Light decided to close his email program and focus on the coffee instead.
Hot, hot, coffee, steaming gently in his face, like fingertips against his cheeks.
Emphatically, Light applied the heel of hand to his forehead.
Somehow, he waded through a few pages of paperwork without lapsing into any particularly detailed fantasies, at which point he scrubbed his eyes, reordered his pens, and glanced up in time to see Matsuda approaching.
The man’s heavy stride spoke wonders.
“Another one?” Light prompted desolately.
Matsuda set a series of folders down next to Light’s mug.
“Another three,” he said.
Numbly Light spread them out and flipped open each cover in turn. There were three photos to greet him-three crime scenes, three sites of carnage. The first held a tangle of bloodied yellow, the second a paler blond, the third a matted brown that looked coppery as he angled it for examination, and Light’s stomach clenched unpleasantly at the eerie similarity to a trio that he recognized, sending coffee sloshing into something like a whirlpool.
“I thought it was supposed to be good things that came in threes,” he noted, less steadily than he would have liked.
“Small consolations do,” Matsuda replied. “One, I made a few phone calls this morning when I got these. Two, I got through to an FBI agent who wants to help out. Three, she’s tying something up in Sacramento, and she said she can be down here by this afternoon.”
Light turned the pictures over, scanning the reports beneath. “It’s too big for us,” he agreed, not as reluctantly as he would have imagined a few days before. “Same killer, same methods, same nothing we get out of it.” He met Matsuda’s gaze. “Fresh eyes and new resources could do us a world of good.”
“Can’t hurt,” Matsuda confirmed. He ran a hand through his hair, pushing his bangs aside and then letting them fall back into place. “See if you can compile the case files before she gets here-and I was thinking it might help to make her a map pinpointing the locations of the murders as well, since she doesn’t know the city.” A tiny hint of the trademark boyish smile flitted across Matsuda’s face. “I know how you love color-coding.”
Light rolled his eyes indulgently. “It’s a useful habit,” he responded. “Organization is not a crime.”
“You should hire yourself out,” Matsuda suggested. “You could attack people’s houses and make some money on the side.”
“It’s not ‘attacking,’” Light countered. “And the only person’s house I’ve ever cleaned is Lawliet’s, and that’s just because half the dishes were mine.”
He realized what he’d said when Matsuda suddenly looked as though Santa Clause had walked into the room, bearing a pony with his name on it.
Light opened his mouth to offer half a dozen justifications, but Matsuda winked before he could find the words.
“Don’t let him take advantage of your services,” was the recommendation. “Make sure you’re getting something in return.”
Light grimaced. “We talked about the case,” he announced, feeling like a broken record already. “There were no ‘services’ exchanged.”
This, of course, only tickled Matsuda more.
“They grow up so fast,” he sighed. “Pretty soon you’ll be color-coding the children.”
Light threw an eraser at him.
The really terrible part was that color-coded children kind of sounded like a good idea.
-
Whoever had placed Aizawa’s and Lawliet’s desk between Light’s workspace and the copy machine was a truly sadistic soul.
He wanted to slap himself for noticing that the boys essentially were color-coded, and he hadn’t even had to lift a finger.
The other thing he noticed was the conspicuous absence of both Lawliet and Mello.
Aizawa caught his arm and hauled him in close enough to speak without a doodling Matt and a paperclip-chain-making Near overhearing every word.
“Mello wasn’t feeling well,” he muttered, “and went to the restroom. Ten minutes later, Lawliet went to check on him-and that was more than five minutes ago.”
Light frowned, handed him the files destined for the copier, and started after their pair of disappearances.
He stepped into the bathroom and eased the door shut after him.
“Lawliet?” he called.
Before he could ask after the other object of his search, there was a terrible retching sound, underpinned by a reassuring murmur, both of which were followed by an answer from a middle stall:
“Here, Light-kun.”
Tentatively, Light moved over to assess the extent of the damage.
What he found within the unlocked stall was Mello, pale and shaking, slumped beside the toilet bowl, and Lawliet sitting with him, stroking nimble fingers through his hair.
“Oh, Jesus,” Light heard himself say.
“It’s good that you’re here, Light-kun,” Lawliet replied. “Could you convey a message back to Shuichi for me? I had just found evidence to indicate that we might be able to follow a shipment of hazardous materials that the LAPD was tracing, which might have gone to our bomb-maker’s workshop, which is incredible, because he’s usually much more surreptitious-”
“You tell him,” Light instructed, having lost the thread of the sentence almost instantaneously. “I’ll hold the fort.”
