I awoke to a still and fuzzy calm, face buried in the softness of a pillow, hair askew and shielding my eyes from the sun's red gleam as it rose above the skyline. My brain felt foggy, lethargic, and in desperate need of substance. Cognitive thoughts were difficult to process.

Beneath the sheets, my body felt sore in the most wonderful of ways - hips aching, muscles tense. Every limb was light and airy but, at the same time, felt as though they'd been pumped full of lead. I stretched, rolling like a wave, and cringed slightly at the sharp sensations that erupted in my lower half.

Still, despite the twinges, I felt satisfied and fell into the sheets, content.

Then memory kicked in.

My placation slowly morphed into horror as my mind replayed images of echoed gasps and gyrating bodies and oh sweet Jesus what did I do?

Rolling onto my back, trying my best to ignore how the sheets clung to my skin. Slightly fearful, I looked around, peeking from behind my quilted aegis, and assessed the situation.

I was naked - bad.

L was not in the room - good.

But I could hear typing - bad.

I could also smell coffee . . . inconclusive.

With a groan, I yanked the sheets over my head and wished that I was dreaming. When I pulled the sheets back and stared at the same clean white ceiling, my groan only got louder.

This was bad. This was so bad. Why? Why had I done that? Jesus, what even was that? Sympathy sex? Emotional coercion? Who knows.

It had been something that, in that moment, I had wanted. God I had wanted it. I'd never admit it (especially not to the detective) but some part of me needed it. All the stress, all the late nights, all that built-up tension - gone. I felt like a new woman; refreshed and invigorated.

But was it worth the consequences I'd brought down on myself and the detective? We could never be the same after this. His powers of repression may have been excellent but mine certainly weren't. I didn't think I could look at him without thinking about what we'd done and, considering we lived in pretty close quarters, it wasn't possible to avoid him until the case's completion.

Refusing to think on it anymore before I'd had my morning coffee, I hauled myself from the bed with a wobble, the floor cool and crisp beneath my toes. Gingerly, I danced around my shameful trail of tossed clothing, stopping with a sigh when I noticed my bra dangling off the lamp shade.

Unsurprisingly, all of L's clothes had disappeared - as had he - leaving only mine scattered wildly across the room, the one remaining sign that something raunchy had gone down.

Frowning, I wondered what had encouraged the detective to leave. He was still there when I fell asleep, laying off to the side - not one for cuddles clearly - but he was there. Heart sinking, I wondered if perhaps he felt guilty; that he'd somehow taken advantage. I did cry after all, and we were both so tired. Needless to say, our sense of judgement wasn't as rational as it could have been.

What if he felt used? A means to an end. Something to be consumed and then discarded when it wasn't needed anymore. I hoped he knew me better than that. I might've been an emotional trainwreck but I was by no means a user.

Oh God, would he expect more from this? Did I just acquire myself a needy girlfriend?

Tugging on the hoodie I saved only for drug-busts and menstruation, I quickly got dressed, shimmying into the ensuite as quietly as I could. The sounds of computer tapping persisted, as did my palpitations.

The second I switched on the light to that bathroom, I nearly gasped at the sight of myself in the mirror.

Hickies littered my chest like a *Pollock painting, making me look like I'd just lost three rounds in an airsoft game. My skin was flushed and shining with sweat, the bags under my eyes more pronounced than ever. My hair was very much doing its own thing, ends sticking out and standing to attention.

Standing to attention, eh? I think L could relate to that.

Groaning at my own stupid intrusive thoughts, I splashed some water in my face and glared at my reflection.

Alright Bambi, stop acting like a virgin. Fix your hair and get on with your day.

I patted down the love bites with a layer of makeup, pulling the hood strings tighter around my neck and letting my hair hang loose. Hopefully the others wouldn't notice, and if they did, I hoped they'd be polite enough to not ask questions. As excellent a liar as I was, I don't think I could falsify a sex story with my actual hookup sitting two feet away, looking probably as fucked up as I did.

