lowlawliet-blog

[lowlawliet-blog]

It takes L a moment to realize that it isn’t just another part of the theatrics. 

Judith crumples over the altar, knocking several candles askew, one even rolling onto the floor where it drowns in its own hot wax. Everyone else is still and rapt, as uncertain as to what’s happening as L is. 

“Dulcinea?” Lind breaks the silence at last, bending over Judith to touch her shoulder. Her repeats her name, his voice taking on more urgency as he turns her over. Even from where he’s sitting L can see that her eyes are open and glassy, her mouth oddly slack.

“Excuse me.” L crouches down beside Lind and reaches for Judith’s wrist. Lind only shakes his head dumbly and tries to pull her closer to his chest. “Move aside, I said. Lay her down.” L’s tone finally prompts Lind to move, his expression foggy as he lowers her to the rug.

L presses his ear to her chest while feeling for a pulse in her wrist. There’s nothing -- no breath, no flutter of blood trafficking through her veins. He waits the required ten seconds, just to be sure. “Someone call 9-1-1.” 

Positioned by Judith’s shoulders, L presses the heels of his hands on the center of her chest, using his upper body weight to perform the compressions.

“You’ll hurt her!” Lind protests, trying to push L away, breaking his count. L scarcely looks up to slap him once, quick and sharp, then returns to the compressions, counting under his breath. “Call 9-1-1,” he repeats. 

Someone scrambles to their feet and Lind calls out for them to stop. “No police! We can’t --” 

Reaching thirty, L tilts back Judith’s head and releases all the air in his lungs into hers, her chest rising mechanically, then resumes the CPR with steady concentration even as his mind races. Sudden cardiac arrest in someone so young... an undiagnosed heart condition set off by the cocaine use? 

Nothing he’s doing is helping, that much he can see. But he has to try, has to keep oxygen circulating to her brain until the paramedics arrive. Lind’s followers have broken out into panicked chatter as they move around, hiding various paraphernalia at Lind’s shouted orders. 

And then, far in the distance, comes the faint sound of sirens. 

April 14, 2000 [cont]

Just keep your eyes on Judith. Don’t look at her. 

The ritual isn’t real, it’s just Nirae that’s real– nothing’s going to happen. His eyes create the echo of Lawliet’s face, small and terrified over one of the shorter followers. His head whips back to the real Lawliet, safe beside him. When he turns back, Nirae is smiling. 

“Not to worry, sweet Beyond,” she says his name like she relishes the taste, “He’s safe. Safe like you. Unlike me.”

She licks her lips, tilting her spinelike neck to Judith, “Unlike her.”

Nan forè se ou ki wa.  Nan forè se ou ki wa. 

The followers repeat the chant, their eyes shifting from Tailor to Judith, back again in perfect unison. Judith ceases her dance to kneel beneath the altar, eyes shining with terror and admiration. B steals a glance back to Nirae. She almost looks scared too. It’s hard to tell what fear looks like in those strange yellow eyes, but B has become far to good at reading that. 

Tailor produces a small dagger, standing behind Judith who tilts her neck in offering. B has to fight not to move when he gently opens her skin in two places, just enough for a stream of blood to run down to her shoulder blades. He dips his thumb in the blood, tasting it, nodding as if this all has some divine purpose. B holds his breath. For once, Nirae has fallen silent as well, rapt with Tailor’s theatrics. 

“Should any of the Loa not accept this initiation – we will hear them,” Tailor raises his hand, and the chanting decreases to a hum. Behind the altar, Nirae bows her head. B’s throat constricts. Tailor has a flash of something murderous in his eyes as he glances at Lawliet. If he tries anything on Lawliet– I’ll kill him here and now.

B realizes he’s not sure if he’d be able to stop himself. He’s not even afraid of that. 

The half a minute seems like years. Then Judith raises her head, and the chanting begins again. She stands to face him. Tailor produces a small bag on a necklace, passing it to her, and she raises it above her head to her still-bloody neck.

“Oh. Nu. I feel it–” Nirae’s voice sounds for once, a frail rattle. 

Judith falters with the gris-gris, pain draining the color from her features. The blood drains from her face. She clutches her chest, short of breath. What the hell did he do– but B catches sight of Lind’s face. He’s both fascinated, horrified, and utterly surprised. What the hell did she do?

“I was right– the child was righ–” with a rattling exhale, Nirae lifts one clawlike hand and dissolves into nothing but dust. 

[lowlawliet-blog]

“Gran Bwa is the loa of vegetation and wildlife --” Here Lind gestures at the platters of fruit and herbs that two of his followers are arranging in the center of the parlor floor. The platters are rimmed with various trinkets, coins and rooster feathers, mostly, nestled between large pomegranates, figs, and apples. “Calling on him is the first step in being ordained into Voudon priesthood.” 

“What do you mean?” 

L tilts his head up at the strange, familiar flatness of B’s voice. The lights have been dimmed so that only candles light the room, their glow licking up the walls and creating ominous shadows beneath B’s eyes. L makes his hand into a fist, thumb tucked inside. Hold on. 

“Priest...it’s the Catholic influence. But they’re called Houngans, I believe,” L explains smoothly, and Lind seems pleased by his show of knowledge. “So you’re planning to become one?” 

Lind’s smile is tight with false modesty. “I’m already a Houngan. Tonight we’ll be initiating our first Mambo, a female priestess. Unlike the Catholics, Voudou has no gender discrimination.” Lind watches as a one of his followers sets about lighting small dishes of an gravel-like substance. It smokes like incense and smells both greasy and astringent. “Calumus root, for strength and binding.”

L doesn’t ask who the Mambo-to-be is, he already knows. Judith emerges from the secret passage beneath the stairs in a silk, strapless gown, elegant as a movie star but for the blood streaked in livid patterns over her forehead, chin, and cheekbones. The followers settle back into their circle and and begin to clap their hands rhythmically, one of them beating on a small hand-drum to set the tempo. Only L and B are outside the circle, and as the clapping grows louder B clutches at L’s hand. L can feel the pulse racing in his veins. 

It’s alright. It’s all just smoke and show. 

The followers start to sing, their voices surprisingly powerful given their small number --

O Gran Bwa, O Gran Bwa O Gran Bwa se ou ki wa O Gran Bwa, O Gran Bwa Nan forè se ou ki wa.

Outside the circle, Lind offers the back of his hand to Judith and she bends over, visibly snorting up what can only be cocaine. Lind licks off whatever remains and touches her shoulders, moving her toward the circle, her hips swaying to the beating drumsong.  

April 14, 2000, evening

B normally doesn’t get nervous for sting operations. 

Going undercover is second nature to him, he can change personalities as easily as changing clothes, and has never once worried that Lawliet’s tech would put him in a dangerous situation. 

Tonight, however, he feels a nagging need to check every wire and consider every possible worst case scenario. To design in his mind not one, but three possible escape plans and their timing. Usually L planned these and he just let the details wash over him. 

B isn’t sure if Lawliet can take being L tonight. But he’s going to try no matter what you do.

So you have to do it right. 

B picks up the wiretap belt that L had given him. The buckle also has a subtle emergency button that would immediately inform Wammy of their location and distress signal. After that, they’d need to stay alive for at least seven minutes. As many as ten.

B clips it on, fingers steadier than he believed they’d be. Ten minutes had always seemed like plenty of time to sweet-talk or shoot his way out of something, when Lawliet was coming for him. But if Lawliet gets slipped something, or has another flashback–

This is a fucking bad idea, and you know it. Not that you can talk about bad ideas. He glances out the window, the light starting to get low over the haze in the French Quarter. Tailor will be expecting them soon. 