Lawliet gave him a long look-long enough for surprise to melt into a deep appreciation.
Light felt his cheeks going a bit pink. It wasn’t as though he was making some great sacrifice.
Which was not to say that this was going to be the slightest bit enjoyable.
Lawliet edged his way out of the stall, making room for Light to settle by an enervated Mello, whose breath came in uneven gasps.
“I’ll be back as soon as I can,” Lawliet promised. “Light-kun will take care of you, Mello.”
“I know,” Mello mumbled, almost to himself-and the absolute trust in the statement made Light’s heart swell even as his stomach turned.
Speaking of stomachs, Mello’s was distinctly discontented, and it made its position known.
Hurriedly Light gathered Mello’s hair in one hand, holding it out of the way at the base of the boy’s neck, and employed his free hand to rub the poor kid’s back in a manner that he hoped was encouraging.
Mello was rather too preoccupied with vomiting profusely to articulate a thank-you, but Light didn’t exactly grudge him for it.
When he’d finished, Mello swallowed, swiping at his mouth with the crumpled toilet paper Light had the foresight to provide, and looked up at him.
His eyes were wide and horrorstruck.
“I feel awful all the time,” he whispered, breath hitching softly. “I-d’you think-am I going to die?”
The bacteria massing their forces where his knees touched the tile, the inescapable smell of sick, the clamor of germophobic anxiety at the back of his mind-all of it disappeared as Light seized Mello’s narrow shoulders and pulled him fiercely into a hug.
“Of course not,” he answered. “You’re going to be fine.”
-
It was only a few minutes later that he emerged again, still clutching the warm, frail body close to his-this time to carry a weak but steady-stomached Mello back to where a harried Lawliet was gesticulating wildly, chewing on his thumb, and apparently attempting to show Aizawa a computer program more complicated than he’d thought it would be. He looked up and cringed, then scrambled past his partner, who seemed to be vacillating between intense frustration and utter cluelessness.
“Better?” he asked the boy curled up against Light’s chest, legs dangling over one arm.
Mello managed a bleary nod.
“I was thinking I could drop him off at your place,” Light noted, “but Mr. Wammy isn’t back yet, is he?”
“Not until tomorrow,” Lawliet confirmed, raking a hand through his hair, not that it needed the help. “I could take off the rest of the day-”
“Don’t you dare,” Aizawa cut in. “I can’t make any sense of this.” He motioned to the computer screen, then held up his hand before Lawliet could speak. “Let me call my wife,” he said. “I’m sure she’ll be willing to keep an eye on him and spoon-feed him ginger ale.”
Light wasn’t entirely sure that, even ill and incapacitated, Mello would let anyone spoon-feed him anything.
Then again, the boy would probably take chocolate in any form in which it came.
-
Eriko Aizawa, whom Light had met and chatted with at more than one office barbeque, smiled as she opened the door.
“Hello, Light,” she greeted him, ushering them in. “And you must be Mello.”
“Nice to meet you,” Mello murmured from where he’d half-buried his face in Light’s side, staggering along with Light’s arm around his shoulders.
“I set some Sprite out on the counter when Shuichi called,” Eriko informed them, leading the way through a house as warm and welcoming as her demeanor, “so just let me know if you’re thirsty, sweetheart. I’ve got some salt crackers, too, and plenty of water.”
Mello trudged along at Light’s side until they reached a spare bedroom where the curtains were drawn and the bedcovers had been folded back.
“Yumi’s at school,” Eriko explained, beckoning to Mello, who broke away from Light and gratefully collapsed onto the waiting bed, “and the little one’s napping. I’ve put our old baby monitor in here-” She motioned to the square receiver perched on the nightstand, a red light indicating its readiness. “-so if you need anything, all you have to do is say so.” She tucked the comforter in around Mello, who was already settling on the pillow and letting his eyes fall shut. “Okay?”
“Yeah,” Mello mumbled. “Thanks…”
As Light and Eriko retreated, he reiterated the sentiment.
“I can’t thank you enough,” he told her. “He hasn’t been well the last few days, and we just can’t take any chances.”
“It’s my pleasure,” Eriko replied. “There isn’t much else I can do to help keep the city safe, but I’m more than happy to take a little off your hands so that you can.”
