-_Two Faces of Genius_-
Description: Backup was supposed to be just that: his backup. He was the one person that L should have been able to trust without reservation. But no… This child had to make things personal. Had to pull their relationship out of the professional and into the intimate—and the hell if L Lawliet didn't let him.
Author's Note: (Disclaimer) I do not own anything related to Death Note, or Another Note: The Los Angeles BB Murder Cases… though I do intend to take full credit for the mental instability that is the mother of this fic.
Warnings: BB/L (slow building, non-explicit... but still seriously creepy in later chapters), Mature Themes, and Very Slow Updates.
And much love goes to my three fantastic betas (without whom, this fic would never have seen the light of day, so this means lots of love): MiaoShou, Subliminal Decree and Bloodshot Eyes.
Chapter One
If you can't dazzle the world with your knowledge, then baffle them with your bullshit. ~Unknown.
December 15, 1994
Exhaustion dulled eyes stared intently at the luminous computer monitor sitting on the cumbersome desktop computer before them. Endless lines of text skimmed up the screen, reflected clearly in the dilated pupils of the pale faced youth sitting cross-legged on the soft grey carpet. Slender fingertips skimmed across the beige keyboard with purpose. He ignored the gritty feel of sleep deprived eyes and squinted at the monitor, silently demanding that the machine before him surrender the answers that he so determinedly sought.
L Lawliet sighed and raked his far too long, black hair away from his face. This had to end. Soon. Assassinations, suicide bombings—he had barely managed to prevent that catastrophe with the large scale plane bombings last week. L clicked through the reports from various informants. Istaique Parker was useless now; he had not heard from the man since the incident on the eleventh, which meant he had most probably been discovered and murdered. As cruel as it might sound, the adolescent detective hoped that he had been killed. The alternative was the man being tortured for days—maybe weeks—for answers that he did not have… L frowned and pushed the thought away. He could not help him now; dwelling on it would do nothing but bring a bitter taste to his mouth.
The lights were off, leaving the two computers as the only source of illumination in the cramped motel room. A light chill had settled into his work area when he could not be bothered to turn up the thermostat and the only sounds were the soft hum of the computers and tick of an unseen clock. He clicked on a file containing the profile he had been slowly compiling over the years.
The teenager did not typically waste his time with something as petty as terrorists. Casualties could be counted on one hand, per operation… but this man was different. It was not just the haphazard desperation of an oppressed civilian driving him. Ramzi Ahmed Karim was intelligent; a top graduate from Cambridge and Oxford. The plan L had managed to interrupt at the last minute had been nothing short of brilliant, and had been years in the making. If Karim had been able to accomplish his task, he could have easily slaughtered over four thousand people within three hours. He was still trying to find evidence as to how the organization procured funding for such a large scale operation… but that was not his main concern. His first goal was to find Karim.
L chewed absently on a thumbnail as he tagged Armaldo Fortalini on the end of the ever growing list of pseudonyms the terrorist employed, and proceeded to type up a warning to the Italian Intelligence Agencies to remain alert for the man. It was very unlikely that Karim would be foolish enough to turn up after using such a blatantly Italian name, but he had been known to slip past authorities before by doing the unexpected and L refused to disregard a possibility due to small percentages.
A small smirk tugged at L's lips as he sifted through past reports to determine where Karim may have gone. Bangkok, England, United States, France… The man was clever. He spoke at least six languages fluently—almost as many as the detective himself—and seemed to have an infinite list of forged passports at his disposal. It was not impossible to locate him, only unavoidably difficult. The young detective was reluctant to believe the man had moved back to the western side of the world. That would be foolhardy. Thus, if he considered the past locations and…
The white coffeemaker on the counter announced the completion of his much needed caffeine. L blinked at the gargling machine for a few seconds. He slowly levered himself up from the floor, and paused as a brief moment of vertigo assaulted him. Not good. The young detective shuffled carefully over to the counter, still running facts through a mental filter as he tried to ignore the irrational melancholy that was attempting to settle in. It was the fatigue talking, nothing more. Fatigue, and the mildly irritating fluctuations of hormones in his bloodstream.
