Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The world had shrunk to the four walls of that godforsaken apartment; and there was the scent of Touta’s aftershave, and there was also the possessive heat of his hands on L’s skin. 

Touta moved above him, and he was sweating, and he was breathing hot against L’s throat while fucking the man underneath him hard—punctuating the sweet, sweet things he whispers into L’s ear with his thrusts—and each one drove a choked sound from L’s lungs, a sound that was half-protest, half-plea. L couldn’t tell what he was saying anymore, and his throat felt so, so tight, and his mind was mushy. There was a push, a shove, a pull, and L panted heavily, his eyes squinting, vision becoming blurry with his tears. 

“Fuck-” Touta panted, hips snapping forward, burying his cock to the hilt, making L’s body jolt. “I- I love you, dammit, I love you so much, L-” Touta slurred out, and L closed his eyes, panting softly trying to catch his breaths while Touta quickly worked inside him out. 

L could only cling to him, slender fingers digging into the hard muscle of Touta’s back, his own knees hooked over Touta’s arms, holding himself open. L’s mind—which was usually somewhat a mixture of analysis and probability and every other form of logistic—was a blissful, white-hot blank. There was only this; the friction, the stretch, the overwhelming fullness, the way Touta’s cock seemed to find a place deep inside him that unraveled every last thread of his composure. He was being unmade, piece by piece, and the terror of it was inextricably linked to the most profound pleasure he had ever known.

L came with a broken cry, body seizing, his release striping his own stomach and chest. The clenching of his body around Touta’s length was all it took to push the other man over the edge. Touta’s rhythm faltered down hastily, letting out a grunt while he spent himself inside L, body collapsing atop him.

For a long moment, there was only the sound of their harsh, synchronizing breaths. The lie of his life, the ghost of L, the fear—it all felt distant than usual, soothed by a reality where Touta was with him and the smell of musk and sex.

But the mind, once conditioned to seek patterns, never truly stops. And as he stood hours later before the glass-paneled building in California, a file clutched in his hand, a different, more visceral pattern reasserted itself. It was the pattern of being watched. The pattern of a trap he could not yet see.

“Never mind,” L muttered- the words coming out in a self-admonishing exhale. L’s posture.. well, it was a study in defensive geometry honestly, like that permanent slouch that seemed to draw his body inwards, protecting its core—while his thumb, a nervous metronome perhaps, brushed against his lower lip. Touta Matsuda, his boyfriend of like, two years, narrowed his eyes, picking up on the subtle frequencies of L’s unease.

“I think.. I’m slightly unsettled by the prospect of proceeding alone. I think having you by my side would be… preferable.” L said, devoid of the anxious tremor he felt internally. A faint flush, a purely physiological betrayal, warmed his pale cheeks. He had rejected the offer initially, a performative act of independence, but the creeping paranoia—the old, familiar sensation of invisible crosshairs on the back of his neck—had returned with a vengeance.

“As you wish.” Touta said with a grin.

The building before them was big. Touta had paid the cab driver, while L stood motionless, his dark, wide eyes performing a passive scan of the structure, analyzing sightlines, potential blind spots, and points of entry and egress as if it were a hostile fortress. “You should come inside with me, I suppose.”

Touta chuckled, letting out a dry, affectionate sound. “L, you’re the one interviewing to be a personal assistant, not me. I’d just be in the way.”

“A temporary presence. Just until the process is initiated,” L insisted, grip on Touta’s hand tightening as he physically tugged him through the revolving doors. And see, the choice of this menial position was a previsioned one because his intellect, his past—these were currencies he refused to spend. L existed on the inheritance of his alias, but Touta, whose world was built on tangible materials of the world, greasy truths, provided a stability he craved. This job was a step toward a different kind of truth, one he built himself.

The truth of normalcy. 

“You know, if that whole.. mess hadn’t happened, you’d probably be consulting for Interpol or running some global security conglomerate by now,” Touta said, voice hovering between a joke and a genuine statement of belief as they entered the vast, airy reception area. The space was quiet, and the air smelled of lemon-scented cleaner but it was nice. A single woman sat behind a vast marble counter- focus entirely consumed by the glow of her monitor.

“I will go,” L murmured, shuffling forward. “Good morning.”

The receptionist looked up- long dark hair cascading around her shoulders. “How can I help you, sir?”

“I have an appointment regarding the assistant position. The name is Rue Ryuzaki.” L said, and offered the alias—a piece of cryptographic code designed to deflect any searches, any inquiries, especially from him.

“Oh, you’re Rue Ryuzaki?” The woman asked, eyes darting to the screen. He responded with a single nod. “Please, have a seat over there. I’ll inform Ms. Takada that you’ve arrived.” The woman said, and then she gestured toward a cluster of low-slung, minimalist couches.

“Thank you,” L said, voice flat. He returned to Touta and sank onto the couch, body folding into its habitual pose, knees drawn up to his chest. “My nervousness has grown lower,” L muttered, and Touta hummed, and then he committed an agreeable disruption in L’s ordered field of personal space. “I can provide a distraction.”

“A distraction?” L reiterated, tilting his head curiously.

The kiss was soft, fleeting, a transfer of warmth that momentarily overrode the cold logic of his anxiety. It was a pleasant, illogical variable. But the system’s peace was immediately shattered by a sharp, high-pitched intrusion.