Whatever else he could say about the man, Light did have to vouch for Aizawa’s taste in women.
-
Speaking of women, when Light returned to the office, there was a very pretty one waiting-one wearing a leather jacket, her long, dark hair draping over her shoulders. She stepped briskly forward to shake his hand, and he saw that there was an inconspicuous but lovely diamond ring on her third finger of her other hand.
“I’m Naomi Misora,” she said. “Touta’s given me most of the details, but he mentioned that you were working on a map that might help me get my bearings on all this.”
“Yeah,” Light confirmed, smoothing slightly compulsively at his tie. “Though I’m afraid I haven’t got all the files that I wanted for you; one of our witnesses started throwing up.”
Naomi gave him a strange look, and Light hid a small smile. Even when he wasn’t around, Mello could disturb all and sundry.
When he’d equipped her with the gloriously color-coded map and had offered a few more details, Light hastened back to Aizawa to collect the files he’d meant to copy.
Aizawa passed them to him without ceasing to stare at the screen, chewing on his lip. Near was hovering by his shoulder, attempting to explicate the system, and Lawliet grabbed Light’s sleeve before he could escape.
“Light-kun,” he began.
That got Aizawa’s attention.
“It’s ‘Light-kun’ now?” he asked interestedly.
Lawliet ignored him. “May we talk?”
Aizawa was ecstatic; Near sighed feelingly.
“Is that what they’re calling it these days?” Aizawa took up eagerly.
As Lawliet clasped Light’s sleeve between thumb and forefinger to drag him off, Light fought the urge to give Aizawa the finger in front of a pair of children.
It was a pity that his backup plan-sticking out his tongue-wouldn’t have been much better.
When they were a safe distance down the hall, Lawliet divulged, “I’m concerned about your FBI agent.”
Light blinked. Naomi was hot, but he wasn’t exactly going to…
“Being a federal servant of justice, I’m afraid that she might be legally obligated to interfere in our unofficial custody of Matt, Mello, and Near.”
Oh.
“Don’t worry about it,” Light told him. “She’s here on her own time. The Bureau didn’t send her; it was Matsuda’s persuasive powers.”
“They are formidable,” Lawliet muttered. He touched a thumb to his lip. “Well, then.”
Before Light could move, Lawliet had stepped forward and slung both arms around him in an odd hug that was every bit as awkward as it was wonderful.
“Thank you, Light-kun,” he said.
“Of-of course,” Light stammered out, laying a hesitant hand on Lawliet’s back before the man could dart away.
As Lawliet wandered back to his desk again, Light wondered how exactly he was supposed to work in these conditions. He was starting to think that, if he wanted to be able to concentrate ever again, he and Lawliet needed to hash a few things out.
…if that was what they were calling it these days.
[Chapter IX] [Chapter XI]
Chapter: 10. What They're Calling It
Fandom: Death Note
Pairing: Light/L
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 2,689
Warnings: AU
Summary: Light Yagami is not having a good Valentine's Day. Between the new guy with the candy fetish, his partner, Matsuda, and the unsettling new case... the chocolate may be the only thing that loves him at all.
Author's Note: Sleep. Good joke. XD ♥ eltea for betaing this when I couldn't stand to look at it anymore.
X - WHAT THEY’RE CALLING IT
Light was having a lot of trouble focusing on the newspaper.
In his defense, someone had written in to the advice columnist from Kissimmee, Florida.
It was times like this that Light was convinced that the universe had it in for him.
He huddled over the usual first coffee cup of the day, reveling in it, feeling his brain shake off sleep and stand to attention, and went to great lengths to pretend that he didn’t notice a burgeoning craving for tea.
On the way out the door, he double-checked in the mirror that he wasn’t wearing a color that would draw unsettling suspicions like disoriented butterflies. Sure enough, this shirt was blue-just blue. Light blue (he cringed inwardly), but none of the fey sky blue that lurked in his wardrobe, which was almost as bad as pink.
The sad thing was that Light looked excellent in the fey sky blue; it brought out his eyes.
Minor chromatic tragedies aside, Light had a workplace to go to and a job to do, and no one could criticize anything in his raiment today.
-
“You’re smiling,” Aizawa observed incredulously.
Light blinked, shifted his weight, and frowned. “No, I’m not,” he countered, unoptimistic about the presumable trajectory of this conversation.
