Redeemer

L was… angry. Truly, Matt had never quite seen him this way, and it had the redhead stopping short in the doorway to see the detective pacing back and forth across the room, growling in Japanese on the headset—his back straight like a normal person, his mannerisms more animated than they ever tended to be. The detective raked a frustrated hand back through his messy black hair, baring a brow and forehead that was usually hidden under long bangs and was now ever so obviously knotted with fierce irritability. Yet he hadn’t said a word to anyone what was wrong. It was a case—that was all anyone could gather, and it didn’t seem to have anything to do with the matters at hand as far as his present company was concerned—which left Matt and Linda flailing without a direction to turn.

L ended his rather heated conversation over the headset and without realizing Matt was there waiting, he ripped the equipment off and chucked it angrily across the room. When he saw the redhead standing there rather perturbed looking, he blinked—but then made no further attempt to salvage the odd performance, instead stalking back to his lap tops and climbing back into his favorite seat.

“What is it?” He asked, and damned if that didn’t sound like a snarl.

Matt winced. It was one thing to be accustomed to Mello’s tantrums—and did they ever vary across the bloody spectrum—another altogether to witness L in such an agitated way. Matt spoke around the unlit cigarette held between his lips. “You’ve locked me out,” he nodded toward the detective’s glowing equipment casting eerily upon him. Obviously to be locked out did not mean that he had to remain locked out, but Matt figured that breaching L’s own security was a tad on the damnable side and thus left it alone. If only he had known at the time that he’d be walking into such a display. “You seem… agitated,” he put it as lightly as he possibly could, but given his generally blunt mannerisms, it remained as straightforward as if he had spelled out that L had just thrown a minor fit. “Is there anything I can help you with..?”

L blinked dryly at him, on the verge of perhaps turning him away, even maybe without unlocking the system, but the detective visibly rethought-it.

“Yes,” he said, fairly resolutely. He offered no explanation, merely went right into it: “Shin Morimoto,” he said, “Kyoto's Wakagashira to the Oyabun of the Yamaguchi-gumi Yakuza family, the largest Yakuza family in the world—as you know. The man is brilliant and has been slipping my noose for years—22 years to be exact—I thought I had him at last, but he just did it again… he could probably teach Light a thing or two,” L finished derisively, fingers clacking against the keyboards.

“I take it he knows you’re after him,” Matt said, he hadn’t budged from his spot.

L’s eyes flickered up but he didn’t necessarily offer a response, he merely snorted. Often times, criminals didn’t know L was on top of them until it was too late. It perpetuated a continual paranoia among the world’s criminal element to think the detective had eyes everywhere and sometimes knew before they did what acts of violence they were going to commit.

“I’m transferring you the file,” L continued. “It’s a long one—Morimoto is the Senior Advisor now, he wasn’t when this all began, he rose fast through the ranks because he is that brilliant. When he started he was a hot-headed 20-year-old who was placed in charge of recruiting for Yakuza prostitution rings, he had a penchant for importing women, had a habit of kidnapping young, higher class girls and forcing them to cater to wealthier clients, had a habit of murdering ones that didn’t always cooperate.”

L sent the file and unblocked the system. “This is not a matter I can leave unfinished if I am to die in the near future,” he said.

Matt listened intently, brows furrowing ever slightly beneath the fall of messy bangs. He'd crossed his arms over his chest through L's explanation, twirling an unlit cigarette between his fingers. Twenty two years he had said. He just barely contained the question. That would have made L eight at the time this began. What the hell? But... judging by the detective's less than pleasant mood at the present moment the redhead let it slide and merely nodded. "I'll read through it tonight. Any immediate actions you'll want me to take?"

“No,” L replied. “Read the file first—as fast as possible, you can dissect it later. Skip much of the beginning, what’s important is where the man is now—then I’ll patch you through to the field operatives I have working on this, you’re going to help them from a surveillance perspective—become their eyes and ears,” L was staring at the screens as he spoke, watching some field activity intently. “I’m seeking the death penalty,” he said. “I will no longer settle for less.”

He sounded vindictive, and this clearly indicated the matter was more personal than perhaps it appeared—or maybe just as personal as it appeared. The original Kira case didn’t have L pacing rooms or throwing things in vengeful fits. And that whole 22 years bit? One man successfully avoiding L for 22 years? It was practically unthinkable—made Kira look like a novice for having avoided L for 6. This was a life-long case then, this was a case begun by a child detective—a child hunting a Yakuza prostitution ring leader? Granted the kids at Wammy’s were usually more mentally developed than their non-brilliant childhood counterparts, but that sort of developed? Not necessarily. Though Mello was in the mob at 15…and Mello was L’s heir, so that made sense then didn’t it? Still, and Matt glanced at L bathed in the ethereal lighting of his laptops…

“I’ll keep one eye on Near then, and the other on this.”

“Let Linda watch Near for awhile,” L replied abruptly, “I need both your eyes. Besides, she’s working on B—she’s the better candidate to spot possible connections between the two—three—of them.” That meant she was studying B, watching Near and analyzing Light…with far too much sympathy in that last regard. Matt frowned. So this Yakuza case was suddenly more important than Kira? Than the Death God deal? Funny that, though the gritty look on L’s face seemed to say so…

“Oh, and Matt,” L said as the redhead turned to take his leave. “Morimoto likes to play games—he’s very good at them. Keep that it mind.”

