A/N: I am having FUN with this story. I did have one anonymous reviewer (why are the irritating ones always anonymous, so I can't ask them what they meant or to clarify?) who wrote this story off as, and I quote, "Oh...another one of these." And I was like, seriously? You don't even KNOW where I'm going with this one. Anyway, I hope this chapter will assuage any concerns people had about this story just being another one of those "Light goes to Wammy's and makes/doesn't make friends" stories. Not that I don't love those stories. I do, truly!

Anyway. Let's get this party started, y'all!

Published 11/1/11

December 3rd, 2004

Gentle yellow lighting warmed the capacious, high-ceilinged room, giving it the feel of an era long past—one in which it would have been firelight that would have been lighting the area. The curtains drawn tightly across each window turned the icy outside world into something of an enigma, and although the room's sole inhabitant did love a good mystery, he knew perfectly well that it was just past seven in the evening (though really, he knew that it was precisely 7:14 and 37 seconds, according to the watch he habitually wore, but that was just splitting hairs).

Glancing up from the exceptional little device spinning away on his left wrist, his eyes shifted instead to the papers in front of him. Tapered, strong fingers spread out the sheets and then raised them upright and jogged the little stack once before laying them delicately to one side of his desk. Restless amber eyes—the only restless part of his character—moved again from the papers to the watch on his wrist. A tiny crease appeared between his eyebrows, but he smoothed it out once he became aware of it.

He felt an urge to sigh, but instead monitored his breathing for a moment to make sure it was perfectly regular—and then, just as he was preparing to stand and make his way towards the stained oak door of his suite, a low knock sounded and echoed softly in the largely empty room.

"Come in," the room's occupant murmured, and the heavy door swung in noiselessly.

"R," Wammy said by way of greeting. He balanced a tray in one hand and held a manila folder in the other. "I apologize," he added, first setting down the tray on a low table in the center of the room, and then handing him the thick envelope. "I was detained for a short while by the other children."

R's eyes swept from the folder he was opening with careful hands to meet his caretakers'. "It's fine," he said, returning his attention to the papers in front of him. He turned and placed them on top of his keyboard. "It's all here, then?" he asked. His tone made the question sound more like a statement of fact than anything else.

Wammy nodded anyway. "Everything you asked for—the police reports from both countries, the enhanced photographs, and the relative worth of goods taken."

R nodded, once, and then turned his focused attention on the tray of food Wammy had set aside when he'd entered.

"I'll eat first," he said—hardly a momentous announcement, since they both knew he took his dinner at 6:45, and not any sooner. And rarely—this being one of those exceptions—any later.

Wammy nodded. "Is there anything else you need immediately?" he asked.

R paused for a moment, then shook his head. "No, not until I weigh the evidence against what I've already seen," he decided. "I will want to talk to the so-called victims eventually, but I need to get a better grasp on the case before I enter into any communications with the police or witnesses."

Wammy nodded again. "You won't be needing me to inform the police that you are taking on this case, then?" he asked.

"No," R agreed. "As I'm not certain that I will be. It is . . . intriguing, to be sure. But as of now, not any more than that. I'm not certain they'll need the detective R's help at this point. Perhaps later."

"And as for Denevue's most recent endeavor?" Wammy probed gently.

R stood and stepped over to the small table, gesturing behind himself as he went. He knelt on the floor and began to eat. He had still retained his habit of sitting on the floor to eat; it was something that Wammy had considered trying to change, but had then thought that it was such a small habit, and one that had virtually no effect on his work, so R might as well keep it.

"It's all there," R informed him, and Wammy moved to collect the papers on the left side of R's desk—his Denevue and Coil side. Leafing through them, Wammy nodded in satisfaction.

"You don't have to finish all the paperwork yourself, you know," Wammy told him, eyes still on the pages in front of him. "I am here to assist you with that—as are the local police force in Marseilles."