I spent only a second relishing the thought that I'd made the detective look primitive and screwed beyond recognition, and then, like being submerged in a bath of cold water, thought perhaps I ought to lend him some of my concealer.

God, I needed to shower so badly. One look at myself and I knew I must've reeked of sweat. My hair may as well have been one giant knot and I was practically begging for my skin to break out. But I knew that if I turned on the shower, the detective would hear me and he'd know I was awake. And if that happened, he might come into the room, demanding answers that I was, frankly, too scared to give.

No, it was best to face him head on. I could say my bit, explain as best I could the jumbled thoughts in my head, and hopefully we could have a mature, adult conversation about what had occurred between us.

I could shower whenever, it didn't really matter. This was (partially) my room and I could use it however I liked. But we really needed to talk before my confidence joined my sanity and hightailed it to Canada.

Peeking my head around the corner of the door, I saw L perched on the couch, his back facing me, typing away as usual. I nudged open the door and it did not creak (of course it didn't, this was a luxury hotel) so L was only made aware of my presence by the gentle pitter patter of my feet against the floor.

My heels dragged against the polished stone, wanting to drag me back behind the invisible barriers of my room and into the safety zone. They grounded me to a halt before I could too close than was physically comfortable and I cleared my throat.

"Good morning."

A brief glance. "Good morning." He took a sip of coffee, nonchalant. "I reviewed the footage."

"Oh. And?" I stuttered, trying to calm my nerves.

"All three of them slept through the night."

I breathed out a chuckle. The smug I told you so was silent, as was many of my usual witty comments. I didn't feel like I was on the same wave length as I was before. I felt like I'd passed into uncharted territory, encountering a race whose lingo I couldn't master. I was a stranger to a man who knew me better than most others.

I tried not to think about it as I sat on the nearest empty chair, conveniently far from where the detective currently was. My feet remained planted on the floor, hands folded in my lap, and my eyes on the screen.

I must've looked like a horse ready to bolt because L cautiously turned to me and said, "Coffee?"

God yes.

"Mhm."

A cup was waiting for me on the side and, in an uncharacteristically gentlemanly manner, the detective fetched it for me. I rolled my eyes - I knew that bastard knew how to work the coffee machine - but any humour I felt erupted into anxiety as the detective brushed past, passing the cup between our hands, cold knuckles connecting with my fingertips.

He slowed as though preparing to sit beside me but, seeming to sense my sudden spike of discomfort, moved into the adjacent chair.

I took a long, drawn-out sip of coffee, shaking in relief as I warmed my cognitive *cockles and brought some life to my dying husk. Over the rim of my mug, I could see the detective watching me, face blurring behind the steam. When I stared back, he didn't look away, though this wasn't a particularly new trait. However, this time, he looked sad and I felt an immediate rush of guilt. I pulled the mug away slowly.

"Was last night a mistake?"

Without breaking the eye contact, L took a deep breath. "Mistake implies that something was done wrongly. I don't think there was anything wrong with what happened last night."

"Well, we do work together," I argued.

"Meaning?"

Crap, what was it that Jason said when those two teachers were found screwing in the art room?

"This could be a distraction; damage our performance."

If L was capable of doing a sassy hair flick, I guarantee you he would have.

"I, personally, am not experiencing any decreases to my analytical ability," he said. "I also know you're not the type to get easily flustered."

I raised a brow. Was he sure about that?

"Nothing can cloud my judgement, this included. As long as you don't feel uncomfortable, which I sincerely hope you don't, I don't see why this new development in our relationship could be considered wrong."

Almost instinctually, I squirmed at his words, as though a shiver had gone down my spine, and apparently pulled a face as L's eyes instantly hardened.

"You don't like the fact I used the word relationship," he stated.

I sighed, shuffling my legs to pull them closer to myself like a barrier.

"I've never liked the word relationship," I admitted. "It suggests we're exclusive. Serious. This isn't serious, is it?"