* * *

Matt waved away any questions Linda might have bombarded him with, heaping his previously abandoned Mac into his lap where he flopped on the couch.

"Ok, I have to ask," the girl started.

"He's not in the best of moods—in fact, it's the worst mood I've seen from L to date, but he's put me on the case and off of Near, so you'll be on your own for a while. And no, I don't know the details yet." But he would. Roger might have insisted on diagnosing him with a severe case of ADD, but under just the right circumstances, Matt could put that small detail aside. That was how one hour and half a pack later, the case had been read from start to finish.

Several times during their childhood, Mello had argued that there was no way Matt could speed read in that manner and actually retain anything. Until, at last, the redhead yanked the nearest text off the shelf—which unfortunately for him happened to be Wuthering Heights—and not only read it within the hour, but recapitulated the story down to particular quotations; and thus Mello no longer questioned him on it. It also, of course, explained how Matt had ever gotten through Wammy's without putting as much effort into the curriculum as the others had. He would memorize what was required for the examinations the previous night and pass with flying colors. And here he had landed third. Mello once shuddered at the thought of what it would have been like if Matt had actually properly applied himself.

So, when he appeared in L's doorway little over an hour later, a cup of coffee in one hand, tea in the other, which was promptly set down on the detective's table, L blinked owlishly at him and Matt couldn't help a slight, sheepish grin. "There's a lot of observations I could be making regarding this whole case, but I'll refrain. Bland case file aside, I want to hear your personal take on what's currently going on before diving head long into the mess of things."

“Far too many people are scared of this man to properly investigate or bring him up on official charges,” L said—but he wasn’t—that was blatantly apparent from the outset. “Equally, given his status and the status of the Yamaguchi-gumi in general, he is also widely respected in his community. This makes prosecuting him in Japan extremely difficult. The only charges that ever seem to apply are charges of extortion and racketeering—there is no evidence to pin any of his prior murders on him…the one viable witness who ever saw him actively kill someone, will not go public. I had a case ready to prosecute—one of his subordinates took the fall, and the case fell apart. Hence, he walks free—again.”

L was pursuing this man with a passion that probably would have had Kira all shades of jealous—in fact, it probably would have had Kira killing Morimoto to ensure the spotlight would land back on him. However, given the circumstances, it seemed if Kira had the nerve to do such a thing, L would probably resort to drastic measures to punish him for it. This was L’s ‘kill’ so to speak. It was written plainly on his face.

Of course, via the file, Matt’s previous question had been answered—Morimoto was indeed, painfully aware the detective had been pursuing him all this time, and seemed to delight in a game of cat and mouse as much as Kira did. Kira’s predecessor then it seemed—only L enjoyed playing with Kira (if one could call it that), L did not enjoy playing with Morimoto. The body count might have been less—Morimoto, though having greenlit plenty of hits in his time, truly only pulled the trigger on rare occasion, especially rare after he was endlessly promoted up the ladder. Killing became too messy, and was quite frankly, beneath him. His youth had conceded otherwise, according to L’s observations in the file—but one murder stood out because, as L had just mentioned, there was indeed, a surviving witness who would not testify.

The victim had been a French-Korean, abducted from—of all unlikely places—the Oxford University campus. Apparently Morimoto had a taste for intellect—would seem so, only the more brilliant among them climbed Yakuza ranks. He was in his thirties by this point, in England, on business when he met the girl. The file went hazy in the period of and after her abduction—as would be expected, a great deal was made about it in the press, but she vanished without a trace. L’s efforts picked up her trail in Japan, where Morimoto had taken her, and seemed to indicate she either was or was not forced into prostitution—hence fuzzy, too fuzzy for someone so precise and methodical as L, to practically blank out portions of the notes, only to later indicate that Morimoto himself killed the girl—a bullet to the head—before a single witness (referred to only as Witness A in the files) nearly 6 years after her initial abduction. Her body was never found, and the extraneous and rather circumstantial evidence that any of this happened at all seemed to hinge on the witness themselves. Matt could only assume L had found and interrogated Witness A, but could not go ahead with the case because the witness would not go public.

Seeing as this could take a little while, Matt pulled the messenger bag over his head, dropping it next to a chair once the laptop was freed from its confines. He set it down on the table but did not open it, favoring his coffee just a while longer. “L,” he said after a minute, running over the recently absorbed details. “We’re all still alive and kicking, whether by dumb luck or skill, I don’t care, so I will not begin to question your judgment now, but I must ask…” and he paused briefly, glimpsing up and over one of the detective’s open screens at him. “Just how personal is this case?”

Sure, Matt might have been stepping toward uncharted territory, tripping over the ‘no trespassing’ sign and falling face-first into it, but even he was allowed his moments of bluntness ever so often. And while he would have never been so forward with L in the past, the last couple of months had made one hell of a difference. Close proximity with someone tended to do that. “I ask not because I’ve begun to dissect the file, although you know best of anyone that not to do so at least on some level is practically impossible, but because twenty-two years of chasing someone down is a bloody long time and while none of us might know your actual age, you can’t be that much older. Which,” he continued after a sip of coffee. “Makes it a damned personal case given only by the speculation of how young you could have been at the initial stages.”