“You were,” Aizawa persisted. “You never smile when you walk in; today you were smiling straight out of the elevator.” His eyes widened and then lit up, and Light resisted the urge to cower in terror. “What exactly happened this weekend to make you so happy to come in to work?” Aizawa inquired sweetly.
Sweetness was the last thing Light needed to be thinking about.
“Sorry to disappoint,” he managed to deadpan, “but we didn’t do anything more exciting than eating cookies and taking the kids to the beach.”
Aizawa grinned wickedly. “Is that what they’re calling it these days?”
He shortly changed his tune to a more amused than apologetic “I was kidding!” directed at Light’s retreating back.
Light pointedly ignored him.
On the upside, his coffee mug (“There was no Boston Coffee Party for a reason”) wouldn’t insult his integrity any time soon.
…not even when he actually was withholding information.
As far as Light was concerned, however, his personal life was his business and his alone, even among individuals who had worked rather hard to set him up with the root of the problem.
Unfortunately, as Light soon discovered, the files on his desk and a barrage of new emails weren’t any more conducive to concentration than the newspaper had been. All he could think about was Lawliet-him and Lawliet-the pair of them together, with the tea and the strawberries between them; Lawliet’s hand warm and tentative at his shoulder; the soft, dark hair greeting his fingers… He took the moment, played it, replayed it, rewound it, and played it again, in the painstaking slow-mo usually reserved for action movie stunt scenes.
There were far too many capital Ls in this email. Its author should be shot.
Preferably in painstaking slow-mo.
The dubious propositions of a few spam emails weren’t helping, either.
Wisely, Light decided to close his email program and focus on the coffee instead.
Hot, hot, coffee, steaming gently in his face, like fingertips against his cheeks.
Emphatically, Light applied the heel of hand to his forehead.
Somehow, he waded through a few pages of paperwork without lapsing into any particularly detailed fantasies, at which point he scrubbed his eyes, reordered his pens, and glanced up in time to see Matsuda approaching.
The man’s heavy stride spoke wonders.
“Another one?” Light prompted desolately.
Matsuda set a series of folders down next to Light’s mug.
“Another three,” he said.
Numbly Light spread them out and flipped open each cover in turn. There were three photos to greet him-three crime scenes, three sites of carnage. The first held a tangle of bloodied yellow, the second a paler blond, the third a matted brown that looked coppery as he angled it for examination, and Light’s stomach clenched unpleasantly at the eerie similarity to a trio that he recognized, sending coffee sloshing into something like a whirlpool.
“I thought it was supposed to be good things that came in threes,” he noted, less steadily than he would have liked.
“Small consolations do,” Matsuda replied. “One, I made a few phone calls this morning when I got these. Two, I got through to an FBI agent who wants to help out. Three, she’s tying something up in Sacramento, and she said she can be down here by this afternoon.”
Light turned the pictures over, scanning the reports beneath. “It’s too big for us,” he agreed, not as reluctantly as he would have imagined a few days before. “Same killer, same methods, same nothing we get out of it.” He met Matsuda’s gaze. “Fresh eyes and new resources could do us a world of good.”
“Can’t hurt,” Matsuda confirmed. He ran a hand through his hair, pushing his bangs aside and then letting them fall back into place. “See if you can compile the case files before she gets here-and I was thinking it might help to make her a map pinpointing the locations of the murders as well, since she doesn’t know the city.” A tiny hint of the trademark boyish smile flitted across Matsuda’s face. “I know how you love color-coding.”
Light rolled his eyes indulgently. “It’s a useful habit,” he responded. “Organization is not a crime.”
“You should hire yourself out,” Matsuda suggested. “You could attack people’s houses and make some money on the side.”
“It’s not ‘attacking,’” Light countered. “And the only person’s house I’ve ever cleaned is Lawliet’s, and that’s just because half the dishes were mine.”
He realized what he’d said when Matsuda suddenly looked as though Santa Clause had walked into the room, bearing a pony with his name on it.
Light opened his mouth to offer half a dozen justifications, but Matsuda winked before he could find the words.
“Don’t let him take advantage of your services,” was the recommendation. “Make sure you’re getting something in return.”
Light grimaced. “We talked about the case,” he announced, feeling like a broken record already. “There were no ‘services’ exchanged.”
This, of course, only tickled Matsuda more.
“They grow up so fast,” he sighed. “Pretty soon you’ll be color-coding the children.”
