Disclaimer: I own nothing but the fringe off of my notebook pages. :D And even then, it is gone from my desk very quickly.
A/N: First and probably last Death Note fic. I apologize for wrong characterization, haven't seen the series in forever. No idea where this is set time-wise, though clearly before L died. :P Anyway, enjoy!
Tanjoubi omedetou Ellen! (I apologize for shortness of the fic as well as the lack of Mello/Near/Matt. My few volumes of manga and the one doujinshi I own do not include them. Plus, I haven't seen Death Note since the summer of 2007. -is shot-)
The room was dark, very dark, and Light almost tripped over his own feet. Carefully he maneuvered around cardboard boxes (filled with paperwork, spy equipment, or cake – he did not know) and other office chairs until he came up to the only source of light in the room: a small glowing screen. The image on screen was from a camera, security presumably, as it flashed every so often, showing various locations and their occupants – or rather, lack of. In front of the screen was the room's only other occupant: a hunched-over man who looked far younger than the years he had spent on Earth, an unusual and almost paradoxical fact. Just like always, L was as backwards as any normal person could comprehend, in a place nobody could find, with people nobody knew, doing things nobody could ever hope to understand.
Such as picking the fringe off of notebook paper. The notebook in front of him was no Death Note – it wasn't even anything out of the ordinary. It was just a book of blank paper, neither useful nor inhibiting and quite possibly on there to entertain L's boredom. Despite the efforts he was determined to put into the search for Kira, every search had its down times, and none more so than the late hours between midnight and dawn. Nonetheless, he wasn't going to admit defeat, on the incredibly slim off-chance that something did happen – so he had to find a way to get by somehow without dozing off and giving in.
"L," Light said, his voice automatically low in response to the late hour. He did not get a chance to continue his statement, partially because he had nowhere to go from there and partially because L turned around automatically and handed him the small white pieces of paper he had been tearing off. Before the teen could find something else to say, the older man meticulously pulled out another piece of college-ruled paper, removing the fringe and putting it in a neat, perfect pile. Then suddenly he pivoted the chair, though neither by hand nor foot, and carefully deposited the pile of scraps into Light's continually outstretched hand.
"Happy birthday," L said, though it was neither of their birthdays and both knew it. Despite this fact, Light shrugged and pulled up another chair, knowing it was as good a time as any to try and earn the man's trust.
After all, everyone had their quirks, some more so than others, and that, just like death, was a fact of life.