De Inimico Non Loquaris Sed Cogites

I deeply apolgize for the loooong hiatus. It's been madness, I tell ya, mental illness is a motherfucker...sometimes you just wake up with a nasty hangover in the Bahamas and can't figure out how you got there. Okay...I know how I physically got there...(I took a boat! Whee!) what I meant was that I had this sudden feeling that my life had turned into this insane whirlwind of fantastic events that would make one hell of a bestseller if I ever had the inclination to write...wait a minute...I remember now! I used to write in the throes of wine fueled bravado...long and sleepless nights filled with emotional outbursts, awe strikingly deep rhythmic down tempo music and such sweet, delicious drive to do nothing more than to pour out my heart's wickedest desires on golden, vanilla scented paper. I looked away from my bottle of rum as we spent one last afternoon on the sand, slightly ashamed at the length of our trepidations together and with as much tenderness as I could put into my voice calmly announced, "We've had some really good times, but I've got to move on. I still love you, but this isn't working out for me...I'm leaving you for Moscato..."

Oh c'mon now...you really didn't think I was going to let L die yet, did you? I mean, I haven't even gotten to the...interesting parts of the story yet. Mwahahahaha...

Okay, now for a few warnings...my writing has not dulled in my lengthy downtime, which means that it still carries all the caveats of malevolence as before, to occasionally (*cough* frequently) contain scenarios of torture, overall mind fuckery (my spell check has just informed me this is not a word, but I disagree. Doesn't it sound a bit genteel? "Splendid idea, let's engage in a game of fuckery for this evening's entertainment!" ...No? Maybe it's just me...and the answer is yes. Yes, LET'S.), non-con and dub-con...(OMG, Dubious Khan, is he invading the unsuspecting countryside with barely perceptible hints of pillage and plunder, or just sightseeing? LMFAO!) so if any of this bothers you, you can meander to another page and do whatever floats your boat...look at funny pictures of cats with witty captions or get in huge arguments with total strangers...who am I to tell you how to use one of the most efficient means of obtaining all the discovered knowledge ever put forward by mankind? Rock on with your bad self, you incorrigible rebel! Go on and lick that lead based paint, all those warnings from the EPA are just the man, trying to keep you down! Okay, don't...don't lick the paint. It's really a bad idea and I'm sorry. Please accept my continuance of this tragic tale as my humble apology, should I happen to have any readers left.

De inimico non loquaris sed cogites - Don't wish ill for your enemy; plan it.

There is a light stirring from beneath the soft cotton linens, and L's mind drifts in and out of a dream it doesn't wish to wake from. He can still feel pain, the sticky heat of sickness still lingering warm and thick across his skin, but the sensation of softness beneath his head and the improbable fantasies of a real bed are too good to let go of just yet. He wants to hold onto them as long as possible, and refuses to open his eyes even when consciousness tries to drag him back to wakefulness.

It doesn't take much for him to drift weakly back into his desired delusion, as his body still longs for rest and he easily falls into deep sleep.

For a few brief seconds, there is a voice speaking to him, rousing him to awaken once again. He can barely open his swollen eyes, but the sound persists and he has no choice but to struggle against his mind's insistent need to remain unmoved by such distraction.

"L, wake up. Can you hear me? Are you awake?"

It seems such a silly question, one that he does not feel the energy or the need to reply to. Of course he is awake, otherwise he wouldn't have opened his eyes for a few brief seconds, but then there is the glorious peace of being left alone right before cool water floods his mouth. An instinctive need commands him to drink voraciously in spite of a slightly strange taste on his tongue. L's body shakes from the strength of his thirst as his thin, bruised throat gulps in desperate gasps before he once again grows slack. He falls back into the welcoming darkness, his pain ebbing away along with his awareness of anything else.

It had been upon Raito's return that he had found his enemy sleeping peacefully, his fever apparently broken sometime in the early hours of the morning. This discovery had immediately mandated the regiment of stronger antibiotics and pain killers, but L refuses wake up for more than a few moments, overcome with exhaustion. All the dark haired man wants to do is sleep and for the better part of three days, Raito allows him to do so.

On the fourth day, he is able to rouse the incoherent man long enough to carry him to the bathroom in order to facilitate the necessary routine, but had almost drowned him when L had slipped from his grasp beneath the bubbles of his bathwater. L had managed to cough up water for a few brief moments, but gently fell back to deep slumber once Raito had wrapped towels around him and put him back in a clean bed.

The pale man shivers briefly before the darkness reclaims his mind and Raito sighs with frustration as he sets about gently cleaning the wounds of his prisoner. Although L is recovering, the process is slow and while the detective seems genuinely out of it, his warden is growing frustrated with having to play nurse maid to the bedridden victim of his rage. Raito shakes him roughly for a moment, but there is no reaction that convinces him that L will gain true consciousness anytime soon. As he changes the bandages from around L's ruined ankle, it occurs to him that he must carefully consider his next plan of action.