“Ugh, can’t stand seeing this stuff everywhere! Do people have no sense of decorum?” A voice snapped, and then L and Touta pulled apart, a faint blush colouring L’s cheeks—another inconvenient physiological response. L turned around and saw this blonde haired chick. 

Another woman appeared beside her—her dark hair was sharply cut, a solid bang framing a face of poised, almost severe composure. “Oh please, Misa. Your entire brand is built on your fans’ romantic projections. A little self-awareness would be refreshing.” 

Misa Amane—the famous model whom L had seen in magazines a few times, pouted—doing an exaggerated expression. “You’re so mean! Misa-Misa’s just saying what everyone’s thinking! Public displays are so.. tacky!”

Kiyomi Takada adjusted her glasses, letting out a sigh. “And I’m saying you’re projecting your own frustrations. Again.”

Touta blinked- expression one of pure, uncomprehending bewilderment. “Uh.. what’s happening?”

Misa giggled, and flipped her hair. “I’m Misa Amane, duh! Supermodel, and actress! And this is Kiyomi Takada, my super-strict secretary who’s, like, way too serious for her own good so don’t mind her.” Misa said, and L stared at them. I might mind you more than her though, L thought, silent for a second. 

“Good morning. I’m Rue Ryuzaki,” L said, and then Touta stood, checking his watch with a jolt. “I gotta head to work. You’ll do great, L. You’re the smartest person I know.”

“Hmm,” L humphed, his grip on Touta’s hand tightening minutely.

Touta chuckled, squeezing his hand back. “You’re overthinking it. You’re too brilliant to mess this up. And way too cute to be rejected.” Touta said, and then pressed a quick kiss to L’s forehead. 

“I will see you at the residence.” L affirmed, and Touta hummed. 

“Bye!” Touta said, and then waved, his exit a clumsy sprint while almost collapsing all over his way out.

“Aw he’s adorable!” Misa squealed, her focus laser-locking onto L. “Those cheeks! That lost-puppy look! Misa-Misa totally gets why he’s got a boyfriend!”

A tall man with severely slicked-back hair and an expression of perpetual disapproval cleared his throat. “Ms. Amane, we’re in a professional setting. I must insist you refrain from such.. personal commentary.” The guy said, adjusting his glasses, and Misa grunted in annoyance. 

“Ugh, Teru, you’re such a buzzkill! You sound just like he does sometimes, always telling Misa-Misa to be more professional!” Misa snapped, and L arched an eyebrow at the pronoun, and almost felt a jolt of pure ice running through his veins. What the actual fuck was that.

“Ryuzaki-kun, I’ll take you to the interview room, c’mon. I should be the one doing it anyway,” Misa began, and L followed her suit, and Teru and Kiyomi walked behind them. They made their way to the elevator, and once all four of them got inside, there was a small awkward pause. 

“Seriously, I’m not even sure why I’m doing the interview because Ryuzaki-kun to me is already a perfect candidate already- we need to be more inclusive and what’s better than having a man with a boyfriend.” Misa piped, and Kiyomi let out a sigh from behind her, and Teru had his arms crossed. 

“Professionalism, Ms. Amane. It’s a concept you might try embracing.” Kiyomi said, and L offered a soft hum. They went inside the office room, and as soon as they did, apprehension kicked in. L assessed the environment carefully; the placement of the furniture, the type of lock on the door, the quality of the light, the absence of visible surveillance. L’s instincts screamed that the parameters of this situation were all wrong, but the core data point remained elusive.

Because what the fuck could possibily go wrong, anyway?

“Sit, sit!” Misa piped, and gestured to a chair opposite her desk while she made her way to the front. “So, you wanna be Misa-Misa’s assistant? That’s, like, a super important job! You’d be helping with schedules, photoshoots, fan events- oh, and the most important thing, keeping my coffee just right! It has to be perfect!” Misa piped, his voice coming out high-pitched. 

L perched on the very edge of the chair, actively focusing and ensuring to not bring his knees up out of habit. “I understand the primary function of the role is to provide comprehensive organizational and logistical support,” L clarified, and she dumbly blinked at him. “Could you clarify on the specific, delineated responsibilities and the key performance indicators for the position?”

Misa blinked, momentarily derailed by the directness. “Wow, you’re, like, all serious and stuff! Okay, um..” Misa trailed off, then she tapped a manicured finger against her chin, eyes losing focus for a second before snapping back with renewed, forced brightness. “Basically, you’d make sure Misa-Misa’s life runs perfectly! Like, making sure my outfits are pre-approved, handling my social media engagement metrics, and acting as a primary buffer against unwanted external interactions. Oh, and you’d totally have to come to my shoots! They’re so fun! You look so bored, it’d be nice for you.”

L processed this, head tilting to a slight, bird-like angle. The description was banal, a list of mundane tasks. But the context raised every internal alarm. Was this a front? An elaborate mechanism to draw him out into the open? 

“The decision-making hierarchy for this hiring process interests me. Who, ultimately, is the final arbiter? And to whom would I report, beyond yourself?”

Misa giggled, a nervous, fluttering sound, and waved a dismissive hand. “Oh, you’re so formal! I like you already. Let’s see.. you’d work directly with Kiyomi- she’s my head secretary, super smart but kinda boring—and Teru, my other assistant, who’s all about rules and order. And sometimes you might have to interact with my husband, but he’s, like, super busy and aggravated like most of the time and doesn’t usually get involved in Misa-Misa’s day-to-day.”