As a finishing touch, B folds up a butterfly knife to slip in his combat boots.  If I’m lucky I’ll be justified in cutting Tailor’s fucking throat. 

Now there’s a thought that B has to bite his lip hard against. From one murderer to another– but B needs to be justifiable or at least have it look like that, right?

Do you really hope that you and L end up in that situation? B blinks at his red eyes in the mirror, brushes the hair out from them. I’d have a hard time believing I didn’t become that kind of monster a long fucking time ago.

He swallows the dryness in his throat, calls to the other room.

“You ready, Lawliet?”

[lowlawliet-blog]

L adjusts his tie, keeping it loose around his neck, the way he knows someone like Liam would, and steps away from the mirror to assess himself. He’s adopted the casual-but-dressy uniform of summering prep-school twats around the world. Pale-colored dress shirt, loose tie, and khaki trousers. It provides good camouflage for the wiretap, if nothing else, but also clashes with “Malik’s” whole voodoo aesthetic, hopefully making him less likely to single out Liam for any seance shenanigans. 

But what else will happen at the seance if he doesn’t single you out? You’re the one he wants there -- he sent Judith over for that very reason.

He won’t be taking any food or drink from Lind, that’s for certain. 

“You ready, Lawliet?”   

“Yeah.” 

They take a taxi out to the Garden District, and while standing under the shelter of a massive live oak, L recites a single Russian phrase in the direction of his chest, where the wire is. Безопасность прежде всего.

Just over a minute later, L’s mobile phone -- a burner -- vibrates once. The signal from Wammy that the wire is live. 

“Alright.” He nods to B. “Let’s go in.” 

The front door is answered by one of Malik’s followers, a wispy ginger-haired man, and as they’re led into the massive parlor with its tattered antique furnishings, L quickly spots that there are no other potential “recruits” here tonight, just the core of Malik’s followers: six women and five men, not counting Judith and Malik themselves. The clump up on pillows along the floor rather than sitting on the furniture.

“Hi Liam, Brian,” a girl says, her eyes keen as they follow L across the room. 

L gives a little wave and slouches onto one of the untouched couches with an air of bored obligation. B settles in beside him, his face tight with hostility. 'Careful,’ L signals. The goal is to look disinterested, and hostility is likely to be seen as a challenge. 

A few more minutes of idle chatter, and the ornate panel beneath the stairs swings open, pouring forth a pool of light. Malik steps from the secret passage with an antique candelabra in hand, the flames fluttering in the draft. 

“Good evening,” he announces, though his voice is far less showy than before. Neutral, even. He’s among his regulars, people he no longer needs to impress, if their rapt silence is any indication. He sets the candelabra down on a side table and crouches down to speak to them casually, taking a quick drag off the cigarette of one, and laughing at an inside joke with another. 

L watches for a few moments, pieces converging together. He has to give Lind L. Tailor -- whoever he really is -- credit. The Malik persona was always over-the-top, bordering on campy. An obvious act to anyone with even an ounce of sense. And what better way to lower someone’s defenses than to assure them that they’re watching a charlatan? 

Lind looks over his shoulder and smiles, directing a nod in L’s direction, then pats one of the men on the shoulder before heading over to the sofa.

April 14, 2000, evening

B normally doesn’t get nervous for sting operations. 

Going undercover is second nature to him, he can change personalities as easily as changing clothes, and has never once worried that Lawliet’s tech would put him in a dangerous situation. 

Tonight, however, he feels a nagging need to check every wire and consider every possible worst case scenario. To design in his mind not one, but three possible escape plans and their timing. Usually L planned these and he just let the details wash over him. 

B isn’t sure if Lawliet can take being L tonight. But he’s going to try no matter what you do.

So you have to do it right. 

B picks up the wiretap belt that L had given him. The buckle also has a subtle emergency button that would immediately inform Wammy of their location and distress signal. After that, they’d need to stay alive for at least seven minutes. As many as ten.

B clips it on, fingers steadier than he believed they’d be. Ten minutes had always seemed like plenty of time to sweet-talk or shoot his way out of something, when Lawliet was coming for him. But if Lawliet gets slipped something, or has another flashback–

This is a fucking bad idea, and you know it. Not that you can talk about bad ideas. He glances out the window, the light starting to get low over the haze in the French Quarter. Tailor will be expecting them soon. 

As a finishing touch, B folds up a butterfly knife to slip in his combat boots.  If I’m lucky I’ll be justified in cutting Tailor’s fucking throat. 

Now there’s a thought that B has to bite his lip hard against. From one murderer to another– but B needs to be justifiable or at least have it look like that, right?

Do you really hope that you and L end up in that situation? B blinks at his red eyes in the mirror, brushes the hair out from them. I’d have a hard time believing I didn’t become that kind of monster a long fucking time ago.

He swallows the dryness in his throat, calls to the other room.

“You ready, Lawliet?”

[lowlawliet-blog]

‘Liam,’ playing something of the bored chaperone up until now, cranes his neck to look at the framed photograph. “That’s Jefferson,” he says, and Cosette winces slightly, but straightens up and steels herself against the settee. “Don’t you recognize him?” 

B touches his fingers to his chin and squints delicately. “No...Jefferson was never that tall.” A fact that’s true, since the drivers’ license records Lenny that found listed Jefferson’s height at 168 centimeters, and Lind L. Tailor is at least 183. But Cosette wouldn’t have seen the real Jefferson since he was a small child. “Mrs. Darbonne?” B’s question reflects concern at the woman’s suddenly chalky complexion.

“He’s a fraud!” she bursts out, faint spittle flying from her lips. She tosses the photograph aside and reaches over to the side table, pouring herself a glass of whiskey from the crystal decanter. “I always knew there was something peculiar about the boy... but I wanted to keep an eye on him. That Coutee side of the family -- scoundrels, I tell you.” Her regal bearing dissolves and the slight slur to her words indicates this isn’t her first glass of whiskey today. 

“What do you mean?” B transitions smoothly over to the settee and lays a gentle hand on Cosette’s shoulder. “Is everything alright?” 

“Beryl,” L clears his throat delicately. “That man in the photograph is Jefferson. Are you saying you don’t recognize him?” 

B shakes his head. “No, I’ve never seen him before.” 

“He isn’t Jefferson!” Cosette’s whiskey shimmies dangerously in her glass. “I’ve put it together, and he’s an imposter. Someone after my fortune, no doubt.” 

L stops himself from raising an eyebrow. It isn’t altogether surprising that Cosette Darbonne’s ego would insist that it was she who determined Tailor’s fraud, rather than a private investigator. 

“Ah,” L ducks his head sheepishly. “When I met him, he said his name was Malik. I assumed it was a stage name, though.” 

“Well that’s what he told me. A name he used so that his other relations wouldn’t be able to track him down.” She snorts and clutches at B’s hand. “Do you know where my real Jefferson is?” 

“No, ma’am. I had hoped he was here.” B pats at Cosette’s liverspots in sympathy. “Who is this ‘Malik’ person, though?” 

“A good question.” Cosette straightens up again and takes another sip of her whiskey. “I’ve hired a private investigator to determine just that. He’s very good -- Custer is his name. World-renowned, as I understand it.” 

“An excellent idea, Mrs. Darbonne. Though may I offer a small bit of advice?” L pauses and waits for her to nod her consent. “Don’t let Malik know that you’re investigating him. He might try to leave town, if he learns that you are.” 

“But I don’t want to see him at all! What will I do if he comes here?” Her painted-on eyebrows raise in alarm.

“If he comes calling, have your girl say that you’re feeling ill,” B suggests, nodding vaguely in the direction of wherever the brow-beaten servant might be. 

“That’s a very good idea.” Cosette pats B’s knees absently. “You’re a good girl.” 

“Thank you, ma’am,” B smiles shyly. “I do try.” 

