A/N: He had to meet him one day... Oh, and if you get confused over who Eve is, read my other DN story (L: Past Times)
15th July, 2002
The computer screen whirred into life as the light on the recorder blipped quietly once.
A well-built man hung limply in a chair, hair hanging pathetically from his sweating brow. His normally bright, styled, extravagant T-shirts had been stripped away from him, replaced by an itching tunic. The itching was coming close to being unbearable. His finger tapped the chair, a lifelong habit when nervous.
"Monsieur Morello," a computerised voice said mechanically in French. "Please nod if you can hear me," The man resignedly nodded.
"You have been caught with substantial evidence of fraud and possible burglary, and with the evidence comes the 96% probability that you are responsible for the string of frauds and burglaries starting from two years ago…"
"Listen. Can you hear me?" he wearily said in English, his voice echoing back to him through the small cell. He wasn't blindfolded, and he stared hardly through the computer screen to the stubborn initial, willing his assailant to come forth.
"Yes. Are there any more details that you would like to confess?" he asked emotionlessly, switching to English as Morello had. Of course, Morello thought. I would think that if this stupid voice wasn't human in the first place.
"I was not…responsible for the burglaries. I have an alibi,"
"I know, Monsieur Morello. Ms Kenwood is in the cell next to you, I will resume interrogating her after I am satisfied with you," Morello whipped around, cricking his neck. He let out a short gasp of pain. "I'm sorry," the voice unexpectedly said. "The evidence is overwhelmingly against you,"
"No, it isn't,"
"Excuse me?"
"No. We covered our tracks. We covered them so well. Mary's the best burglar in the business – we made a great team…"
"None of this is helping you any further, Monsieur," the voice continued. "There have been many reliable eyewitness accounts matching your facial description, along with a certain partiality to the Chardonnay brand of champagne. The luxury hotels that you frequent naturally keep a record of their invoices," L said.
"But…" Morello said helplessly.
"Monsieur Morello, I have an associate to attend to, if you will excuse me," The computer screen abruptly cut off.
Morello raised an eyebrow with difficulty.
"I need to tell you something," Wammy said. His gait was marginally more stooped, but nonetheless his grace was intact, and the way he could glide in and out of rooms stunned even the ICPO.
"I was in the middle of a conversation with a very interesting criminal," L stingily said. "Could it wait until another time?" he sucked his sugar-stained fingers.
"No, it can't," Wammy insisted. L sipped his tea.
"Your father is being held at a facility in Bedfordshire. He will not be able to be located after that," Wammy hissed.
L stared at the screen. His bags were beginning to become more pronounced, along with the profoundness of his eyes. He was glad his hair had grown back, giving him some sort of façade of mystery.
Maybe Eve would have liked that.
L sighed. "I thought the death penalty was outlawed in Britain some years back?" he said snidely.
"It's not in the United Kingdom's hands – your father was a very talented man who held many secrets. The Cheka were able to gain a few more…foreign-related pieces of information from him – he's being extradited," Wammy said regretfully, wringing his hands.
L closed his eyes momentarily, and tipped his head back to look at the ceiling. He didn't particularly want to look at anything right now, not least the two captives on camera.
"He's going to be executed," he mumbled. Wammy's eye twitched involuntarily, and he left without a moment's rest.
L remained, thinking.
A woman with lank blond hair jumped as Morello walked in, a strange young man tailing the two.
"Thierry? Thierry! What's going on! Speak to me!" she half-shrieked.
"The small area and volume of this cell prevent your voice to be anything but an incoherent, high-pitched noise. If you really want to communicate with your partner, you might be considerate and speak at a more normal level of pitch," the young man flatly commented.
Kenwood scowled. "Who're you?" Morello's mouth tightened imperceptibly.
The unruly man smiled. "It is nice to meet you after all these years, Miss Kenwood, Monsieur Morello. I am L," he stuck out his hand. Kenwood shrugged, gesturing the bonds tying her arms to the back of the chair.
"My apologies, ma'am. If you will let me…" and he promptly undid them. "Now…as I have told Monsieur Morello already, I have acquired substantial evidence of the misdeeds carried out by the pair of you. If you do not cooperate, you will stand trial at the Royal Courts of Justice in London in a few weeks,"
"If we don't cooperate…?" Morello asked questioningly.
"He's gonna take our money. My resources!" Kenwood worriedly thought aloud.
"Trials at the Old Bailey are undoubtedly very public – suppose your family were to find out…" Morello's head jerked up and his eyes met the impassive ones of the great detective.
Kenwood looked horrified. "You….family?" she said incredulously. L chuckled inwardly.
"I am prepared to forgo all charges and implicate others, however, if you do what I ask you to," L gently proposed.
"Implicate others? You do that?" Kenwood asked, screwing her eyes to see clearer.
L flicked his head upward, thinking on it for a moment. "The man I am thinking of is highly unpleasant – miscarriages of justice happen every day," Kenwood looked slightly aghast.
