Fic: Observations
Pairing: Light/L
Rating: PG
Warnings: None, really.
Teaser: There was nothing save the flicker of light from the computer screens, a pale, washed-out sort of glow that lent the room none of the warmth that a home ought to have.
Author's Notes: I have been painfully uninspired lately. And then today... I went to go see the Death Note movie. Now there's a series I've been meaning to write for for ages- and let me tell you, did the movie ever kick that impulse into gear.
I'm glad it did- it feels good to write something again. ^__^
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Observations
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There was nothing save the flicker of light from the computer screens, a pale, washed-out sort of glow that lent the room none of the warmth that a home ought to have. It turned the walls an uneasy bluish-white, bleached the skin of the boy that sat before lifeless glass, turned the dark smudges beneath his eyes into something ghastly.
His hand, too thin to be entirely healthy, never wavered in its course- the tips of two fingers remained perched delicately on either edge of the very end of a spoon handle, the long, graceful implement held at an angle awkward enough that it seemed some bizarre extension of the young detective’s own limb. He’d become so practiced at the motion- dip, scoop, lift, one miniscule spoonful at a time- that he no longer needed to watch what he was doing. Dark eyes could remain focused instead upon the images before him, the tiny rows of numbers that would have reduced any normal person to tears of frustration with the hours spent staring at them, poring over them, trying on and discarding half a dozen meanings before giving up and starting afresh.
But L had never been accused of being normal- not once, not ever, and when at last the spoon clinked against the bottom of the glass, a chiming noise muffled by the last of the chocolate syrup, the only expression that registered in the boy’s eyes was one of vague, brief regret.
It was with an awkward, creeping forward-shuffle that he was able to reach the desk to set the newly-emptied ice cream dish next to the key board, and even that was a stretch; the chain attached to his wrist neared taut when he came to the edge of his chair, and the boy at the other end of it was sleeping onward, lost to the world some ten minutes ago, unconscious and therefore immobile.
Which put a damper, L acknowledged sadly to himself, on the half-formed plan that he’d been nurturing to procure some tea in the near future.
At the realization, the boy’s dark-eyed gaze flickered at last from what it had been fixed upon, turning from the small lines of neatly-typed data in favor of the new subject of his thoughts. Had Light been awake, he might have been surprised to see the expression that softened those eyes and tugged at the corner of pale lips- a curious mixture of exasperation and fondness.
Because it was fascinating, as always, to examine his suspect while the boy was completely unguarded. Quite one thing, after all, to attempt to maneuver one’s opponent into a vital mistake in conversation- and quite another to watch Light’s eyelashes flutter with the onset of some dream, to observe the way the boy’s lips parted as his breathing slowed and deepened.
And when L asked himself, from time to time, why it was that he paid such close attention at hours like this- far too late in the night or early in the morning, all the world drained of warmth or the comforting hum of life going on around him- he always answered that it was important to see even the side of the suspect that he never saw himself. To mark every aspect of the other boy, to understand a potentially criminal mind in any way that presented itself. And more important than any of those, to be ever watchful.
One hand lifted absently to his mouth, by way of habit, teeth worrying at the skin around a fingernail shorn far too short already. Slowly, dark eyes lifted again to the neat rows of numbers displayed on the computer screen.
The only problem with those answers, the young detective had long since acknowledged, was that he was far too intelligent to believe his own lies.
With the awkwardness so inherent in every motion of the boy’s lanky frame, he scooted forward once more, feeling without meaning to the way the short distance tugged cool metal snug against his wrist. It really was too bad, he allowed himself as he began to type again, about the tea.
-owari-
Rating: PG
Warnings: None, really.
Teaser: There was nothing save the flicker of light from the computer screens, a pale, washed-out sort of glow that lent the room none of the warmth that a home ought to have.
Author's Notes: I have been painfully uninspired lately. And then today... I went to go see the Death Note movie. Now there's a series I've been meaning to write for for ages- and let me tell you, did the movie ever kick that impulse into gear.
I'm glad it did- it feels good to write something again. ^__^
=====
Observations
=====
There was nothing save the flicker of light from the computer screens, a pale, washed-out sort of glow that lent the room none of the warmth that a home ought to have. It turned the walls an uneasy bluish-white, bleached the skin of the boy that sat before lifeless glass, turned the dark smudges beneath his eyes into something ghastly.
His hand, too thin to be entirely healthy, never wavered in its course- the tips of two fingers remained perched delicately on either edge of the very end of a spoon handle, the long, graceful implement held at an angle awkward enough that it seemed some bizarre extension of the young detective’s own limb. He’d become so practiced at the motion- dip, scoop, lift, one miniscule spoonful at a time- that he no longer needed to watch what he was doing. Dark eyes could remain focused instead upon the images before him, the tiny rows of numbers that would have reduced any normal person to tears of frustration with the hours spent staring at them, poring over them, trying on and discarding half a dozen meanings before giving up and starting afresh.
But L had never been accused of being normal- not once, not ever, and when at last the spoon clinked against the bottom of the glass, a chiming noise muffled by the last of the chocolate syrup, the only expression that registered in the boy’s eyes was one of vague, brief regret.
It was with an awkward, creeping forward-shuffle that he was able to reach the desk to set the newly-emptied ice cream dish next to the key board, and even that was a stretch; the chain attached to his wrist neared taut when he came to the edge of his chair, and the boy at the other end of it was sleeping onward, lost to the world some ten minutes ago, unconscious and therefore immobile.
Which put a damper, L acknowledged sadly to himself, on the half-formed plan that he’d been nurturing to procure some tea in the near future.
At the realization, the boy’s dark-eyed gaze flickered at last from what it had been fixed upon, turning from the small lines of neatly-typed data in favor of the new subject of his thoughts. Had Light been awake, he might have been surprised to see the expression that softened those eyes and tugged at the corner of pale lips- a curious mixture of exasperation and fondness.
Because it was fascinating, as always, to examine his suspect while the boy was completely unguarded. Quite one thing, after all, to attempt to maneuver one’s opponent into a vital mistake in conversation- and quite another to watch Light’s eyelashes flutter with the onset of some dream, to observe the way the boy’s lips parted as his breathing slowed and deepened.
And when L asked himself, from time to time, why it was that he paid such close attention at hours like this- far too late in the night or early in the morning, all the world drained of warmth or the comforting hum of life going on around him- he always answered that it was important to see even the side of the suspect that he never saw himself. To mark every aspect of the other boy, to understand a potentially criminal mind in any way that presented itself. And more important than any of those, to be ever watchful.
One hand lifted absently to his mouth, by way of habit, teeth worrying at the skin around a fingernail shorn far too short already. Slowly, dark eyes lifted again to the neat rows of numbers displayed on the computer screen.
The only problem with those answers, the young detective had long since acknowledged, was that he was far too intelligent to believe his own lies.
With the awkwardness so inherent in every motion of the boy’s lanky frame, he scooted forward once more, feeling without meaning to the way the short distance tugged cool metal snug against his wrist. It really was too bad, he allowed himself as he began to type again, about the tea.
-owari-