"I went to Paris, once," L says, and isn't entirely sure what he means to accomplish with that statement. It's a new feeling, a perplexing one, and he taps his spoon thoughtfully on the edge of his teacup while Light swivels in his chair so they face each other.

"That's—nice," Light replies slowly. L can see him trying to analyze it, wondering how each of his own responses will be interpreted, picked apart, will this mean he still believes that I—. His eyes flash with something that isn't just the dull flickering of the computer screen and puts L in mind of those old movies he used to watch when he was smaller: the scenes after something (usually terrible) had happened and there was a cut to a printing press, hundred of newspapers flashing by click click click, read all about it. There's the same energy, the same speed, processing, all the information to take in and spit out in some new, convoluted, ingenious form. But then it all grinds to a halt suddenly and Light's eyes go resolute and still

because I am not, so this can't be—

"How did you like it?" Light asks. L suppresses a sigh he didn't know had formed.

"Terrible," he says. "They made me poke around at autopsy photos for two days before they were satisfied with my corroboration of the infection theory—flu, actually—though, hm. I did manage a look at the Mona Lisa."

Light's eyebrow twitches. "Well, now that you've seen all that Paris has to offer."

"The glass case was a bit disappointing," L nods. He realizes he is fiddling with the handcuff on his wrist before he makes a conscious effort to stop himself, reaching for the plate next to him filled with sweets instead. Light watches the movements and touches delicate fingers to the inside of his own wrist.

"I hear it is smaller than one would think," Light says, and he sounds almost wistful.

L's eyebrow twitches. "But the measurements can be found anywhere, I don't see why anyone would be under the impre—"

"Yes, yes," Light interrupts. "But you know. We all have these things that we give entirely too much weight to, in our minds. Cultural pressure, blows it all out of proportion. We think, 'but everyone knows this painting, it couldn't possibly just be this.'" A seventy-seven by fifty-three centimetre square, cracks in the paint spidering against the poplar.

Light lapses into silence, eyes on the computers as they flash lists and graphs and diagrams at him. His eyes are open wide, thoughtful, but no less sharp. L says nothing.