Light threw an eraser at him.
The really terrible part was that color-coded children kind of sounded like a good idea.
-
Whoever had placed Aizawa’s and Lawliet’s desk between Light’s workspace and the copy machine was a truly sadistic soul.
He wanted to slap himself for noticing that the boys essentially were color-coded, and he hadn’t even had to lift a finger.
The other thing he noticed was the conspicuous absence of both Lawliet and Mello.
Aizawa caught his arm and hauled him in close enough to speak without a doodling Matt and a paperclip-chain-making Near overhearing every word.
“Mello wasn’t feeling well,” he muttered, “and went to the restroom. Ten minutes later, Lawliet went to check on him-and that was more than five minutes ago.”
Light frowned, handed him the files destined for the copier, and started after their pair of disappearances.
He stepped into the bathroom and eased the door shut after him.
“Lawliet?” he called.
Before he could ask after the other object of his search, there was a terrible retching sound, underpinned by a reassuring murmur, both of which were followed by an answer from a middle stall:
“Here, Light-kun.”
Tentatively, Light moved over to assess the extent of the damage.
What he found within the unlocked stall was Mello, pale and shaking, slumped beside the toilet bowl, and Lawliet sitting with him, stroking nimble fingers through his hair.
“Oh, Jesus,” Light heard himself say.
“It’s good that you’re here, Light-kun,” Lawliet replied. “Could you convey a message back to Shuichi for me? I had just found evidence to indicate that we might be able to follow a shipment of hazardous materials that the LAPD was tracing, which might have gone to our bomb-maker’s workshop, which is incredible, because he’s usually much more surreptitious-”
“You tell him,” Light instructed, having lost the thread of the sentence almost instantaneously. “I’ll hold the fort.”
Lawliet gave him a long look-long enough for surprise to melt into a deep appreciation.
Light felt his cheeks going a bit pink. It wasn’t as though he was making some great sacrifice.
Which was not to say that this was going to be the slightest bit enjoyable.
Lawliet edged his way out of the stall, making room for Light to settle by an enervated Mello, whose breath came in uneven gasps.
“I’ll be back as soon as I can,” Lawliet promised. “Light-kun will take care of you, Mello.”
“I know,” Mello mumbled, almost to himself-and the absolute trust in the statement made Light’s heart swell even as his stomach turned.
Speaking of stomachs, Mello’s was distinctly discontented, and it made its position known.
Hurriedly Light gathered Mello’s hair in one hand, holding it out of the way at the base of the boy’s neck, and employed his free hand to rub the poor kid’s back in a manner that he hoped was encouraging.
Mello was rather too preoccupied with vomiting profusely to articulate a thank-you, but Light didn’t exactly grudge him for it.
When he’d finished, Mello swallowed, swiping at his mouth with the crumpled toilet paper Light had the foresight to provide, and looked up at him.
His eyes were wide and horrorstruck.
“I feel awful all the time,” he whispered, breath hitching softly. “I-d’you think-am I going to die?”
The bacteria massing their forces where his knees touched the tile, the inescapable smell of sick, the clamor of germophobic anxiety at the back of his mind-all of it disappeared as Light seized Mello’s narrow shoulders and pulled him fiercely into a hug.
“Of course not,” he answered. “You’re going to be fine.”
-
It was only a few minutes later that he emerged again, still clutching the warm, frail body close to his-this time to carry a weak but steady-stomached Mello back to where a harried Lawliet was gesticulating wildly, chewing on his thumb, and apparently attempting to show Aizawa a computer program more complicated than he’d thought it would be. He looked up and cringed, then scrambled past his partner, who seemed to be vacillating between intense frustration and utter cluelessness.
“Better?” he asked the boy curled up against Light’s chest, legs dangling over one arm.
Mello managed a bleary nod.
“I was thinking I could drop him off at your place,” Light noted, “but Mr. Wammy isn’t back yet, is he?”
“Not until tomorrow,” Lawliet confirmed, raking a hand through his hair, not that it needed the help. “I could take off the rest of the day-”
“Don’t you dare,” Aizawa cut in. “I can’t make any sense of this.” He motioned to the computer screen, then held up his hand before Lawliet could speak. “Let me call my wife,” he said. “I’m sure she’ll be willing to keep an eye on him and spoon-feed him ginger ale.”
Light wasn’t entirely sure that, even ill and incapacitated, Mello would let anyone spoon-feed him anything.
