Remember When Light Was Just Imagining L As Like His Ultimate Detective Wet Dream Fantasy. Because I

remember when light was just imagining L as like his ultimate detective wet dream fantasy. because I do.

this has been in my brain. all weekkk...

L who has to work on a case with someone who looks way too similar to his ex that died years ago(for whatever reason)—LIKE! their face; eyes, nose, lips. the same! hell even the way they move and talk.. it's familiar. so so familiar.

but it's also so? wrong? their hair is a different shade of *insert hair color* and its styled/cut differently, their look of confusion and small surprise when they catch him staring—they don't stare at him with that softness they (dead ex) used to, and it doesn't feel the same when they call his name.

i wonder what he'd be thinking when he firsts sees this.,.,.,... reincarnation? doppelganger? how he'd act (around them and/or when alone)?

I love when other people come into my inbox and give me angst. This is shorter than what I would usually put out but it’s whatever.

He had never really hated someone before. It was an odd thing to realize in the moment; given his line of work one would think he would have hated someone before the person sat next to him. He tolerated murderers, torturers, psychopaths. He had gotten to know— not personally, but enough so that he felt familiar with them, their work— powerful men whose thoughtless decisions ruined lives. He had met monsters of all stripes, monsters like him, and he had disliked them and resented them and tried to pick them apart to understand their brutality, but he had never truly hated another person because intentions could be understood and understandings reached. He knew people too well to hate them.

But he hated the person sitting next to him. Selfishly, he knew he had not hated anyone like he hated them.

It was you. Of course it was you. It wasn’t a matter of reincarnation— you had not died long enough ago for it to be something that spiritual— but you were sitting next to him, thumbing through a case file— a case file for arguably the most well known case of his career— like you weren’t dead and buried and gone. And it would be one thing if the detective just looked like you— he could explain a doppleganger with numbers and data and facts rooted in the real world— but your mannerisms were the same, and your speech patterns were the same, and you both held your papers in the same way, and it was like he was back on your couch watching you riffle through your mail, like you were going to glare at him over the stack as if he were the one sending it all.

“I’d rather you didn’t stare at me.”

He pursed his lips, looking back towards the television screen. The others had left for dinner; the only reason the detective had stayed behind was to review footage of the Yagami household with him. He took a deep breath, trying to refocus on the information on screen. “Apologies. I was lost in thought.”

“You’re making a habit of it.” The detective propped one foot on the coffee table, setting the file next to them as they slumped down in their seat. “If you have a problem with me, I’d rather you just say so.”

He fiddled with one of the cuffs of his jeans. “I don’t have a problem with you,” he lied. “You just look like someone I know.”

He felt their eyes— your eyes— study him. “Is that why you seemed so surprised to see me when we met?”

“Probably.”

They hummed in acknowledgement. “You care for them, I suppose.” It wasn’t a question; he never had been the best at hiding his emotions around you. “Deeply, I’d guess.”

“I did.”

“My condolences. Cared, then.” They leaned forward briefly, taking a cup off the table.

“Yes.”

“Did they die?”

“Yes.” He held his hand out absently. “Hand me the remote, please.”

They did. “How long ago?”

He took a deep breath, sighing as he rewound the tape. “Not long. A month or so before the killings began.”

They watched the screen. “Were you there for it? When they died, I mean.”

“No.” He leaned forward in his chair intently, eyes fixed on a box carried into the house by Sachiko Yagami. “I managed to catch the funeral between connecting flights, though.”

He sincerely doubted the detective was at all focused on the footage. “How’d they die?”

“Accident.” She was opening the box with a surprising amount of ease.

“Did you love them?”

The answer was easier than it ever had been when you were still there. “I do.”

The tense was caught again.

The room was silent for a moment.

“Do you need me to drop the case?”

They at least had the decency to speak a different language. He swallowed his gut reaction. “No.” He pushed a piece of hair out of his face. “You’re an asset. This case is too important for me to let my personal feelings hinder its progress.”

His nightmares had become more benign since your death. It was a small change, but a notable one to him. Fewer mobs, more hospital beds. He had heard your death was a slow, drawn out affair; the result were dreams that dragged in their horribleness. He wondered, if you were still around for him to say, if the look you would have given would have been similar to the one they were giving them.

He chose to believe not. “Mark down that time stamp,” he said. “I’ve seen that somewhere before.”

heatstroke

Hey babes! How has your day been?