"What do you want us to do…?" Morello asked gruffly.
L smirked while scratching one leg with the other. "A job,"
You will be allowed to continue criminal activities within reason and under my discretion if you accept to the following. Monsieur Thierry Morello, apart from within his own family and friends, will now be known as 'Aiber' – and Miss Mary Kenwood as 'Wedy'. You will work for me, L, in solving my cases by confronting suspects and/or investigating the suspect's property and possessions.
Please sign on the dotted line.
"A prison? How lame is that," Wedy flatly said, watching Aiber drive his Aston Martin.
"He is letting us off," Aiber said unsteadily. "We should abide to his terms."
"I know – but this is L! He should be asking us to rob banks, sweet-talk CEOs…"
"And all the other stuff we used to do?" Aiber smirked. Wedy tittered.
"We're here, let's get ready," she said, leaving the car with a small briefcase and clad in a prison official's uniform.
"We did everything you asked – there's no one about the place, cameras are off, cell 6 is unlocked, the guy inside doesn't know, to everyone you're just a prison psychologist. What're you going to do, out of interest?" Wedy chatted.
"Did you switch off all the recorders?" L asked stiffly, walking through the corridor.
"Yes," Wedy sighed. "You've got an hour and a half – be glad I'm working for you,"
"Actually – you should be glad that you're working for me?" L asked sarcastically, looking nervously at the prison doors. Wedy growled.
L turned his phone off and thought about knocking, but realised that this would be a very foolish thing to do.
He stepped into the room, back straightening instinctively. A worn man was seated at the other end of the cracked table, head faced away and resting on his scarred, muscled arms.
"Are you the priest?" his deep voice said. "See, I'm an atheist, and your spiritual guidance will be wasted on someone like me. I believe a God-fearing person is two cells to the left of me…" his head remained unmoving.
"Mr Lawliet – I'm not a priest. I'm a psychiatrist employed by the SIS and I'm here to conduct your biannual psychiatric assessment," he hesitatingly said. He was well aware that he was unconsciously in the power of this middle-aged man – a situation he was not used to, and one that he really didn't like.
Lawliet's head abruptly jerked upward to face his interrogator. His face had recently been shaved – presumably for the extradition process – but his face was mildly gaunt and his eyes bloodshot. The prison barbers had not done anything to his hair which was long and unruly, spiking in every direction and sometimes down his face, almost shading his eyes from L. The man was still staring in that perturbed, interested way and it was disturbing L much more than it should have done.
"The way you step back after I look at you suggests you're afraid, but the set nature of your shoulders and jaw suggest that you're determined. Is this your first time?" he almost kindly suggested. L's eyes closed with irritation and he resisted the urge to rub his temples. "I'd make a better psychiatrist than you, boy. Now, what are you really here for?"
"State your name and date of birth," L firmly stated, getting out a notepad and pen to support his side of the story.
"Lawrence Ryuzaki Lawliet," he began. "17th December 1959. Did Quilish Wammy send you?"
L's heart skipped a beat. "Excuse me?"
"From the SIS. Did Wammy send you?" he said gruffly.
"I don't believe I recall the name," L said flawlessly.
"You shifted your weight – you're acting," he seemed more irritated than angry.
"Can you prove it?" L said hotly, leaning across the table. This man was riling him up more than any other before.
"Do you know the name of my son?" he demanded. L felt an unfamiliar, painful internal pang and his fists clenched.
"Excuse me?" he said weakly, stalling for time.
"My son. Alright, it's a trick question – no one knows the name of my son except for me now," L's eyes widened back to its previous state. "Then what is the name of my wife?"
"Your…wife?" he petered out, gripping the notepad viciously.
"Who cares if she's dead now, she still has a name!" he asserted, staring down his interrogator, who looked physically drained.
"I…I'm not a psychiatrist," L muttered, staring down at his fidgeting feet.
"No shit," he said dryly, the expletive seeming familiar on his tongue. "But who are you then?"
I'm your son.
"I'm L," he finally managed. Lawliet let out his breath in a hiss and leaned back in his chair – although his eyes never left his subject.
"I should be honoured. Sir Detective," he said sarcastically. "But whatever have I done this time?"
"Your son has come to me asking for me to locate you; I admit, it is not part of my usual services, but…"
Lawliet's eyes suddenly gained a tinge of emotion. He stopped leaning back on his chair and pursed his lips. "What did he say?" he said hoarsely.
"He knows you gave him to a local orphanage at a young age – but he would like to see you; know more about his family if not," L amended the 'agreement'. Lawliet's thumb found its way to his mouth and he voraciously chewed on the thumbnail.
L unconsciously smiled. "Write it down," Lawliet abruptly said. L sat poised with pen, struggling to remember to hold it the proper way.
