A/N: I know I haven't published or updated in a long time, but after re-watching 'Death Note', I was inspired to write a short fic about it. Nothing special, just my take on what happened between L and Watari for the first time. I may write some other one-shots about them if I have any ideas.

Anyway, read and review! Thank you!

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

Without A Doubt

"Another orphan?"

The old man could not help but feel tired. He leaned back in the chair, one arm resting on the sides as he held the phone in the crook of his neck, the other holding a cigar to his thin lips. A fire crackled quietly in the hearth and cold air clung to the windows, providing a thin sheet of fog that concealed the grey skies outside, and he wondered if he should draw the curtains.

"Yes, we've managed to get a hold of him after the incident," the chief officer spoke on the other end.

"How did his parents die?"

A pause.

"Well… we're unaware whether it was accidental or not, but apparently the lad's home caught on fire. He's unharmed yet forensics reports show evidence of two human corpses, presumably his parents, who did not survive the fire. Little is known about the boy and his parents—I think he was in the house when the fire first started, but he's not telling us anything."

Sighing, the chief finished with, "We don't even know his name."

"Any relatives to take him in?"

"None as far as we can tell, Mr. Wammy."

Smoke encircled the old man's head as he sat up, removing the cigar from his mouth. He grumbled something incoherently as he ran a hand across his forehead.

"Bruce, you know full well that I am unable to take in every kid your force finds. I may be a wealthy man but even I don't have that sort of power. Unless you have a good reason, I'm afraid you are going to have to send the lad elsewhere," Quillish replied, trying to keep the guilt from slipping into his voice.

He hated abandoning orphans, but sometimes it had to be done. He knew not whether this orphaned child would be of any use to him—or to anyone, really. His orphanage was for the intellectually gifted; some children were easy to discover, others… not so much.

"I realize that, sir, but this one's… different. I think you'd prob'ly want to see him for yourself."

"Bruce—"

"Trust me on this, Mr. Wammy. There's something about him that leaves me…"

Another pause.

"…Puzzled."

And with that, Quillish Wammy put down the phone, grabbed his hat and coat, and left the gates of the old, graying building.

When he arrived at the outside of the police station, it had begun to snow.

Quillish noticed it just as he stepped out of the car; snowflakes found themselves onto his glasses and he brushed them aside with his thumb. To come all the way out here on such a cold day was the last thing the old man wanted to do, but duty called. And it called for him.

Entering the station doors and removing his hat, Quillish was greeted by the chief of police, Bruce Mason, who stood up to shake his hand. They spoke for a moment regarding the incident before the old man leaned in and spoke in a quiet voice.

"So, the boy… where is he?"

Bruce glanced back and Quillish followed his gaze to the door. Upon entering the room, the first thing that caught the old man's eyes were the two chairs in the back in front of a large window. A young woman sat in the chair on the left, legs crossed with a notepad and pen in her hands. Her fair hair fell over her forehead in wisps, perching on her glasses, and she swept them aside ever so often as she continued looking directly, almost wearily, at the figure before her.

Speaking of which.

The figure was almost unidentifiable from the old man's angle and the dimness of the room, but he managed to make out the silhouette of a small child crouched over on the chair with his legs brought up to his chest. Quillish stepped forward a bit to get a better look and realized that the child was turned away completely from both the woman before him and himself, looking at the window beside him, instead. As far as he could tell from the backside, the child was a young boy with dark raven locks that came down to the end of his neck. He was wearing a slightly oversized beige colored coat, which he had buttoned entirely. A simple off-white scarf was wrapped around his neck, falling over his shoulders, and though his hands were crossed over his knees, Quillish could see the mittens he had yet to take off.

The boy seemed much too bundled for the indoors, but the old man could only infer that he had refused to take anything off since his arrival to the police station.

"Miss Augustine," Bruce spoke up, shattering the silence. "Mr. Wammy is here to… speak with the child."

Glancing at the two, the young lady from before nodded and stood up. She straightened her skirt and walked over to the door where Quillish was standing.

"I could not get much out of him," Augustine said softly, handing the old man her notepad. "He barely spoke. I don't know whether he's afraid or traumatized from the experience… or that he isn't used to people."