L's legs felt like gelatin as he poured the concentrated coffee into a large mug. The teenager hoisted the mug and downed the contents in three mouthfuls. The scalding liquid seared his throat, snapping the foggy veil from his thoughts in an instant. L set the mug back on the counter and eyed his work station no more than two meters away. He was not going to be capable of moving from there in a couple of hours if he did not sleep soon. There was a simple way to remedy the situation… sleep. Very simple, but not nearly as easy as it sounded. The teenager knew sleep was not an option. He could lie down and close his eyes, but he would still be thinking about the cases.
There was also the fact that he was simply too 'stubborn' to rest anytime soon. With Watari busy interacting with Interpol on the other side of Europe, he was on his own. If he was foolish enough to work himself into a semi-comatose state because he had not planned ahead, he rather doubted he would garner much sympathy in the aftermath.
L abruptly unplugged the coffee machine and lifted it off the counter. It wobbled hazardously as the skinny teenager quickly compensated for the unexpected weight before carefully walking toward the computers with his main energy source. He carefully set the coffeemaker next to the computer on his left and plugged it into the powerbar. Satisfied with that arrangement, L slunk back to the kitchen to grab the coffee tin, some filters and every available foodstuff that could last outside of the refrigerator—which was precious little at the moment, and essentially everything he disliked.
Watari, The Sugar Nazi, had raided the cupboards and stripped the place of everything even remotely unhealthy before he left. Which left L with… crackers… energy bars… vitamin supplements… granola… granola was at least tolerable, but whole-wheat bread? What was he supposed to do with that? Maybe if he smothered it in jam, he could get through the horrible stuff without his stomach attempting to regurgitate it in the next breath…
L sighed impatiently and just added it to the slowly increasing pile around the coffee machine. When L believed himself sufficiently provisioned for the next few days, the detective pulled open the fridge and commandeered the giant bowl of fruit salad lurking on the top shelf. Only then did he allow himself to stray back to the two computers. The fruit bowl took up almost his entire lap as he casually speared a grape and turned his attention back to the digital reports. Slightly shaky hands reached out to pour another mug of coffee before pulling the one-kilogram bag of sugar closer to avoid a mess. His coffee always tasted horrible. Already a thin sludge before he even added the sugar, it was almost as bad as straight espresso. The detective meticulously began spooning tablespoons of glucose into the nearly toxic liquid.
Deneuve had been unusually quiet lately. He had not even managed to procure a physical description of her. There were only two reasons that exceeded twenty percent in explanation. First, she knew who he was and was biding her time. Second, she believed he was getting too close and had gone into hiding.
The black-haired youth slowly chewed a piece of mango; it was almost a meditative exercise as he contemplated the multiple problems at hand. He had to catch her off guard. She was a brilliant, manipulative schemer… but she could not improvise. When plans began to go wrong, she panicked, made mistakes. He had learned as much when all those murders turned up after he'd almost managed to insinuate an agent into that gang…
L paused before bringing up all the flight plans going in and out of Bangkok within the past three weeks. There was roughly a thirteen percent chance that the terrorist had managed to escape within the first or the second day after being discovered. That left a couple dozen destinations, but only a few countries that he may have gone to. America was out of the question. The security was too tight now; it was like trying to get past a bristling, paranoid porcupine. It was not worth his trouble. The most likely candidates were: Australia, England, Scotland, Singapore and China. With only a seven percent chance that the western countries were an option, he had to assume that Scotland and England were out of the question.
L craned his head forward as the red cell phone on his desk top released a high-pitched ring, but otherwise gave no indication he had heard the annoying device. The teen plucked the phone up without hesitation and held it to his ear.
"Oui Watari," He greeted, subconsciously reverting to his first language when speaking with the man: French. "The discussions are going poorly?" It wasn't really a question. Why else would the man contact him? 'Watari' sighed
"What discussion?" The elder asked rhetorically in the same language. "They are arguing like school children, trying to decide who is most at fault for this." L frowned in disappointment.
"They are frightened," the adolescent detective observed.
"It's foolish," L smirked; that had to be one of Wammy's favorite phrases, "Not even a dozen people have been killed by these men and they talk as though they are all about to be murdered in their sleep." L shrugged noncommittally. Psychology told him that it was human nature to panic at the unexpected; it was bred into the genes from when humans were purely herbivorous.
