Chapter Text
Chapter 1.
The bullpen had finally quieted for the first time in nearly eighteen hours.
The office buzzed with activity. Eight months in New York had made the routine familiar, but it still didn't quite feel like home.
Most of the analysts had already left. A few remaining agents lingered near the back-offices nursing stale coffee and unfinished reports while rain tapped softly against the high FBI windows overlooking the city.
Ryuzaki barely noticed the New York skyline anymore himself.
He sat in his chair near the evidence screens one leg crossed over the other, finishing the final behavioural notes for a trafficking case that had consumed the last nine days almost continuously.
Across the room, Light looked equally exhausted.
Which, Ryuzaki had learned, was usually the first warning sign that he was pushing himself far beyond his reasonable limits again.
He stood near Naomi’s desk reviewing paperwork, tie loosened slightly, sleeves rolled neatly to his forearms. Professional as always.
But tired.
There were faint shadows beneath his eyes now that had not existed a week ago.
Naomi noticed them too.
Ryuzaki realised this when she glanced up from her paperwork and studied Light for approximately three seconds too long.
Then she sighed quietly.
“Yagami.”
Light looked over immediately.
“Yes?”
“You’re off duty for the next week.”
Light stilled as if he didn’t quite hear what was said.
“…Excuse me?”
“You heard me.”
“I’m halfway through the Morrison profile.”
“You completed the Morrison profile six hours ago,” Naomi corrected without looking up again.
Light opened his mouth.
Closed it.
Then tried again.
“I’m not requesting leave.”
“No,” Naomi agreed mildly. “I’m assigning it.”
Light rarely lost verbal footing in conversations. Yet now he looked faintly caught off guard.
“You’re exhausted,” Naomi continued calmly. “Your judgement will decline if you keep pushing at this pace.”
“I’m perfectly functioning well.”
Naomi finally looked up at him directly.
“That sentence alone tells me you need sleep.”
Light looked deeply unimpressed by this logic.
Ryuzaki understood the feeling.
Then Naomi turned toward him.
“And you should take the week off too, Ryuzaki.”
Ryuzaki blinked once.
“I fail to see the connection.”
“You haven’t slept properly in four days.”
“I slept yesterday.”
“For ninety minutes.”
“A successful ninety minutes.”
Naomi ignored him completely.
“The Bureau survived before the two of you arrived,” she said dryly. “It will survive one week without you.”
Light rubbed once at the bridge of his nose.
“We have another assignment pending.”
“You have a week before briefing.”
Naomi’s expression softened slightly then, though only barely.
“Get some rest. Rejuvenate before the next leg starts.”
Naomi stood, gathering several finished files into her arms.
“Go home, both of you,” she said casually as she passed them. “Preferably before one of you collapses in this office.”
Silence lingered behind Naomi’s departure.
Light exhaled hard through his nose.
“…I hate this job.”
Ryuzaki considered that.
“No,” he said honestly. “I believe you hate Naomi.”
Despite obvious mortification, Light laughed quietly.
The sound softened the lingering tension in the office almost immediately.
Ryuzaki found himself watching him again.
Tired and dishevelled; and standing too close.
Light shook his head once and reached automatically for the abandoned coffee beside Ryuzaki’s keyboard, he leaned fully across Ryuzaki, so he just about got a mouthful of fabric.
He could tell Light had pushed himself too far because he could smell his scent cutting through his normal layers of protection. Light leaned back, took a slip before grimacing at the temperature.
“This is freezing.”
“You say that as though I just made it.”
Light huffed softly in amusement.
Then, without thinking about it, he brushed his fingers lightly across Ryuzaki’s forearm as he handed the cup back.
It was absent-minded but totally normal between them now.
Except it had not been normal once.
Ryuzaki felt the contact linger for a fraction longer than it should have.
Light clearly realised what he had done a second later because his expression flickered almost imperceptibly.
Not embarrassment exactly.
