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In the dimly lit kitchen, the flour container hit the counter with an angry thunk, followed by the sugar. “Of all the stupid, pointless bullshit—”
Crouching on his customary barstool, L observed, “You seem… perturbed.”
The cocoa powder bounced and almost rolled off the other side before Light snatched it up again. “You woke me up,” Light growled, “at 3am, again—”
“You agreed,” L began, but Light wasn't finished.
“—to make you a cake that uses American measurements!”
L met his gaze, unruffled. “Are you done?”
“And there's already a strawberry cake in the fridge!”
L waited.
Eventually Light sighed and slumped against the counter. “Fine, I’m done,” he grumbled against the cool granite.
“You agreed to take over Watari’s duties in exchange for amnesty for your numerous crimes against humanity,” L recited. “This includes caretaking all of my financial, logistical, and culinary needs.”
An agreement whose desirability only just managed to beat the death penalty, Light reflected. “I don't recall the part of the contract that says I have to be on-call as a pastry chef at all hours of the day.”
“Yes you do,” L said mildly. “Chapter F, subsection 6.”
There was a pause as Light mentally reviewed this. Then he groaned. “Fine. But you're helping.”
It was now L’s turn to pout. “Watari never made me help.”
“Well then it’s a good thing I'm not Watari,” Light snarked right back. It was an old argument. “Get up, fetch me the medium pot and a large metal mixing bowl.”
L slid off the stool with all the manners and grace of a disgruntled teenager, and Light began to feel a little better about the whole situation.
When all the ingredients and tools were gathered, Light clapped his hands together, trying to fake a bright cheeriness that he didn't feel. “Okay! It's your recipe, tell me the steps.”
“It's actually a recipe I found online. Not exactly mine.”
“L,” Light said with faux-kindness, “you should know that despite everything, I don't currently want to strangle you. Do you intend to change that?”
“Hm,” L said. “Maybe later. Two cups of flour.”
Finally. Light eyed the measuring cups with distaste before picking up the largest one and getting to work.
“Two cups of sugar.”
It felt wrong somehow. The weight of the sugar in each cup was so much more than the flour had been. Was he supposed to have packed in the flour better? Should he scrape the top to make it exactly one cup? The imprecision made his skin prickle as he dumped in the second cup, and he yearned for his usual kitchen scale.
“One teaspoon of baking powder.”
A teaspoon? “This is a stupid system invented by illiterates,” Light snapped.
“Yes,” L agreed. Then, helpfully, “It’s the green one.”
Light snatched it up and measured out the baking powder.
“Once that is mixed thoroughly, we will put it aside and move to the stove,” L said, reading on his phone.
“What exactly is this cake again?” Light asked as he carried out these directions.
“The recipe is listed as ‘Chocolate Texas Sheet Cake,’” L answered. “Apparently, it is baked in a cookie sheet. The resulting thinness of the slices gives it a high icing-to-cake ratio that I am quite excited about.”
Light glanced at the mixing bowl, then the pot waiting on the stove. Four cups of dry ingredients, and they had barely started. “There is no way this will fit in one cookie sheet.”
L, if anything, looked even more pleased. “Yes, that is my conclusion as well. Over medium heat, combine one cup of water, a quarter cup of cocoa powder, and two sticks of butter.”
If Light had known that his life would become 3am cake experiments at the behest of a genius adult toddler, he may have reconsidered some of his actions earlier in life.
…Some. At least he was starting to resign himself to the measurements.
“However,” L interrupted as Light reached for the butter, “American sticks of butter weigh approximately 113 grams, as opposed to our 100 grams. So it will actually be two and a quarter sticks.”
“I hope rising sea levels wash America away entirely.”
“That would destroy Japan as well,” L pointed out.
“Good,” Light said, stirring the clumpy, watery mixture on the stove as it began to gradually warm. “All of humanity. We’ve done enough.”
“I should study psychology,” L commented idly. “A case study on the psychology of the man once known as Kira. Would you like that?”
“No.”
“Would I like that?” L continued musing as if Light hadn't spoken.
“Sleep deprivation is a form of torture,” Light told him. “You wouldn't get useful results.”