"The terrorists almost succeeded in committing mass homicide. I may have stopped it in time, but the implications will not be lost to anyone with half a mind." L informed him with generic efficiency as he clicked through new information. "They are concerned that I will not always be paying attention to these events, and therefore the next time it happens, it will succeed." L elaborated. Quillsh chose not to comment on L's blatant over-estimation of his own worth; they both knew the detective had happened upon the plot purely by accident when the teen noticed an abnormal influx of funds to an account in the Middle East while attempting to track Deneuve.
"I think you should speak with them." Watari advised. L felt his eyebrows slowly migrate upward in perplexity at the unexpected request. He did not speak with people about cases—not as L, at least. He could appreciate Watari's reasoning behind the suggestion; there was a thirty-eight percent chance that the officials would be reassured upon hearing the detective's direct input. The other sixty-two percent suggested that they would simply panic even more as it would be yet another anomaly thrown into the mix.
"Why else did you bother developing the programs on the laptop?" Watari asked. L sighed. He should have known the technology would work against him. It was meant for private meetings; not addressing the collective lead executives of the world's policing agencies.
"It will make no difference if I were to address the representatives now," L informed the elder man, "and if you reveal a direct connection to me, your life will be placed at a 49.3 percent greater risk."
"L…" Quillish warned. L knew the elder was seconds away from slipping into the patronizing paternal figure that seemed to more frequently annoy him as time went by.
"Watari," The youth did a fair imitation of Quillsh's tone, and waited expectantly for the lecture that usually began with, 'Now listen here, young man…'
But it did not come. The elder simply waited for his young charge to move past that stubborn streak and give him an honest decision; which was a disappointment since L had thought himself beyond such predictability. L sighed again and stared quietly at the monitor before him. "Very well," the fifteen-year-old reluctantly voiced his acceptance, "we will attempt to do this your way."
"Good." The blunt acknowledgement almost made L want to stick his tongue out at the old man.
Almost.
"When will this be taking place?" L heard the muffled sound of a female voice in the background; most likely informing Watari that the break was over. Watari acknowledged the woman in English before switching back to French to finish speaking with L.
"I'll set up the microphones and speakers after this recess; you will hear when it is time to speak."
L reluctantly plugged in the voice-distorting microphone and stared sullenly at the computer before him. Watari was right; something had to be done. Five minutes was all it took to convince him that they would get nowhere without outside intervention. But where to start? The detective would not go so far as to claim that he was nervous. He could speak with people; he did not doubt that in the least. What worried him was that The Detective L did not have a properly developed persona like his other aliases.
Detective L did not speak with people. He simply took the cases and solved them before depositing the evidence at a metaphorical doorstep, addressed To-Whom-It-May-Concern. L was the single persona that he had not bothered to develop a personality for. There was no need for one when L did not have direct contact with anyone except Watari.
"Gentlemen," that was Watari, asking for everyone's attention before L spoke. The teenager waited a few seconds for the bickering to die down, trying to determine exactly what L was supposed to be. Why he had chosen 'L' as the name.
"I am L." He said simply, deciding that English was the logical choice given those assembled. L waited patiently for surprised murmurs to settle. "I am certain you are all aware of the events that unfolded during the eleventh of December," he began, "so I will refrain from repeating them." L briefly considered what they would and would not need to know. They needed to grow some confidence, even if L had to verbally beat it into them. But most of all, they needed to trust him enough to surrender authority, or his plans would never work… "I have narrowed Karim's whereabouts to three locations: Northern China, Singapore and Australia. Therefore, I will require the cooperation of these countries in apprehending the terrorist." Utter silence. There was only a seventeen percent chance that Karim was in one of those countries, but he had to know Karim's whereabouts if he expected Interpol to have confidence in his abilities.
That he might be wrong never occurred to him. He was not wrong, because he could not afford to be.
Murmurs broke out around the room, and though L could not see those assembled, he could hear the quiet skepticism present in their collective voices. No need for concern. He did not need their personal trust, just cooperation… and he knew exactly how to get it.
L was not a person. What he revealed through that laptop was what they knew, and as far as they were concerned, he was the laptop. That he had not yet developed a personality for Detective L was unintentionally his greatest strength. L did not have a personality, because he was a computer. They would never meet him face-to-face; creating a false character would work against him since they would wonder about the person behind the machine. That could not happen. He needed the people he spoke with to focus only on his words, and if they subconsciously did not consider him a real person, they would be more inclined to follow without question.