"Then, he hasn't revealed his name?" Quillish asked, already knowing the answer.

"No. We tried looking for him in our records but we were unable to find anything. It's strange. I don't know what to make of the boy. He may have some psychological condition we're unaware of…"

Her suggestion made sense at some extent, but Quillish believed that there was probably something more than that. He nodded. "I will keep that in mind. What about his age, date of birth?"

Again, the woman sighed and shrugged her shoulders. "I would say he was about seven or eight years old, though he seems a bit small for that age either way. He may be underweight. About his date of birth… again, we don't have the slightest idea."

"Hm. I see. Tell me where the police found him around the time of the incident."

"…He was in the house when the fire started, but managed to stay away from the flames until the fire station rescued him, however, it was too late for his parents. Their bodies were found, burned completely," Augustine explained. "I think this was the only time he spoke, asking about the fire, his house, where it started, any evidence relating to the incident. He was surprisingly inquisitive for a child, but we didn't know what to tell him."

"So, you haven't told him that his parents are dead?"

Augustine shook her head.

"But, I think he already knows."

Quillish thanked her for her time, shook her hand, and allowed her to leave. He then turned to Bruce who was busy observing the child with that same baffled expression on his face.

"Bruce."

He blinked. "Ah, yes, Mr. Wammy?"

"I can take it from here."

"Oh. Um, alright," the chief replied slowly, confusion evident in his tone. "I'll be just outside if you need anything."

The old man grunted in response, shooing the police chief away and then proceeded to shut the door. When he turned back to the end of the room, he saw that the child was looking straight at him. Quillish stiffened as he felt the boy's piercing gaze on him and shuffled slowly to the chair in which Augustine was previously seated in.

He sat down in front of the boy and took the time to get a better grasp of his features. The boy's sharp dark grey eyes were large and appeared to be inspecting the old man in an almost suspicious way. His expression was difficult to read as the boy hid his mouth beneath the off-white scarf around his chin, but Quillish sensed an air of uneasiness.

Or, perhaps this air was around his own body.

Quillish leaned forward slightly in the chair, resting his hat in his lap.

"My name is Quillish Wammy and I am the founder of the Wammy's House in Winchester," he got straight to the point. "What is your name, lad?"

The boy continued to stare at him, blinking only once in a while. He seemed unfazed by the question.

"Do you have any relatives that live around here?"

Again, the boy remained unresponsive. Quillish closed his eyes and leaned back, breathing out deeply.

Alright, then.

No more pleasantries.

"I know that everyone here has avoided speaking to you about the incident regarding the fire. You must know, boy, you're parents are dead."

Lowering his eyes, the boy shifted quietly in his chair. The old man waited patiently until he raised his head once again and brought his chin out from beneath the scarf. Turning his head back to the window, the boy opened his mouth slightly.

"Yes, that is likely," he murmured. After a few moments, the boy glanced back to see the old man watching him with a raised eyebrow.

"Oh? I suppose it is, isn't it?" he said. "Then you must also know that you are now an orphan."

Despite the context, his voice was gentle. Even so, most would be dumfounded by the lack of sympathy in his word choice, but Quillish only spoke the truth. He was kind when kindness called, but he was also a very straightforward man who disliked beating around the bush. That wasn't the only reason. Quillish had much experience with children. Some needed coddling; others needed respect. But this child…

The boy only stared back.

"You do know what an orphan is, right?"

Narrowing his dark eyes, the boy regarded the old man strangely.

"I know," the boy said quietly, "what an orphan is."

Quillish watched him carefully. There was a hint of annoyance in the boy's voice, as if asking such a question was beyond stupid. And what was even more interesting; this child spoke awfully well-versed for someone so young. Perhaps… there was potential. He ran his fingers over the edge of the hat in his lap as he cleared his throat. A few moments passed by in silence.

"They all said that you refused to speak to anyone," Quillish began. "And yet, you've already said more than I expected you to. Surely, there must be a reason behind this."

Ah. Caught him. The boy furrowed his eyebrows in confusion and tilted his head. He raised a mitten of a hand to his mouth and simply watched the old man deep in thought. Finally, he removed his hand from his face and pushed his lower lip out slightly.