“You sleep plenty,” L dismissed. “The average teenager and working adult get less sleep than you do.”
“And yet here I am,” Light said, somewhat vaguely. Forgive him for not being his wittiest self at three in the fucking morning. “How long do I heat this for?”
“Until it boils. Then you'll pour it into the dry ingredients and combine. But there are some steps you can do in the meantime, as long as you keep stirring occasionally.”
Light set down the spatula and stepped away from the stove. “You mean as long as you keep stirring.” Seeing L’s pursed lips, he added, “Unless you want to be the one to do those other steps.”
Begrudgingly, L stepped up to the stove and took up the spatula. “You’ll need the big glass measuring cup. Beat two eggs together, then add half a cup of buttermilk.”
Light did so, grumbling that L hadn't told him they'd need another bowl. At least they had buttermilk on hand from some of the other recipes that week.
“Next add a teaspoon each of baking soda, cinnamon, and vanilla. …And a pinch of salt.” These words came out distracted; L’s eyes had become fixated on the pot as he stirred the gradually melting mixture.
For his part, Light measured and stirred his ingredients a bit slower than strictly necessary, just to watch him a bit longer. In the late-night quiet, with the lights dimmed and the smell of butter and chocolate beginning to waft through the room, L’s eyes were dark pools of intent focus.
Was he thinking about their current case? Contemplating the psychology of pseudo-reformed mass murderers? Merely watching the last remnants of butter melt, unthinking, into a warm, chocolatey soup?
It was impossible to say. Whatever it was, rousing L from his thoughts at this point would be difficult and annoying, and Light found he wasn't interested in doing so. Instead he leaned against the counter and settled in to watch and wait. L’s hand was still idly stirring, while his gaze remained absently focused.
Eventually, Light’s ears became aware of a gradual bubbling sound. L, too, seemed to blink into awareness. Owlishly, he glanced up, his gaze flickering to Light.
“Ah,” he said, still somewhat detached from reality. “It's boiling.”
“Then it's time to combine it with the dry ingredients,” Light told him. He stepped forward to glance into the pot and turn off the stove. It appeared to be a uniform chocolatey soup, as expected.
L had that vague look that Light had gotten used to in the years following the Kira case. It was the reason he needed someone like Watari—someone like Light—to manage certain aspects of life.
“You pour, I’ll mix,” Light suggested.
Distantly, L poured the chocolate mixture into the bowl of dry ingredients and watched, barely blinking, as Light folded the two into each other.
“We need to add the milk and egg mixture next,” he said, voicing it like it was a realization.
“Go ahead then,” Light prompted, nodding to it.
What had been turning into a thick, dough-like mixture instead became a rich brown batter as L poured in the remaining liquid. The smell of cinnamon and vanilla joined with the chocolate and butter already in the air, and the once-boiling chocolate mellowed into a deep warmth.
Light knew two things at that point. The first: this was going to be a very good cake. The second,
“There is absolutely no way all of this will fit in a single cookie sheet.”
The ghost of a smile crept onto L’s lips. “But won't it be fun to try?”
He seemed to be coming out of it faster than normal; Light filed this away for future reference. L went to fetch a cookie sheet and a side dish for potential overflow, and even stopped to preheat the oven.
Then they were both staring at the cookie sheet. It was a standard, full-sized sheet. Plain. Utilitarian. Notably intended for baking cookies, not cakes.
“There's no way,” Light said.
“It could be possible,” L hedged.
Light looked at him in disbelief. “It's 15 millimeters deep at best.”
“It's much wider and longer than a typical cake pan though.”
Light gestured at the mixing bowl. “Go ahead then, if you're so sure.”
L hesitated. “You do it.”
“It’s your cake.”
“It's your job.”
“Coward.”
“Hypocrite.”
“I refuse to be responsible for getting cake batter all over the countertops.”
L bit his lip in thought. “...You hold the bowl, I scrape with the spatula.”
Light looked reluctantly back at the cookie sheet. “Deal.”
As ribbony batter began to pour into the sheet, Light felt a sense of horrified curiosity taking root.
“It might work,” L breathed, equally surprised.