If the ruse weren’t all so familiar to him by now, L may have just laughed. 

April 14, 2000

“How much lipstick, you reckon?” B asks when L hands him the tube of coral-colored makeup. With his skin freshly shaved to baby smoothness and his pores hidden under a layer of foundation, B’s naturally pink lips and long lashes make him skew more feminine, even before the addition of the dark blond wig. “Keep it conservative?“ 

L shakes his head, remembering Cosette Darbonne’s garishly painted lips and sooty eyes. "She’s a rich and prideful Southern Belle with a burlesque club, so she’s not precisely conservative.” He leans against the counter and plucks against the chiffon sleeve of the vintage dress they found in a shop near the river. “Think Scarlet O'Hara, but dialed down several notches.” B tilts his head and flashes his reflection a sly smile. “As God as my witness…” he breathes in a soft, treacly accent.

L smiles, and it’s less forced that it would have been yesterday. “A bit more dialed down than that.” He still feels a tiny bit run down, but food and rest have done wonders for his recovery. So did the half an Adderall. A whole one would have been even better – but no, half is enough.   B nods slightly and applies a slick coating of lipstick, then blots of the excess with a tissue. “What’d you tell Cosette about ‘Beryl’ when you called her?”

“That you were from Gulfport, an old classmate of Jefferson’s who hasn’t seen him in a few years and would love to get into contact with him.” He moves behind B and tucks the tail of his fluffy blouse into his skirt, smoothing the fabric into place. “She didn’t tell me anything about Malik being a fraud, but she was clearly on edge. Custer’s report on her nephew has her shaken. Meeting with someone who knew the real Jefferson will confirm her suspicions. That’s my hope, anyway." 

People are occasionally unpredictable, L knows that. But people like Cosette Darbonne aren’t ordinary people. She lives in a reality of her own making, and Malik has tainted it with his deception. She won’t be hurt – she’ll be indignant. Outraged. ‘As God as my witness…’

"What do you think?” B does a half-spin in front of the mirror. 

“You forgot these.” L passes over the string of pearls, purchased from the same vintage shop. They’re the real thing – Cosette would spot a fake in an instant. He helps B out by doing the clasp at the back of his neck, brushing the blond curls aside and pressing a kiss just below his hairline. 

“Thanks,” he says. All he can manage is a whisper.

[lowlawliet-blog]

April 14, 2000

"How much lipstick, you reckon?" B asks when L hands him the tube of coral-colored makeup. With his skin freshly shaved to baby smoothness and his pores hidden under a layer of foundation, B's naturally pink lips and long lashes make him skew more feminine, even before the addition of the dark blond wig. "Keep it conservative?" 

L shakes his head, remembering Cosette Darbonne's garishly painted lips and sooty eyes. "She's a rich and prideful Southern Belle with a burlesque club, so she's not precisely conservative." He leans against the counter and plucks against the chiffon sleeve of the vintage dress they found in a shop near the river. "Think Scarlet O'Hara, but dialed down several notches." B tilts his head and flashes his reflection a sly smile. "As God as my witness..." he breathes in a soft, treacly accent.

L smiles, and it's less forced that it would have been yesterday. "A bit more dialed down than that." He still feels a tiny bit run down, but food and rest have done wonders for his recovery. So did the half an Adderall. A whole one would have been even better -- but no, half is enough.   B nods slightly and applies a slick coating of lipstick, then blots of the excess with a tissue. "What'd you tell Cosette about 'Beryl' when you called her?"

"That you were from Gulfport, an old classmate of Jefferson's who hasn't seen him in a few years and would love to get into contact with him." He moves behind B and tucks the tail of his fluffy blouse into his skirt, smoothing the fabric into place. "She didn't tell me anything about Malik being a fraud, but she was clearly on edge. Custer's report on her nephew has her shaken. Meeting with someone who knew the real Jefferson will confirm her suspicions. That's my hope, anyway." 

People are occasionally unpredictable, L knows that. But people like Cosette Darbonne aren't ordinary people. She lives in a reality of her own making, and Malik has tainted it with his deception. She won't be hurt -- she'll be indignant. Outraged. 'As God as my witness...'

"What do you think?" B does a half-spin in front of the mirror. 

"You forgot these." L passes over the string of pearls, purchased from the same vintage shop. They're the real thing -- Cosette would spot a fake in an instant. He helps B out by doing the clasp at the back of his neck, brushing the blond curls aside and pressing a kiss just below his hairline. 

"Thanks," he says. All he can manage is a whisper.

[lowlawliet-blog]

Judith peers from around B’s shoulder and L almost shrinks away from her gaze -- the drug hangover still clings to him like a sticky film, his skin sallow and stretched too thin over his bones. He grips the knob of the banister and forces himself to meet her eyes directly, the floorboards swaying under his feet like water.

“You can come in.”

B steps aside for Judith more readily than L expects, given the lack of warmth he greeted her with, but it isn't until L crosses the foyer into the living room that she fully enters the house, trailing after him to the sofa.

He rubs at his eyes wearily, and it isn't a performance. He isn't in the mood to perform, to be Liam -- but that kind of hot and cold is what Judith is used to. Probably even what she wants. "So Malik wants to know if I'm definitely attending the seance." He huffs out a sigh and flicks his eyes to B -- who looks inwardly pleased at L's surliness. "Not Brian, just me."

"Well..." she folds her hands neatly into her lap, straining for composure. "I'm sure he wants Brian there, too."

"But you must admit he's been very accommodating. Sending you here to ensure our RSVP, not to mention passing along 'party drugs.'" He finds B's near-empty pack of cigarettes on the coffee table and shakes one out, along with a book of matches.

Judith seems surprised when he lights one of the cigarettes up and holds it to his lips. "Gosh, I'm so sorry. I don't know what to tell you about the drugs. We've all had them before." She looks between L and B, more nervous than L wants her to be. "It's always been a good roll."

L sucks in the smoke. It doesn't taste much worse than the inside of his mouth had. "It's alright," he says on the exhale, nodding slightly. "I'm not cross with you. Just wondering why your boyfriend's so keen on me."

"Good question," B adds in a low tone, silently reaching for the cigarette as L passes it over to him.

Judith doesn't answer, clearly thinking over her words carefully, her expression fraught with unspoken conflict. L leans over just enough so that their knees touch, hoping the subtle pressure will split the silence inside her.

"I think..." her smile blinks erratically. "He just really thinks that you have potential. As a medium. Especially after I told him what happened to you last time...the female presence that took over your body, you know?"

He smiles back at her, the ground solid beneath him again. "Oh, you believed me when I said that?"

"W-what?" Her face falls, red lips dropping open.

"I just have issues. Claustrophobia." He reaches for a fresh cigarette. "And I don't like to be touched by strangers."

She doesn't know what to say to that, L can see it in her face. B's face -- he can't bring himself to look at it.

"Don't worry." L pats her knee assuredly. Assuredly friendly, not romantic. "I'll be at the seance. Brian, too."

There isn't much more to say after that. Some polite meanderings, another apology, a few more reassurances, finally a goodbye. When the door shuts behind her, L stubs out his barely touched cigarette.

"I think we lost our witness."

April 13, 2000 [evening]

The heaviness that hangs over the house in the evening isn’t just the humidity. B hadn’t realized that in the last week the house had taken on the comforting hum of casework, something to focus on. Something to fill up conversation and prevent him from thinking about the blood on his idle hands.

The hum now feels like a drone of panic in the back of B’s mind. It wasn’t the case that caused this. It was you. He’s trying to sort out what to wear that will best conceal a wire in case he goes in alone. In case – no, there are no other options. It has to be me.

