Current mood:	blah
Current music:	One Step Closer - Linkin Park

ANOTHER PROMPT.
I should be in bed. I'm a bad girl. @u@; I was overdue for one of these, though. This prompt is brought to you by Byron, who chose the number randomly. 8D

Title: Étrange
Author/Artist: temptationwaits
Fandom: Death Note/Another Note
Pairing: Beyond Birthday/L
List and #: Alternate #19 - je ne sais quoi
Rating: PG-13-ish (mostly because of some lightly descriptive gore/death)
Disclaimer: Death Note, L, etc. © Ooba Tsugumi, Obata Takeshi, etc. Beyond Birthday, Another Note, etc. © Ishin Nishio. Lyrics used are "Butterfly Collector" by Garbage and "Strange and Beautiful" by Crimson Glory.
A/N: Spoilers for Beyond Birthday and Another Note. No yaoi; just a shounen-ai-esque kiss. OH I KNOW I'LL GET AROUND TO YAOI IN THESE PROMPTS SOMETIME. :P What? BB/L fic can't be subtle? :P

The photos in his hands were shuffled like a deck of powerful cards. Over and over and over again, showing clips of a dead body, a piece of evidence, and...

L picked through the crime scene photos and laid out three of them in a perfect row on the table. One picture showed four crudely made straw dolls tacked to the wall, near Bridemaid's body. The second now three dolls, with Queen just right outside the view, all except one of her long, lithe, pale, bludgeoned arms, sticking right out from the bottom left corner. The final picture was from Bottomslash's home, only two, standing side by side like a pair of children, hand in hand, above the head of a woman with a huge gaping bloody wound where an arm should be.

L's eyes, black pits of oblivion, gateways to the core of his being (a place no one could ever escape should they go there; those who came back would go mad), scanned each picture. Skimming back and forth, back and forth, in slow strokes, each time picking up a tiny new bit of detail. The book under Bridemaid's desk, the open DVD case by Queen's TV, a lone emerald ring on Bottomslash's night stand.

All the blood, it had cleaned away. From what was reported, their houses, the apartments, they reeked of bleach and cleaner, to the point where the police's eyes stung and they were forced to wear masks while doing their investigation. So clean, so pure, all except those corpses. They laid there in those clean rooms, sticking out like a sore thumb, none of the blood or decay washed from their bodies. Most of the blood was dried, caked to their clothes and skin, by the time the photos were taken, but tiny rivets would still roll down her face, her neck, his lips. The carpet beneath was stained, forming a perfect outline without need of chalk; it reminded L of fluffy Red Velvet cake.

Huge wounds, all fleshy and plump and bloated and red and sore and purple, blue and black. Arm missing, eye hanging from socket, teeth dislodged in throats. Each face, no matter how grim and beaten it was, showing a look of horror--yet, calm, soothing horror. They had been knocked out before they were killed, after all. But what if they had been startled awake from the first blow? Had the moment they woken up been the moment of their deaths?

"So?"

L blinked out of his daze and at the cell phone hanging limply from two of his fingers, right beside his ear. It was Misora on the other end, calling him back to reality. "Ah, sorry, I wasn't listening," L finally apologized. Misora made a disapproving sigh but nothing more. "What were you saying?"

"I wanted to know if you got anything from the photos," Misora replied, her patience straining.

"Ah, yes," L hummed. He picked up one of the photos at random. His eyes studied it for a second before he mused, "The way he executes his victims, his plans. It has a certain... je ne sais quoi."

L swore he could hear Misora blink her big eyes. "... How do you mean?"

"All the thought put into everything, all the gore, the perfection of order, the way he kills, the way he leaves his calling cards, the dolls," L explained, eyes glued on the picture of Queen's dolls. "... A certain je ne sais quoi."

"That sounds like you're flattering the killer," Misora chuckled in spite of herself.

L smiled ear to ear. "Well, the way he kills certainly is interesting; to me, at least," he answered. Misora wasn't sure how to respond to that. L sensed her discomfort and stated: "I'm going to re-exam the evidence you sent me. You can go on home and have yourself a nice cup of coffee, or tea. Whichever you prefer."

"Thanks," Misora smirked.

The two hung up. L dropped the phone carelessly on the table and held the photos in his hands like a spread of cards. That wicked, amused little grin swept back over his face.

"Of course you would make it strange, Beyond Birthday," L crooned. "You wanted my attention, you've gotten it." The boy genius let the photos fall from his hands, to rain down to the ground slowly. All except one, just one. It was the two dolls nailed to Bottomslash's wall. How close they were, almost holding hands, identical...

He saw B there, saw him in that photo, saw him use his freshly cleaned hands to nail down those dolls. Yet the rest of his body was coated in red blood, soaked into his jeans, his shirt, his skin, sticking to his torso. B's long arms that shook with the afterglow, that spine arching as he crouched to haul back the body, the way the lines of his chest, his stomach printed neatly into his drenched shirt, the way his long stained bangs hung like torn curtains over his bright, seering red eyes. All these, they called to L, called for his attention, his desires...

"Impressive. But yet..." he muttered. L couldn't help but give that photo a bitter little kiss. "How pitiful."

Dark eyes shine with strange desire
Velvet cold skin tastes like fire
Something in her eyes
Make you need to be inside her
Something in her twisted smile
Sends shivers down my spine
Round and round and down she goes
Where she stops nobody really knows
Love to her is pain to you
Tell you man she's strange and beautiful
Strange and Beautiful by Crimson Glory


Étrange: French for "strange."
Je ne sais quoi: "(zhuh nuh say KWAH) That little something; a quality that eludes description: “The Mona Lisa’s smile has a certain je ne sais quoi.” From French, meaning “I don’t know what." - source