"That's up to you."

My legs hit the floor with a thump. "Hang on, wait." My laugh was high, flighty. "You can't actually mean that!"

"Why can't I?"

Had I missed something? Had the detective developed feelings for me and it'd just gone straight over my head? Had I been the recipient to a beautiful British seduction and just dodged the serenade in my aloofness?

"Okay, okay. So you're saying that if I - hypothetically - was down for something more, then you wouldn't be against that?"

"No."

Something small, hidden deep, deep down within the chasms of soul shuddered, flickering like a flame in a hailstorm.

I'd never claimed to experience love, but then again, I'd never felt this sort of connection. It surpassed the fondness I felt for the kids back home, the friendliness with which I treated my colleagues, even the eternal comerarderie I would forever hold with Chris - my main man; my rock; even to some extent, my soulmate.

Pride didn't allow me to say it. The burn of embarrassment in my cheeks nearly brought fresh tears to my eyes, and the new alien territory caused my nerves to reappear with a vengeance.

"Let's not put a label on it just yet. Life is too short to settle down too fast, and the Kira investigation isn't really the time nor place."

I didn't say it because I didn't want to offend him, but L, in my opinion, was not boyfriend material. He did not suit the role of a long-term love interest. To even suggest something like that would have to have been a joke.

When one pictures an ideal Hollywood-esque 'boyfriend', their brain goes to candlelit dinners and movie nights with takeout, being lavished in gifts and flowers, waking up to him having made a beautiful breakfast, etcetera and so forth. It didn't go to a lanky monkey-man with a scarily brilliant mind and a pseudo-empathic mindset who placed cake on a pedastal like it was sacred, ranking it way higher than any other human being. He was like a sum whose answer had one too many numbers. He was complicated and defensive and (even though the arrogance was somewhat justified by the sheer amount of intelligence he possessed) annoyingly pretentious. L was not, could not be, boyfriend material. Not even if he tried - and it seemed to me like he was wanting to.

To make sure he wasn't put off by my 'rejection', and mainly to convince myself, I said, "Besides, I like you L, but I don't like you that much."

He took the teasing jab in the way I intended, smirking slightly.

"Do you like me enough to consider a round two, as they say?"

He may not have been boyfriend material but I certainly wasn't going to deny that offer.

Feeling confident enough, I leaned back in my chair, body language coy and inviting.

"Possibly," I drawled, pretending to think about it. I really had to hand it to him: he lacked subtlety but he slid that question in almost too smoothly. "Why? Are you asking?"

"Possibly," he echoed as he leaned in, his voice taking on that soft, low hum that made me tremble. "I should very much like to repeat that."

And so it happened again.

Fortunately, Watari was still in charge of supervising Misa and Light, so we didn't have to worry about an interruption in that regard. It was a good thing too - I would've felt terrible scandalising the old man, or worse, shocking him to an early grave.

In terms of the officers, L took the initiative and contacted Aizawa to say that he and his colleagues could take the morning off and would be expected, instead, around noon - a phone call that was very amusing to me and very difficult for him as my mouth teased here and there. The officer, albeit confused, did as asked and not a single man showed up before midday (probably grateful for the opportunity to catch-up on sleep and family time).

So, when we finally rolled off of each other and collapsed onto the floor beside the couch, there was no one there to see.

"I've concocted a most genius idea about how to effectively judge Light Yagami's honesty," L declared after taking a minute to catch his breath.

Sitting up, I frowned at the taste of my coffee, the beverage having long gone cold, dregs sloshing around like algae in the bottom.

"Shoot Sherlock."

"Kira is human," he began. "He is a human consumed by the idea that he has been chosen to emancipate the righteous. He believes it is his purpose. As such, it is only appropriate to assume that Kira is afraid of death. Most humans are, after all."

"Are you?" I quipped, curious, but L ignored me.