As much as Raito is somewhat at questionable ease that L had managed to survive the infection that had plagued him after trying to escape, he is readily irritated with the amount of responsibility that is involved in caring for the unconscious man. There is nothing remotely entertaining about such boring routine, and he can't help but to feel inconvenienced by this turn of events. L's periods of wakefulness are beginning to grow longer and more frequent, but there is no indication as to when Raito can return to his normal schedule. It is all too apparent that once the detective gains the ability to care for himself, that there will be a bigger question as to what to do with him and how to prevent another escape attempt.

It is obvious that the injury to his heel limits his mobility, yet it doesn't prevent the capacity of that unrelenting mind to think of another way to escape or to try and possibly kill him. The only way Raito can possibly thwart the efficiency of L's impeccable intellect is to infect it with paranoia and fear, and to psychologically twist it to focus on something else, but he readily knows that the detective is far too sharp to fall for simple misdirection. It stands to also reason that L will be very afraid of him after surviving this ordeal, but he would also fight any and all efforts to keep him under control. It was all too likely that such fear would cause that genius mind to kick into over drive and necessitate deadly force.

If there was anything that the teen had learned in his time of captivity while handcuffed to the detective, it is that L was both tenacious and stubborn to a fault, and more than willing to get into a fight. Raito would have to combat his enemy on the familiar playing field of mental misdirection, pain and humiliation. Even with the odds in Kira's favor, it would be far from an easy task to achieve.

Raito removes the soiled bandages and returns to the bedside, scooting close enough to hold the injured man in his lap. L closes his eyes and continues to mumble incoherently, and Raito calms him by stroking his dark, black hair. Had he given the older man enough morphine? He had done his best to research the dosage beforehand, but it's too late to adjust the amount now. L quiets down, oblivious to the idea that the source of his pain and torment is also the same as that which now soothes him. It's a strange dillemma that Raito finds himself in, as both comforter and tormenter. There is no sense of satisfaction from L's pain when he suffers without putting up a fight in return, and this stark contrast of reactions surprises the young man, distantly questioning his own intentions.

It has been almost two and a half weeks since that night when L had last spoken to him in the delirium of fever. Raito had wretchedly returned the next morning, unable to sleep as his mind could do nothing else but wonder as to the fate of his ailing enemy. His mind had told him that it was unreasonable to worry about the pale, dying man in a basement halfway across town, yet it had not stopped him from tossing and turning all night long in the worst night's sleep he had ever experienced. Something about leaving L had made him feel less than victorious, and even more than casually disturbed in his reasoning as to why it made any sense to not kill the injured man in the first place.

Why would it matter if L were dead or not? The deaths of thousands already taints his hands, and while this remains an undeniable fact, it is only L's blood that he has seen with his own eyes, red and damning and very unlike the ink which has stained them before. Kira had the ability to kill without ever getting his hands dirty, that was the ultimate beauty of using the Death Note. Had he simply been disgusted with his behavior or the fact that after the brutal attack he had looked down at the reddish brown stains, had felt his pulse quicken in horror at the difficulty of scrubbing away the drying blood creased beneath his fingertips?

It is as Raito holds the injured L and feels the soft, deep inhalation of his chest against his own that he realizes how much he savors and oddly enjoys the complete control over the life of his captive. Perfect, nimble fingers play with the unruly nest of raven locks upon the head nestled almost trustingly within the killer's embrace as a calm, simple smile tugs along smirking lips. This was the only experience that had ever rivaled the sensation and power that owning the Death Note had bestowed upon him. The world was quickly falling under his rule, perfected daily and cleansed as he saw fit, but it was still very necessary to conceal his identity as Kira until the odds were clearly in his favor. Years of pretense, the constant acting and putting on of the many faces society had required of him had prepared him unquestionably for the daily disguises he was still required to wear outside of these walls.

It was with L that he had no need to pretend, it was exactly as L had stated in his fevered delarations, there was truly nothing but honesty between them now. L had always known the truth, had clung to it in spite of the disproval of those around him and stood his ground even when Raito himself had been convinced of his own innocence. When the Note had fallen back into his hands and his memories had been restored, L had noticed the change instantly. He had often caught the endless gaze of the troubled detective as he studied him intently from the edges of his periphery, fascinated and prideful that L had reacted so cautiously, like a small animal that had suddenly become aware that it was being hunted.