I read something a bit recently where a character slips into their native tongue when they're having sex, and I was wondering what language you think L would talk in when he's too flustered to translate in his head and what he would say tp you

Anyways thank you for sharing your amazing writing! I haven't stopped thinking about your drunk L oneshot, so thank you so much for posting it!

I am so happy someone asked, honestly. I could and might just write a headcanon regarding the specifics of Drunk L but I’ve been having a lot of writers block recently so it was a lot of fun. Apologies in advance for anyone who has/does/will ever speak Japanese, French/Italian, or Russian; I don’t know a single lick of any of those languages so this piece was carried by Google translate and websites claiming to know phrases in those languages. Also, there’s sex mention in this one, just FYI.

Really depends. Probably one of the first questions he’s asking early in a relationship is whether you speak more than one language, and if you do he will not use that one. If you do not speak a language other than English, it depends on how flustered he is. In level of severity it goes Japanese, French, Russian, with Russian being the most severe.

These are not hard and fast— there is bleeding over between languages because duh— but this is how it usually goes:

Japanese: Really nothing important; it’s most likely just an observation that really has nothing to do with the task at hand but is just a thing that he noticed. Typically how it goes is he’ll say something in Japanese and then say some wild, out of nowhere thing that then turns out to be true. Word of advice: if he is totally on board with an activity, says something in Japanese, and then is suddenly not on board with that activity and is quietly trying to remove you from that activity, let him remove you two from the activity; there is a reason that has nothing to do with his enjoyment of the activity that you guys shouldn’t do that thing.

Example: one time the two of you were watching a stupid home renovation TV show hosted by a married couple. In the middle of a conversation regarding the aesthetic merit of white on white, he mumbled, “彼女は彼の視線に会っていない,” around his drink. When asked what he said, instead of telling you, he claimed that the seemingly happy couple was going to be divorced by the end of the year. He went on to predict that the man would still be in love with her years into the future but the woman would have lost all interest by then and would ask to break it off. Sure enough, two months later, the tabloids were reporting on their totally not at all expected break up.

French (+ Italian but he is no longer fluent): this has something to do with you. You can’t prove it because you don’t speak French or Italian, but it 100% has something to do with you. This is going to be your mushy shit, the “you’re so beautiful”s and the “I love you so much”s. This is also where most snide remarks and insults are going to stay; if he’s looking at someone else and he’s speaking French, odds are whatever he’s saying isn’t particularly kind. Once and a while he’ll grumble out a “Vaffanculo a chi t'è morto” at the TV or at a particularly ridiculous lie or slight, but you’ll never hear him say anything longer than a sentence in Italian. This also qualifies for any sort of rant; if he’s talking for a long time in French he’s probably not thrilled about whatever he’s talking about (usually this something regarding general police incompetence on a case he’s working on, the details of which you are not allowed to know.)

Example: The two of you watched a movie together on the couch, his head laid on your lap and your fingers gently scratching his scalp. You were talking about something you noticed— an actor you liked, some discrepancy in the script— when his hand found your thigh, giving it a gentle squeeze. “Tu es un ange. Qu'est-ce que j'ai fait pour te mériter?” When you asked him what he asked, he apologized and claimed it was something to do with the topic at hand, even though you could tell from his tone that he was lying.

Russian: Incredible shock/pain/sex stuff. If he’s having an issue with a word, it’s probably an issue of translating a Russian word to English, which happens almost never in his professional life but at least once a week when in your company. If he is legitimately having some sort of panic, he’s communicating that in Russian. If he is fucking you and he’s out of it to the point of not being able to talk properly, it’s in Russian. If something catches him completely off guard and he doesn’t know how to respond or react, it’s in Russian.

Example: Once, after a particularly long period away from you (about 3 months with little contact) he came back rattled. You left him morning after he arrived to go pick drinks up (coffee, tea, what have you) without telling him. You came back, holding your drinks, when you saw your boyfriend digging through a duffel bag up of work stuff. He looked up at you, blinked once, and let his eyes close, slumping over the bag. “Где ты был?” His words came out harshly, shakily, and quietly. “ты забыл свой телефон. а если бы ты поранился?” After being told where you had gone and reassuring him that nothing happened, he calmed down.

this is canonically how tim added the pants to the robin costume

scared animal that you are