Lawliet has been in and out of sleep, pale and shaken, for most of the afternoon. He insists he’s gaining strength, but Judith’s little gift really took a lot out of him. Which he would have never taken if you hadn’t –

“Shut up,” B murmurs to himself.

I can do better, I promise. I can. Please don’t leave.

A knock at the door jars B from his contemplation. He checks in Lawliet’s room. There’s less water in Lawliet’s glass then there was a few minutes ago, but he’s still lying down. So not entirely awake.

“I got it,” B knows who is coming to call. He clenches and unclenches his fist, then opens the door. There, waiting in a skimpy black dress, is Judith, holding on to the purse with Malik’s bug. God, B is sick of this.

“What do you want?”

Judith flinches visibly, “Um. Is Liam there?”

“Why do you want to know?”

“M-malik wanted to know if Liam was definitely coming to the seance?” she jerks her head in what could almost be a clumsy curtsy. B clenches his fist. How fucking dare she–

“Those drugs he– you gave us fucked Liam up real good. But yeah, I’ll be at the seance.”

“What?” her entire face falls to one of disbelief– B can tell she didn’t know about the spiked drugs. It doesn’t fucking matter if she knew.

“Look, you should go–”

“I want to see him!” she tries to push through him, which is absolutely futile. B grabs her by the shoulders before he can stop himself, hard enough for a little yelp to escape her lips.

“I mean it, you need to go–”

“Let her stay, Brian,” Lawliet’s voice floats over the fuzz in B’s ears. Fuck. He shakes her off, and she steps forward, eyes shining as Lawliet walks down the staircase, leaning on the railing. Fuck, why is he doing this?

“If you think it’s alright,” he says through gritted teeth.

[lowlawliet-blog]

With the pillows hurting his neck, even the sheets somehow unpleasant against his skin, L listens to B’s retreating footsteps and considers his offer to move in on Tailor alone. If this were the usual case, L would send in an operative, but circumstances dictate a more hands-on approach. It’s Liam’s identity that Tailor’s after, and he might hold back on his next move if B shows up to the seance alone. 

And then there’s the matter of death dates, and that I don’t know when B’s is. 

L twists his head from side to side, sighing softly when his neck pops and cracks. Maybe it isn’t the unknown death date, maybe it’s those memories of dried blood ground into B’s knuckles, the times he went too far, lost himself inside Bleak Birdie. But he’s Brian right now...you can trust him.

God, he wants to. Even more, he wants to go back to their first day in New Orleans and start over again.

L steadies himself and sits up. The simple truth of it is that he feels out of sorts because he doesn’t do as well when he takes his game on the road. And yeah, those drugs didn’t help.

The bathroom’s cool, damp light is almost soothing. L stares at the bath and considers drawing one, but then settles for brushing his teeth instead, trying to keep his eyes away from the mirror the whole time. His complexion is more sallow and sickly than usual. Frowning at himself, he rummages through his travel bag for some Aspirin, upturning the half-full bottle dextroamphetamine, then popping open another bottle and finding a few xanax and other benzos at the bottom. 

There should be more than this...

He frowns and counts the pills again, a cold tingle suddenly passing over the surface of his skin. ‘Your pulse was so slow...’ But he wouldn’t have done that, downed a bunch of benzos. Couldn’t have. 

But I don’t remember.

L clutches at the lip of the sink and slowly lowers himself to the cold tile floor, crouching there and rocking slightly from side to side. He pushes himself to remember, straining his brain until his eyes hurt. 

But there’s nothing there. Just nothing. 

April 13, 2000

The rumble and crash of garbage trucks outside is what wakes L up, the windowpanes shaking as they roll through the neighborhood. The curtains are drawn, but the filtered sunlight is still enough to make him wince. His whole body feels wrung out, his mouth bone dry and his brain throbbing against the sides of his skull.

Finally mustering the strength to open his eyes, he sees that the other side of the bed is empty, though the faint imprint of B’s head remains on the pillow. There’s a glass of water on the bedside table, and L reaches for it with a slight groan, draining half its contents in just a few swallows.

He’s hung over. That’s the only word for it.

When did I go to bed? That part he can’t remember. What do I remember….

All at once, L’s mouth fills with the lingering taste of hot chocolate, the milk gone sour, chalky tasting. He presses the back of his hand against his lips and nearly retches, but manages to swallow the sensations back down his throat. He remembers talking about Silas, about the Lant Street case. Comfortably so, even. Or nearly. He remembers feeling…happy. Or nearly. And he vaguely remembers leaving the house at some point, but nothing that happened after that. It’s all a massive swath of black.

Judith’s pills. That’s right, he took one by accident – mistaking it for dexy – while in the kitchen getting snacks. But he frowns at that memory, seeing something wrong in it. Why would I have her pills in my pocket? Then the throbbing in his head swells so dramatically he feels he might go blind, and he rolls over and buries his face in the sheets. 

[lowlawliet-blog]

L winces a little when B swoops upon him and kneels next to the bed, his pale hands spidering up and down the sheets as if unsure of where to land. There's a swell of tears and tight emotion in his voice when he chants a litany of Thank Gods. It makes L all the more worried about what happened during that black chasm in his memory.

"Feel like rubbish," L manages, his voice scratchy with disuse.

"Yeah." B massages L's shoulder tentatively. "Yeah," he repeats, the teariness retreating a little.

"What happened?" L swallows, trying to make his voice sound less weak.

"You don't remember?"

"Not much." He licks his lips, almost whispering what he does remember: the hot chocolate, the golden glow of contentedness, the memories of Silas -- all of them happening at once. But it seems wrong and impossible now, a trick of chemicals colliding with neurotransmitters. "I remember we went for a walk, but not much else."

B's brows wrinkle a little, like he's working up to say something, but L beats him to it. "I took Judith's drugs. Pretty sure I didn't mean to." He stares up at the ceiling, white enough to make him close his eyes. "I'm afraid I can't really recommend them." B's hand trails down his arm and L clutches for it, squeezing gratefully, surprising even himself. Whatever happened, he's not throwing a strop anymore, at least.

B looks ill, as if he's trying to swallow something foul. "You were passed out for hours. Your pulse was so slow..."

"It was?" L sits up too fast, the bolt in his head making him groan and flop back against the pillows. "But MDMA increases heart rate and blood pressure...that doesn't make sense." He frowns at the contradiction, Malik's face floating into his mind's eye along with those insinuating words delivered at Cosette’s: "when you're not hiding them in your pockets, your hands have a very subtle tremor."

It's all too easy for L to imagine Malik giving Judith something that looks like MDMA but isn't, all with the hope that L would take it. And I fucking did.

He doesn't look at B, doesn't want him to see the calculations coming together in his eyes, but he can't stop his fists from gripping the sheets harder.

April 13, 2000

The rumble and crash of garbage trucks outside is what wakes L up, the windowpanes shaking as they roll through the neighborhood. The curtains are drawn, but the filtered sunlight is still enough to make him wince. His whole body feels wrung out, his mouth bone dry and his brain throbbing against the sides of his skull.

Finally mustering the strength to open his eyes, he sees that the other side of the bed is empty, though the faint imprint of B’s head remains on the pillow. There’s a glass of water on the bedside table, and L reaches for it with a slight groan, draining half its contents in just a few swallows.

He’s hung over. That’s the only word for it.

When did I go to bed? That part he can’t remember. What do I remember….

All at once, L’s mouth fills with the lingering taste of hot chocolate, the milk gone sour, chalky tasting. He presses the back of his hand against his lips and nearly retches, but manages to swallow the sensations back down his throat. He remembers talking about Silas, about the Lant Street case. Comfortably so, even. Or nearly. He remembers feeling…happy. Or nearly. And he vaguely remembers leaving the house at some point, but nothing that happened after that. It’s all a massive swath of black.