L’s eyes darted up, and somewhat fiercely; he seemed to wrestle not with how much he wanted to say but how much he could say and Matt almost got the sense that the entirety of it was right there on the tip of L’s tongue; but he reigned it in. “I was 8,” he said, “When I took the case. It was not my first, but my second—my second case out of nearly 4,000, and it’s unresolved.” He paused, frowning, and the dim lighting made the frown deeper than it was…or perhaps it didn’t. “There’s a lot not in the file,” he said at last.

“I assumed as much,” Matt responded.

L paused, trying to pick his way around the subject, he realized after a moment, that he just couldn’t, not with any precise detail, so he explained in his patented roundabout way. Deep breath. “Watari taught at Oxford 30 years ago.” He said. “He knew the woman abducted from campus by Morimoto—she was a favorite student of his.”

Matt wanted to return his seat to the original upright position, except the seat wasn’t adjustable. Watari being a part of the puzzle made things want to fit almost instinctively in his mind, but he held off, and let L speak.

“Watari was close with her,” L went on. “—Soo-Min.” She didn’t have a last name, it wasn’t in the file, and ironically—as Matt had instinctually investigated what he assumed would be old news reports of her gone missing, nothing of what he found mentioned her family name either. As though she just didn’t have one, or someone went through pains to keep it out of the news… or even delete it in hindsight.

“She was very highly connected in France,” L said, mind-reader that he was, “as her French-Russian father was an esteemed nuclear physicist, later hired by the military and buried under deep cover. That’s why her name is incomplete in all documentations—there are matters of international security at stake.” The explanation was rather fast and seemed right on cue with what Matt was thinking—which ultimately seemed convenient. L continued regardless.

“Watari was aware, as he had met her father on several occasions to discuss some technology he’d been developing while at Oxford—also highly confidential. Ironically, none of this has anything to do with Morimoto—which is why the police never sniffed out his trail. They assumed Soo-Min’s abduction was a ransom plot gone awry and was intrinsically linked to her father and his top secret work in the French government. Watari was the only one to figure otherwise. Soo-Min had told him of Morimoto, he’d charmed her at a banquet dinner she’d attended as a guest speaker, an honor she was awarded as a result of a prestigious competition she had won at Oxford. When she vanished, it was Watari who went looking into Yakuza involvement based on what he ultimately discovered about Morimoto. He found it, only it took him several years. Unlike me, Watari did not have any means aside from himself and a few worldly connections at his disposal. He got involved in dangerous business—and he managed, once in Japan, to infiltrate the Yakuza in a highly creative way.”

Matt was doing the math as this story unfurled, and a fairly dark conclusion about the whole thing kept springing—albeit murkily—to his mind; but he kept forcing it down. The elements were there however—levels of brilliance in particular that had the nagging voices nibbling rabidly on the back of his brain. Korean-French-Russian students at Oxford, nuclear physicist fathers in highly classified government programs… missing names…Yakuza involvement… Watari… 30 years… he didn’t give the conclusion coherency—and that was deliberate—but it kept coming back to two simple words: oh fuck.

“Watari infiltrated the Yakuza on his own?” Matt was trying to ask the right questions and play dumb—that never really worked with L.

The detective looked at him, looked at him deeply—he was waiting for Matt to say something else, and perhaps debating on whether or not to continue. There was really only one more thing he had to say to make it all click… “He did. When Watari found Soo-Min, she had a child.”

Matt heard the bomb dropping somewhere just out of distance. L could probably see that he’d stopped breathing, or had to consciously remember to breathe. Oh damn—damn damn damn damn damn. “Had she really been kidnapped?” He asked tentatively.

“No,” L said flatly. “Not at first. She’d begun an affair of her own volition—but being Yakuza, and being who he was, Morimoto took her with him, back to Japan, against her will, and kept her from her own life. So in that sense, yes, she was a prisoner. After he realized she was pregnant with a son, there was no way he would let her go—he wanted his heir. Watari found her, and was able to convince Morimoto to hire him as a personal tutor for the child—and in the meantime, he planned to help both Soo-Min and her son to escape Japan and go back to England with him. Or back to France where she would be better protected. As you can see from the inevitable conclusion—the plan did not go so well. Morimoto shot her point-blank in the head as she was trying to escape. Thankfully, Watari got away.”

There was a deadened pause.

“And the child?” Matt managed at last.

L looked at him steadily—long and hard and very steadily. “Is there really a need to ask?” he said.

Ok. Making a deduction when the pieces all headed in that general direction was one thing, but to have L freely volunteer this sort of information when he had always been so goddamned reserved was something altogether different. “…I suppose not,” he said, followed by a hissed “Shit…” under his breath.

All right, so L had been chasing down his own father—a Yakuza Crime Boss who murdered his mother—since he was eight years old. Nothing wrong with that. Jesus Christ. Matt’s head was spinning, but to his credit, he kept his composure level pretty goddamned high. He did, however, light up a cigarette because goddamnit, it was needed.

Of course L could have sidestepped that entire explanation. The redhead had asked a relatively simple question and given the older man’s pesky habit of skirting around topics, it was a surprise in and of itself that L hadn’t avoided the revelation completely. Why he didn’t was something Matt was not really ready to entertain—one thing at a time.