Men were mortal, fallible. But L was an idea. A symbol. People could put their trust in L because he was a being whose sole purpose and interest was to solve cases. That is what L was to the world: an unexplained enigma that people muttered about in contemplation, but generally ignored until he was needed.
"How does he know that the terrorist is in one of these countries?" The Chinese official inquired in the usual polite, yet derisive, tone. The man was addressing Watari, either believing that L's voice was a recording, or simply refusing to speak with a computer out of misplaced pride.
"After extensive analysis of Karim's past actions and all flight plans within the eleventh and twelfth, I have determined that the terrorist has fled to one of these three countries." L droned, easily switching from English to flawless Mandarin to address the skeptic.
"That is mere speculation." Said the representative from Singapore as the translation finally came through. There were some murmurs of agreement, but most seemed to be relatively open to new ideas.
"There is a seventy-eight percent chance that this assumption is correct." The young detective blatantly lied, continuing in English. He imagined Watari staring disapprovingly at the laptop screen from under his disguise. "Had Karim remained in Bangkok, I am certain that local authorities would have taken him into custody by now. This indicates that the terrorists must have escaped within the first two days when national security was unable to sufficiently respond to the threat." The Americans made a snide comment in response to that, once again inciting another round of inane bickering. L sat for a minute or two, listening as the arguments slowly escalated. "Watari?" He asked for the Englishman's attention under the drone of angry voices. No one paid any heed to his little computer.
"Yes?" The man's voice was quiet, attempting to avoid attention.
"Could you turn up the speakers?" It wasn't really a request. There was a pause as Watari considered the thinly veiled order for a second.
"Very well," Watari replied. L nodded in appreciation (although his elder could not see him) and waited until the angry yells and demands on the other end of the line reached a peak.
"Enough." He said; the quiet, monotone order blaring from computer speakers at 120 decibels. Instant silence. L smirked in satisfaction. He waited a moment for Watari to turn the speakers down. "We must all be aware that this is a strenuous situation for all." L continued with a more reasonable volume. "If we coordinate our efforts, this situation can be remedied and the terrorists taken into custody." The executives reluctantly conceded the point as L patiently recited facts in the most boring and clinical way possible. He did not want anyone to pay close attention to what he was saying at that point. Not when most of these 'facts' were little more than educated guesses. A few men asked questions to make it seem like they were following his speech, but generally they agreed to do what he needed and ask questions later.
L easily sidestepped direct questions as he dictated what he needed from each country. Most remained opposed to the idea of an 'outsider' coordinating their efforts, but they would listen because they believed that Detective L was the one that knew the most about what was occurring. While this assumption was somewhat false, the teenager felt no inclination to enlighten them.
L allowed himself to relax as Watari took over once it became apparent that the executives were now willing to work together. He briefly considered what a proper farewell from "Detective L" would sound like, but settled for simply severing the connection without saying a word.
L looked up groggily from his position before the computers as the door to his motel room opened. It had been seventy-six hours since the reluctant meeting with Interpol, and he still had not managed to sleep; he was too busy investigating a potential lead on the elusive terrorist. L mentally prepared himself for Quillsh Wammy's inevitable response to such a discovery. The sight of the older Englishman hanging up his rain soaked coat next to the door was slightly blurred as the teenager attempted to blink away the gritty sensation in his eyes. Quillsh turned to him with a tired sigh, and paused. Icy raindrops pattered on the glass pane windows as the youth and Englishman regarded each other silently, L staring in wide-eyed innocence as the silence dragged on.
"I assume the remaining discussions went well?" The anonymous detective mumbled. L hoped the slight slurring of his words was lost to the old man.
"Yes." Quillsh replied. L hunched over his computers with an easily suppressed feeling of guilt. He typed aimlessly away on it, hoping his caretaker would leave him be. A crisp pair of dress pants and shoes stopped directly behind his computers. "L," Quillsh began, "when was the last time you slept?" L subconsciously sped up his typing pace, pretending that he had not heard the concerned inquiry. He did not want to have this conversation. The man already knew the answer anyway.
L scowled as the older man simply lifted his keyboard from the floor and set it out of reach. "When did you last sleep?" He repeated, ignoring the dark-haired youth's sullen stare at having his computer confiscated.
