[Five. L had estimated anywhere from four to seven; it fits within that range, but it still feels like a surprise to hear it stated, confirmed, no longer a possibility but a certainty.
As far as what Light's willing to volunteer, anyway, but L can't think of a reason to lie about the details when the basic truth is so clear and exposed. It's as obvious as the fact that Light is no longer a wide-eyed teenager declaring his innocence, and maybe that's what has L's own eyes wary and lingering. It's difficult to say that they're the eyes of a man who remembers his own death, but there's something new there. It's the way a child looks at a stove that has burned him, instead of one that yet might.
There was always so much they didn't need to say, that was just understood between them. L's starting to believe that this, at least, has not changed.
Perhaps he doesn't need to say that he remembers his death at Light's hands, as well as that smirk on his face, any more than Light needs to say that he is a murderer with the deaths of thousands on his neatly-groomed hands.]
It never hurts to be prepared.
[He returns to the sink as if about to prove that point. He rummages through a drawer, the jangling clatter of assorted metal jarringly loud in the house's prevailing emptiness, before returning with a slightly rusted awl.
He offers it, watching, waiting. What will his killer do with the pointed leather-working tool that would be clumsy, if not downright dangerous, to gouge open a can with?]
no subject
As far as what Light's willing to volunteer, anyway, but L can't think of a reason to lie about the details when the basic truth is so clear and exposed. It's as obvious as the fact that Light is no longer a wide-eyed teenager declaring his innocence, and maybe that's what has L's own eyes wary and lingering. It's difficult to say that they're the eyes of a man who remembers his own death, but there's something new there. It's the way a child looks at a stove that has burned him, instead of one that yet might.
There was always so much they didn't need to say, that was just understood between them. L's starting to believe that this, at least, has not changed.
Perhaps he doesn't need to say that he remembers his death at Light's hands, as well as that smirk on his face, any more than Light needs to say that he is a murderer with the deaths of thousands on his neatly-groomed hands.]
It never hurts to be prepared.
[He returns to the sink as if about to prove that point. He rummages through a drawer, the jangling clatter of assorted metal jarringly loud in the house's prevailing emptiness, before returning with a slightly rusted awl.
He offers it, watching, waiting. What will his killer do with the pointed leather-working tool that would be clumsy, if not downright dangerous, to gouge open a can with?]