"My wife is called Lena Lasovskaya. I met her while on an assignment in Soviet Russia. We married and had him, and we were going to bring him to London, but the Cheka found out, and surrounded us as we were about to leave. Lena was…" he gave a half-shrug, his mouth twitching. "…I got captured. But the boy managed to find a clear, safe way to the helicopter and to Wammy, who took him back to friendly territory. He was clever, even then," L stood there stunned, confronted with the information that he had sought for for years. "I'm not a strong man, and I gave away…lots of things…under torture. And for that, I'm going to be killed in 3 days," he forced a bright expression.
L shakily wrote on the notepad, before managing another question.
"Is there anything you'd like to say to him? He seemed keen to know his real name," he said as neutrally as possible, while his thoughts became more and more incoherent by the second.
Lawliet broke out into his first genial smile. "You mean you want to know your name,"
L blinked. Lawliet let a possible explanation slide, and continued.
"Your name is L. But if you're so desperate for a proper name, then you can take my first name. I'll be dead in a few days anyway," he said lightly. L remained silent, partly because he could not summon any voice with which to say anything, and partly because he wouldn't have known what to say anyway.
"You're sort of like me, I suppose," he said. "You don't like emotional confrontations – you only carried out the psychiatric assessment to assess my mental stability, physical health and maybe to see what I looked like," L shook his head and made to get up, his confused state all the more alarming to him.
"It's funny how you're the greatest detective in the world, and yet you lie and cheat, just like all the common criminals in the world. Just like me," he said flatly, gazing at his son properly for the first time.
"You're not a common criminal!" L spluttered, almost shouting. "You're a hero! You fought for your country – you upheld justice as best you could…" he petered out.
Lawliet possessed a sad, knowing look – his bloodshot eyes relaxing slightly. "What I do is not justice. What you do is not justice,"
L's eyes closed again, hands supporting his head, sorely regretting his swift decision to visit.
"We're both just lying, cheating, human beings who hate to lose. And we've both lost so much," he said distantly.
"The only real difference is that it doesn't matter for you. Lawrence,"
L twitched as a whirring sound broke both men out of their argument.
Lawliet curled up in his chair and began speaking in Russian. He rocked back and forth in the manner of praying, but L understood more.
The camera's back online. You should go before you get caught – unless you want to end up next to me. Lawliet smirked.
You know that you really do look like your mother.
L's eyes widened, his mouth tightened and his fists clenched as he marched out of the cell. Lawliet listened dutifully, desperately until he could no longer hear the footsteps.
3 days later
"You are due to make a conference to the children at Wammy's House," Wammy carefully reminded him.
"Now?" L said stingily.
"Every child there holds you in the highest esteem. Just answer a few questions and tell them about your work," he belligerently replied. "You can see and hear what goes on and your voice will be scrambled as usual,"
L sucked a lollipop, before hopping from one sofa to another, tapping the keyboard and was then greeted with an unholy wall of sound.
"OH MY GOD, IT'S L!"
"Can you speak to us after all?"
"Roger, Roger, LOOK!"
L took a deep breath. "Everyone," the sound level descended to a quiet murmur. "I know you have a few questions for me, please put your hands up individually and I'll answer them the best I can."
And so passed ten, fifteen minutes of the eager, bright-eyed children chirping away through the microphone as the lethargic, weary-eyed detective met them.
He registered Mello and Near at the far corner of the room, seemingly disinterested. His successors.
"L?" A boy in a blue parka holding his hand up looked as if he was about to explode.
"Yes?"
"But how do you feel about all the crimes you solve every day? The sense of upholding justice in the world like that? Like a god!" he eagerly said. He was hit by a neighbour.
"What kind of a question was that? We only have about 2 more minutes before L goes offline! Ask better…"
"It is a legitimate question," he said. His hands gripped his legs as he looked at the clock for the umpteenth time that day.
Funnily enough it's also 2 minutes to go for something else.
"It's not a sense of justice," he blurted out. Wammy looked in the room, concerned. The children stopped having their own conversations, and quietly turned around.
"Figuring out difficult cases is my hobby. If you measured good deeds and bad deeds by current laws, I would be responsible for many crimes," L talked and talked in his mechanical voice as the children's' expressions dropped further and further.
"That's why I only take cases that pique my interest. It's not justice at all. And …" he swallowed. "And if it means being able to clear a case, I don't play fair – I'm a dishonest, cheating human being who hates losing…" he wearily stared through the screen. Many pairs of dismayed eyes met him although Mello and Near seemed if anything more interested.
The connection suddenly cut out and his screen turned black – suddenly, instantly; like a life being snuffed. L murmured.
"I'm not a God and never will be,"
As Wammy closed the door softly, L buried his head into his knees, drying his eyes as much as he could on the fabric of his jeans, now completely immersed into a not wholly unfamiliar, but definitely most unwelcome state of emotion.
A/N: Please R+R (this is one of my first one-shots/serious fics, so I really need advice and stuff) and I really hope I didn't make them too OOC...