L never treated him with the same, pure reverence that others had readily bestowed upon him without question. No, everything from this bizarre man had to be fought for, tooth for tooth and nail for bloody nail. Raito watched L shift wordlessly in his lap and let out a subtle sigh of contentment. Perhaps the painkillers contributed more to the drowsy state of his opponent than actual injury. He would start weaning L off of his dosage tomorrow and see if that had any effect. The teenager beamed inwardly at the progress of the pale man's healing, and congratulated himself for putting up with the dull routine for as long as he had. Who was to say that he was a god completely without mercy? It is aholds gently holds the crippled man in his arms, that there is no question as to his claims of deity.

He falls asleep tangled within those languid limbs, knowing that the indignation of the other man would never allow such an intrusion into his personal space. Later on when he wakes, he takes immense pleasure in this violation, rubbing gently along every stretch of exposed pale flesh to coax reflexive, sensuous sounds from the unconscious man.

L's breath hitches and his pulse speeds ups the more perversely Raito's hands stray, causing him almost childlike glee when those pale lips part and a soft baritone moan breaks the silence. Many of L's less serious wounds have healed over, replaced by angry pink lines that leave faint ridges across the once perfect, pallid colored flesh. Something within Kira thrills to lightly trace the physical proof etched into the body of his once greatest enemy, if only to admire how resilient L has demonstrated himself to be under conditions of both torture and duress. How much could both the mind and the body of the detective endure before breaking completely open, unable to withstand any more?

He finds that he wants to discover that limit, so that he can push his adversary as close to the edge as possible, over and over again. The prospects of this new game promises him as much excitement as holding a ready pen over a blank page of the Death Note.

Raito's finally returns to his apartment and realizes how deep his thoughts have strayed when he is suddenly impeded by a tight embrace and cloying, sickly sweet perfume that assaults his senses. He emphatically dislodges the blonde from his torso and states in indignation,

"I haven't even properly walked through the front door yet. Let go of me, I'm still tired from a long night."

Misa backs up and pouts with a trembling lip and watering brown eyes as she pleads,

"Misa Misa was worried when you didn't come home last night. I thought something awful might have happened to you!"

He pushes past Misa as he sets his books down and murmurs through gritted teeth in an aggravated tone, just outside of the mournful girl's hearing,

"Something awful has happened to me...something I will rectify soon enough."

"Hmm?" Misa's head pops up in his field of vision and he sighs slowly before placing a winning smile upon his lips, one that he knows will erase all doubt from the silly girl's head and warmly caresses her cheek,

"I'm sorry I stayed out all night. It's been very hard on me lately, trying to play the role of both L and Kira at the same time. I simply lost track of time until I realized it made better sense to stay the night. I didn't think you would be so worried about me." He pats her on the head and starts to walk to their room for a fresh change of clothing.

The blonde blushes, but there is a questioning look on her face as she stammers,

"I went to the office and tried to get a hold of someone, but..." Ratio stops dead in his tracks and spins around to grab Misa by the arms and snaps with murderous rage,

"WHAT IN THE HELL POSSESSED YOU..!"

"...but no one answered...I w-was worried..." Misa trembles and her voice drifts off into a whisper and Raito swiftly releases her as though her skin burns his hands to touch. He exhales in relief and replies,

"Then I can easily fix that, I'm the one who reviews all the footage from the security cameras and I can erase any evidence that you were there. Misa, you must never try to find me ever again. It could greatly endanger us if I tell anyone on the Kira investigation that I'm here and you come looking for me." He doesn't bother to answer her yearning with his true whereabouts but she manages to restate her concerns nonetheless,

"You're not seeing another woman, are you?" Once again those sad, questioning eyes greet him and at this he has to roar with laughter.

"Don't worry about that Misa, you are the only woman in my life right now. Didn't I ask you to move in with me to prove that?" He starts to walk towards the bedroom again when that tiny voiced asks,

"Is it a man?"

The glare Raito shoots her could have killed more effectively than the deadly black book he cherishes so much. Misa quickly readjusts her simpering and tries to defend her line of thinking with an apologetic explanation,

"I mean, you never stay home anymore and you barely even touch me...and after being handcuffed to Ryuuzaki for so many months I can completely understand if maybe..."

His eyes narrow down on her and he clenches his fists as he calmly inquires,

"What has Ryuk been telling you?" The blonde drops her gaze to the floor and bites her bottom lip, tears pool in her yes but no reply comes.

Raito let's out an annoyed breath he had been unaware that he had been holding in and states,

"And you had the audacity to believe him..." He slams the door shut with satisfaction on the look of astonishment on Misa's face and turns to face his former shinigami with eyes of pure animosity.

Ryuk instantly takes the hint and drifts through the bedroom wall to leave him alone. Sooner or later he would have to find a way to deal with Misa before it greatly interfered with his plans.

A/N I would like to thank everyone of my readers who have stuck beside me on this story, and even more thanks to those who have reviewed in my absence. It was your words that convinced me to come back and finish what I started.

C