Chapter Text
L.
Twelfth letter of the alphabet. One of the most used consonants. And the name of the man you might have a little bit of a crush on.
You don't even want to begin to list all of the reasons why a relationship with L would be a bad idea. If you started, you have a feeling you might be there until sunrise writing down every single point. He's L; mysterious, insanely smart, extremely weird, addicted to sweets, and single. Very single. Or, as he once said, 'married to my work'. Exactly how hard does he try to imitate Sherlock, anyways?
So much for not listing reasons.
Even if he was interested in a relationship, there's absolutely no reason he'd want to be in one with you. For one, it's impractical; you're a liability. Anyone that might come after L in the future would use you as a weakness. Secondly, you work in the same department. You're pretty sure someone like L wouldn't want to get tangled up like that.
And, of course, the most important, most painful reason: L doesn't like you. At all.
This doesn't come out of insecurity or paranoia (although you have both); L actually, really, does not like you. He avoids you whenever possible, and when that's not possible, he ignores you. The few times you've ever actually managed to get him to speak to you, he's been politely detached to the point where you could almost take offense, but you don't.
What makes it even worse is how unlike L that is. From what you've seen, he's- well, kind isn't it, because he can be brutally intelligent and unwavering, but he always treats everyone with respect. He's extraordinarily loyal and steadfast to his cause, and you've never seen him be anything other than friendly and sweet with everyone.
Except you.
To be honest, it makes you feel pretty terrible. You're already aware you're a fairly shitty person, but to have L actively avoid you and make it pretty clear he dislikes you? Yeah, it's pretty bad. It's almost gotten to the point where you want to break your three-month clean streak you have going, but...
L's part of the reason you got clean in the first place; four months ago, several days after you'd first started working in the division, he'd given a speech about mental disorders.
"I'm not trying to invalidate anything any of you have been going through," he'd said. You'd thought it weird he somehow seemed certain that at least some of the people in there had a disorder of some sort. "I know that things like this can be...shitty. But, out of every single person who has attempted suicide via jumping, whether it was from a bridge or a building, every single one of them regretted it." he paused, and for a moment, his eyes locked with yours. "Every. Single. One."
Looking back at it, that day was the first and only time L has ever looked you in the eyes.
"I know, of course, that statistics aren't exactly helpful, at least for this. But, well..." he shifted, looking slightly uncertain. "I have no idea how much me saying this is worth, but I definitely don't wish to lose any of you. And I do not believe that anything is worth hurting yourself over."
You turned your head away, willing yourself not to cry over something like this. It had been too long- far too long, perhaps never- that you'd heard someone say that.
The moment you were certain L was done, you walked out of there as quickly as you could without drawing suspicion, heading straight for the bathroom where, hopefully, you could cry for the first time in a long, long time.
"Wait," a soft voice said to your left. L.
Shit. As blurry as your vision currently is, there's no way L won't be able to tell you've been crying. And if you reach your hand up to wipe away your tears, that'd give away everything.
"Yes?" you ask a bit sharply, continuing to walk and hoping he won't be offended that you aren't stopping to talk to him.
L's footsteps stop for a second, before he continues to walk after you. "U-um-" he clears his throat, something very uncharacteristic of him. "What did you think...of my speech?"
Your heart stops. You barely manage to keep walking, keep your emotions off your face. L wouldn't ask if he didn't think you had been affected by it, which means...somehow, he knows.
How?
You're insanely careful, always keeping up that perfect mask- reading other people's expectations of you and following up perfectly. When you do cut, it's either on your torso, hipbones, or thighs, because you know that, in a detective agency, wearing long sleeves all the time would be an all too-obvious clue. You've kept every single symptom out of sight- the low motivation, the continual tiredness (which wasn't hard to hide as most detectives are tired all the time). You've kept the insecurity hidden through a slightly egotistical visage that you know, from years of experience, is very believable.
So the question is...where was the mistake? What tipped L off?
"It was good," you say casually, turning your head away just slightly to blink away your tears. "Depression and anxiety and all that are legitimate concerns, especially in a place like this. It was very thoughtful of you to address it."