L’s internal processing stuttered for a nanosecond. Husband. “Your husband?” L reiterated, and then Misa nodded her head a few times.

“Yeah- I mean, he’s the real big boss of this whole building.” Misa said, her chest puffing out with performative pride. “He’s away on business a lot, but he’s so dreamy. You’ll probably meet him eventually.” 

I don’t think I want to, L thought and then his thumb pressed against his lip. “I would like to understand the corporate structure more thoroughly and my potential position within its organizational chart. Could we discuss the full scope and limitations of the assistant’s authority?”

Misa’s pout was immediate, a mask of frustration at being pressed beyond her script. “What the fuck, you’re like a detective or something and ask a lot of questions. Okay, fine. You’d be the primary point of contact for my calendar management, you’d coordinate directly with brand representatives, and you’d be responsible for the initial triage of my fan correspondence- because Misa-Misa gets tons of it! Oh, and you’d need to be super discreet. I’ve got paparazzi and crazy fans trying to find out all my secrets.”

“Discretion is a baseline competency, not a specialized skill,” L stated flatly. “What are the travel obligations? You mentioned a trip to a metropolitan center in the Midwest.”

“Oh, right! Chicago!” Misa chirped, and then she clapped her hands together. “We’re going to this huge exclusive fashion event! You’d be part of the core team coming with me, Kiyomi, Teru, and a few others. It’s gonna be so glamorous! Your function would be to ensure all my personal and professional requirements are met on-site, including itinerary adherence and accommodation standards.”

L’s head tilted to the other side. “And the selection algorithm for the travel cohort? What are the determining factors?” L asked, and Misa blinked again, her fluster becoming more pronounced. “Wow, you ask a lot of questions! Um, I just pick who I think will be the most useful. And since you’re new, it’s, like, a trial by fire. A chance to prove your total devotion to Misa-Misa.”

The door swung open and Kiyomi walked in. “Ms. Amane, I’ve prepared the preliminary briefs for the Chicago trip. Shall I include Mr. Ryuzaki in the distribution?”

Misa waved a hand in her general direction. “Sure, sure! Oh, and Kiyomi, explain the resignation policy to him- I’m too lazy with all his inquiries.. it’s getting on my nerves by now, franky..” Misa continued and then she sighed.

“Resignation policy?” L reiterated, and Kiyomi hesitated for some reason. “It’s a standard clause in all new employment contracts. A minimum commitment of one month’s service is required before a resignation can be formally tendered. It ensures operational stability during the initial integration period.”

“A rather curious stipulation for an at-will employment state,” L mused, and his voice was devoid of inflection, yet the statement was a probe. “And if I were to decline the position at the conclusion of this interview?”

Misa’s smile didn’t falter so much as it calcified, and there was a glimpse of something cold and hard moved behind her eyes. “Oh sweetie, nobody declines Misa-Misa. The offer, once made, is.. final. Once you’re in, you’re in! Besides,” Misa began. “You’ll love it! It’s a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.”

L’s every instinct knew better. This was no longer a job interview; it was an induction. And truth being said, perhaps it was never an interview in the first place. L’s thumb pressed harder against his lip, frowning at the other three with confusion stirring in his eyes, dizzying unease in his stomach.

Operational stability. 

The phrase was a blatant lie, like- a corporate-sounding euphemism for a lock. For a personal assistant role, it was statistically anomalous, a red flag so large it should have been the only thing in his field of vision.

And god, his field of vision was blurring more and more with every second, the present reality was receding as a more visceral dataset booted up from the corrupted archives of his memory. The fear was no longer an abstract concept; it was a chemical reaction, flooding his system with a cold sweat that had nothing to do with the room’s temperature.

Why? Really, why? Misa Amane’s husband was a variable with near-infinite possibilities. A tech billionaire. An old-money industrialist. Heck, even some random old man who's built like a fucking deep breath. The probability that this specific man, in this specific city, at this specific time, was him.. was so, so infinitesimally, laughably small that to entertain the notion was a symptom of paranoia. He was L, not some trauma-addled victim seeing phantoms in every shadow. He was better than this. So why was the probability of it being him was a decimal point followed by a string of zeros—nearly not enough to calm his heart rate down? So why did his stomach feel like it was sinking to the floor? Why was his skin suddenly remembering the weight and the texture of a different, proprietary touch he had presumed to forget long, long ago?

And- and this apprehension wasn't only an abstract fear of failure but rather the physical memory of being pinned beneath a heavier body. Of larger, of warmer hands—hands that could draft a corporate takeover or snap a man’s neck with the same ease—digging into the flesh of his hips, of his waist, of his thighs, holding him down against expensive sheets. The feeling of those same hands, moments later, cradling his jaw, his head, his hair, and-and with that godawful tenderness that was more violating than the brutality of his actions. The dichotomy was the entire point. It was all a demonstration of absolute control. And how fucking much L was in fact not in control.

And he would talk. That was the worst of it—while fucking into L hard, his voice would contradict, and instead be soft, be kind even, whispering words of love or perversion.