R nodded, laying his fork to one side as he answered. "I know," he said. "I . . . like it. It is most efficient when I finish it myself, and it does give me a stronger sense of achievement when it's all set in stone—or at least, set in black, size 12 font."

Wammy leafed through the papers, searching, until . . . "It was Tomas, then?" he asked.

R nodded again. "Yes," he said, and paused. He allowed himself a small smile as he added, "It was, in fact, the damn butler who did it this time."

Wammy smiled too, though he hid it behind the papers he was still overseeing. "Well, excellent work, then, R," he acknowledged. "I'll let La Police Nationale know that you've solved their mystery."

"Good. Transfer the payment into Denevue's account for now. We'll move the majority of those funds into my primary account once interest in the case has died down." R sounded distant as he attended primarily to his dinner. As Wammy watched, R divided his portion of meat into small, even portions, keeping each of the foods separate on his plate, before he began to eat. As usual, this sort of activity caused a twinge of guilt in the back of Wammy's mind, and as usual, he firmly drove it further into his subconscious. R was what he was, he did what worked, and he got everything done as quickly (quicker, even) as could be expected. So there was really no need for him to get worked up over such inconsequential behavior.

Wammy nodded. "I'll leave you, then, unless there's anything else?"

R shook his head. "No, so long as you'll let me know when Poland gets back to Eraldo Coil about the cudzoziemiec problem they're having in Krakow. I know they're currently deciding whether or not to request his services. And do also let me know if anything interesting comes up—anything that would be of interest to the detective R. Otherwise, thank you for the documents. I will let you know when there is any change in my determination to take the case."

"As always, I will keep you updated on any change. You don't need me to interrupt your sleeping schedule, though?"

After a moment's thought, R shook his head. "No, unless there is some sort of emergency," he said. "After all," he added with the barest hint of a sly smile, "the world runs on my time, not the other way around."

Wammy slipped the papers into an envelope he'd brought with him and nodded. "I'll see you in the morning, then, unless something changes."

"Good night," R agreed, and Wammy quietly took his leave of the suite.

After the door closed, R blinked a few times and looked down at his dinner. His lips twisted, just the smallest bit, but he forced it into a wry grin. Wammy knew he hated cauliflower, but it was in season and Wammy could be obstinate. He ate it dutifully, even without Wammy here to see—especially without Wammy here to see. He needed to take care of his health as meticulously as he took care of everything, and if that meant eating everything on his plate (and it did), then that's exactly what would happen.

As Wammy exited, he closed the door gently behind himself, and then let out a little surprised breath as he saw a shadow standing just in the corner of his vision. Turning, he saw Roger waiting for him outside the room, and he smiled and made his way over to his old friend.

"How are the children?" Wammy asked. They both knew he didn't mean the children in general—they both knew that he was talking about a few particular children. One particular child. Mello.

"Fine," Roger said with a bemused smile. "Mello has been subdued, at the cost of a few bruises on the staff's part."

"If he doesn't learn to calm himself-" Wammy began.

"He will," Roger assured him, not even letting him finish the thought. They both knew they couldn't turn Mello out, not now. He had been here too long; it would be cruel (both to him and the rest of the world) to simply hand him off to another orphanage. "Matt is with him now."

"Matt," Wammy said simply. The word sounded suspiciously like a prayer. "That boy . . ."

"We'll never understand him—any of them, really," Roger agreed. "Frankly, I've given up trying."

"We never had so much trouble with R," Wammy remembered, somewhat fondly. It took him a moment, but he soon recognized Roger's silence for what it was, and asked, "What is it this time, Roger?"

Roger smiled at him again, and again it was not so much an expression of good humor as it was just a habit—a part of being near a very old friend. "R . . ." Roger began, trying to find a good starting place. It was a losing argument, he knew, so it was important the he have good footing in the first place. "He cannot possibly be happy, Quillsh. He is locked in that room day after day; he leaves only to go on-site, and that is rare."