L hums. It sounds a little off. "I was wonderin-"
Not sure what he's about to say, you cut him off as quickly, as brusquely as possible. "I apologize, sir-"
"Don't call me sir, it's Ryuzaki-"
"-but I don't really have time for this."
L's footsteps freeze again. "For...?"
"I have something important to do-" cry, alone, in the bathroom- "and I'm sorry, but I need to do it now. Without interruptions." unfortunately, whether it's from your anxiety or the fact you're still blinking away tears, it comes out a lot harsher than you intended.
You stop a few feet away when you realize L didn't start walking again.
"My apologies," L finally says. You don't dare look around. "I won't bother you again."
And that was that. He kept his word, ignoring and avoiding you to a professional level. Whenever he spoke from then on, it was polite- 'can you look through these reports, please?'- and detached. No eye-contact and he always made sure to stand as far away as possible without being rude.
So yeah, you'd say L most likely doesn't like you.
Not that you can blame him- the few times he's spoken to you, you haven't exactly been all that nice, either. And as smart as he is, he's probably realized by now it's best to not get tangled up with people like you- people who'll only burden him in the long run.
But, be it as it may, you still know that L wouldn't want you to cut. Sure, he doesn't like you, but he's a good person. He wouldn't want anyone to hurt themselves, especially if he ever learned part of the reason was him.
Not that it would be his fault; you'd never blame him for that. This is no one's fault but your own. But, knowing him, he probably has some sort of guilt complex and would blame himself for it anyways. And you'd never want that. You hate others being in pain, especially when it's your fault.
You heave a frustrated sigh and face-plant into your pillow.
If you can't cut, then what are you going to do? You need something to distract you from it; or, as you live alone, you might very easily end up doing it.
You pick your head up and push yourself up onto your elbows. There's Netflix, of course, but you've watched basically everything of interest on there already. As much as you hate exercising, it's probably going to be the best thing for you right now- and it'll get your mind of that.
So,, groaning, you heave yourself back out of bed and change into a sweatshirt and pants, pull on your sneakers and tie your hair back as best you can before heading out the door.
Running, you've found, is actually kind of therapeutic, in a way. It's an amazing stress reliever, and it's just nice to do something other than stew around all day, whining about L. Since that's basically all you do.
You grab your phone, stick your earbuds in, and click play, starting out at a slow jog to warm up. Soon, you're utterly immersed in your running, tuning out the entire world around you as you pick up speed. Any thoughts of L, of your depression, of your job, go down the drain. And you smile, just a little bit- an actual, genuine smile for the first time in a very long time.
Then, it falls apart. Your perfect, pristine bubble pops with a single word.
Then there's a car in front of you and you're certain you're going to die- and you're not sure if you're happy or sad or what but you have no time to think because then there's a pair of arms around you and you're on the ground, honking car speeding past.
"What, exactly, did you think you were doing?" the normally quiet, gentle voice of L turns angry and you realize, through your daze, that he's the one that startled you and the reason you landed in front of the car in the first place.
"Running," you shoot back defensively. "I was trying to fucking run and you startled me and almost got me killed!"
You're still not sure if it's a good thing that you didn't die. You kinda want to test it out, like on a game when you get killed and it lets you go back to before you fucked up and try again.
"I didn't startle you," L says evenly, "I said hello and you jumped approximately a foot, then tripped over yourself and landed right in front of a car."
You sigh. "Well, thanks for the blow-by-blow, Ryuzaki. I totally needed to know all about my own almost-death."
His eyes narrow just slightly and you wonder what exactly he's thinking.
"Anyway," you say quickly, "I'm gonna go finish my route now. See you tomorrow, Ryuzaki."
"Goodbye." He lifts one hand in what you think is supposed to be a wave, but his arm's bent the wrong way. It's strangely adorable.
No, you tell yourself quickly. Stop that.
You determinedly fix your gaze in front of you and start running again, but this time, you can't get that same feeling you had earlier, that peace that you'd only been able to enjoy for a moment before it shattered.
Thanks, L, you gripe to yourself, sending a mental glare to him that, hopefully, burns a few holes through him. Just when you were thinking you might actually have an okay day, guess who comes in to ruin everything?