Judith’s pills. That’s right, he took one by accident – mistaking it for dexy – while in the kitchen getting snacks. But he frowns at that memory, seeing something wrong in it. Why would I have her pills in my pocket? Then the throbbing in his head swells so dramatically he feels he might go blind, and he rolls over and buries his face in the sheets. 

[lowlawliet-blog]

April 13, 2000

The rumble and crash of garbage trucks outside is what wakes L up, the windowpanes shaking as they roll through the neighborhood. The curtains are drawn, but the filtered sunlight is still enough to make him wince. His whole body feels wrung out, his mouth bone dry and his brain throbbing against the sides of his skull.

Finally mustering the strength to open his eyes, he sees that the other side of the bed is empty, though the faint imprint of B’s head remains on the pillow. There’s a glass of water on the bedside table, and L reaches for it with a slight groan, draining half its contents in just a few swallows.

He’s hung over. That’s the only word for it.

When did I go to bed? That part he can’t remember. What do I remember....

All at once, L’s mouth fills with the lingering taste of hot chocolate, the milk gone sour, chalky tasting. He presses the back of his hand against his lips and nearly retches, but manages to swallow the sensations back down his throat. He remembers talking about Silas, about the Lant Street case. Comfortably so, even. Or nearly. He remembers feeling...happy. Or nearly. And he vaguely remembers leaving the house at some point, but nothing that happened after that. It’s all a massive swath of black.

Judith’s pills. That’s right, he took one by accident -- mistaking it for dexy -- while in the kitchen getting snacks. But he frowns at that memory, seeing something wrong in it. Why would I have her pills in my pocket? Then the throbbing in his head swells so dramatically he feels he might go blind, and he rolls over and buries his face in the sheets. 

[lowlawliet-blog]

A thick, black aether fills the room -- no, just the corners of L’s vision.The panes of glass in the windows warp and dance with the colors of passing vehicles’ lights, and B’s voice is murky, underwater. Or else too clear, a nail piercing through the centre of L’s eardrum. From somewhere deep inside, L feels his skeleton clawing at his skin, trying to dig its way out, rupture through muscle and sinew and straight up through his flesh. He folds in on himself and shakes, moaning softly. 

“Come on, let me help you.” 

The bathroom lights are blinding. L shuts his eyes tight and leans against the counter, the marble counter top ice cold even through his clothes. Roaring water sends steam into the air, tickling at his nostrils, and a hand squeezes his own. 

“Just stay here. I’ll get some clean clothes.” 

He scratches at his forearms, wondering how he can be so hot and so cold all at once. Shivering -- shivering. That means cold. He grips the sides of his skull and sways from side to side, willing himself to think clearly. Too many dexy. His travelers’ bag of toiletries is closed tight on the counter’s corner, but it doesn’t take him long to find the right prescription bottle: an assortment of benzos collected over the years: xanax, valium, klonopin. He doesn’t know which is which because he never takes them. Never needs to. A glass of water and a few swallows, though, and he feels better. Not physically, but relief washes over him just the same. They’ll fix me. Just have to wait...

The water is still roaring and steaming, making L shiver until his teeth chatter together. He strips out of his clothes, whimpering softly at how the air nips him up and down, and plunges himself into the tub, curling into a tight ball and wincing as the water washes over him, so hot that it stings. 

April 12, 2000 [cont]

B leans into the kiss in spite of himself, but his heart grows sick. Every gentle movement of affection makes it all the more tempting to play along with the charade. I could just let him think it’s his fault and he’d never know it was mine. Fuck. 

I could tell him now.  B pulls away from Lawliet’s warmth, one hand still on his face. Lawliet tilts his head inward, blinking softly. Watching B like it’s the first time he’s really seen him. 

Like he used to all the time before….B leans in in spite of himself, letting Lawliet kiss him again. 

Before what? Before Lant Street? Before we fell apart? Before Mexico, Russia, before A died? He breathes in the sweet dirty smell of Lawliet’s hair. Damnit Lawliet– 

What have we become? Lawliet’s spider-hands snake under his shirt, a little warmer than usual. B shivers, mouthing down his neck. He wants very badly to touch Lawliet– but his hands feel frozen, tracing shaky circles down his spine. 

His eyes flicker with memories– good ones, for once. Lawliet offering him a spoon of ice cream. Lawliet’s face, sticky with cotton candy. Lawliet’s lips on his, again, always, gone, again, always–

Don’t go. 

Then he feels Lawliet’s hand reach for his zipper, the sound metallic and sharp between them. Before he can even blink, he shoves Lawliet away to the other side of the couch, probably too hard. No. I can’t do this. Not to him.

Not like this. 

“What? Are you mad?” Lawliet brushes a hand through his short hair, cheeks flushed. 

“No I just– feels wrong…when you’re like this.”

When I did this to you. B zips up his jeans, wishing he was less aroused. Lawliet tilts his head back and leans towards B.

“But I feel fine.”

“I know you’re not….you, Lawliet.”

“I am me.” 

B shakes his head, unable to look at him. Wish this was the way you were all the time. I really do. 

I wish that I could trust that. 

But you shouldn’t even trust me. He watches Lawliet struggle to stand up, the bulge in his jeans obvious. B takes out his pack of cigarettes, nervously passing one to Lawliet. Lawliet blows smoke in his face with a Cheshire-like grin as soon as he lights it. 

B has had friends take MDMA before and end up like this, hell, it’s called the ‘love drug’ for a reason. What was I thinking? 

What this what I wanted? The guilt in B’s chest tightens. Lawliet chooses then to drop his head in B’s lap. 

“Come on,” he takes Lawliet’s hand, pulls him upright, “You need to walk this off.” 

[lowlawliet-blog]

In the middle of the week the quarter is quiet on the fringes, but still busy on Bourbon. The tourists are mostly people on town for various business conferences, and stumble through the street in their suits and sensible pumps while clutching boozy beverages. L and B's wanderings take them past bars blasting music, and they stop in one -- nearly empty -- to watch the zydeco band on stage for a few sets. L is no judge of the zydeco genre, but the sweaty, red-faced men seem to be decent enough musicians, and he bops to the music vaguely while quickly downing the glass of water that B forces into his hand. 

When the band puts down their instruments to take a break and "Livin' La Vida Loca" comes on over the loudspeakers, B tugs on L's sleeve and nods toward the exit. "Why don't we get some real dinner?" 

"Alright." Light-footed, L allows himself to be led out the door.

They end up at the famous Felix's oyster bar and sit at the counter, drinking coca-colas and splitting a shrimp po'boy and fries. The food tastes immeasurably good, salty and greasy, with just a hint of sharp spice. L eats his half and then finishes most of B's, too. 

"Do you want one of those daiquiris?" L asks, vaguely wondering why B isn't eating, given that he was being so particular about food earlier. 

B shakes his head and drops some money on the table. "No. Let's have a smoke, though." 

Jackson Square is largely quiet on a Wednesday night, though a busker plays guitar from somewhere in the shadows. "While My Guitar Gently Weeps." 

"Who do you think lives in our house?" L asks. The city feels so haunted. Profoundly so -- how had he never noticed? Or had he? 

"A runaway kid?" B blows smoke up at the stars, his cheekbones catching the glare of streetlights. "That's what I thought you said." 

"But kids are messy. Noisy. Needy." Though that isn't true. I wasn't any of those things. "Maybe we'll just  never know." 

B's smile is strange in a way L can't quite identify. "Yeah. Maybe not." 

The statue of Jesus in the back of St. Louis' Cathedral has his arms stretched wide. The spotlight on him creates a giant Jesus shadow on the back of the church, ten times the size of the statue itself. Is he welcoming me? Even as L stares at it, the shadow seems to ripple and warp. "While My Guitar Gently Weeps" keeps playing and playing, like it's been put on repeat. 