L sighed in frustration. They were not playing Watari and Detective L right now, so he supposed it should not surprise him that the man was turning all paternal on him. It was irksome. He was perfectly capable of caring for himself at fifteen years old. L looked up at the man towering over him. He considered lying, but decided it was not worth the trouble when Quillsh already suspected the answer.
"I estimate ninety-seven hours." L muttered reluctantly. Quillsh frowned, his expression caught somewhere between exasperation, annoyance and concern; there seemed to be a healthy dose of resignation as well.
"What happened to the medication the doctor prescribed?" Quillsh asked. L's expression soured further as he looked away. He hated sleeping pills; they always left him feeling groggy and even more exhausted the morning after. Why could the man not understand that it did no good when his mind continued working even if his body was forced into an unconscious state?
"I threw them out."
L glanced back up as the older man released a long suffering sigh. Quillsh rubbed his temples in an attempt to ease the throbbing headache taking up residence behind his eyes. He was really getting tired of fighting the boy every step of the way to get him to accept aid. That incident with the psychiatrist last month had been a full blown disaster; although he probably should have foreseen that one coming from a mile away. The boy even refused IQ tests. He fell asleep during them! Maybe he should make him sit through tests on a regular basis rather than attempt to force drugs down his throat. Quillsh's gaze narrowed suddenly.
"And when was the last time you had a bath?" A lesser evil than trashing his sleep medication, but one that he could at least coerce the obstinate teenager into if given enough time. The set of L's mouth was mulish as Quillsh waited patiently for the answer.
"I do not feel inclined to answer that, Quillsh."
"That's Mr. Wammy to you, young man," Quillsh lectured, causing the young detective to smirk at the predicted phrase. "Now go wash," the Englishman demanded and held up a small bottle of extra sleeping pills he had bought in foresight of the stubborn adolescent's actions, "and then you are going to take these and get a good night's rest." L raised a lazy eyebrow as if to say 'and if I don't?' Quillsh leveled a neutral gaze at him. "While I would not wish to inflict you upon poor Dr. Serthing a second time, I will not hesitate to do so." The smirk disappeared. There was nothing more humiliating than being sent to a child psychiatrist that understood less about the subject than he did.
Quillsh watched as L attempted to rationalize an escape from his predicament. The boy was a prodigy, possessing one of the most brilliant and analytical minds he had ever seen, but that defiant streak… Sometimes he wondered how long it would be until he drowned the boy in a bathtub. It was simple childish rebellion, but infinitely more difficult to handle from someone that had more reasoning ability than men twice his age.
"I dislike this." The teenager informed him as he slowly rose from the floor and shuffled despondently toward the bathroom. He did not understand the man's obsession with cleanliness, mental health and the like. Perhaps it was the high rate of insanity among geniuses, he mused to himself as he closed the white, generic bathroom door behind him. The plain white tile chilled his bare feet as L strolled toward the shower. He gingerly turned the two knobs set at the foot of the bath and waited patiently for the water temperature to rise. The dark-eyed youth glanced at the mirror as he waited.
Perhaps it should not surprise him that Quillsh was concerned. His grey eyes were shadowed with dark bags staining the skin beneath, his face gaunt and his body far too thin to be considered healthy. He knew it was partially because of looming puberty. His body was drawing in all the nutrients he could eat and then some because of his constantly active mind. He had even started eating more, but thus far it had made no difference. L slowly pulled his shirt off as steam began to rise from the running water and tossed it somewhere behind him.
L sighed at the sight of his pale skin hugging his ribs. He seriously needed to find a way to stop losing weight, but nothing came to mind except changing his diet to consist of foods with high protein and glucose content. L blinked a few strands of hair out of his eyes as he considered the problem. His mental efficiency would eventually deteriorate if he did not deduce a solution soon since his warped endocrine hormones showed no signs of finding a natural balance. He suspected it to be a mild case of hyperthyroidism, but could not be certain since he did not wish to take blood tests. L shook his unruly hair from his face again as he bent down to jerk on the knob to start the shower.