Awareness.
But instead of pulling away sharply, he simply let his hand fall naturally back to his side.
It was a comfortable touch, one that he didn’t mind.
Ryuzaki disliked how little he minded it.
“Go home, Light,” he said softly.
Light looked at him for a second too long before answering.
“…You too.”
Ryuzaki was so tired he stopped functioning with practicality somewhere around the convenience store checkout.
Two boxed meals. A bag of snacks Light pretended not to like but always ate anyway. And a couple of beers neither of them would probably drink.
The rain had eased into mist by the time he reached his apartment building, the city outside washed silver beneath streetlights and wet pavement.
Normally he would have stayed at the office longer. Reviewed the Morrison files again. Cross-checked the interstate timelines. Done something productive.
Instead, Naomi’s expression lingered unpleasantly in the back of his mind.
Not suspicious.
Knowing.
More specifically: concerned.
Not for him.
For Light.
Ryuzaki was adverse at how quickly he had understood that distinction.
By the time he reached his apartment door, exhaustion had settled deep enough into his bones that he almost missed the first warning sign entirely.
The lock was already disengaged.
He stilled automatically.
Three possibilities.
One: he had somehow forgotten to lock it, which was statistically improbable to the point of absurdity.
Two: someone had broken in.
Or three:
Light.
And annoyingly, that possibility produced a small pulse of warmth low in his chest before logic could intervene.
Ryuzaki opened the door fully and stepped inside expecting exactly what usually happened after long cases lately:
Light half-asleep on his couch.
Light stealing food from his kitchen.
Light surrounded by open files pretending he was “just stopping by briefly.”
Instead, silence greeted him at first.
Then confusion hit.
The apartment lights were on, but the living room looked as though a small domestic disaster had swept through it.
Blankets dragged from the hallway cupboard. Pillows scattered across the floor. One of Ryuzaki’s hoodies abandoned inside out near the couch. The linen closet door stood half-open.
Ryuzaki slowly closed the apartment door behind him.
“…Light?”
No immediate response.
Then movement.
Small. Rustling.
His gaze shifted toward the far side of the couch and finally found the source of the destruction.
Light.
Curled on the floor in the middle of what appeared to be a deeply unsuccessful attempt at building some kind of enclosed bedding structure.
Ryuzaki stared.
The inflatable heat pad had been half-expanded but not fully assembled, one side tilted awkwardly inward beneath tangled blankets and sheets. Pillows had been piled around it in uneven walls while blankets, towels, and what looked suspiciously like one of Ryuzaki’s worn shirts had been dragged into the centre.
Light himself sat inside the mess looking profoundly unhappy about the entire situation.
His damp hair suggested he had showered recently. Here at Ryuzaki’s apartment. Using Ryuzaki’s things, apparently.
Worse still, he was wearing Ryuzaki’s loose white lounge shirt, sleeves hanging past his wrists slightly.
For several long seconds, neither of them spoke.
Then Light looked up.
And Ryuzaki immediately understood Naomi’s expression earlier.
Light’s scent had changed completely.
Still recognisably his. Still warm. Still calming in the strange quiet way Ryuzaki had grown increasingly aware of over the last year.
But richer now.
The scent of heavy suppressants failing beneath something biological and inevitable.
Heat.
Light looked horrified to realise Ryuzaki had noticed immediately.
“This,” he said flatly, gesturing vaguely at the nest disaster around him, “is not as bad as it looks.”
Ryuzaki considered the scene carefully.
“I believe,” he said slowly, “that depends entirely on how bad you think it looks.”
Light closed his eyes briefly in visible suffering.
“Oh my God.”
The words came muffled beneath one hand as he dragged it down his face.
Ryuzaki set the convenience store bags quietly onto the kitchen counter without taking his eyes off him.
“How long?” he asked calmly.
“I don’t know.”
Too fast. Too defensive.
Light knew exactly how long.