Wammy spread his hands. "What would you like me to do, Roger?" he asked. "I don't tell him to stay in; I am in no way forcing his hand. R does what he likes. He always has."

"No," Roger said darkly. "He does what we like, and always has."

"So your issue is with his training," Wammy summarized. "Well, for God's sake Roger, I ask you again, what would you like me to do about it?"

"We have trained that boy to be a loner, an outcast-"

"He's not a boy anymore, Roger," Wammy reminded him. "25 is well past the age of being considered a youth."

"Not the point," Roger said. Wammy shrugged. "We have trained him to be alone, all these years, we've instilled in him a veritable fear of interaction-"

"But that fear isn't there, Roger," Wammy insisted. "You've seen him as well as I have. He is precise, well-mannered, graceful and socially competent in every situation. Whether he's with someone a fourth his age or four times his age. He is always polite; his interactions are always exactly appropriate."

"Exactly!" Roger exclaimed, then lowered his voice as he realized that they were walking past the children's bedrooms. "He is exactly appropriate. He is precise. There is no feeling in him. It is all calculation. It is all a . . . a game."

"I know I sound like a broken record, Roger, but what do you want me to do about it? R is perfectly competent in every social situation and you know it—whether or not it's genuine. He speaks well, he dresses well, he eats and sleeps well-"

"He does everything well," Roger emphasized. "Does he ever make mistakes?"

Wammy fixed him with a look. "I'm really not sure what you're getting at, Roger," he admitted. "You know that from the very beginning that we've trained him not to make mistakes. A normal person making a mistake is embarrassing at worst. R making a mistake . . . worlds could crumble."

"Is he even human anymore?" Roger pressed. "Have you checked? Does he breathe?"

"What on earth do you mean?"

"I mean that he has never had time to figure out who he is—he's always been who we've wanted him to be. Who we've molded him to be."

"Well, Roger, I don't mean to sound callous, but . . . yes, that's exactly right. Wasn't that what we agreed on, all those years ago?" Wammy asked. "Didn't we all look at the same lesson plan, the same ideals, the same qualifications, and agree that this was what our creation would look like?"

Roger made a quiet, frustrated sound. "Yes," he agreed. "Yes, we did, but I'm starting to think we were wrong, Quillsh," he said softly, urgently.

Wammy was silent for a moment. "I know it seems unnatural," he finally assented. "I know it is unusual—I know how he behaves is almost . . . inhuman. But the world is better for it. And don't think that I don't care about him, Roger," he suddenly warned. "I do—I've always thought of him . . . well, you know."

"And now?" Roger asked. "What do you think of him now?"

Wammy thought for a moment before answering. "I feel the same. But it is no longer on the surface, as it was when he was a boy. Now, everything is business. I would gladly be a father to him, Roger, if he ever needed a father. Right now, what he needs is a partner—someone to run errands and take care of him. And it's not ideal—it's not what I imagined I'd be doing at this point in my life. But we made him, and we'll take care of him. I'll take care of him."

They stopped and looked at each other just outside Roger's office. Then, with a sigh, Roger turned the key and they both went in, settling down into their usual chairs.

"I know," Roger finally admitted. He sighed and looked heavenward for a moment. "I know," he repeated.

"Then what is is that you want?" Wammy asked, not unkindly.

"I want . . . I want things to be different, for these children," Roger said.

Wammy thought about that. "You want us to change our curriculum. Even when it has turned out a perfect detective."

"It has turned out a perfect machine!" Roger snapped back, then again lowered his voice. "I want to see humanity in the children. Think of Near-"

"Think of Mello," Wammy interrupted. "I think he could do with a little less humanity, don't you? A little more control?"

Roger sighed again. "That's right," he said. "That's exactly right. We need a balance, Quillsh. Somewhere between Mello and Near. Our two best students, both hell-bent on their own self-destruction."

"So what do you propose?" Wammy asked.