"I propose that in order to test Light Yagami's innocence once and for all, we put him in a scenario where he feels unsafe; where there is a possibility he could be killed, but with no option of escape. If he truly is Kira, in order to save himself, it is highly probable he will his assailant with a heart attack."

Swirling the last of my cold coffee, I looked across at him. "I don't know whether to be concerned or insulted that you were thinking about Light during all of that."

The detective frowned. "What we just did had nothing to do with—"

"I'm messing with you," I said with a smile, putting aside my cup and tugging my shirt back on. "I see what you mean. is a darn good way to test anyone's innocence."

The detective nearly looked flattered, but that may have just been the sex.

"But," I said pointedly, tossing his jeans his way. "It's also a good way to eternally traumatise someone."

"I have faith that Light Yagami's mental state is strong enough to overcome trauma."

"And if it's not?"

"I will pay for his therapist."

The men trickled in periodically over the next hour. They looked well rested and, consequently, much more pleasant. Whether it was noticeable or not, L and I were much more pleasant too. I bordered on cheerful which, understandably, unsettled my coworkers whom were much more accustomed to my tired, brooding counterpart.

With what could be described as a spring in my step, I perched next to Matsuda on the couch as L checked over our three hostages.

"Morning, sunshine. How are you?"

He raised his head and stared at me, long and hard. I could see the cogs ticking in that usually unconscious, day-dreaming daisy-brain of his. Then, without so much as cracking a smile, he said, "You had sex."

How in the name of the ever living fuck—?

I forced my body to respond as it would be expected to in any other circumstance, pulling a face of disgust and repulsion, and letting out a boisterous laugh.

"What are you on about, Matsuda?"

His expression didn't change. I chuckled through the horror, hoping no one noticed my growing unease.

"You had sex," he repeated.

Okay, no, but where did this sudden intuition come from? Did he have a sixth sense? We're we really that obvious? Did I die and go to Hell and this was Satan listing off my sins?

"Wait, but I thought you were staying here with... no." His eyes spun across the room. "You— You two?! Did you two do it?"

Panic mode set in.

"What? No!"

Matsuda let out an awkward little chortle, glancing at the detective with a sort of masculine respect.

"To be honest, I really didn't think Ryuuzaki had it in him."

"Matsuda!" I gasped. "For the love of... you know what, get up. Come on, get over here!"

I led him into the other room by the wrist, closing the door behind me and promptly rounding on the young officer who, rightly, looked terrified.

"Right, here's the deal: I like you Matsuda. Most days, you're my favourite person in the room. But if you let even one syllable of this slip," I whispered, leaning in until scared black pupils filled my vision. "I might have to kill you."

Matsuda was silent, throat bobbing as he gulped back what I hoped was fear. He chuckled, tone flat and very awkward.

"Jeez, Kat, you're scary when you get angry," he admitted, lowering his voice to a whisper to match mine. "But don't worry - your secret's safe with me!"

With a curt nod, I backed away. "Good."

"Can I just say I'm so happy for you guys—"

"Yeah, whatever."

"Is it too early to say I told you so?"

I'm regretting this already.

A/N

* Jackson Pollock was a kickass abstract painter who specialised in 'splatter art'. Opinions vary but, personally, I think his work is very beautiful

* 'Cockles' come from the idiom 'warm the cockles of your heart' which means someone witnesses/experiences something that makes them feel content

Okay. I know what you're all thinking:

"Only 3,000 words after months of waiting? What, is she joking?!"

I KNOW and I promise I have more written up. But I am now an employed person. It's true. I have money. It's amazing. I work at McDonalds for anyone who's interested and I'm really happy with it BUT its basically taking approximately 16+ hours out of my week that could be spent writing. Updates will still happen but maybe less often? Idk I still haven't fully settled in yet.

Also side note: I've been listening to the DN musical to encourage myself to write more. Has anyone else listened to it? I thought Jack Wildhorn peaked with 'Dracula' and 'Jekyll and Hyde' oh hell no he straight up kicked musical ass with 'Death Note'. Definitely have a listen if you haven't already!