His fingers tightened visibly in the blanket gathered across his lap.
“I was fine this morning,” he muttered. “Then halfway through paperwork I started feeling strange and Naomi kept looking at me like she knew something.”
“She did.”
“Yes, thank you, I gathered that eventually.”
Ryuzaki crouched slightly near the couch now, lowering himself closer to eye level without invading the fragile space Light had instinctively created around himself.
The nest.
Half-formed. Poorly arranged. Clearly built by someone operating almost entirely on instinct while simultaneously fighting every impulse involved.
Which explained the visible frustration radiating off Light in waves.
“You are angry,” Ryuzaki observed.
“Ha” Light laughed once without humour and continued.
“I’m building a blanket fort out of your laundry like a deranged raccoon, Ryuzaki.”
“A fair point.”
“I don’t even know why I took your clothes.”
Ryuzaki’s gaze drifted briefly toward the shirt hanging loosely from Light’s frame. Then toward the pair of his jeans tangled in the blankets nearby.
“…Instinct, presumably.”
“It’s humiliating.”
“No,” Ryuzaki said quietly.
Light looked up at him then.
Directly.
Too vulnerable. Too exhausted.
Ryuzaki felt something uncomfortable tighten beneath his ribs at the expression on his face.
“I think,” he continued carefully, “you are attempting to create an environment that feels safe.”
Silence followed that.
Light’s shoulders loosened slightly despite himself.
Then immediately tensed again.
“You’re being very calm about this.”
“Yes.”
“You should probably stop that because it’s making me more aware of how insane this entire situation is.”
Ryuzaki tilted his head slightly.
“You broke into my apartment to build a nest out of my belongings.”
“…When you say it like that it sounds worse.”
“I am unsure that is possible.”
Despite everything, Light let out a tired laugh.
Small and frayed, but still real.
And Ryuzaki realised with quiet alarm that the sound affected him immediately.
Light looked overwhelmed.
And confused.
And adorably flushed.
The heat sat visibly beneath his skin now, colouring the sharp lines of his face pink while fatigue softened the edges of his usual composure into something far more vulnerable than Ryuzaki thought Light realised.
Ryuzaki must have let some thought slip visibly across his expression because Light’s gaze narrowed almost immediately.
“You can stop looking at me like that.”
Ryuzaki blinked once.
“Like what?”
Light gestured vaguely toward him with mounting irritation.
“Like I’m…” He faltered visibly, frustration tangling with embarrassment before he muttered, “…a catastrophe.”
Ryuzaki considered that carefully.
Then answered with complete honesty.
“I am attempting to determine why you believe any of this would lessen my opinion of you.”
The room went quiet.
Light stared at him for a second too long before immediately looking away again, flushed deeper now for reasons Ryuzaki suspected had very little to do with the heat itself.
“…You say strange things very casually.”
“I find that people react more honestly when I do.”
“That is because normal people hear those sentences and emotionally combust.”
“Hm.”
Light made a soft, deeply unimpressed sound before looking back down at the uneven inflatable heat pad beneath him.
It had already begun slowly deflating.
The surrounding blankets were tangled beyond recovery.
A pillow slid sideways the moment he poked miserably at the unstable wall of bedding beside him.
“I hate this,” he muttered.
The admission came quieter this time. Less sharp. More honest.
Ryuzaki crouched properly now near the edge of the nest disaster, setting one elbow lightly against the couch beside him.
“You hate the loss of control,” he corrected.
Light’s jaw tightened immediately.
“Yes.”
Not denial, nor was it defensive.
Just exhausted truth.
“I don’t know what I’m doing,” he admitted after another long silence. “My suppressants have always worked, and this has never been needed before.”
Ryuzaki watched him pick distractedly at the edge of the blanket pooled in his lap.
“Then perhaps your body no longer considers them necessary.”
Light laughed once softly.
“That’s horrifying.”
“Biologically inconvenient,” Ryuzaki agreed.