So personal then? Yes. Quite. Shit. “All right…” the redhead managed after several puffs, dropping his ashes into a mostly-empty cup. “I assume I’ll be working seven hours ahead, which means,” he paused briefly to check the watch at his wrist to do the math. “I’ve got under six hours – maybe five - to get myself set up and get some shut eye.” And it wasn’t a complaint. In fact, if one were to look closely, there was even some semblance of bristling excitement in the fact that there would be something more to do than monitor Near every hour of the day. After a while, there was only so much of it Matt could take. And while it wasn’t the same life or death situation Mello had the tendency of putting them in while making similar requests in the past, it was something to do.

“I’ll leave Linda with two of the laptops and set up the rest of the work room. It might look a bit different by the time I’m done come morning.” He was up again, practically downing the coffee. “I’ve never worked with field ops I didn’t know, so any information you can provide me with will help. I’ll need to know who’s out there, strengths, weaknesses, fears, etc. If it’s games we’ll be playing, then by all means let’s see it.” The coffee was finished, he turned to face L, standing on the opposite side of the desk. If there was anything he was good at, it was this. Matt was in his element and had yet to begin.

“Unrecorded details will not leave this room unless you choose to disclose them out of your own accord,” he said at last.

“Appreciated,” L muttered. His attention back on the screen. “And also,” he added, “Don’t pin any hopes on Witness A, there is absolutely no way he can testify.”

“Understood,” Matt said, his gaze softening ever slightly as he peered down at his mentor. Another bit of the mystery had been chipped away. “Go ahead and patch me through. I’ll start setting everything up.”

Outside, halfway down the main staircase, Matt stopped a moment, reeling his mind back in from where it had taken a leap out the bloody window. L had just… revealed not only a little snippet of himself but his very origins. Bloody fucking hell, Matt could hardly begin to understand it, but he took it in stride, and seeing as he had practically promised to keep this knowledge to himself, there was no time to visibly react with Linda still around.

As predicted she was still in the workroom, no longer doubled over her computer but sitting on the couch, both feet up on its edge with a sketch pad resting against her knees. She looked up from her work, curiosity bristling.

Matt did not give her an immediate explanation, however and without warning shut down the three main desktop computers and rearranged the desks to rest against the wall which had already been equipped with built in flat screen monitors. He would be installing three more before the end of the night.

“What the hell…” she asked, tossing the sketchpad down on the couch as she turned to kneel against the cushions and watch as Matt pulled a second desk perpendicular to the first, creating a comfortable little nook for himself. As warned, the desktops were gutted, much to Linda’s horror.

“Field op support,” was all he could tell her for the moment, holding a cigarette between his lips as he worked with quick efficiency. Of course it was his PS3 that made it up on the large screen first, but the booting screens soon followed. The chair was wheeled over and he fell into it, turning around to face the less cluttered desk where the laptops soon took care of that particular problem. The ashtray joined soon thereafter, links were up within minutes and a mixture of high res satellite images and identity profiles littered the screens. “Now we’re talking…” Matt practically purred, all too entirely at home amidst the stream of visual information that would likely drive anyone else mad. “As a heads up,” he said without turning around. “My schedule’s going to be all sorts of fucked from now on.”

“I assumed as much.” Linda was already peering with interest at the screens.

“You’re all we’ve got to keep an eye on Near now,” Matt muttered.

“Yea, yea,” Linda chuckled and gathered up her books, setting everything neatly down on the coffee table, keeping only her sketchpad firmly held under her arm. “I’ll leave you to it. Will be in my room.” The faintest nod was the only indication Matt he had heard her.

* * *

It was several hours later that Linda needed a break from surveillance. She wasn’t quite sure how Matt did it, but for the most part, she found it inconceivably boring. Watching a genius at work—and especially a genius like Near—consisted of watching him build cities out of legos and then knocking them down with toy robots. It wasn’t like he spoke aloud what he was thinking, or even what he was planning. He seemed to be keeping tabs on Bella and her Church, but anything much more than that was not going on at that particular moment. So Linda excused herself to go for tea.

The halls were quiet. Dr. Gregory had occupied himself in the library, and Mello was quite MIA…come to think of it, so too was Light. Linda stopped with that thought and wondered if she should worry, based on Light’s demeanor throughout the day. They’d been fighting, or so she assumed—maybe they were making amends, of course that notion brought a blush to her face when she recalled the night in the music room. She sighed at the memory of how erotic Light looked naked on Mello’s lap…in the throes of passion…the sex appeal Mello emanated in droves… she had to bite her lip to bring her thoughts back down to earth.

Matt was terribly focused as she passed him in the work room, smoking like a chimney, checking from monitor to monitor to monitor. It had been quite some time, but he was truly enthralled with whatever L had employed him with…which brought the detective to mind. Whatever was going on, Linda had no idea—it seemed quite obviously confidential between the two of them now, but L’s behavior was disturbing enough to cause concern.

So Linda made an extra cup of tea, loaded a tray up with some sweets, and used that as an excuse to go check on him.