“No way.” Light was holding to his skepticism. It was going to cut it very close, either way.
Just when they were at risk of overflowing the sheet, L called it. “Fine, fine, it's too much for one sheet.”
Light pulled back and inspected the remaining batter. “It almost doesn't seem worth putting the rest in its own dish.”
The pitiful little puddle of batter was simultaneously too little to become its own cake and too much to put down the drain. And there really wasn't room in the cookie sheet for even a little more. They stared at it for a while in an absent, befuddled, three in the morning kind of way until the oven’s preheat cycle beeped, but what actually snapped Light out of it was when L snapped his fingers.
“I’ve got it,” he said. “Texas, I understand your wisdom.” He turned to Light. “Please get me a spoon.”
Light hesitated. An argument came to his lips about salmonella, but then another argument arose that maybe L deserved a little salmonella. “Fine. How long does this go in the oven for?”
“30 minutes at 177 degrees.”
Light tossed him the spoon and a glare. “The oven goes in increments of five. You're getting 180 degrees like a civilized person.”
“Fine,” L said, already scooping up batter. “Mmh,” he all but moaned after the first taste. “It’s still warm. And the cinnamon. Light, you have to try this.”
“I’ll wait for the cooked version,” Light told him, turning away. “You mentioned there's icing too, right?”
He heard fabric rustle as L shrugged. “Suit yourself. In the same pot from earlier, start melting another stick of butter and another quarter cup of cocoa. I’m guessing you’ll refuse to measure out thirteen grams of additional butter to match the American standard?”
“You're correct.”
L gave an aggrieved sigh. “Once that's melted but not boiling, you’ll add one pound of icing sugar, a teaspoon of vanilla, and six tablespoons of buttermilk. That's the yellow spoon,” he added helpfully.
“Yeah, yeah,” Light said, grabbing the spoon and ingredients. “At least they’re finally measuring in weight, even if it's just the icing sugar. And pounds.”
“Actually, the original recipe just said ‘one box’ of icing sugar. I did my own research to determine the correct amount.”
It was Light’s turn for an aggrieved sigh.
Time passed quietly as Light stirred the melting butter and L systematically licked the bowl clean. Once added, the sugar and buttermilk briefly made the icing a small nightmare to stir, but it settled eventually into a smooth, creamy texture. And just in time; the timer went off just as Light decided the icing was probably done.
The cake came out beautifully, which Light was more than willing to take credit for.
“I guess now we just wait for it to cool and then frost it,” Light said.
L shook his head. “No, we frost it before it cools down.”
“The icing will just melt into it,” Light protested.
The look in L’s eyes was greedy. “Yes. We’ll poke holes with a fork so it melts in even more.”
With a sigh, Light went and retrieved a fork. The great detective L and his massive intellect, everybody. Or maybe it was the massive intellect of somebody’s grandma in Texas.
The rest of the process was easy. The icing that didn't soak directly into the cake formed a glossy layer that even Light found enticing, and because they hadn't needed to wait for the cake to cool, they also didn't bother to wait before cutting into it. A corner piece for Light and a middle piece for L; an impressive feat of cake-slicing engineering.
Sitting on twin barstools with warm chocolate cake in front of them, Light gestured to L. “Go ahead. This is the moment of truth, right?”
L glanced between his cake and Light. “Together,” he decided. “It’s only fitting.”
With an indulgent eye roll, Light forked off a piece, and together they took a bite. There was a moment of thoughtful, chewing silence, which was broken by a simultaneous hum and sigh of pleasure.
“Okay,” Light admitted. “It’s really good.”
“Good enough to forgive me for waking you up?” L asked with a small, private smile.
Light smiled back.
…And then picked up his plate and started back towards the bedroom with it. “No.” He paused briefly in the doorway, already shoveling another bite into his mouth. “Ask me for anything else before noon tomorrow and I’ll hit you. Goodnight.”
L’s smile just grew. “Goodnight,” he replied, already anticipating Light’s irritated grumbling when L would crawl back into bed with icy feet later.
It was hard work, but somebody needed to do it. He had to keep Light occupied somehow, afterall.