Light shot him a look.
“You are taking this suspiciously well.”
Ryuzaki tilted his head slightly.
“I was aware this was going to happen at some point.”
That got his attention immediately.
Light blinked at him.
“…What?”
“Naomi suspected before I did.”
Light stared.
“You didn’t know?”
“Not completely,” Ryuzaki admitted calmly. “I knew something was wrong several days ago. I simply had not identified the exact cause yet.”
Light looked briefly horrified.
“…That is somehow more embarrassing.”
“Hmm.”
“And you said nothing?”
“You appeared stressed enough already.”
Light stared at him in disbelief.
“You watched me slowly descend into whatever this is and just decided to observe quietly?”
“I fail to see how panicking would have improved the situation.”
“That is not the point, you could have warned me.”
Ryuzaki considered him for another moment.
Then, very carefully, reached down and adjusted one of the collapsing blankets forming the uneven side of the nest.
Light went completely still.
The gesture itself was small, and practical.
But something about it visibly affected him anyway.
“You are building the walls too high,” Ryuzaki said calmly. “It makes the space feel unstable.”
Light looked genuinely offended.
“You know how to build a nest?”
“No.”
“Then how would you know that?”
“I built pillow forts with my cousins. The skillset appears transferable.”
Despite everything, Light made a startled noise that was dangerously close to laughter.
The tension in the room loosened fractionally after that.
Ryuzaki adjusted another blanket into place.
More stable now.
Less chaotic.
Light watched him quietly for several seconds before speaking again, softer this time.
“You really don’t think this is pathetic?”
Ryuzaki looked at him directly.
“No.”
Light held his gaze.
And since Ryuzaki had walked into the apartment, some of the panic behind his eyes finally eased.
Together they tackled the collapsing heat pad.
Which turned out to be significantly more difficult than either of them expected.
The thing hissed angrily every time they shifted it wrong, one side sinking while the other overinflated until Light finally glared at it with genuine betrayal.
“This is an evil invention.”
“It appears to be defeating you personally.”
“Thank you, Ryuzaki. Your support means a lot to me.”
“You are welcome.”
Ryuzaki adjusted one of the half-deflated sides again before pausing slightly.
“…Where did this even come from?”
Light froze.
That alone answered enough to become suspicious.
Ryuzaki looked up slowly.
“Light.”
“In my defence,” Light said immediately, “I was not expecting to actually use it.”
“That does not answer the question.”
Light looked deeply reluctant to continue.
“…My mother sent it to me last month.”
Ryuzaki blinked once.
“Prepared.”
“Horrifically so.”
Ryuzaki glanced down at the inflatable structure currently trying to collapse sideways again.
“And you stored it in my apartment?”
Light’s ears turned visibly red.
“…My apartment barely has storage space.”
“You placed emergency Omega supplies in my closet.”
“When you say it like that it sounds strange.”
“I believe the situation itself may simply be strange.”
Light made a quiet sound of pure embarrassment and aggressively shoved another blanket into the nest walls.
Ryuzaki watched him for a moment longer before asking:
“Which closet?”
“…The spare room one.”
A pause.
“You organised it.”
Light looked offended immediately.
“You noticed?”
“Eventually.”
“Your system was chaos.”
“It is intuitive.”
“To raccoons, perhaps.”
Silence.
Light blinked once.
Then narrowed his eyes immediately.
“…Don’t.”
Ryuzaki looked entirely innocent.
“You are the one who previously identified yourself as a raccoon.”
“That was metaphorical.”
“You then proceeded to steal approximately half my closet space.”
“I was stressed.”
“Mm.”
Light pointed at him accusingly from behind a pillow.
“You’re enjoying this far too much.”
Eventually, after several failed attempts and one near-total structural collapse involving too many blankets, they managed to rearrange everything into something far more stable.
Lower walls. Softer layering. Less like a barricade and more like somewhere genuinely comfortable.