The room was dark save for the fierce glow of laptop activity, and L, though in his usual seat, was actually quite passed out on the table top. Long arm stretched across polished wood, head leaning on the mound of his extended limb, soft shag of hair covering half his face. Linda stood for a moment to watch him and found herself admiring the way the shadows fell against his lips… oh godamnit, what was wrong with her all of a sudden? Thoughts of Light and Mello and now L?

Waking him was certainly out of the question, but as she approached to place the tea cup quietly upon the table, she could not help but realize that this was the first time she had caught him asleep with the exception of the highly unfortunate event of a couple of days prior. She could not help but linger just a short while longer, studying those features she rarely ever got a chance to truly look at – not without those dark, deep set eyes blinking owlishly at her in some way that would send her thoughts tumbling elsewhere. He wasn’t rumored to be the most peaceful of sleepers, but just then the detective seemed quiet enough. Linda allowed a small smile, finding herself foolish as she studied the contours of his features – not so odd after all without the intent misleading expressions.

Damnit. These surroundings just were not healthy for a girl. Too much sexual energy flying around four extremely good looking guys and she was left staring in awe.

Oh Christ. Did she actually just think that? Wincing at the derailing trip her thoughts were taking, Linda backed away, unfolding a thin blanket from a nearby chair to lift it over L’s shoulders before tiptoeing her way out.

* * *

L was certain that if the others knew what he dreamt at night, they wouldn’t let him fall asleep based on sheer principle alone.

There were times he knew he curled tightly into a fetal position, because something was at the bottom of his bed…. He had the sensation he was trying to curl tightly now, but it seemed virtually impossible and he couldn’t figure out why his body just wasn’t listening to him. It made it all the more frustrating because curling into a ball was usually his first line of defense. So when in the darkness of the room, the blanket would move, just near his feet, he at least wouldn’t feel so vulnerable.

He was usually alone when this happened, and it was always his room at Wammy’s House, and never one of the myriad of hotel rooms he was so used to occupying. And it always began the same; he would curl up at the headboard, and the blankets would move there at the bottom—imperceptibly at first, and then a tug.

Depending on the dream, a deathly pale hand might eventually come over the edge and grab his ankle. That shock was usually enough to wake him. That was when the nightmare was merciful. It was the seamless cut, between the moving blanket and the figure crouching there, when the dream would persist.

L couldn’t necessarily say that had it been real he would have behaved differently, he wouldn’t be frozen, curled at the headboard, eyes riveted to the opaque crouching shadow that just seemed to sway—gaze trained on him, unmoving, predatory. He couldn’t say he would shove the figure away or kick it to the floor, because as nightmarish a sight as it was—it had been real once, and he hadn’t kicked it to the floor.

The difference was, when B would stop swaying and lunge from the shadows at him, his face was usually hideous—as hideous as dreams could warp a thing, bloodied and drooling jam, eyes bulging red and maniacal. His tongue would drop to his lap as if he had no jaw, and he usually grabbed L by the shirt collar, and would proceed to tear and eviscerate and eat him all the while telling him how sweet he tasted.

After that, L usually woke up.

On occasion however, over B’s shoulder, as he was being devoured, L would see Kira’s silhouette leaning nonchalantly in the doorway, opaque and backlit, his gaze red like a shinigami, just watching. If L ever managed to reach a gory, mangled limb up at him in a vain plea for help, Kira would just stand there—and laugh.

After that, L usually woke up.
And maybe Linda heard him start as she was on her way out, and maybe she didn’t…

Had it been any less quiet in the hall she would have undoubtedly missed it. But the sharp intake of breath was just loud enough that she paused, glimpsing behind her to see L start awake. That was all it took for Linda and she pushed the door back open as it was about to shut and hurried in, frightened perhaps by the brief, misplaced look of horror upon L’s features before consciousness settled and the world came back to normal.

"L," Linda said quietly, couching down beside the chair so she could look up to him, worry evident in her eyes. She'd seen too much during her short stay here already, so the worry was justifiable. Who would have thought. "Are you all right?" And because he did not reply immediately, Linda nodded toward the steaming cup of sugary tea she'd left behind. "I came up to bring you some tea... hope I didn't wake you." Ah. If only she knew that infinite insomnia was a blessing.

L blinked down at her, “No, I’m glad you did,” and he didn’t mean the tea, which was something that seemed visibly dawn in the sympathy on Linda’s face—sympathy L avoided, his gaze trailing back to the laptop the screens. Of course, if he hadn’t looked surprised upon waking, he certainly looked surprised the minute Linda threw her arms around his neck.

She wasn’t sure why exactly she did it—it was suddenly a need in her, had been lingering since Light’s vulnerability all day—to see Kira and now L looking so lost and vulnerable prompted the nurturing aspect in her, and she couldn’t help it—when she was angry, she cooked, when she was nurturing she started hugging people—didn’t matter who they were.

As a little girl at Wammy’s Linda never really thought she’d ever actually throw her arms around L one day, despite how many times she’d thought of it—dreamy idol worship, adolescent puppy crush, her reasons would flux, but she’d thought of it especially if he was there at the orphanage. She remembered seeing him once late at night, carrying Mello to his bed one of those times Mello had had the guts to disturb him, badger him with blunt questions and fall asleep on L’s desk. It made her realize L did have the ability to actually reach out and touch people—for some reason, most of the kids thought he didn’t.