"Can we go back?" L says abruptly, suddenly wanting to be away from here. "The wind is getting cold." 

There is no wind, but he wraps his arms around himself anyway.

April 12, 2000 [cont]

B leans into the kiss in spite of himself, but his heart grows sick. Every gentle movement of affection makes it all the more tempting to play along with the charade. I could just let him think it’s his fault and he’d never know it was mine. Fuck. 

I could tell him now.  B pulls away from Lawliet’s warmth, one hand still on his face. Lawliet tilts his head inward, blinking softly. Watching B like it’s the first time he’s really seen him. 

Like he used to all the time before….B leans in in spite of himself, letting Lawliet kiss him again. 

Before what? Before Lant Street? Before we fell apart? Before Mexico, Russia, before A died? He breathes in the sweet dirty smell of Lawliet’s hair. Damnit Lawliet– 

What have we become? Lawliet’s spider-hands snake under his shirt, a little warmer than usual. B shivers, mouthing down his neck. He wants very badly to touch Lawliet– but his hands feel frozen, tracing shaky circles down his spine. 

His eyes flicker with memories– good ones, for once. Lawliet offering him a spoon of ice cream. Lawliet’s face, sticky with cotton candy. Lawliet’s lips on his, again, always, gone, again, always–

Don’t go. 

Then he feels Lawliet’s hand reach for his zipper, the sound metallic and sharp between them. Before he can even blink, he shoves Lawliet away to the other side of the couch, probably too hard. No. I can’t do this. Not to him.

Not like this. 

“What? Are you mad?” Lawliet brushes a hand through his short hair, cheeks flushed. 

“No I just– feels wrong…when you’re like this.”

When I did this to you. B zips up his jeans, wishing he was less aroused. Lawliet tilts his head back and leans towards B.

“But I feel fine.”

“I know you’re not….you, Lawliet.”

“I am me.” 

B shakes his head, unable to look at him. Wish this was the way you were all the time. I really do. 

I wish that I could trust that. 

But you shouldn’t even trust me. He watches Lawliet struggle to stand up, the bulge in his jeans obvious. B takes out his pack of cigarettes, nervously passing one to Lawliet. Lawliet blows smoke in his face with a Cheshire-like grin as soon as he lights it. 

B has had friends take MDMA before and end up like this, hell, it’s called the ‘love drug’ for a reason. What was I thinking? 

What this what I wanted? The guilt in B’s chest tightens. Lawliet chooses then to drop his head in B’s lap. 

“Come on,” he takes Lawliet’s hand, pulls him upright, “You need to walk this off.” 

[lowlawliet-blog]

So sorry. So, so sorry. The words vibrate against L's cheek, a strangely pleasant sensation. He wonders what B is sorry for, and then, through the candy floss stuffing his head, the taste of hot chocolate comes back, the smell of coffee in a too-warm room with sticky floors. But it seems far away, behind unbreakable glass. "Didn't you say that enough back then?" he asks, and B's fingers stroke the back of his neck. L leans into the touch, wants more of it. 

"Yeah. There isn't enough to say. Not for that." He mumbles over his words but keeps his hand on L's neck, his fingertips tracing circles against his pulse. 

"You probably always though the worst part was--" L blinks his eyes and tries to summon the right word. Sex? No, profoundly wrong. Rape? He'd never dare. I knew what I was in for. 

He gives up and goes for a new start. "The worst part was never speaking. Playing the role of the idiot, and letting him treat me like one." Silas hadn't been clever but he'd sure as shit been careful. But when he decided the homeless kid he'd picked up wasn't just a little daft but probably retarded, he stopped being so careful. Never saw what was coming. There -- his face, always the color of bad cheese, draining to sickly white when he saw L's blurred out face on the video feed. There -- the pocked cheeks slowly going livid as the blurred out shape recited the depths of his perversions in crystal clear Queen's English. 

There -- lunging against his restraints and snarling, screaming to the judge 'the kid's the monster! The kid!'

L clutches for B's ribs and starts to laugh hard, his eyes going watery as the sensation shimmies up his body and lights up his skin with mirth. He isn't much for laughter, and it soon has him wheezing in his chest and reaching for more coffee, slurping it down fast to wet his throat.

"You alright?" B's face is so concerned that it just might be spooked. L smiles and touches the edge of his clenched jaw.

"Mm." He smiles fuzzily. "Don't be cross, but I think I accidentally took one of Judith's club drugs while I was in the kitchen." He almost muses aloud that perhaps he ought to take such drugs more frequently, but remembers that he'd probably get nothing done if he picked up that habit. 

Can't rub up against the furniture like a cat and eat sweets all day. But now...

He falls limp against B and kisses him slowly, the taste of his lips as big and plush as the moon, plunging him into a leisurely, honey-hued wave.

April 12, 2000 [cont]

L makes it back just by nightfall.

With the book in his backpack and a sack of a half-dozen fresh beignets in his hand, he finds the house curiously chilled, and B sat nearly where L left him, smoking in the dark. L reaches over to snap on the nearest lamp and carefully lowers the cardboard drink carrier onto the coffee table. Two cafe aulaits, two hot chocolates. He sits the sack of beignets next to them. 

“Your little follower came by.” B tips his head back and blows smoke toward the ceiling in a dramatic fashion that makes L sigh, however quietly. 

“Did she?” L kicks off his sneakers and collapses into an armchair. “What for?“  

“To see you, of course.” B stubs his smoke out in a tourist New Orleans mug and reaches for the sack of beignets. “And tell us about a seance happening at Tailor’s place Friday night.“ 

L runs a finger along his bottom lip, considering "Good. Very good. That gives me some time to study Joanna Hewitt’s book and see how Cosette Darbonne responds to Custer.” He breaks off when he sees that B is deliberately not listening, frowning into the sack of beignets instead.

“This is all you brought? Junkie food?” He casts the sack back on the table with a snort of disgust.

Pursing his lips together, L comes to his feet and gives B a long, wordless stare. 

“Sugar junkie,” B says pertly, tossing his hair out of his eye carelessly. Just enough for L to be sure the barb was intentional. Not that he’ll give B the satisfaction of a big reaction. 

“I’ll see what else there is in the kitchen, then." 

There isn’t much. The fruit bowl is empty of everything but dust, but he finds a few bunches of grapes in the fridge, and a wedge of fine cheddar. He arranges both on a plate with some crackers, aware of the throbbing pain developing just above his temples. 

Not now, not now. Now is quite possibly the worst time to come down. Not with B in a mood. Because if L gets in a mood, too, who knows what could happen. Absolutely nothing good. 

He rummages through his back pocket and finds a dexy rolled into a ball of foil, shoving the tablet under his tongue with trembling fingers. That and some sugar, a little caffeine – maybe a lot – will get him through. It’ll have to.

[lowlawliet-blog]

L settles onto the rug and spreads the Acadian Folklore book open on the coffee table, powdered sugar dusting the pages as he bites into a beignet and chases it with another swallow of hot chocolate. The sound of B munching at cheese crackers fades into the background as L loses himself in the words, making the occasional notation in the margin with a pencil. 

Some time passes in which nothing seems to exist but the book and the sweet taste of powdered sugar. B gets up to fetch his sketchbook at some point, but L scarcely notices, suddenly absorbed by the rough, grainy sensation of the pages between his fingertips. Every inch of his skin is hyper-aware of whatever it's touching, whether it's the worn cotton of his tee-shirt or the silky rug against the heels of his bare feet. He gulps down his hot chocolate just for the pleasure of feeling it run down his throat, then reaches for his cafe aulait and does the same. 