You sigh. Well, regardless, you still need to run all the way back to your house, and that's going to take a while. You're gonna need to focus if you want to get back even sort of quickly.
Fucking L.
A week passes by. Nothing happens, really; just the usual assaults, robberies, and avoidance by L. If you had thought that your near-death experience with him would've changed anything, you were wrong. He still sits in his chair, coffee in hand and ever-darkening circles under his eyes. He still helps with any major problem, still refuses to even walk by your chair unless absolutely necessary.
To be honest, you're sick of it.
You get it, okay? L doesn't like you, he thinks you're a shitty person, whatever. But couldn't he at least not make it so obvious?
You glare at your computer screen, sighing. Apparently not.
"What's wrong, (y/n)?"
You look over at your coworker and give him a wry smile. "Nothing. Just too early, I guess."
"Late night?" he asks understandingly, giving you a wink. "Maybe involving some guys?"
You roll your eyes. "That desperate for me to get some, huh?"
He nods enthusiastically. "So did you?"
If by 'getting some' he means sitting on your bed, listening to music and desperately trying to stave off your self-harm urges, then sure.
You laugh. "No. Just a quiet night spent reading, I'm afraid."
"You're no fun," he sighs, turning back to his computer. "This entire department has no love life."
Some niggling feeling makes you turn your head to your left. When you do so, L is watching you- subtly enough that you wouldn't have noticed it if you hadn't been trained to pick up facial cues like that.
That's weird, you think. He won't even make eye contact, but he's watching me? Does he think I'm some sort of danger to the team?
A cold feeling grips you, an icy pit in your stomach. He must think so. He must've figured out enough of your self-destructive tendencies to realize how toxic you are.
You clench your hands, tightly enough you can feel your nails pierce your flesh. It hurts. Somehow that doesn't matter.
Then it does, in a flash, when you remember that you're hurting yourself and you swore not to do that. But it's not like this is cutting, right? It'll be okay. It probably won't even draw blood, or if it does, won't scar.
You keep one hand clenched tightly against your chest while the other continues to scroll through your report, trying to use the pain to focus.
"Hey."
You jump, turn your head, and jump again. L? What is he doing?
"What is it?"
He sets a huge stack of paper down on your desk. "I have to be out for a while," he says. "I need you to file these all in my absence."
He says it in his usual quiet, emotionless tone, still not making eye contact. The request doesn't seem unusual, but why give all of it to you?
"How long?" you ask, unclenching your hand hastily.
"Several hours. I should be back before four, though."
You nod and pick up the papers. "Alright." You pause, expecting an answer, but the only one you get is the sound of a closing door behind you.
"Well, then," you mutter. "As unsociable as ever."
"You know," your coworker pipes up at that moment, "You're the only one he acts that way to."
You sigh. "I know."
"Why do you think that is?"
"I have no idea," you lie, not meeting his eyes.
"Well," he says brightly, "I think he likes you!"
You burst out laughing, loud enough everyone else in the room turns to stare. "Likes me?" you choke out, hastily trying to quiet yourself. "I don't think there's anyone else in this building he dislikes more!"
He gives you a look.
"What? I'm being honest!"
"Look, (y/n). Let's give this a month. If you manage to get him to tell you or me, to our faces, that he doesn't like you, you win. If I manage to get him to tell one of us he likes you, I win."
"A bet?" you raise your eyebrows incredulously. "You're seriously betting on this?"
"Yep!"
"Okay," you say resignedly, "how much, then?"
"50."
"50 dollars?" you hiss, this time quiet enough no one else looks at you. "Are you really that confident or just secretly rich?"
"Just really confident," he grins. "Come on, it's totally obvious!"
"Ah, yes," you respond in a tone dripping with sarcasm, "the way he avoids me whenever possible, never looks me in the eyes, continually piles work on me without even giving me a thank you, and says everything he says to me in a monotone is totally a sign he likes me."
Your friend rolls his eyes. "Like I said, you'll see."
"I doubt it."
"Just give him a month, (y/n). Just give him a month."
You sigh. "Alright then. One month."