"We need to personalize the curriculum, not change it. Not so much. Near is not the same as R. Mello is not the same as R. Matt, Linda, Xavier, all of them children are so different. What worked for R will not necessarily work for them."

Wammy nodded thoughtfully after a moment. "All right," he agreed. "I like where this is going. I'm not going to admit to making mistakes with R, Roger," he warned. "Because he turned out exactly like he was supposed to, there's no arguing that. Even if we're not quite sure what to do with the end result—he is what we'd anticipated. And more."

Roger looked as though he was going to argue that for a moment, then he closed his mouth and sat back in his chair. "All right," he agreed. "We won't talk about R. What's done is done, I suppose. You are closest to him, Quillsh. You'll . . . you'll stop him, if he ever needs stopping?"

Wammy frowned a bit. "I'm not sure what that's supposed to mean," he admitted.

"I mean that you'll remind him that he's human if he ever forgets," Roger said. "That you'll be with him, right there to warn him off the path of cold inhumanity if he ever wanders down it."

Wammy nodded immediately. "Don't think I haven't thought it," he said. "I promise you that I will be there."

Roger nodded back and relaxed a bit. "Then you won't mind if I start making changes to the curriculum?" he asked. "After the disaster with A and B-"

Wammy let out a distressed little noise at that. A's suicide had been years ago (though every thought of it still brings a fresh pang of awful, pressing guilt)—but the L.A. BB murders had been only a little over a year ago. Every time it was brought up, R got a peculiar light in his eyes, and Wammy was left to guess as to what it meant. He assumed it was guilt, but with R, it could be anything—guilt, yes, but also perhaps disgust, or sorrow, or even . . . admiration.

"Yes, we still have to talk about them, Quillsh," Roger continued.

Wammy held up a hand. "I see your point," he managed. "Of course I do, Roger. We do not want a repeat of any kind of either B or A. The children haven't been told about them, correct?"

"Of course not," Roger agreed. "But the curriculum, Quillsh, how we treat them-"

"Yes," Wammy agreed. "Yes, I suppose it could do with a little updating." He saw the look on Roger's face and amended, "Perhaps a lot of updating. But . . . damn, Roger, isn't it hard to admit we were wrong?"

Roger nodded slowly. "It makes me wonder if we were wrong about everything," he said quietly. "About R, even . . ."

"We can't think like that," Wammy said firmly. "As we've said, R is what he is."

"And the fact that you speak of him like that," Roger interrupted. "He is what he is. Not who he is."

Wammy made a defeated gesture. "All right," he said. "You win, Roger. We've made mistakes. I've been wrong. But I'm going to draw the line at saying that R is wrong."

Roger thought about that for a moment, then nodded. "All right," he acquiesced. "But as for the other children-"

"Draw up some plans—I'll help you if you want. We can individualize it," Quillsh agreed. "It will be work, for us and for the staff, but it will be worth it if we can avoid anything like A or B."

"I've already thought of a few things—most particularly for our three top students," Roger admitted.

"Why them?" Wammy wanted to know.

"I suppose . . . they're often forefront in my mind," Roger said. "And the pressure's on them more than anyone, Quillsh."

Wammy nodded. "So what have you-"

He stopped. They both stopped. Wammy's phone had begun blinking, showing that he had a message. It was either from R or from one of the various countries R helped, asking for his assistance. "One moment," Wammy said, scanning the screen.

He was silent. For longer than one moment. Then, he glanced up at the clock. Only about 8 p.m., still well within the time before R went to bed (that honor fell on 11 o'clock, exactly. Every night.).

"I'm sorry," Wammy said, standing. "R is going to want to see this."

"A new case?" Roger asked, and Wammy looked speculative—and more than a little skeptical.

"I'm not sure," he admitted. "But . . . it's something."

Roger nodded. "All right," he said. "We have plenty of time to talk later."

Wammy nodded distractedly. "In the meantime, work on the changes you'd like to see. Let me know if you have anything concrete," he said. He gave his old friend a brief smile, and then headed up to R's suite.

