L looks so peaceful; dark lashes sweeping across the top of his cheekbones as if he is sleeping, but Light knows better; he had seen him fall. L lays there where the rest of the taskforce had left him, too silent, too still; the cooling corpse of a man who have been living and breathing bare minutes before, the spoon he had been holding scant inches from his fingers. Light has to bite back another scream that forms in the back of his throat. This is the price of my victory, he thinks. The cost is too high.


The tension in the room is tangible, suffocating, as the two sit in the control room. The air crackles between them, their animosity palpable. There's so much polluted air and distrust between them, so much toxicity, and it creates such a poisonous atmosphere that L is surprised that they haven't been smothered by it. They're a dangerous chemical reaction L realizes, but when it comes down to it, their secret affair (that dirty little secret), neither of them can say no.


Love's a foreign thing to them both. L's never experienced it, and Light's never understood it. And yet, somehow, it takes them both by surprise, consuming them so completely. But it doesn't last. It's only a few months later when L senses the change in Light; it's the barest of changes, almost imperceptible (Light's always been a good actor), but L knows it's there. And he knows that soon, everything is going to come crashing to an end.


It's a feeling like he's being torn in two, dividing into the separate aspects of himself that can no longer reconcile with each other. It's all because of L. It used to be simpler, before he regained his memories of the death note, when it had just been the both of them fighting to bring Kira to justice. Now he remembers the awful truth: he's Kira, he's always been Kira. He's torn between L and his mission, between the part of him that loves L and the part of him that just wants to watch him die.


He hears church bells ringing, strangely loud in the crisp November air. It's distracting, but calming at the same time, and he allows himself a moment to stand out on the roof, allowing the rain to drench him down to his skin. He's reminded of the bells of the church near the orphanage in Winchester; the thought soothes him, help calm the frantic beating of his heart and the prickling at the back of his neck. He knows he's going to die.


I don't love him, he keeps trying to tell himself. I could never love him. Light knows it's a lie before he can even finish thinking it. He's falling hard for the detective, and he can't even deny it.


It's dark; cold seeps into his skin and ice scrapes away at the surface of his bones. It hurts, and the only thing that keeps Light from screaming is the fact that he can't. He can't breathe, either. Everything is still and silent; black. This is his death.


It's startling to hear L, usually so stoic and soft-spoken, yelling at someone on the other end of the phone line that it takes Light a minute to realize that L's yelling in English. That in itself is not unusual, he has heard L speak English many times; what is strange is that through L's rage Light can hear the unmistakable traces of an English accent creeping through his usually carefully neutral tone. He knew that the detective had grown up in English, but hearing him unconsciously and openly reveal his origins in a moment of passion reminds Light that L is human after all.


L always knew how to get under Light's skin. He was like a bad rash, or some sort of horrible flesh-eating disease. Light frowned. He was sure he could have come up with a better analogy if he hadn't been so worked up from another infuriating encounter with the detective just moments ago. Confrontations with L like this were becoming more frequent and Light knew that L always did it on purpose, prodding him into some inane argument that somehow always managed to work its way back to L accusing him of being Kira. Sometimes, he wondered if it would be a blessing if he was Kira, just to get L to shut up once and for all.


Time winds down to crawl, trickling into slow-motion. L tumbles off his chair, but it seems to take him forever to reach the ground. Each second drags into the next, like staring at a watch too long waiting for something to happen. L's death is quick, but to Light it seems like an eternity.

AN: A little note on Homeland: It's part of my personal fanon that L has something like a natural Estuary English accent, but purposely conceals it with a "neutral"-sounding accent.