“Your cognitive function is shutting down,” he’d observe, breathing cool against L’s heated skin, and L would writhe on the sheet because of that like an absolute DUMBFUCK. “Your mind is trying to escape, but your body.. your body is betraying you. It’s welcoming me.”

Why was he thinking about him now? Why was L's mind conjuring the specific sensation of his thumb brushing over his lower lip, which felt, and actually it perhaps indeed was, nothing more than a jab at L's own habit, right before those fingers would press into his mouth to silence him?

L chewed the inside of his mouth with shame in the present-day office.

L remembered the filthy sounds torn from his own throat, sounds that were supposed to be protests but morphed into pleas for more, harder, deeper. He remembered the way his back would arch, not to get away, but to press back against him, to take him in further, his own hips moving to match his pace.

The bedframe would hit the wall and no matter how much he claimed of making love—L knew it wasn't for mutual pleasure; it was a reassertion of ownership. Each pull, each push was a punctuation mark in a sentence L had never agreed to. And likely would never either. And he couldn’t either. 

Disgust, hot and acidic, rose in L’s throat. He had to swallow it down. He had allowed it. Not just once, but again and again, over and over until he couldn’t feel his legs. There had been no force, not in the physical sense at least. There had been something worse, like some kind of psychological dismantling so complete that L’s own will had been reprogrammed to the point his role was reduced to a single, degrading function—to be a vessel for his pleasure. 

A living, breathing object whose only purpose was to prove that even L could be reduced to a writhing, desperate animal, drunk on the mixture of fear, pain, and the brutal, unwanted pleasure he could wring from his body.

L remembered his hands on his throat. Not squeezing, just resting. The thumb would press gently against his pulse point, monitoring the haste, rabbit-like beat. Perhaps to remind L even his own breath belonged to him. 

And now, here he was, applying for a menial job to build someowhat of a normal life with Touta here in California, far, far from Japan, from Tokyo, and his shattered rationality was conjuring his face onto the unknown husband of a shallow model with no brain and only looks. It was clinical insanity. It was paranoia of the highest, most illogical order. Misa’s husband was a random variable in a dataset of millions. The odds were beyond astronomical. So why couldn't he shake the visceral, gut-deep certainty, the cold dread seeping into his bones, that he was willingly walking back into the lion's den?

L forced a response to one of Misa’s questions about travel itineraries and he thought of some more of the resignation policy she’d mentioned earlier. A minimum commitment of one month’s service. A golden cage. It was exactly the kind of petty, bureaucratic, perfectly legalistic trap he would enjoy—a way to ensure a toy couldn't be easily discarded, to drag out the game of cat and mouse under the guise of corporate policy.

L had to leave. Now. The logic was gone, completely overwritten by a primal, shrieking instinct for self-preservation. He needed to find Touta, to feel the simple, uncomplicated warmth of his boyfriend’s hand, to smell his aftershave and force himself in a present that wasn't stained by the past. 

L stood up abruptly, mumbling something about needing the restroom. Misa waved him off, already distracted by her phone. L didn't look at Kiyomi or Teru. He just needed out of that room, out of that building, out of the chances. 

L shuffled into the hallway with a vortex of fragmented, warring images playing in his mind again and again, swirling—Touta’s affectionate, stupid-ass grin. He needed to get out of here, because sure, his paranoia was futile because in the end, it was nothing, more than paranoia, L presumed, while he walked, not paying attention to where he was going- focus turned entirely inward. The odds of someone from his past being here, in the same country as him, in the same state as him, in the same city as him, in the same building as him was really really, extremely unlikely, and seriously, what are even the odds??

L turned a corner, his head down, eyes blurred, and walked directly into something—someone, and god fucking dammit. The world snapped back into hyper-focused, brutal clarity in an instant.

A cascade of white papers erupted into the air, fluttering around them like startled birds. The bitter scent of freshly spilled coffee bloomed between them, a dark stain spreading rapidly across the marble flooronmg and soaking into the leg of L’s shoe. 

“Watch where you’re—” A deep, irritated voice began, then cut off abruptly.

Time seemed to stretch, then snap. L’s gaze, wide, fearful, and- and mortified, traveled upward from the ruined papers and the spreading puddle, over the dark suit, and the black tie, and finally, finally, locked onto the face of the man he had collided with.

The air left his body in a soundless rush.

The man was tall, naturally so, perhaps around L’s own height, with sharp features that seemed carved from marble- auburn hair appearing slightly messy. And his eyes—a rich, gleaming brown—were wide in surprise and awe so profound it mirrored the icy dread currently freezing L’s blood in his veins.

It was, fuck, him.

Recognition was not a slow dawning; it was a nuclear detonation behind L’s ribs, obliterating every rational thought, every carefully constructed wall. The world, Touta, California, the job—it all dissolved into meaningless static. There was only this man. Only him.

Light Yagami.

For a long, very very long moment, neither moved. They were a frozen tableau of surprise, and disbelief amidst the drifting papers. Light’s expression cycled through sheer astonishment, and there was a glimpse of something unreadable, and then settled into a look of familiar intense, consuming focus, his eyes boring into L as if trying to verify a ghost or something.

Light’s lips parted. The voice that emerged was lower, more controlled than L remembered, yet it held a familiar resonance that vibrated deep in L’s bones.

“L?”