Light finally settled into the middle of it with a tired exhale, legs stretched awkwardly beneath the oversized white shirt he still wore.
Ryuzaki noticed immediately, and with increasing difficulty, that the shirt was apparently the only thing he wore.
Long pale legs disappeared into tangled blankets, lean muscle shifting subtly every time he moved. Heat had softened him physically somehow, posture loose and open in ways Light normally never allowed himself to be.
Ryuzaki chose, very deliberately, not to comment.
Instead, he unpacked the convenience store food onto the coffee table beside the nest.
Light accepted the cold noodle salad immediately, which Ryuzaki interpreted as evidence of just how far gone he currently was.
Halfway through eating, Light noticed the smaller paper bag Ryuzaki had placed separately near the couch.
The writing across the front read neatly:
For Light.
Light narrowed his eyes suspiciously.
“…What’s that?”
Ryuzaki glanced toward it.
“Your mother gave it to me when she visited.”
That got his full attention immediately.
“What?”
“She said to give it to you ‘when the time came.’”
Light went completely motionless.
Then very slowly lowered the noodles into his lap.
“…She what?”
Ryuzaki handed him the bag calmly.
Light accepted it like it might explode.
The moment he opened it; colour flooded instantly across his already flushed face.
Inside was an alarming amount of preparation.
Electrolyte sachets. Body wipes. Heat-safe pain medication. Extra suppressant patches. Several different types of birth control.
And condoms.
A lot of condoms.
Light stared into the bag in absolute horror.
“Oh my God.”
Ryuzaki leaned slightly to look inside.
“Hm. Thorough.”
“She gave you this.”
“Yes.”
“She looked you in the eye and handed you emergency heat supplies.”
“She also told me to ensure you remained hydrated.”
Light buried his burning face briefly in one hand.
“I’m moving to another country.”
“You already did.”
“That is not helping.”
Ryuzaki watched him continue rifling through the contents with visible mortification.
There was even a handwritten note folded near the bottom.
Light noticed it too late.
“No,” he whispered immediately.
Then unfolded it anyway.
His mother’s handwriting covered the small paper neatly.
Light,
If you are reading this, then your suppressants have probably finally failed around someone you trust enough to feel safe with.
Please stop panicking.
Remember to drink water.
And if Ryuzaki is there, try not to scare him off.
Light made a strangled sound.
Ryuzaki held out his hand silently.
After a long moment of suffering, Light handed him the note.
Ryuzaki read it carefully, then spoke with a smirk.
“She appears remarkably unsurprised by this development.”
“She’s been waiting for this since I was seventeen,” Light muttered miserably. “Apparently suppressants don’t always keep working forever around compatible Alpha pheromones.”
Ryuzaki looked up at him quietly.
“Compatible.”
Light immediately regretted saying it.
The realization crossed his face in real time.
“…Forget I said that.”
“I do not believe I will.”
Light groaned softly and sank deeper into the blankets, ears bright red now while he tugged Ryuzaki’s shirt sleeves down over his hands in obvious defeat.
And despite the embarrassment radiating off him in waves, Ryuzaki noticed something else too.
Light looked calmer now.
Safer.
Like some instinctive part of him had finally stopped bracing for rejection the moment Ryuzaki stayed.
Light sat curled in the middle of the repaired nest, shoulders hunched slightly forward while Ryuzaki reorganised the discarded supplies across the coffee table into something vaguely manageable.
The apartment had gone quieter now.
Rain tapped softly against the windows. Traffic hummed distantly below. The warmth hanging in the room had deepened gradually into something heavier, sweeter.
Light could feel it happening.
Which only made him more tense.
Ryuzaki noticed eventually when the rustling beside him stopped entirely.
He looked over.
Light sat motionless now, fingers twisted tightly into the sleeve of the oversized shirt hanging around his hands.
Thinking too hard.
“What is it?” Ryuzaki asked quietly.