"You speak… differently with me," said the boy. "You do not treat me with false sympathy."

"Would you like me to treat you that way?"

The boy paused.

"…I don't think I would."

He remained quiet and still, deep in thought. Quillish gave the boy a half-smile and chuckled, "Well, lad, by this point, I can only wonder what goes through your head. What are you thinking?"

It was a simple question. There was no malice in his voice, no ulterior motive present. Just basic curiosity. The boy knew that tone of voice all too well. It was similar to the one he often used.

"The fire was no accident."

"Is that so?" Quillish questioned, raising an eyebrow. How…?

He did not answer.

"Surely, you have an idea of what happens next, boy," the old man finally said. "They can't keep you here forever."

"The Wammy's House," the boy suddenly interrupted. "It is an orphanage."

It was more of a statement than a question, really, but Quillish nodded anyway.

"You have heard of it?"

"No."

"Then, how could you possibly know?"

A test.

"It was not difficult. You come in, claiming to be the founder of the Wammy's House. You then go on, mentioning the fact that I am an orphan and that I can't remain station forever. You've also asked me if I had any relatives, most likely for the purpose of taking me in. So, either this building of yours is a mental asylum, or an orphanage. I'd rather hope it is the latter."

Such raw intelligence. Brilliant. There was no superiority in the child's voice. Just an explanation. Quillish couldn't help but laugh out loud, causing this mysterious boy to narrow his eyes again. Like he had said, it truly wasn't exactly very hard to come to that conclusion, but watching a small seven-year-old child do so was a tad overwhelming, if not impressive.

"Yes, yes," the old man smiled. "You are correct."

"Then you have come to take me away."

Quillish looked at the child and tried to search his large dark eyes for some sort of emotion, but they remained blank on the surface. However would he be able to understand him?

He was one puzzle he could not solve.

"Hm, it is my intention. But the final choice is not mine," he responded gently. "It is yours."

The boy was silent, probably in thought. Running his mitten covered hand over the window beside him, he shifted his body weight so that his left knee pushed out a little over the chair. He freed his other hand from its locked position and allowed it to rest comfortably over his knees, instead. A wisp of dark hair fell over the boy's dark eyes when he lowered his head to the window, staring at his reflection and the tiny snowflakes that glued themselves to the glass.

Patient as always, Quillish only waited. The clock ticked by on the wall behind him.

Finally, the boy raised his eyes to the old man once again.

"This… orphanage of yours… Is it a good place?"

Such an innocent question. Quillish could hardly keep the smile from forming on his lips as he replied, in his usual mild manner, "My dear child, I can only say, that is for you to decide."

That was all he needed.

"Alright. I will come with you," he replied, stoutly. "When are we leaving?"

A good-natured chuckle escaped the old man as he sat up. "Now, hold on, boy. It's not so simple. Firstly, I can't take a mysterious, nameless child from this police station… I must have something to refer to you with."

The boy had gotten the hint.

"I am L," he said, simply.

"L? Is this an initial? What is your full name?"

Quillish could sense apprehension and hesitance in the boy before him and let out a breath of defeat. At least it was a start. Maybe someday he would come around to telling him everything. But right now, it didn't matter. This boy was called L. And it would be left at that.

Besides, it worked out perfectly. No one at the orphanage was addressed by their true name.

"Fine, fine. You'll be L."

Standing up, a dull ache started in the old man's ankles, but he ignored the pain. He waited for the child to do the same. Getting up straight from the crouched position, L hopped off the chair with an odd gracefulness that Quillish did not expect. This boy was, without a doubt, something quite different from everyone the old man had met up until him, and frankly, he didn't know what to expect out of him at all.

After all, expectations were only pointless hopes. Even so, in the back of his mind, Quillish saw something great in the child. Something that could…

No, it was too soon. He couldn't be sure, yet. He needed to solve the puzzle.

Quillish put the hat on.

"Come now, L," he commanded gently, holding out his hand. After some careful consideration, L allowed his own mitten covered hand to slip into the old man's, and together they left the room.