The teenager reluctantly unzipped his jeans and discarded them somewhere within the vicinity of his shirt. There was a ninety-three percent chance that Quillsh would be horrified to discover that there were (once again) no boxers in that pile of clothes when he went to wash them. L shook his head with the barest curve of his pale lips. It really was too easy to get under that man's skin. No doubt he intended to drag L to get his hair cut in the next few days as well. Persnickety old man…
L stared speculatively at the mirror for a second, then at the bathroom drawer. Quillsh would kill him if he did it. Probably mangle his face with those very scissors he was silently contemplating. Figuratively speaking, of course. L shrugged dismissively. The small drawer slid smoothly open and he lifted the sharp cutting implement from its resting place. He was tiring of shoulder-length hair. It was always in the way, and this was far more efficient than taking time out of his day to be forced to endure someone else's hands all over his scalp.
The detective ignored the running shower as he cautiously lifted the first lock of black hair and snipped the scissors closed. Relatively easy. The hollow eyed teenager was very careful as he went along, not wishing to lose an ear or finger in the process. He may have been a genius, but he was not an artistic genius; therefore, he would not be snipping off any random body parts.
When finished, L gave his head a vigorous shake before turning halfheartedly to the shower. He moved the shower curtain and stepped daintily inside, grimacing as hot water splashed his feet. The youth gradually inched his way into the warm downpour and grabbed the first available cleanser off the bath shelf: shampoo. L turned his attention to Deneuve as he squeezed a large amount of the slippery substance into his hand, unaware that it was far too much as he scrubbed it vigorously into his scruffy hair.
He had no doubt that he would find the evidence necessary to convict her, but it was exceedingly difficult to bring down a corrupt detective that currently held more influence than himself. He needed to keep her off guard. That stunt with the gang arrests had startled her, causing the woman to stop all attempts on his life while she struggled to set up another plan of action. He suspected that she may have left France already and moved on to America, or possibly even Canada. She would feel too pressed for time if she remained in Europe…
L shook his head. No no no, he was going about this the wrong way. He should continue investigating her past cases first. There was tampered evidence somewhere; he needed to find it. L buried his head under the faucet and closed his eyes as soap suds rinsed down his face and back. This is why he hated bathing. The heat made him lethargic and careless; two states of mind that he certainly could not afford. The teenager slowly pried his eyes open and reached for the bar of soap. He felt a little dizzy, and had the peculiar sensation that he was moving his limbs through a thick sludge as his muscles relaxed.
Steam billowed through the bathroom in thick clouds, causing L to feel like he was breathing unnaturally thick air. Thin fingers gripped the soap as he allowed thoughts of Deneuve, terrorists, faulty personas and a dozen cases to drift to the back of his mind. He disagreed with Wammy when he claimed that criminals could not be caught in a matter of hours, but he would admit that a few minutes of wasted time would not cause harm. L glanced down slowly as he realized the bar had slipped out of his hands. Confusion smiled innocently up at him from next to the drain as his exhausted mind decided that the laws of friction and gravity were now irrelevant concepts. L blinked lazily at the wayward soap bar as his mind still refused to connect when and how the bar had gone from his hand to the shower drain. The teenager stooped down to retrieve the soap and then stood.
L exhaled in frustration as the bar slipped from nerveless fingers a second time. It was time to get out or risk fainting from exhaustion. The youth leaned down to twist the shower handles and slowly straightened. Perhaps Quillsh was right. According to science, he was legally insane twenty-six hours ago and should be reluctant to trust his instincts… Maybe it was the madness that had infiltrated his brain speaking, but L did not like the idea of Quillsh being correct. Again. Especially when it involved something to do with sleep, food or prescription drugs.
The teenager grabbed a fluffy towel from a hanger next to the toilet.
Yes, definitely time for sleep if such irrelevant thoughts could occupy him. L cast one last glance at the steam obscured mirror before walking out of the bathroom with the towel wrapped loosely around his waist.
The notion of walking out completely naked had briefly entertained his thoughts, but was soon discarded as too childish—even for L; though the expression on Wammy's face had been incalculable last week.
L tilted his head in thought when he discovered the room empty. Grocery shopping? It was the first thought that came to mind. The young detective shrugged and ambled over to the bed where his pajamas were already laid out for him. He picked up the heavy fleece top and shrugged it on, quickly doing up the small buttons. He then grabbed the matching, dark-navy pants and pulled those on, kicking the boxers under the bed. He hated them almost as much as socks. They were itchy. And the elastic band was uncomfortable.