Linda didn’t actually give the current embrace much prior thought, but her brain slowed down to analyze the minute she had her arms around him. He was deceptively solid beneath the white cotton shirt, the strong lean tone of a trained and capable body—Matt had mentioned that L was a martial artist, she believed it now. And his hair was soft and feathery, and smelled sort of like sugar, in fact, he himself sort of smelled like sugar, but that also could have been the tea steaming right in front of him. It was the warmth of him in general, the smoothness of his jaw as she brushed against it that made him more real than he’d ever been in the past, and Linda chomped on her lip at that moment, both because she was happy to suddenly hug him, and because she realized she had just set herself up to be utterly mortified.

“Uh,” L managed, “I’m okay, Linda.”

Oh God, did she really just hug L? Was she really still hugging L because to pull away with this abysmal sense of awkwardness would have her fainting with embarrassment on the spot. Suddenly Linda didn’t know what to do, and wondered how the physics would work out so she could shrink away to nothing and just disappear through the floor.

L probably sensed that mentality, and although he’d gone completely rigid when she glomped him, his tension eased up and he rubbed her back gently, to assure her he wasn’t going to eat her alive the minute she let go. “I’m fine,” he repeated, “It’s normal.”

“Oh,” she managed, trying to pull away with as much dignity as she could possibly hold together. Something told her hugging Kira would have been easier. Ha. Thankfully the room was dark enough to hide the bright, pink flush in her cheeks, though she was sure L felt her heart pounding at that moment. Hopefully he’d attribute it to anxiety, hopefully he’d pretend he didn’t feel it at all—he was good at that.

She untangled herself from him, and was very much unprepared to meet his gaze—mercifully, he wasn’t giving her one of those owl-looks, he just looked tired and slightly grim, but not really at her.

“Sorry,” she said, “You looked like you needed it.”

He blinked. “Did I?”

Oh the dumb route, she could reel herself back in that way, she almost wanted to thank him for it. “Yeah.”

“Ah, okay,” he clacked the keyboard. “Thanks then.”

“Umm, you’re welcome,” she tried not to make it sound like it was a question. Tried to make it sound like she knew what she was doing all along, and that she hadn’t wanted to do that since she was little.

“Thanks for the tea, too,” he said, and he was no longer looking at her. That was her escape route.

“I’m gonna get back to work,” she managed, slinking away, there was still that mildly horrified grit in her gait trying to smooth her out of her awkwardness.

“Linda?” L called from behind.

“Yes, L?” She turned from the doorway, and from this distance he looked rather ghostly in the shadows.

He hesitated. “It’s late, you should get some sleep…and try not to dream about B—it’s unhealthy.”

If Linda was at all startled by that comment, to her credit she played it off rather well, flashing him a small albeit reassuring smile. "G'night, L..." she murmured, slinking toward the door to close it quietly behind her. Outside, she took several moments to recap what had just happened in there, the awkwardness of it coupled with just a few more notches of insight she gained to the great mystery that was L. She paced back to her room along the opposite wing, noting for the second time that the bedroom Matt and Mello shared was notably empty as the blonde’s personal study had been. She allowed her thoughts to linger on that particular detail just a moment longer, pushing her door open. Her chambers were alight, two monitors alive and streaming live footage from the desk, a sketchpad tossed on the bed, several books stacked on the small table near the window. It was that window she turned to, instinctively hugging herself and suddenly reflecting on the feel of a surprisingly solid form in her arms only short minutes prior.

Linda blushed again. Christ, the things she did in the spur of the moment! She really needed to do something about that, it was just awkward to go around hugging people without thinking of the consequences, and while she could get away with it under most circumstances, it nevertheless left her fidgeting in the aftermath. Goddamnit.

Exhaling, Linda pried open her armoire to slip into something more comfortable, then with a last glimpse toward the monitors, flicked their brightness down and climbed into bed, tugging the sketch pad onto her uplifted knees.

* * *

The lack of annoyingly bright light shining somewhere beyond his stubbornly shut eyelids indicated that it was still dark and thus a damned good reason not to get up. Sounded good. Sure. But it was the familiar scent of cologne that penetrated his senses and woke him just a bit more. Matt sure as hell did not wear Egoist.

Lashes fluttered against bare skin rather than a pillow case. The same smooth, warm skin that rose and fell with each breath beneath his hand. Mello blinked and the world caught up at last.

Oh.

The bedroom was shadowed; its only source of illumination the dim light that snuck through the open door from the living room where ample lighting had been required some time earlier. What time was it, even? Hell, did it even matter at this point? Mello glanced up at last as his eyes adjusted to the darkness. It was enough to see by, especially when those familiar features had been committed to memory years ago. But he still followed the line of Light's jaw, marveled and amused yet again by just how goddamned peaceful the bastard looked in sleep. But he was ignoring what had just happened, wasn't he?

Ignoring the details because for a while it had felt like a dream, and Mello would wake in his own bed wondering just what had brought on such a thing. But it wasn't a dream. Not by a long shot and Light's body was too warm, too comfortable to let go of. Shit. This was bad. Beyond bad into the realms of monumental fuck up. Mello should have known better. He should have gone about things differently but... god it had felt right. It had felt downright wonderful and, he added mentally, reaching up to touch the trail of dried tears upon his cheeks, necessary. Worth it.

