Time seemed not to apply to L, as if he and the space where he was sank into an infinite loop. The room remained the same, always dim, with the curtains closed, blocking the sunlight and rendering it impossible to discern whether it was day or night. The devices worked tirelessly like the detective living in the room, screens flashing 24/7, rarely powering down. Functioning similarly to a machine, L never required regular sleep and worked till he felt like resting. Not that Watari never reminded L that he definitely is not immortal, and even his computer's CPU might not be able to operate forever without having some time off, but the detective always insisted on solving one more puzzle, finding one more clue or piece of evidence, rendering Watari's suggestions futile. Over the years, Watari would absently remind L of taking time off, but not with much expectation of the detective following.
One could say that L never has a 'schedule.' He works until he can't fight his biological clock, but never according to the physical one that hangs on the wall, rendering the device almost decorative rather than functional. Ordinary days involved working overnight and monitoring the entire interrogation progress with the police. Although Watari tried to remind him that such interrogations might not be legal, it was out of L's concern. After all, the suspect agreed to be interrogated at night, whether due to L's persuasion or the police's initiative.
He never considered breaking this loop initially. At least not for his own affairs. Flexibility and efficiency were more his style. However, not everyone could adapt to his schedule-less way of living. For investigation partners, most had to accommodate his methods, as he rarely made concessions for others.
But she said she could only answer his calls at 10 at night. Right in the middle of his typical ongoing working hours.
He lay face up on the sofa, staring at the phone screen showing that the call had just ended.
Current time: 10:21 PM. Phone call duration: 19:52
No other time could Meredith answer the call. He was well aware of her schedule. Classes the next day, and if earlier than ten, she would be studying or still outside Wammy, and later than ten would affect bedtime. L had promised her, or, more to Watari, that his contacts would not disturb her schedule. Aside from weekdays, her weekends were busy if L did not return to Wammy's—studying, helping in the orphanage, and engaging in her own activities. In previous calls, he had complained lightly that she was cramming too many activities into one day. Occasionally. But she would counter with the fact that he didn't return to Wammy's House as often as before, leaving him speechless. "Fierce girl," he muttered once, and she huffed and hung up, prompting him to make another call.
L closed his eyes, recalling her voice: 'If you miss me, then visit Wammy's more.' In her dreamy tone, often present during their phone calls as she lay on her bed. He could almost picture her smiling on the other end, enticing him to prolong the conversation. Unsure if she were jesting or teasing, though she knew he wouldn't act on it, he sometimes wanted to set aside his work and return to the orphanage, if only to prove his sincerity.
If he ever did, he imagined he would bump into her in the corridors heading towards the library. Arms with books she wanted to study, with one novel for recreation, Meredith would appear surprised, perhaps stuttering, as she asked why he was there. Casually, he would shrug, hands in his jeans' pockets as usual, and answer, 'You asked for it,' concealing his true intention, pretending it was merely to show he took her words seriously, even though he knew it was all in good humor.
He made sure to end the conversation within 20 minutes. However, it seemed that he broke his principles several times—starting with 10 minutes, then 15 minutes, and now up to 20 minutes. Not that he didn't want to talk to her- conversations were pleasant, and hearing her voice on the phone was slightly different than hearing her in person, but nonetheless, it was still her. 20 minutes was not enough, and he anticipated expanding it to 30 minutes. For now, he had to try to make it in 20 minutes.
"Times up. You hang up."
The voice from the other side answered. "No, you hang up."
"No, you," replied L, with a smile curving around his lips. This happened numerous times, and he enjoys this little bargain.
"No, you hang up. You were the one that said you have work to do after this call."
None of them wanted to give in. He figured out that when it was her, he would give in much more things than he knew himself would.
"…Fine then."
The screen dimmed again, and L rested his hand on his chest. He never liked the feeling of being the one to hang up the phone, even though he knew well that time limitation was crucial. Whenever they had their routine call, a small ache would appear in the middle of his chest, not burning or making it hard to breathe, but rather like there was a hole, and he could feel the airflow past the burrow. It would gradually grow as if it served as a reminder, reminding him of the time limit. And the ache would extend and reach its peak when he ended the call.
The room was quiet, with only the clock ticking on the wall. He took a glimpse at it, ten thirty. He should get up now, continue his work. but he didn't feel like it. Limbs were heavy, reluctant to leave the sofa, and that ache hadn't dissipated yet.
L closed his eyes again.
"Watari said you will be busy."
"Yes, I suppose I could have an update from you."
"Oh- well, Roger caught the flu and was quite tired for some days- "
"Some children said that they wanted to plant more flowers on the porch- "
"There're some lily on the valley blooming in the back garden, maybe you will have a chance, and we could take a look at them; you should see those white flowers-"
"Midterms in school were quite easy, perhaps only the level of 12-year-old courses in Wammy's- "
Most of the time, it was her talking, and he encouraged it. She would ask about his day; most of the time, he would mumble, 'It was as usual.' But it was not. There were so many things to tell her: cases, how ignorant the police were, how he solved the latest case. The urge to share with her didn't decrease, but for some reason, he felt like instead of talking, with such precious phone time, he would rather hear from her more.
Anything she said was interesting. Literally anything. From the recent calls, those tiny bits of her life that he hadn't had the chance to take part in were interesting and were enough to give him the same amount of steadiness and ground as when he solved a case or found evidence. Maybe not the same amount of thrill, but still- he finds it fascinating.
