It had been a hell of a night. Though there wasn't much to see, L remained after a collection of bload-soaked damp cloths had accumulated in the corner and the warm water had long since cooled. His cheek throbbed and stung where Tony had hit him, but he had no ice for it. He needed a cigarette or four badly, but didn't want to smoke with Tony in the room, even with the window cracked. His presence now that the excitement had died down was not particularly useful, perhaps, but it felt like it was helping, so he simply watched and waited for something to change.

When he heard movement at the door, he shot to his feet, gripping his ice stave, jaw tense and eyes narrowed. The hairtrigger fierceness faded when he saw who it was, replaced by sudden discomfort and uncertainty. Will he think this is my fault? Is it my fault? He leaned the stave against the window, where it left just a touch of frost, withdrawing a pack of cigarettes from his jacket pocket and avoiding Richard's eyes as he started toward the door. Now that he was here, it would be OK, right? His frustration was palpable, though, and while it was justified wholly, L could say he'd had quite enough of being on the receiving end of someone else's anger and fear for one day.

If Richard asked him to stay, he would linger to explain or attempt comfort, but otherwise, his objective was to disappear like the smoke he had been inhaling lately to calm his frayed nerves.