Two hours' worth of conversation and internet research (and a little NPA hacking) later, R sat back in his ebony leather chair, a pleased little expression playing around the corners of his mouth. "Yes," he said finally. "Yes, I think I rather like this." He crossed one leg over the other and scanned through the documents on his computer again.

"So, I take it you won't be taking that case in Thailand?" Wammy asked.

R glanced up at him, looking as though he'd quite forgotten Wammy was there. He studied him for a moment, and Wammy knew that his mind was moving at a million miles a minute, touching base on every lead he might have, every possibility there was with this new case, and that the attention he was giving to Wammy and this conversation was really miniscule in comparison. "Yes, that's right. And when Poland does call back—and I'm certain they will—stall. I'm not sure how much of my time I'll need to devote to this case, but I am willing to bet it's going to be quite a bit."

Wammy nodded. "Of course. Shall I contact the NPA?" he asked.

R immediately shook his head, tentative fingers brushing over his keyboard. "No," he murmured. "No, if I'm not mistaken . . ." he paused. Wammy knew better than to interrupt. R's fingers moved quickly over the keyboard this time, darting around as he checked and rechecked his information. "Yes," he finally vocalized. "Yes, it looks like the ICPO is meeting on this tomorrow."

Wammy stood immediately. "We'll need plane tickets, then," he said.

R glanced at the clock, expression a little dim. Wammy knew that look. R was irritated he wouldn't be getting his normal sleep hours in. Any deviation in his routine . . .

"I'll buy out the first class seats on the soonest Swiss Air Line flight to Tokyo, shall I?" Wammy asked. It wasn't really a question. It wasn't as though R was a particularly flashy person—not at all, really—but he appreciated privacy and he appreciated quality.

R cleared his face of his expression of mild discomfort (likely just now realizing that Wammy had seen it), and nodded. "That will be fine," he said.

Wammy headed for the door. "I will arrange the transportation," he said. "Will you need anything else?"

R shook his head immediately, his eyes already on his new puzzle again. "Let me know when we leave. It should be within four to five hours."

Wammy nodded. "I'll get back to you in less than half an hour," he said.

R waved him off distractedly as he began to submerse himself in this new case.

"Kira," R murmured as he heard the door close. He allowed himself to smile, just a little. His eyes studied the screen, intently. Hungrily. His smile grew, and he found himself quite unable to stop. He didn't want to stop.

For the first time in a while . . . for the first time at least since B's death . . . he was going to have fun.

A/N: WARNING: MUSIC NERD GIBBERISH AHEAD.

So, for each of my stories and each of the characters in the stories, I have a playlist that I use to help me get in the right mood for writing. For example, my Lady Gaga Pandora station helps when I'm writing Disorder, while Silence demands something more along the lines of Regina Spektor and/or John Reznik and Matchbox Twenty.

But for some reason, I was finding it tough to find a good station for this story. (Well, it didn't help that I was seriously struggling with characterization. I mean, I wonder how much of Light/L's characters are made from their atmospheres and how much can be attributed to basic nature? But that's another story.) Finally, though, I found it. My Beethoven channel on Pandora. It's perfect for Light's rigidity and formality, as well as his obsession with detail and even his tightly reigned in emotion. The thing—the beautiful thing—about Romantic music (and that's Romantic, capital 'R', as in the musical period) is that it still follows the strict guidelines and demanding mathematical theory behind music, but it does its damnedest to inject feeling into what was becoming a somewhat formulaic musical experience. Now, I'm not saying that other musical periods were inferior; I'm just saying that I think that Beethoven and his peers work so well with Raito's character because he is like the music they wrote: tightly strung and according to theory, but with emotion running fierce and deep through him.

Wow, that was a lot. When I read that, I imagine myself saying it all in one breathless rush, since that's what it was like in my head.

Welp, that's it for now! Next chapter, you should all expect to see L! (I'm excited/terrified to write that.) In the meantime, review, please!