It wasn’t a question. It was a statement of fact, an accusation, and a disclosure, all wrapped into a single, devastating syllable. The sound of that name—his name—on Light’s tongue was a key turning in a lock L had thrown away and buried. And just like that, the cage door slammed shut.

Chapter Text

Papers splayed like wounded birds on the polished floor, the dark coffee seeping into the grout, the faint, cold splash of it against the leather of L's shoe—and it was so fucking, mundane. So, average. It was all so ordinary, so brutally typical, yet somehow, the man standing in front of L was anything but that. 

Light fucking Yagami—dammit—the variable his entire being had been painstakingly recalibrated to avoid, the man who had flipped L's world on its axis, the man who haunted every corner of L's mind. 

L's heart was beating so fast, so quick, and L would've conjured that never in his life his heart had beaten thus rapidly but he knew the logistics of that being false was.. high. And also Light was the reason for it the previous times too. The reason behind why L's heart beat like a trapped bird against the cage of his ribs. And he was so.. confused. 

Every single cell in L’s body was telling him to leave, to vanish, to retreat into the anonymous, sun-bleached safety of the city. Somehow, his legs were frozen, his feet seemingly fused to the floor. Did someone put super glue on it? Otherwise why the heck couldn't L move? 

He is here. Like, holy shit. He is here, and this is his property. The building, the company, even L himself perhaps—they were all his. And L had walked into it—L had walked into a trap he had seen beforehand but did nothing to stop himself. 

Light looked doubtful- confused even, uncertain—and uncertainty never had been an expression that L would’ve visioned to witness on Light’s face. Those series of seismic, and perhaps even unguarded changes that L managed to properly catalogue. There was puzzlement stirring in his brown eyes. There was a twitch in his eyebrows and on his lips. Light looked clueless. Impossible—

How could it be? How could Light sport anything other than that look that Light gave him on that night? L didn’t want to think about it- he had practically blocked everything related to that night and everything that had happened after out of his mind. Because sure, he was L—the one and only—but at the end of the day, he was still a human. And like any human, he feared death. And just like anyone else, he too used to have a lot of people he loved and wanted to protect. 

Anyway, that look of irritated frown that Light had when he had bumped, and the more he glanced at L, the more it was replaced by a look of surprise that seemed to strip years from his features—disclosing the young man L had once known. Light was younger than him by about three years. And then, something else settled in the rich, brown depths of his eyes—not the triumphant glee L’s most punishing nightmares had supplied, but different- almost.. mournful awe?

It was the look of a man seeing a mirage resolve, against all reason, into a person whose loss had carved a permanent void. And when he opened his mouth again, to talk—L saw Light be at loss of words. And then Light opened his mouth to say something else, but no words came out at first.

“L, is that really you?” Light let out, and this time, the sound of his own name, said with such gentleness, such a devastating lack of the bane he had spent years steeling himself against, was more disorienting than any confrontation. That wasn’t how L had envisioned Light would react if they were to cross paths again—but what was L even envisioning in the first place? Light to be more.. territorial? To be grabbing L by his throat again to remind him who he belonged to, before L even got the chance to think what was happening?

It bypassed anything logical that L could come up with—but that’s the thing, L knew Light was a good actor. Exceptionally amazing, even. So it wasn’t particularly out of the realms of possibilities. 

"Light Yagami," L let out—and he didn’t like how the name felt; like a cumbersome artifact on his tongue, tasting of ash and forgotten history. And more than that, L’s voice sounded thin, reedy, stripped of the flat, analytical affect he always donned himself in. 

"This is.. statistically rather atypical," L said, and it was the best his erroring mind could produce, and it was nothing more than a pathetic, transparent attempt to cloak his sheer, undiluted terror in the language of probability.

A sad smile touched Light’s lips and it was nothing like those grins L remembered from a different lifetime, a lifetime of a city, of a country, that now felt galaxies away. Light didn't advance, didn't crowd him, a fact L’s body registered with a fresh wave of confusion because since when the fuck Light cared about L’s personal space anyway?

Instead, Light crouched, and began gathering the scattered, coffee-stained papers, carefully stacking them into a neat, damp pile. The act itself—this simple, mundane courtesy offered in the midst of what should have been a cataclysm that would’ve been aggressive enough for L to feel like he was back in that same place all over again—was so fucking disarming. 

It was the behavior of a decent, composed man, a responsible adult, not the predatory, controlling monster of L’s memory.

Light was tidying the disorder L created, as he so often did before. This was not the action of a man who wished to dominate, but of a man who wished to.. to what? To comfort? To stabilize? The data did not align. It didn’t make sense. 

"Statistically atypical," Light reiterated, musing hastily, and his attention seemingly fixed on the task of salvaging the ruined documents. "I suppose that’s one way to put it." Light added, and then he looked up, and his gaze was earnest, searching L’s face as if looking for the ghost of the boy he’d shared secrets and silences with. "When you vanished.. I spent a long time hoping for an explanation. A note. Something. Anything other than silence, y’know." 

Light straightened his posture while holding the damp stack held in one hand. "What are you doing here, L? In my building? Misa mentioned offhand she was interviewing for a new assistant, but.. Rue Ryuzaki?"

My building. That was the final confirmation of a puzzle piece clicking into a picture L had refused to see, completing a circuit of dread that L presumed as.. mindlessly anxiety and now crescendoed into something L couldn’t ignore. 