L bounced awkwardly onto the bed and stared at the ceiling in dismal irritation. He was not tired. His body was, but his mind still felt wide awake. The teenager saw his keyboard sitting unattended on the kitchenette counter out of the corner of his eye. It wasn't like Quillsh to leave work related objects where L could get them. Should he be concerned? Probably not. L pushed himself up from the bed, ignoring the protests from his leaden limbs as he did so. It wouldn't hurt to go over a few files. Quillsh could be gone for hours, and there was no use being bored the entire time. L snapped up the keyboard with a triumphant smirk as he headed for his computers. Quillsh should know better than to trust L to behave himself when he was gone.
L paused as the door opened again (quite prepared to splinter an intruder's face with his prized keyboard), but it was only Quillsh.
Mr. Wammy paused and leveled a disapproving stare at his young charge, expression soon turning incredulous as he took in L's miraculously shorter hair. He opened his mouth as though to say something, but promptly closed it, expression clearly stating that he believed it was better not to ask.
"L, put it back." Quillsh said with a sigh. This was obviously a far too common phrase between them. L attempted to look sheepish as he slowly returned the keyboard to the counter. He slunk expressionlessly back to the bed and sat cautiously on the edge: another moment of vertigo. Quillsh patiently handed L three of the small tablets and a glass of chocolate milk, watching intently to be certain that the teenager swallowed them that time.
"This is senseless," L not-complained as Quillsh took the now empty glass and placed it in the sink. "May I have my computer?"
"No," Mr. Wammy tolerantly replied. Quillsh shook his head at the sight of the sulky teenager on the bed. "The terrorists will not be caught in a few hours, you can relax a bit." L looked up with a frown that said he did not agree with the first or second part of that statement, but chose not to comment. The teen reluctantly slid beneath a single sheet and gave a long stretch before curling up on his side. He stared in wide-eyed silence at his legal guardian when it seemed that the man was trying to give voice to something. Quillsh shifted uncomfortably as L's grey eyes watched him intently.
"We need to discuss A's replacement." Quillsh said, wincing inwardly as L's face went painfully blank.
"I see." L murmured.
He did not want to discuss A. Or B: the much anticipated replacement successor at Wammy's House. Some people at the orphanage (the ones that knew about L and his relationship to Wammy's House) were even placing bets to see how long this one would last. It was aggravating when he did not think that successors were necessary. He understood the concept on a rational level, but it was difficult to accept when children were being driven to suicide because of his position, and his elders' need for insurance. L had suspected from the beginning that A did not have the proper disposition to become Detective L, but his concerns had been easily ignored when he voiced them. A year later, the boy killed himself.
The young detective's mood slowly darkened at the thought of the incident. He could not help but feel that it was a waste of a brilliant mind. Had A been left to his own devices, the world would have been more well off. A had been very scientifically minded; would have invented multiple "miracle cures" in his life had Wammy's House not attempted to mold him into a role that he had not been suited for from the beginning. L often believed that he had not pushed hard enough, that he could have done more. It was rare that people close to his mental caliber entered the world, and L (of all people) knew that you could not force a mind like that into submission, no matter how young. Perhaps if he had been more obstinate about the Successor Program and made them wait until someone more likely came along, he could have stopped the inevitable result.
He had been arrogant (careless), and someone else had paid the price.
"What of him?" His tone and expression were patiently bored, but Quillsh understood that the boy was simply reluctant to involve himself with the issue.
"Roger wants to hear your input on the child." Quillsh explained and waited patiently for the teenager to react. L's expression turned sardonic at the unexpected request; he knew why he was being consulted. L could determine if the new successor was likely to achieve more than the first, given his psychological profiling background. But he knew that they would not listen to him; they would simply attempt different methods that would fail just as miserably.
"You know I do not agree with this method, Quillsh." L mumbled as the drugs began to muddle his thoughts. The elder sighed, deciding not to correct the boy about his name that time.
"Well, it's going to happen, L," Quillsh informed him bluntly, "and we want to prevent a second A incident." There was stony silence after that proclamation, the roman numerals clock filling the void with its oblivious ticking. The Englishman began to fear that the tablets had already taken effect as the teen still did not answer, but his concerns were dismissed with the next sentence.