Apart from the ache, he also noticed that the content feeling would make him quite drowsy when talking to her. Not out of boredom, he eagerly wanted to hear her voice, but the drowsiness seemed to come from more of a relaxed state—the same feeling he experienced when he was in Wammy's. Work-home boundaries never apply to him, as the same place was where he sleeps, eats, and works, all in the same dim room surrounded by computers and documents. If he had to call somewhere home, then it would be Wammy's, although now without much need, except the only reason to return was to see Meredith, he needn't return. Still, it should satisfy the definition of home.
That relaxation he encountered on the phone with her was the same as when he slept beside her during the Christmas holidays. He couldn't understand. And he couldn't allow himself to be drowsy; he still wanted to continue with investigations. Limiting the time was a way to prevent himself from eventually falling asleep.
Yet this time, he still couldn't fight back that drowsiness caused by the phone call.
In his murky subconsciousness, he seemed to see her again; knees bent as she sat amidst a picturesque field of delicate yellow flowers unfamiliar to him. The sunlight bathed her face, and she closed her eyes, not to shield herself from its rays but to bask in its warmth. She looked like a kitten hiding in the midst of the flower field in her cream-based yellow-dotted floral dress, which he couldn't recall having in the closet.
As she turned her face, he noticed a petal teetering on the edge of her nose, prompting a chuckle as he tapped his own nose to signal its presence. With a gentle puff of breath, she blew the tiny yellow dot away and rose to her feet.
She called his name, beckoning him to see and wear the flower crown she had just woven. Responding to her call, he walked towards her, but soon he quickened his steps. The excitement to see her, to be able to touch her, was like electricity shooting in his veins. His desire to be close to her also seemed to convey to her, and she started running to him. But soon, he realized they were not coming close no matter how hard he ran, breaking all restraints. Neither of them could reach each other.
It was a never-ending distance between them.
He slowed to a halt, watching her continue to run as if caught in a repeating scene from a movie. A familiar ache surged in L's chest, forcing him to bend down to ease the pain. Before he could raise his head to see her once more, he was abruptly awakened from the dream, back in his dim room.
The ache persisted, and the prickling sensation from the call came back, even more intense than before.
What was this feeling? Was it anything that he studied, read, or knew? L clenched his chest, trying to ease the tug. While still in pain, he tried to find the answer to his symptoms in his mixed-up mind, with thoughts running fiercely. Chemistry? Biology? Sociology? Psychology? Anything, as long as it could give him an explanation of what he was going through.
He tried to calm down by shutting his eyes, but then he saw her in his mind: every 12 centimeters, she was depicted. L envisioned her in the flower field, in the library reading beside him, and the scene of them dancing. He knew secretly that she hated swallowing pills and preferred powdered medicine when she caught a cold. If there were no alternative medicine, she would frown and swallow the pill regardless of size, often having a bad mood all day. He remembered how she would pick out pickles from her plate and hide them under leftover food scraps to conceal that there was something she didn't like to eat. She would unconsciously choose to step on the white stripes of the crossing when they went to town.
He counted each time he felt content and what caused the same feeling, conducting a regression analysis in his head, considering everything in his mind and what he had learned.
p-value 0.023. Statistically significant result, which means that-
And then he finally connected all the dots and lines, realizing that everything seemed to point to the same answer.
He sat up from the sofa. I should have known it.
Perhaps it had been brewing for much longer than he had realized. Maybe it was the feeling he experienced when he was with her, the slight acceleration of his heart rate, akin to the rapid heartbeat of a suspect undergoing a polygraph test - a nervous anticipation. Perhaps it was the unconscious desire to touch her. Or maybe it was the emptiness he felt when she was absent. Or that sense of relaxation when he was with her, on the phone, or just having her near gave him another sensation of contentment. These feelings grew gradually, like a seed planted in his mind, unnoticed until they became too large to ignore.
L couldn't move, still unable to believe the conclusion he had drawn for himself. But everything was coming together, making sense of his recent abnormality. Perhaps he had been aware of these feelings but lacked the courage to confront them. He was sinking in the rare companionship he rarely found elsewhere, particularly in his professional relationships, which often remained purely functional. Having total trust in someone else was a rare experience for him, given his life centered around suspicion, deduction, and unraveling mysteries. It wasn't that others were untrustworthy; rather, he himself was incapable of forming meaningful connections. And he hated it. For too long, this self-hatred clouded his judgment, and he never believed that real change was possible.
Therefore, when his subconsciousness acknowledged that he had never questioned her authenticity, despite his general inability to trust anyone, it sparked a conflict within him. This internal struggle twisted and turned, manifesting as a physical pain in his chest that he couldn't comprehend.
She was one of the few genuine beings he had encountered. In her eyes, he saw no facade, no hidden agenda - and he didn't mind if she chose to conceal anything from him. Was this an exception? Or a sign of his disability changing? Was he crossing a threshold from which he could never return?
He had always been quick to find solutions, answers, and solve puzzles. However, L found himself trapped for the first time, unsure of the next step. They had known each other for too long, and L couldn't deduce a possible outcome if he unilaterally changed the dynamic between them. He would do his best to preserve her happiness and smile, to see her safe and always beaming at him, and by doing so, would make him feel content like never before. If such feelings were unrequited, then he would keep everything to himself.
But does he want to keep things as usual? He wasn't sure either; there was a desire to know if there was a connection other than friendship and a need to know if it was only just him experiencing all this. He had to know if it was only in dreams that they would run to each other.
And there was only one way to find out.
A/N: Long time no see lunar new year was busy, and yes finally some progress, like my dissertation