He’d been right—he always has. He felt the floor tilt, and there was a wave of vertigo so strong he had to lock his knees to remain upright. L took a big gulp of lump down his throat, and his mouth was barren, and it was so dry.

"Well- I was unaware of the corporate ownership," L said, and Light stared at him. "The position seemed.. uncomplicated. A step toward a different kind of truth." L continued, and he knew was babbling, defending himself against an attack that hadn't come, and the inelegance of it made him feel nauseous.

And god, L felt pathetic.

Light stood still, holding the ruined papers. He looked at L, and his expression was a mixture of emotions that L’s pattern-recognizing brain struggled to parse. There was no anger, no gloating. Just a profound, weary sadness that made no sense. What the fuck was Light making that face for? Did L look.. pitiful?

"You-" Light said, and his voice was so heartbreakenly soft, Jesus Christ. "-fetching coffee and managing a model’s Instagram schedule. The most brilliant, terrifying mind I have ever known, reduced to this." Light whispered, and then he let out a deep breath. "It’s… it’s a tragedy, L. It truly is."

The kindness was a weapon L wasn’t prepared for. L envisioned aggressiveness. L envisioned violence. L envisioned a lot but none of them included this.. surprisingly normal conversation. 

"People change. Circumstances.. necessitate adaptation." Light retorted, and dammit, he sounded like a child reciting a lesson he did not understand.

"Do they?" Light responded, and there was a small pause between them. Light took a single, small step forward, not to intimidate, but to close the distance enough that L could see the faint lines of stress at the corners of his eyes, the genuine, weary pain etched there. 

"Because the person I remember, the one I.. loved… he would never have run from a fight. He would never have stood in front of that disciplinary council and made those.. those terrible, baseless claims, and then just disappeared into the night without a single word to me. Without giving me a chance." Light said. 

L’s chest grew tighter, and right off the bat, the memories that surfaced now, summoned by Light’s pained voice, were not the dark, possessive ones he’d recalled as evidence for his own prosecution. They were rather brighter, sweeter, and arguably, more devastating. Studying together in Light’s sun-drenched bedroom, and his infinite patience as he explained social nuances L found baffling. The first time Light had held his hand—thumb stroking gentle, reassuring circles on L’s knuckles, and-and his smile was so warm and so encompassing that it felt like a real embrace. The way he’d always, and truly, always made sure L ate, sounding so enamoured while he talked to L. 

"I had my reasons," L whispered, and he didn’t sound convinced because truth being said, he wasn’t. "The evidence… the data of my own lived experience.. I witnessed it. Light. I was the primary witness of all of your acts."

Light didn’t appear angry at the accusations—and worst, neither did he appear sad. He looked like a man who had accepted his fate long ago and came to make peace with it. That he resigned to this long ago. And really, what the fuck is wrong with Light? Why’d he be fine with L throwing accusations unless he knew they were true? Unless unless unless—

"What evidence, L?" Light said, arching an eyebrow. "What did you see that no one else could corroborate? What did you hear that resonated only within the echo chamber of your own brilliant mind?" Light added, and then he took another half-step closer, concerned. "There were no fingerprints, no forensics, no digital trails. There were only your theories. Your brilliant, beautiful, and utterly solipsistic suspicions, narrated to you by your own demons."

L took another gulp to dampen his mouth, placing his hand on his throat, and he remembered the pressure of Light’s fingers on his windpipe and recalled those whispered admonitions that corroded his sense of self, and how each time he did that, there would be strange glee in Light’s eyes that existed only in the private theater of their intimacy, a look that vanished the moment it started. L remembers that. His body remembers that- how could he even be wrong then?

How could he misremembered the psychological dissection? And- and it had to be a campaign of intentional erosion, which Light designed to make L entirely dependent on him and him alone—to make L orbit around him. 

Yet, when L had finally gasped out these truths to Halle Lidner, his therapist, she had listened, and made him feel so heard, but later positing a diagnosis of complex post-traumatic stress manifesting in persecutory delusions—a mind, she suggested, so ravaged by its own intellectual fervor that it had begun to confabulate a tormentor to give form to its internal disorganization. And what an awful diagnosis it was, and L was speechless when he first heard it.

Persecutory delusions. She had framed his genius as a self-inflicted curse, and she mentioned that a mind so potent it had to invent a nemesis of equal caliber to justify its own existence. The ultimate story for the world's greatest detective, complete with the ultimate villain—but she was wrong. 

She had to be. 

Her theory was an insult at best, and a simple way to pathologize the inconvenient, terrifying truth he had witnessed. It suggested that the fear that now lived in his bones was nothing more than a fabrication and a narrative spun by a mind too brilliant for its own good, looking down on a world of lesser intellects. The sheer arrogance of that diagnosis was its most convincing flaw. 

L did not see himself as a god requiring a devil. He saw himself as a logician.

To accept Lidner’s theory was to believe that the most profound and damaging relationship of his life was a fiction. It would mean the love was a lie, but so too was the torment. And if that were true, then the man now looking at him with such mournful awe was a stranger, and L’s entire reality—his reason for running, for hiding, for becoming this shattered version of himself—was nothing more than a story he’d told himself. That the liar between them was L all along. 