Then again, the boy would probably take chocolate in any form in which it came.
-
Eriko Aizawa, whom Light had met and chatted with at more than one office barbeque, smiled as she opened the door.
“Hello, Light,” she greeted him, ushering them in. “And you must be Mello.”
“Nice to meet you,” Mello murmured from where he’d half-buried his face in Light’s side, staggering along with Light’s arm around his shoulders.
“I set some Sprite out on the counter when Shuichi called,” Eriko informed them, leading the way through a house as warm and welcoming as her demeanor, “so just let me know if you’re thirsty, sweetheart. I’ve got some salt crackers, too, and plenty of water.”
Mello trudged along at Light’s side until they reached a spare bedroom where the curtains were drawn and the bedcovers had been folded back.
“Yumi’s at school,” Eriko explained, beckoning to Mello, who broke away from Light and gratefully collapsed onto the waiting bed, “and the little one’s napping. I’ve put our old baby monitor in here-” She motioned to the square receiver perched on the nightstand, a red light indicating its readiness. “-so if you need anything, all you have to do is say so.” She tucked the comforter in around Mello, who was already settling on the pillow and letting his eyes fall shut. “Okay?”
“Yeah,” Mello mumbled. “Thanks…”
As Light and Eriko retreated, he reiterated the sentiment.
“I can’t thank you enough,” he told her. “He hasn’t been well the last few days, and we just can’t take any chances.”
“It’s my pleasure,” Eriko replied. “There isn’t much else I can do to help keep the city safe, but I’m more than happy to take a little off your hands so that you can.”
Whatever else he could say about the man, Light did have to vouch for Aizawa’s taste in women.
-
Speaking of women, when Light returned to the office, there was a very pretty one waiting-one wearing a leather jacket, her long, dark hair draping over her shoulders. She stepped briskly forward to shake his hand, and he saw that there was an inconspicuous but lovely diamond ring on her third finger of her other hand.
“I’m Naomi Misora,” she said. “Touta’s given me most of the details, but he mentioned that you were working on a map that might help me get my bearings on all this.”
“Yeah,” Light confirmed, smoothing slightly compulsively at his tie. “Though I’m afraid I haven’t got all the files that I wanted for you; one of our witnesses started throwing up.”
Naomi gave him a strange look, and Light hid a small smile. Even when he wasn’t around, Mello could disturb all and sundry.
When he’d equipped her with the gloriously color-coded map and had offered a few more details, Light hastened back to Aizawa to collect the files he’d meant to copy.
Aizawa passed them to him without ceasing to stare at the screen, chewing on his lip. Near was hovering by his shoulder, attempting to explicate the system, and Lawliet grabbed Light’s sleeve before he could escape.
“Light-kun,” he began.
That got Aizawa’s attention.
“It’s ‘Light-kun’ now?” he asked interestedly.
Lawliet ignored him. “May we talk?”
Aizawa was ecstatic; Near sighed feelingly.
“Is that what they’re calling it these days?” Aizawa took up eagerly.
As Lawliet clasped Light’s sleeve between thumb and forefinger to drag him off, Light fought the urge to give Aizawa the finger in front of a pair of children.
It was a pity that his backup plan-sticking out his tongue-wouldn’t have been much better.
When they were a safe distance down the hall, Lawliet divulged, “I’m concerned about your FBI agent.”
Light blinked. Naomi was hot, but he wasn’t exactly going to…
“Being a federal servant of justice, I’m afraid that she might be legally obligated to interfere in our unofficial custody of Matt, Mello, and Near.”
Oh.
“Don’t worry about it,” Light told him. “She’s here on her own time. The Bureau didn’t send her; it was Matsuda’s persuasive powers.”
“They are formidable,” Lawliet muttered. He touched a thumb to his lip. “Well, then.”
Before Light could move, Lawliet had stepped forward and slung both arms around him in an odd hug that was every bit as awkward as it was wonderful.
“Thank you, Light-kun,” he said.
“Of-of course,” Light stammered out, laying a hesitant hand on Lawliet’s back before the man could dart away.
As Lawliet wandered back to his desk again, Light wondered how exactly he was supposed to work in these conditions. He was starting to think that, if he wanted to be able to concentrate ever again, he and Lawliet needed to hash a few things out.
…if that was what they were calling it these days.
[Chapter IX] [Chapter XI]