"I will observe him," L finally conceded, "but nothing more." L rolled over to face the wall, ignoring the helpless fury smoldering within. "Now let me sleep. The drugs were your idea in the first place." Quillsh hesitated at the dismissal. L was so quiet about A, and successors in general, yet how could he convince the boy to discuss it?
"L…"
"Do not concern yourself, Wammy," the lump of blankets slurred in muffled irritation; it was as though the youth had read his mind, "I am not so foolish that I would allow such a thing to cripple me with guilt."
"I understand that, but you never say anything about it and…" He trailed off as he realized that the teenager was no longer listening to him. The sheets gently rose and fell in a slow, regular rhythm, indicating that L was close to unconsciousness, if not already there. Quillsh scrunched his greying moustache in exasperation, but decided to let it be. It was not often that he allowed the teenager to get away with such disrespect, but he had felt foolish enough attempting to talk to the boy like a typical teenager.
L allowed his eyes to drift open as he heard the door close. His senses felt clouded in the dimly lit room, and his thoughts muddled, but he was not quite ready for sleep. He did not understand Wammy's obsession with this topic. There was little doubt in his mind that the boy would meet a similar fate to A, which he found rather unfortunate, but, in the end, a waste of time.
Contrary to Wammy's belief, L did not hold himself responsible for what happened to A; he was too rational to wallow in a pool of groundless guilt. If he was completely honest: he was angry. The feeling was mild, and easily controlled, but L knew anger when he felt it. He was downright disgusted with what had happened when all of it could have been foreseen (and prevented) had a few misguided adults stopped for a moment to analyze what was going on.
L growled and pulled the sheet up over his head as the tiny lights on his computers interrupted his thoughts. He turned his attention back to the topic at hand when the darkness seemed to ease his frustratingly tired mind. A was—had been—too social, and had been more inclined to solve world hunger, than a murder case. He could not handle stewing in the middle of corrupt government politics and reviewing endless cases centered around people slaughtering other people. The boy's intelligence had nothing to do with it; he simply had lacked the proper disposition. L knew that.
What annoyed him was that everyone else should have known it as well.
Wammy and his sycophants had attempted numerous time in his life to push him into medical science as opposed to criminal justice. When they finally found someone perfectly suited for such pursuits, they squandered the chance away. Fools, the lot of them. L glared dispassionately at the wall before allowing the emotions to slowly seep away. He was too exhausted to maintain irritation for an extended period of time, and it made more sense to settle on resignation when he could not forcibly alter people's brains to think logically.
L shifted onto his back as another wave of fatigue struck and impatiently pushed the thin blanket back down to his chest: it was too stifling. The detective frowned as he realized how much time he had wasted on such a menial subject. He needed to divert a greater percentage of his time to Deneuve. The need to change hotels every couple of days was becoming irksome, yet he could not risk remaining stationary for longer than a week…
Half-lidded eyes stared up at the now blurry ceiling as he attempted to force coherent thought around the drugs muddling his mind. Perhaps it would be better to wait until tomorrow before attempting any more plots…
L blinked dazedly at the plain hotel room wall. He must have lost consciousness for a moment. Dark-grey eyes slowly drifted closed and refused to obey him when he tried to reopen them, while inane thoughts floated around his head like brainless goldfish. L struggled to focus, grasping feebly at fleeting thoughts and images in his sleep drunken state. The youth promptly decided that it was time to give up when he began connecting random Hitchcock films with serial murder cases he had worked on in the past year…
L grabbed one of the pillows beside him and flopped it on his face in a fit of tightly controlled frustration. Perhaps it was unnaturally heightened paranoia caused by sleep deprivation, but it seemed that everything was plotting against him that night. Now that he wished to get the sleep ordeal finished, that clock on the other side of the room suddenly decided it wanted to be obnoxious. Or perhaps it was in the other room… No, he did not care where it was, the fact was that it was loud and it was keeping him awake.
The dark-haired teenager shook his head in exasperation with himself and concentrated on nothing. Absolutely nothing. He simply left the pillow where it was when it proved to muffle the infuriating ticking of the clock. Each second was announced with unwarranted fanfare from the inanimate timepiece. The disconcerting feel of something intangible pulling him down took over. He gave one last attempt at consciousness.
I hate clocks, was the last intelligible thought before oblivion came crashing in on him.