Mello surprised even himself then. Shifting only slightly to lean up and press a kiss to Light's brow, which furrowed ever so slightly with the disturbance. "What am I going to do with you..." the blonde whispered faintly, breath hot against the crook of Light’s neck as Mello sank back down to his original position, pressed closely against the side of his lover's frame.

Was it too early to consider the ramifications of this? Yes, probably. Most definitely, since Mello found himself gazing at the elegant curve of Light’s throat, found himself brushing his fingers through the wispy strands of hair that feathered Light’s handsome silhouette.

Light squirmed a bit in his sleep—ticklish even in his dreams, and Mello couldn’t help but smile, trailing his lips against those sharp curves of defined features, he heard Light’s breath quicken the more attention he lavished on him, until Light was stretching and waking rather sleepily to see Mello hovering just there, arms already around him, body pressed warmly to his own.

Light blinked to focus a bit, and then that small smooth smile spread those lips. “Hi,” he murmured.

Mello’s chuckle was a quiet rumble in his throat. “Hi…” he returned, delightfully surprised by the fact that there was no immediate outrage, no awkwardness, nor strained silence between them. “I’ve no damn idea what time it is.” Mello muttered, rising just enough to glimpse over Light’s frame in hopes that there was a visible clock upon the nightstand. As if it were even a main importance. No. Not hardly. The search party hadn’t come after them yet, so he supposed it was all right.

Besides, it was much more comfortable to rest back down and let those fingers trail against Light’s neck, winding in and out of his hair. But there was one thing that did matter. Green eyes were lifted, his expression no longer playful. “…are you all right?” he asked him quietly, ready for the near immediate tensing of his body. Mello wasn’t about to let go, however, offering little room for escape.

Light’s eyes widened slightly, and there was that hitch of breath as he sought the quickest way out of the question—Mello had called attention to his bout of overbearing weakness, and that always made Light uncomfortable; he liked to pretend he had no weaknesses… but what had happened between them couldn’t just slide could it? Even if the glowy aftermath felt good at that moment; even if it was easier for Light to pretend that half of what happened had not happened quite like that—the crying most likely forefront.

His long pause was keenly felt by Mello, who was ready to shore up his defenses if the need arose. Light winced, perfect white teeth caught a plump bottom lip and he twisted to face the window—the moonlight pouring blue down onto the trees outside.

“I don’t know,” he said at last. But he didn’t try to pull away, infact, his grip on Mello’s arm was firm, and he rolled to his side, pulling Mello over to spoon against him from behind. Mello draped himself easily over Light’s lithe body, his lips aberrantly finding tender places to kiss. He entwined his fingers with Light’s against the pillow and while it should have been surprising—these exchanges of affection—it felt far too natural now.

“I honestly don’t know what alright is anymore,” Light murmured.

“I’m not asking you the meaning of life here, Light,” Mello returned quietly, lips moving against his shoulder. “I just want to know if you are all right, not the rest of the bloody world…” His grip tightened reassuringly around his lover’s frame. Mello peered down at him, watching closely, intently. That look sincere rather than a display of who could play the games longest. It was past that now. Very much so. “If you need to talk, then do so. If you need to go on an endless ranting tirade, then by all means…” and this time Mello flashed him a smirk, leaning down to brush his lips against his lover’s temple. “You could even start it with, “You’re such a bloody arsehole.” But I might not let you get away with it.”

Light’s gaze slid over to him, and he couldn’t contain the small chuckle at that. “Another time and place, maybe,” he murmured softly. “Though I’ll take a rain check on slurring the insults at you." He smirked smartly before his face fell a bit, and he tightened his grip on Mello's arm. "I’m not being massively philosophical here…or maybe I am…but the point is, I don’t really know how to answer that.”

“You’re being difficult,” Mello muttered, but his tone was still understanding and supportive.

“I’m being honest,” Light returned. “Not too long ago, ‘alright’ was what I was when killing hundreds of people a day and progressing toward my ultimate goal—if that’s still ‘alright’, then no, I guess I’m not. However, if I change my definition, I suppose I’m more confused than ever, but at this moment, yes, I’m alright here in your arms.”

Nothing was ever simple when it came to him. Nevertheless, Mello rested his head on Light’s shoulder, his embrace tight and anchoring, even as a tender thumb stroked the strong, elegant tendons in Light’s graceful hand. Light paused a moment longer, listening to Mello’s silence. “And I also meant what I said earlier,” he finished.

Shit. Mello stilled despite himself, his breath hitching briefly in his throat for just a few notable moments before he released it, warm against smooth golden skin. So he was not only fully conscious of what he had said, he reinforced it now when it could not be excused in the throes of passion. "...I know." Mello said quietly after a while and his grip tightened ever slightly, resuming the easy strokes along Light's knuckles before that too stopped in favor of clasping that hand more tightly. "Goddamnit, I know..." he breathed, turning his head slightly so that his words were muffled by the crook of his lover's neck.

Why must it always be so bloody complicated?

Light’s breathing shallowed as Mello’s embrace tightened, and it was only a moment before he twisted back to wrap his arms around Mello in earnest, the two of them winding against each other—their bodies fitting so well—and Light rested his head on Mello’s chest, but didn’t say anything, in fact, neither of them said anything more, and both were hoping things would make better sense in the morning.