"You said I.. that I derived pleasure from your suffering. That I was a possessive, psychologically sadistic even," Light continued, voice coming out in a shudder. "I loved you, L. I loved you with a fervor I didn’t know I had. All I ever wanted was to insulate you from the self-immolating tendencies of your own genius, to provide a bulwark against the world you found so abrasive. Was my love—my will to keep you safe from your own thoughts—truly so evil that it was a crime in the unassailable court of your perception?"

The foundational narrative L had built, and the edifice of himself as a survivor of Light’s predation, began to crumble this par excellence. Light was gaslighting, he had to be. Those sweet words, and L knew they were nothing more than lies. Sheer pathetic lies to make L fall into his trap again. 

Though he had watched the illegal surveillance footage for days—cameras Light had no clue of being there, that L installed because it couldn’t be possible. It couldn’t be possible everything was his imagination all along. L had seen Light sitting alone in his bedroom with his head in his hands, his shoulders shaking with what could either be the performative sobs of a master manipulator or the genuine, world-shattering grief of a wronged man. The data was infuriatingly ambiguous, and Lidner had encouraged him to view it through the lens of cognitive distortion—his mind seeking patterns of guilt in the random noise of human behavior. And L wasn’t like that. He wasn’t this ridiculous. 

"I found the cameras, L," Light said, voice coming out thicker than he intended. "Tucked in my bedroom, my living space. After you had eviscerated my reputation with your.. your words, after you had taken everything from me… you were still watching. It was the incontrovertible proof that what we had no longer mattered to you- that I didn’t matter to you- as long as your words were proved true, wasn't it? Did you- did you watch your handiwork? Did you observe the isolation, the pariah status you conferred upon me? Did it provide the corroboration your psyche required? Did seeing me isolated satisfy you?"

The shame that washed over L but it wasn’t the shame of the guilty; it was the shame of the disbelieved, the shame of one whose reality has been systematically invalidated. 

"I was attempting to confirm the reality of my own memories," L mumbled, and it was a weak defense, and they both knew it, but it was the only one left to a man whose own mind had been declared an enemy combatant.

Light let out a sigh. "There was nothing to ascertain. I loved you. It was the simplest, truest axis of my existence. You were the one who transmuted that simplicity into a nightmare. You constructed a labyrinth of paranoid conjecture and appointed me the villain at its center." Light clarified, and then he looked at L- warm brown eyes clear and so honest. "I’ve moved on, L. I’ve constructed a life here, a life of transparent, uncomplicated affections. Misa… she’s bubbly, and she’s authentic in a way that is… remedial. She loves me without the constant, excoriating analysis, the search for subtextual malice in every word, every gesture. It’s not the connection we shared, but it is real. And most importantly, it is sane. I’m not the phantasm you’ve conjured. I never was."

L hastily thought of Touta. Of his simple, geological stability, his warm, calloused hands that asked for no deconstruction. Touta was comforting, but standing here, faced with the terrifying possibility that his own trauma was something he made up, suddenly made everything safe L had built over the years start to crumble piece by piece.

"I am not here to… to reopen this," L said. "I am with Touta now."

"Matsuda. I’ve seen him with you. He seems.. kind. Uncomplicated unlike us, at least. He’ll provide custodial care. He’ll protect you from yourself." Light trailed off, and there was a pause. "That is all I ever wanted for you, L. For someone to love and look after you. To grant you the placid, unthinking peace I was evidently too complex to provide."

The words, so devoid of malice, so saturated with compassionate concern, shattered the last of L’s composure. The image of Light as a cruel manipulator crumbled into dust, leaving behind the beautiful ghost of the young man who had once looked at him as if he held the answers to every question in the universe. Fuck fuck fuck-

"I have to go," L blurted out, mouth feeling like there was sawdust.

"L, wait." Light called. "Whatever you believe happened between us.. let it be over. For your own sake. Be content with Matsuda. Cultivate the banal life your fragile constitution requires." Light said, and then he sucked in a shar breath. "Just.. please. Grant me the mercy of allowing me to live in the truth."

L didn't answer. He couldn't. He just walked, before breaking into a clumsy run the moment he was through the glass doors. 

L needed Touta. L needed the tactile proof of a reality where he wasn’t the creator of his own ruin, but a survivor of a crime that had left no visible scars, a victim whose testimony had been expertly and irrevocably discredited by the only other person who knew the truth.

L hailed a cab and his motion was jerky while his voice came out in a whisper as he gave his address. He folded himself into the backseat, knees drawn to his chest. The city streamed past the window, and he stared idly at the parade of normalcy he could no longer touch. L saw a woman on her phone. Saw a man carrying his groceries- saw a surfer dude. And a silicon valley techie.

L finally made his way back to his apartment—and he stood in the center of the living room, body still quivering somehow from the encounter. 

I have to call him.

The thought, and shit- needed Touta’s warmth to counterbalance the vertigo of a universe whose laws had just been rewritten. He needed to feel the calloused pads of Touta’s fingers on his skin, to force himself in a reality where he was loved, not analyzed, treasured, but not owned. 

L’s hand twitched toward his phone but he didn’t call. To call would be to confess a weakness, to vocalize the seismic rupture in his peace. It would be to say, I am falling apart, and the catalyst is the man I swore you would never have to protect me from again. Touta was at work, and to drag him into the nebulous, psychological quagmire of L’s disintegration felt like a deception of the simple life they were trying to build. It was an act of polluting Touta’s uncomplicated world with the toxic byproducts of his own.