Light did not answer immediately.
His gaze remained lowered toward the blankets pooled in his lap.
Then finally:
“This is unfair.”
Ryuzaki tilted his head slightly.
“The heat?”
“All of it.”
The words came out sharper than Light probably intended.
He exhaled roughly through his nose afterward, frustrated immediately with himself.
“I didn’t want…” He stopped. Tried again.
“I didn’t want us to happen like this.”
Ryuzaki remained silent.
Listening.
Light laughed once quietly, though there was no humour in it.
“My body basically decided for me.”
“It appears biologically enthusiastic, yes.”
“Ryuzaki!”
“Apologies.”
Light scrubbed one hand hard over his face.
“You know what I mean.”
Yes. Ryuzaki did.
Light’s voice lowered further after a long pause.
“You don’t have to stay.”
The sentence lay heavily between them.
Ryuzaki looked at him carefully.
Light still would not meet his eyes.
“You think I am here out of obligation?” Ryuzaki said eventually.
“I think you’re an Alpha,” Light answered tiredly. “And I think instinct and pheromones make people do stupid things.”
His fingers tightened harder into the blankets.
“And I think maybe I’m manipulating you without meaning to.”
That finally made Ryuzaki still completely.
Light kept talking before he could interrupt.
“I don’t even know what’s real right now.” His voice cracked faintly with exhaustion and immediate frustration followed. “Everything in my head is just…”
Too warm.
Too loud.
Too much wanting.
He swallowed hard.
“I don’t want you waking up afterward and realising this only happened because I was in heat.”
Silence followed, although it wasn’t uncomfortable.
Ryuzaki moved then, crossing back toward the nest before lowering himself onto the floor beside it instead of the couch.
Closer.
But not touching it, not yet.
Light finally glanced toward him warily.
Ryuzaki reached down absently and adjusted one of the uneven blankets near Light’s knee while speaking.
“You have been stealing my clothing for months.”
Light blinked once.
“What?”
“You sleep on my couch approximately three nights a week.”
“That’s because your apartment is closer to the office.”
“You consume my food without permission.”
“You eat exclusively sugar; the food would go off.”
“You touch me constantly.”
That made Light freeze outright.
Ryuzaki continued calmly.
“You built a nest in my apartment while half-conscious because somewhere in your subconscious you already considered this place safe.”
Light stared at him speechlessly now.
“And” Ryuzaki added quietly, “you believed I was unaware of where this relationship was heading?”
The room went still.
Light opened his mouth.
Closed it again.
Colour rose slowly across his face.
“That’s not…”
“It is.”
Ryuzaki looked at him directly then, dark eyes steady and entirely unflinching.
“I wanted you long before tonight, Light.”
The honesty in it hurt somehow.
Light looked away immediately like he physically could not hold eye contact through that sentence.
“But the heat—”
“Is making you frightened,” Ryuzaki interrupted softly. “Not forcing me into anything.”
Light swallowed hard.
Ryuzaki leaned back slightly against the couch beside the nest, posture deliberately relaxed.
“We do not have to do anything tonight.”
Light looked back at him uncertainly.
Ryuzaki continued evenly:
“You can stay in there.”
“And we can sleep.”
“I can help you through the heat without intimacy if that is what you want.”
No hesitation.
No resentment.
No pressure.
“You are not trapping me here,” he finished quietly. “I am choosing to stay.”
Something in Light finally cracked softly at that.
Not dramatically.
Just enough for the tight panic in his shoulders to loosen for the first time since Ryuzaki walked through the door.
His eyes burned suddenly with exhausted emotion he clearly hated feeling.
“…You are making this very difficult,” he muttered hoarsely.
“I am aware.”
Light laughed weakly despite himself.
Then after another long silence, he shifted slightly closer inside the blankets.
Tentative.
Ryuzaki pretended not to notice immediately.
Which, Light seemed to understand, was its own form of kindness.