* * *

Matt never went to bed—but he did completely pass out on the couch in front of the lap tops, video game on pause, mid-boss fight, which only proved just how damn tired he was. Linda passed by on her way to an early breakfast, and stopped long enough to cover him. There went that nurturing thing again. The redhead mumbled something in his sleep that sounded like cockney rhyming slang, but was hard to make out with his face flattened into the cushion, so Linda let it go and continued to the veranda.

Early morning breakfasts in the warming sunlight were a quiet pleasure for her—a chance to pull her brain together for whatever the new day would bring, and around here, one could never tell.

She’d already flipped through her sketch book from the night before, it was often the case that she was unaware what she’d drawn until she looked at it the next day—and it was always the case that her drawings communicated her unconscious so she could better analyze her own frame of mind.

So yesterday’s charcoal haul consisted of a shadowy impressionistic sketch of Mello in the window of his study, a half-line scribble of Matt playing video games, 2 soft deeply toned portraits of Light with that vulnerable look in his eyes….and no less than 10 different angles of… L. Shit. Apparently the detective had had more of an effect on her lastnight than even the mysterious defenselessness of Kira. She’d tricked herself into thinking otherwise, but the sketch pad never lied.

Linda of course had to wonder then, if her drawings had completely romanticized the attractiveness of L’s actual features—her brain had a tendency to elaborate, and the softly tonal drawings of him sleeping certainly made him seem a lot prettier than her usual waking impressions of him did. So when she stepped out onto the veranda and saw him standing there quietly, staring out over the vineyard, slightly slouched, hands in his jeans pockets, it gave her a moment to confirm if she had been fantasizing or not.

And that answer was….a definitive no. She hadn’t.

Damnit.

Of course she had the chance of sneaking back inside and... and what? Go directly to work on an empty stomach and barely coherent brain? Unlikely. Plus, it would look suspicious. He would know she was there. He always knew, one way or another, even if he did not bother to acknowledge her at all. Thus, gathering her wits about her and pressing the sketch book firmly shut, Linda proceeded out onto the veranda and dropped the pad onto her usual table. "Morning," she called with her usual good-natured cheerfulness. "I was just about to make myself some breakfast, would you like some—ah, why am I even asking." She laughed at her own lack of tact, hoping that it would not sound as nervous as she felt. Why the hell should she even be nervous?

Goddamnit Linda, pull it together!

So rather than wait for a response, she turned on her heel and hurried back inside where the kitchen would offer refuge. If only for a little while. Cabinets were opened, tea brewed and before long, pancakes were being dropped onto two different plates - although one of those plates could no longer be seen beneath the onslaught of three large pancakes and an assortment of nutella, whipped cream and fresh strawberries. She even sprinkled powdered sugar on top for that extra touch of sweet goodness.

It wasn't until she was piling it all onto a tray to be carried outside that Linda realized just how much thought she had placed into the otherwise simple dish.

Damnit.

The tea was just right, steaming and sugary. The pancakes a delightful sight to behold, and she had even included a scoop of strawberry swirl ice cream on the edge of the heaping plate. She cursed herself as she set it down on the table, removing her less elaborate breakfast off the tray. "Here you go," she announced, sinking into her usual seat.

If ever there was a way to a man’s heart through his stomach—L was that man. In her rush from the veranda, though, Linda had missed the perplexed owlish look that followed her nervousness. He’d of course heard her come out, knew she was fidgeting, understood she was still mortified—but L’s brain was really a million miles away, so he didn’t pay her any attention until he heard the too-cheerful, jittery tremor in her voice, and turned just in time to see her hop back into the villa like a bunny on speed.

When she returned, the detective still looked rather broody until he set his sights (though most likely his sweet-tuned nose caught on first) on the unparalleled breakfast she placed before him.

“Oh, you’ve outdone yourself,” he said, in that low British lilt, climbing into the chair opposite her.

Linda realized she was holding her breath, and chastised herself yet again for being this way around him all of a sudden. He was L, he was no different from the L she’d grown up idolizing, and the L who took pleasure mortifying everyone every chance he got. No different still from the L who seemed to approach his breakfast with a strategy, parting layers, finding hidden sweets, digging the strawberry swirl out of the rest of the ice cream to devour it in pieces. He licked his fingers as though everything were perfectly normal, and Linda was not sitting there anxiously attempting to be nonchalant. He angled his head back to drop a strawberry down his throat, and Linda found herself admiring the smooth, pale column of his neck.

This. Was. Not. Normal.

Linda wished she believed herself—after all, every time she flinched at the notion she found L attractive, her brain would counter with the all-too-strong argument, that so—apparently—did Kira. Kira, smooth, seductive, sex-on-legs-Kira, was absolutely smitten with L … there was the brilliance factor to consider. All evidence seemed to indicate that they’d fallen for each other’s minds…Linda had seen enough to understand that was only a fraction of the matter; so her counter argument continued to hold water. Kira found L attractive and desirable, so why couldn’t she?

The list was too long to comprehend…and was interrupted by the object of her sudden, uncomfortable admiration mumbling around a mouthful of pancakes:

“If you need to ask me anything about B, now would be a good time to do it.”