L sighed, and then he sank onto the sofa—and there was silence. Silence that L hated, because silence meant the only sound present was his own mind. 

“Your brilliant, beautiful, and utterly solipsistic suspicions, narrated to you by your own demons.” 

A tremor started deep within him, and he felt so, so repulsed by the words Light said. And- and it wasn't the fear of Light himself—because what L felt was the fear of himself and disgust at himself. The fear that Halle Lidner’s diagnosis wasn't an insult, but an accurate verdict. That the grand narrative of his survival—the story that had given meaning to his flight, his hiding, his reduction to a man applying for a job fetching coffee—was a memory distortion. 

That the liar was, and had always been, him.

And then, a more familiar current began to flow beneath the terror. The part of him that was L, the true, irreducible core that existed beneath the trauma and the alias, stirred. It was the part that could not abide an unsolved equation. It was the part that had to know.

L couldn’t allow this—he- he couldn’t permit Light Yagami, with his mournful eyes and his heartbreakingly plausible grief for some odd fucking reason, to be the final arbiter of their shared history. To accept Light’s version of events was to sign the warrant for his own intellectual annihilation. And- and it was to live the rest of his life in a doubt so colossal it would dwarf every subsequent thought, every emotion. The truth was the only currency he had ever valued, and Light had thrown down a gauntlet, offering a truth that invalidated L’s entire existence. He had to go back. He had to take the job.

The realization was as terrifying as it was inevitable. The cage Misa Amane had so gleefully and cheerfully described was no longer just a cage; but rather, it was a laboratory. And that godforsaken one-month resignation policy wasn’t exactly a trap, but a mandated observation period. 

L would walk back into that gilded fortress, and he would perform the duties of Rue Ryuzaki with ease—after all, in the end, he is L, all while his true work commenced. He would collect data. He would observe Light in his new habitat, with his ‘remedial’ wife and his life of uncomplicated affections. Hah, bunch of bullshits. L refused to believe those- and he would watch for the cracks in the performance, for the glimpse of the predator beneath the placid surface of the reformed man. He would find the proof that his memories were not delusions, or he would.. he would have to face the abyss. (And he didn’t want to.)

Touta hadn’t just been a comforting presence in the aftermath. He had been there. At the university. He was a senior, already steeped in the practical world of law enforcement, while L and Light were the institution’s.. wunderkinder.

L’s mind conjured the memory—Touta, leaning against the doorframe of L’s dorm room, with a frown on his face as he watched Light. And Light—younger, softer features, those stupid, big brown eyes—had been a puppy in love, and it was embarssangly so obvious to everyone but perhaps L himself at the time. 

He’d bring L coffee, perfectly sweetened, exactly when the caffeine deficit was about to trigger a migraine. Or he’d explain the social subtext of a professor’s comment with the infinite patience of a god, and sometimes- sometimes his hand would be resting on L’s shoulder. And sometimes, he’d defend L’s abrasive, asocial methods to other students for some strange fucking reason.

Touta had been the one to find L. He’d seen L stumble out, and had guided him home, asking no questions, just providing a solid shoulder to lean on and somebody to talk to whenever L thought Light was becoming.. alot. And later, when L, in broken, shame-filled whispers, had outlined his ‘evidence’ against Light—the psychological erosion, the whispered threats disguised as love, the terrifying gleam in his eye during their most intimate moments—Touta hadn’t called him crazy. He had listened, his face growing grim, and had said, “Oh I knew it! I thought I was going crazy- you saw it too, right? He’s fucking odd.”

But for all of Touta’s certainty, he hadn’t been inside. He hadn’t felt the specific, private warmth of Light’s love, a warmth so total it felt like truth. He hadn’t been the sole focus of that brilliant, terrifying mind. Touta saw a monster from the outside. L had lived with the man inside the machine.

And what if it had been a delusion?

L looked around his apartment, at Touta’s jacket slung over a chair, the simple, sturdy mugs in the cupboard, the uncomplicated life they had built. 

“The most brilliant, terrifying mind I have ever known, reduced to this.” Reduced to what? To safety? To peace? Or to a state of such profound self-deception that fetching coffee for a model was a fitting end?

L’s hand twitched, not toward his phone to call Touta, but toward his own mouth, stifling a sound that was half-sob, half-laugh. He was pathetic. Light was right. He had constructed a labyrinth and appointed himself both the victim and the hero. The ultimate story for the world’s greatest detective.

He needed to know. Not for justice, not for revenge, but for the simple need to know if he had ever been truly loved, or if he had merely been… a subject.

He wouldn’t take the job to prove Light was a monster. He would take it to prove that he, L, was not insane.

L’s thumb hovered over the screen of his own phone. This was not about a job. This was a response. An acknowledgement of the only other person who had known the truth apart from him. L clumsily typed a text.

The offer Misa mentioned
The assistant position
I want it

He didn’t sign it. He didn’t need to. The number was enough.

The response was almost immediate. Not from a secretary, not from Misa. 

From Light himself.

Okay.. my driver will be picking you up at 8 AM. Send the HR your address and don’t be late. Misa doesn't like being late.

And, L was walking back into the labyrinth but only this time, he wasn't sure if he was trying to find the villain at its center, or if he was simply going home.