"Thirsty?" B's voice is resonant music from the far corner of the couch. "Guess so." L settles back on his palms and rubs them in idle circles over the rug, admiring the oriental design. Both it and the lingering taste of hot chocolate suffuse him with an intense wave of not-entirely-pleasant nostalgia, though it does little to dilute the euphoric sensation fluttering in his stomach. 

The sharp, investigative part of him is half-aware that dexy doesn't make him feel like this, precisely, but he can't see fit to question the new sensations much further. Maybe what he took wasn't a dexy. Had he looked that closely at it? He snagged pills from Judith's purse days ago, but can't recall where he left them. Maybe... Even as he chases the possibility, it loses substance in his mind. 

"I'm surprised I still like hot chocolate." He picks up the Styrofoam cup and starts carving random designs into it with his fingernail. "But no matter what, it just tastes good. Even that shite kind made from powder mix and water. Or convenience store cappuccino." Cafe DuMonde's tastes like real milk and cocoa, though. It fills his mouth and his throat and warms his stomach all the way down to his toes. He reaches over to feel just how warm they are.

B's voice sounds strange and faraway. "Why wouldn't you like it? Always have, far as I remember." 

"Because Silas was always bringing me that stuff." He picks up the cup again, pops the lid off to check that it's empty, and starts dismantling the cup into chips, finding that he likes the squeaky sound it makes as it's pried apart. 

'I'm not going to hurt you, kid. Can I get you a coffee at least?'

"I mean I don't like the word 'kid' because of him --" he lines up the cup pieces along the edge of the table "--but coffee and hot chocolate? Those are just fine."

April 12, 2000 [cont]

L makes it back just by nightfall.

With the book in his backpack and a sack of a half-dozen fresh beignets in his hand, he finds the house curiously chilled, and B sat nearly where L left him, smoking in the dark. L reaches over to snap on the nearest lamp and carefully lowers the cardboard drink carrier onto the coffee table. Two cafe aulaits, two hot chocolates. He sits the sack of beignets next to them. 

“Your little follower came by.” B tips his head back and blows smoke toward the ceiling in a dramatic fashion that makes L sigh, however quietly. 

“Did she?” L kicks off his sneakers and collapses into an armchair. “What for?“  

"To see you, of course.” B stubs his smoke out in a tourist New Orleans mug and reaches for the sack of beignets. “And tell us about a seance happening at Tailor’s place Friday night." 

L runs a finger along his bottom lip, considering "Good. Very good. That gives me some time to study Joanna Hewitt’s book and see how Cosette Darbonne responds to Custer.” He breaks off when he sees that B is deliberately not listening, frowning into the sack of beignets instead.

“This is all you brought? Junkie food?” He casts the sack back on the table with a snort of disgust.

Pursing his lips together, L comes to his feet and gives B a long, wordless stare. 

“Sugar junkie,” B says pertly, tossing his hair out of his eye carelessly. Just enough for L to be sure the barb was intentional. Not that he’ll give B the satisfaction of a big reaction. 

“I’ll see what else there is in the kitchen, then." 

There isn’t much. The fruit bowl is empty of everything but dust, but he finds a few bunches of grapes in the fridge, and a wedge of fine cheddar. He arranges both on a plate with some crackers, aware of the throbbing pain developing just above his temples. 

Not now, not now. Now is quite possibly the worst time to come down. Not with B in a mood. Because if L gets in a mood, too, who knows what could happen. Absolutely nothing good. 

He rummages through his back pocket and finds a dexy rolled into a ball of foil, shoving the tablet under his tongue with trembling fingers. That and some sugar, a little caffeine – maybe a lot – will get him through. It’ll have to.

[lowlawliet-blog]

April 12, 2000 [cont]

L makes it back just by nightfall.

With the book in his backpack and a sack of a half-dozen fresh beignets in his hand, he finds the house curiously chilled, and B sat nearly where L left him, smoking in the dark. L reaches over to snap on the nearest lamp and carefully lowers the cardboard drink carrier onto the coffee table. Two cafe aulaits, two hot chocolates. He sits the sack of beignets next to them. 

"Your little follower came by." B tips his head back and blows smoke toward the ceiling in a dramatic fashion that makes L sigh, however quietly. 

"Did she?" L kicks off his sneakers and collapses into an armchair. "What for?"  

"To see you, of course." B stubs his smoke out in a tourist New Orleans mug and reaches for the sack of beignets. "And tell us about a seance happening at Tailor's place Friday night." 

L runs a finger along his bottom lip, considering "Good. Very good. That gives me some time to study Joanna Hewitt's book and see how Cosette Darbonne responds to Custer." He breaks off when he sees that B is deliberately not listening, frowning into the sack of beignets instead.

"This is all you brought? Junkie food?" He casts the sack back on the table with a snort of disgust.

Pursing his lips together, L comes to his feet and gives B a long, wordless stare. 

"Sugar junkie," B says pertly, tossing his hair out of his eye carelessly. Just enough for L to be sure the barb was intentional. Not that he'll give B the satisfaction of a big reaction. 

"I'll see what else there is in the kitchen, then." 

There isn't much. The fruit bowl is empty of everything but dust, but he finds a few bunches of grapes in the fridge, and a wedge of fine cheddar. He arranges both on a plate with some crackers, aware of the throbbing pain developing just above his temples. 

Not now, not now. Now is quite possibly the worst time to come down. Not with B in a mood. Because if L gets in a mood, too, who knows what could happen. Absolutely nothing good. 

He rummages through his back pocket and finds a dexy rolled into a ball of foil, shoving the tablet under his tongue with trembling fingers. That and some sugar, a little caffeine -- maybe a lot -- will get him through. It’ll have to.

[lowlawliet-blog]

L knows that B knows that he's playing stupid. 

L knows that they both know that revealing the truth about the moment with the strawberries -- or lack of strawberries -- has torn open some icy rift beneath their feet and the wrong word, the wrong look, will send both of them tumbling into it. He can't risk it. He can't give B a reason to leave him again. But there's nothing he can do now to diffuse the situation. It's my fault. He should have let the holiday be a holiday, shouldn't have let the lure of a case get the better of him. Close it fast, and then we'll move on. You can make it up to him. 

"I should visit the bookstore," he says suddenly, shutting his laptop and groping along the floor for his sneakers. "And make a few phone calls." He glances around at the walls, wondering if their small, pale intruder is listening at this very moment. 

B lets out a stream of smoke and shrugs moodily. "Bring back some food." 

"Of course." 

L almost reaches for his shoulder, to squeeze it, to just feel it beneath his hand. But he doesn't. 

Outside, the cloudy skies have cleared a little, though thin puddles still run through the cobbled streets. The bookseller at Arcadian Books and Prints actually looks up when L's entrance sounds a jangle of bells, his glasses pushed up into his nest of hair. 

"Back so soon, are you?" But he reaches under the counter and pulls out a book, slipping it into a brown paper bag.

"I did say that I needed it very quickly." L passes him the two-hundred and fifty dollars, dropping the book into the backpack he carries over his shoulder. 

"Anything else you'll be needing? I have a rare volume on Santería..."

"No, thank you." L is already ducking around the towers of books and heading for the exit. 

L walks all the way to the other side of the Quarter, cutting around the French Market and climbing up the grassy hill to the river bank, finding a rock to sit on that's far away from the path where only a very few tourists stroll. He flips through Joanna Hewitt's book for a moment, unsurprised to see that many of "Malik's" theories on Voodoo and folk magic are cribbed directly from her research. Then, as a slow barge chugs by, churning the river water brown, L dials Lenny from his mobile, leaving detailed instructions on a package he'd like delivered to Cosette Darbonne.

"Jefferson Coutee's death certificate, a letter detailing evidence of identity theft...have it sent from...." He pauses to search his brain for the most appropriate alias. "Custer." Edward Custer being an Atlanta-based investigator identity that L adopted nearly two years ago.

Walking back to the sublet, only the sweet odor of fried dough and powdered sugar reminds L that he's supposed to pick up food.

April 12, 2000

L isn’t surprised that the local law enforcement have decided to scratch Ethan and Karla’s deaths off as an accident. Tourists get a little high in the swamp, have sex, get lost – easier to close the book on that, especially when neither Karla or Ethan’s families are powerful or wealthy enough to hire lawyers or raise a fuss. No chance of the Feds getting involved, either.

More than ever, he’ll need Judith to bring her story to the cops. Preferably on her own, without L planting the idea. But that’s a long shot.

L drains the last of his tea, the grit of sugar catching in his throat, and looks up from his chair to find B rubbing at his eyes, then squinting and scanning the walls in a manner L finds all too familiar. Trying to differentiate between what’s real in the room and what’s not. 

It isn’t just the fetid scent of the swamp that’s followed them back to their temporary home. There’s proof now – undeniable proof that Nirae is real. As real as a vision can be, anyway. There’s no way B would have known how to get to those bodies, otherwise. L wants to be happy. Relieved. This should mean that B hasn’t developed full-blown hallucinatory and auditory hallucinations, but instead has experienced some amplification of his already existing gift.

But a Shinigami? 

L decides that there’s no reason he has to accept it as a Shinigami. It’s a vision of a Shinigami. And those are two very different things. 

“Is she here?” He asks, not meaning to sound as tired as he does.

B double checks the corners of the room and takes a seat on the corner of the couch. “Not now.” He lets out a small snort. “She likes showing up when it’ll be most inconvenient, I think.“ 

L runs a finger along his lower lip. A trickster, then. That would explain why "she” told B that L was eating strawberries instead of pickles. 

“What?” B’s caught the thoughtful look on L’s face.

“Nothing. Just glad that she’s real.” He gives B a small smile, but B’s brow only furrows, his hands sliding down to cup his kneecaps. “Remember when I went into the kitchen and she told you I was eating strawberries?” B nods slightly. “I wasn’t. I think she might enjoy playing with you a bit, unfortunately.”

[lowlawliet-blog]

April 12, 2000

L isn't surprised that the local law enforcement have decided to scratch Ethan and Karla's deaths off as an accident. Tourists get a little high in the swamp, have sex, get lost -- easier to close the book on that, especially when neither Karla or Ethan's families are powerful or wealthy enough to hire lawyers or raise a fuss. No chance of the Feds getting involved, either.

More than ever, he'll need Judith to bring her story to the cops. Preferably on her own, without L planting the idea. But that's a long shot.

L drains the last of his tea, the grit of sugar catching in his throat, and looks up from his chair to find B rubbing at his eyes, then squinting and scanning the walls in a manner L finds all too familiar. Trying to differentiate between what's real in the room and what's not. 

It isn't just the fetid scent of the swamp that's followed them back to their temporary home. There's proof now -- undeniable proof that Nirae is real. As real as a vision can be, anyway. There's no way B would have known how to get to those bodies, otherwise. L wants to be happy. Relieved. This should mean that B hasn't developed full-blown hallucinatory and auditory hallucinations, but instead has experienced some amplification of his already existing gift.

But a Shinigami? 

L decides that there's no reason he has to accept it as a Shinigami. It's a vision of a Shinigami. And those are two very different things. 

"Is she here?" He asks, not meaning to sound as tired as he does.

B double checks the corners of the room and takes a seat on the corner of the couch. "Not now." He lets out a small snort. "She likes showing up when it'll be most inconvenient, I think." 

L runs a finger along his lower lip. A trickster, then. That would explain why "she" told B that L was eating strawberries instead of pickles. 

"What?" B's caught the thoughtful look on L's face.

"Nothing. Just glad that she's real." He gives B a small smile, but B's brow only furrows, his hands sliding down to cup his kneecaps. "Remember when I went into the kitchen and she told you I was eating strawberries?" B nods slightly. "I wasn't. I think she might enjoy playing with you a bit, unfortunately."

[lowlawliet-blog]

Thanks to an overnight thunderstorm, this state-owned piece of wilderness is blanketed in a clammy fog, the Spanish moss still dripping from the massive live oaks. As they paddle further into the park, insects and birds make riotous noise, indignant that their sanctuary has been invaded. The trail signs that poke just above the water are in poor repair, and he supposes that a lack of funding is to blame. He keeps his eyes on the odometer as they row.

“There’s the bench Nirae mentioned,” B points at the washed over boardwalk, checking his compass and veering off to the West.

"And that’s a quarter mile,” L says after a few more minutes, pocketing the odometer. B has the oars, having studied the map many times, and rows them in a few meandering circles.

“Smell that?” B’s voice is almost a whisper. 

“Yeah.” It smells like dead things -- ripe, organic rot, tinged with that stomach-churning hint of sour sweetness. 

“There --” B sloshes the oars harder, moving the boat toward a tree so large it’s own roots make an island. And yes, from a distance, it does look like a hand, ancient and gnarled. 

So she’s real, then. 

He can’t think about that now. Not with the smell of death so strong it feels like it’s tugging at his skin.

“Jesus.” B spots something in the water at the same time L does, a greenish and white shape bobbing near the tree roots. B carefully pokes at it with his oar, and the grisly thing turns over, so pale, bloated, and shiny that it’s hard to believe it was once human. A woman. Under a tangle of fallen branches, L spots a foot -- the other body. The odor of rot is so strong that he nearly gags on it. 

“Have you got the coordinates?” He manages from behind his clenched fist.

B double-checks the compass and nods, writing them down on a small notebook hung around his neck. “Is that all we need?” 

L nods. “Should be.”

B drops the notebook back down under his shirt and visibly shudders. “Good. Let’s get the hell out of here, then.”

April 11, 2000

Lawliet’s heartbeats keep them both between sleep and waking for the remainder of the night. Sometime around dawn he rolls away from B into himself, and B huddles towards his waning warmth without touching him. Stay close to me.

I can’t do this alone.

When he wakes the bed is cool and empty, and the sun is starting to peak out over the horizon. B rolls out slightly faster than usual, unsure if he’s worried about Lawliet or himself. Lawliet is in the study, predictably, but he isn’t working. He’s smoking one of B’s cigarettes, leaning against the desk. His eyes flicker over B with worry, then fade to neutral. B holds out a hand and he tosses over the box of cigarettes. 

“You know that shit’s not good for you, right?” he says it with a touch of irony, lighting his own and sitting next to Lawliet on the table. 

“Yeah,” Lawliet says without looking at him. B puts a hand on his, and Lawliet flinches, then relaxes by bare inches.They smoke in silence, . Just gonna keep making it worse, keep hiding from it aren’t you?

“You ready to go?”

B takes a last drag of the cigarette. Yeah, you can hide in that too, L Lawliet. But I guess I can’t.

“Let’s go.”

They take the car up to the edge of the bayou, the light creeping up slowly. It smells like a strange combination of earth and rubber. It’s far wetter than when Tailor dumped the body, but as luck would have it, there’s an old rowboat next to a gaudy tour boat that’s not particularly well-secured. B cuts it loose. We’ll just borrow this. He’s more nervous than he wants to be.

What if she’s here? He looks to the skies but no shadow crosses over them. Lawliet looks up too, then looks sharply down, as if he regrets it. A pause, his lips twist strangely before he asks.

“Anything–”

“No. It’s just us,” B gestures to the boat, waits for Lawliet to get a seat before pushing them off into the dim light of morning.