(…I don't even know. I thought I should write Matt & L interacting, but this was not what I had in mind. If it's any comfort, if you think this is nonsense, wait 'til you get a load of the one I'm writing with Matt & Light. Now that's just ri-god-damn-diculous. )

Three-thirty AM at Wammy's House was a time full of hazards for the would-be sneak. They were all fed alertness with their hearty British breakfasts, if they hadn't learned it early by instinct or by default. It was a rich old building, too. Estate. Steeped in grand antiques and architecture, which meant that floorboards creaked out songs of generations. Loud ones! Matt kicked ass at stealth, however. So he was the one downstairs—on the prowl—per his best friend's twitchy request. They'd been up all night planning elaborate pranks and playing Gate Warriors III. Both had, for the record, proved what Matt already knew: Mello was a genius, but when it came to stealth, he kind of sucked.

…So if I take this hallway, I don't go past Roger's office…

(taking long light strides, feeling watched by the portraits on the wall)

Uh-huh…ha. I win.

The door to the kitchen was slightly ajar.

He edged his way inside and appraised the shadows. Okay, so that long rectangle was a counter, and the thing on the ceiling must've been the fan—so that meant that in the opposite corner was Refrigerator #1.

Here came the risky part. When the fridge was open, it emitted pale glowy light that could give him away if someone was walking by. But what were the chances of that, yeah?

His hand was resting on the fridge door. Just—

"Oh, hello."

Matt froze.

Crap!

"I am sorry; continue." The voice was pleasant, lilting, British, hoarse, and somehow extremely bizarre. "I didn't mean to startle you. I'll just wait until you're done, shall I…?"

I don't know, thought Matt, opening the fridge warily. Shall you?

He peered at the third shelf, looking. Where's—

"What's your name?"

"Matt," said Matt, his answer muffled by some noise from the freezer.

"Ah," said the strange guy. …did he sound pleased?

"Who're you?" –oh, there it was!

"L."

And for a second he thought: L. That's kind of a stupid na—

…wait, what?!

"Is that chocolate syrup?" said L with interest. "Do you mind if I use it after you?"

"Uh…no, go right ahead." Matt gulped. L? What the hell was L doing there? Last he heard, L was on some pursuit in Brazil (Mello always kept track). He turned around to hand the man the bottle—the greatest detective in the world deserved some deference, after all—but got caught for a second by L's eyes. Because…what. They looked pitch-black in the eerie light from the fridge, for starters. And there was something there that indicated concealment of just about damn everything, with hints of…intensity, he guessed, that strangely reminded him of Mello. And L's expression (mild, curious) was, like—askew. As if he wasn't quite used to having expressions. Or—

"You were here first," said L, tilting his head. "I can wait."

"…'kay," said Matt.

He grabbed a mug from the left cabinet and began to squirt chocolate syrup into it. L didn't seem to find this at all out of the ordinary.

"Um…" What was he supposed to call this person? 'Mr. L?' That'd be a no. 'Sir?' Kind of silly. "…Weren't you in Brazil?"

"I was." L nodded. He sounded a little amused.

"When'd you get back?"

"My flight came into London about three hours ago."

That'd explain those dark circles making him look like a raccoon. "Jeez. Aren't you tired?"

L seemed taken aback. "What?"

"You must've been on a plane, for like…" Matt tossed the chocolate syrup to L, who caught it in his left hand. "Twelve hours. Don't you need to catch some Zs?"

"…I don't sleep very often," L said at last. He blew some stringy, haphazard black hair out of his face, then flicked on a lamp by the window. That revealed a donut on a plate, in which seven cookies had carefully been stacked and topped with a small puffy mountain of whipped cream. L began to add elegant swirls of chocolate to the ensemble, interlocking like Celtic knots. "Food is transient art," he added, by way of explanation. And then, thoughtfully: "They still have the best cookies here."

…ooooooookay, thought Matt.

Aloud, he said: "Being that smart, anyone'd get insomnia." …Mello doesn't sleep much, either.

L glanced over. "Do you think so?"

"Well, yeah. I mean—deductive reasoning and lots of knowledge after a certain point would kinda make you paranoid. Not that I'm saying you're paranoid," he added hurriedly.

"No, I think you have a point." That had a soft laugh in it which rang a bit hollow.

"Thanks."

"…For what?"

"Well—you're L." Matt grinned. "And you said I was right. That's flattering, you know." …oh, come on, where did the great L get off looking that surprised? "You know, the whole thing where we're being trained as You v. 2.0—"

"Several of you could surpass me, I'm sure," murmured L. He poked at the donut with a parfait spoon held between two spindly fingers.

"…Like Near?"

Matt was suddenly glad Mello wasn't there listening to this conversation.

"Possibly," L allowed, thinking. "But he needs to work on his interpersonal skills."

--Matt had to fight back a smirk, a snicker, and a giggle all at the same time.

"So do I, though," L continued.

"—what?"

"I am not…adequate…in that area myself." A wan smile. "I suppose I should work on that but I very rarely have the time."

…I don't think I'd want to be L, Matt thought, not for the first time. It was something he usually kept to himself, just to be practical. Although Mello didn't really want to be L either. 'Cause that would mean L wasn't L, and Mello thought L was the greatest thing that ever walked the earth.

And Matt could sort of see where Mello came from on that because L had, what—that fierce intelligence going on but he'd learned how to handle it really, really well--still Matt could've sworn that somewhere in that big-ass wellspring of brilliance was some stinging dissatisfaction. Something.

Matt (unlike Mello) never envisioned himself working with L. He was good with video games, computers, hacking, that kind of thing, and all he knew about L thus far was the man liked cookies. So that'd be…what? Righting wrongs via first-person shooters in which the guns were loaded with chocolate chips? Pixellated cookie justice?

--he realized L'd said something while he was spacing out. Oops. "Sorry, what?"

"I said—" The detective swallowed a mouthful of whipped cream. "—it's good to have met you."

"Oh, thanks. You too."

"Thank you."

L offered him an unadorned cookie, which he took, blinking. He didn't really like sugary stuff, but he ate it anyway to be polite. Swallowing, he asked, "Are you sticking around?" Mello'd mentioned a few visits with L when he was at Wammy's, but Matt'd never seen him before.

"A few days, I think."

"Good."

L's expression was questioning.

"—oh." Matt shrugged. "Well, someone I know'll be really happy, that's all."

"…Is that so?"

"Well, yeah," said Matt, who might've been saying well, duh.

L ate a second cookie, and didn't say anything.

"I should probably get back upstairs," Matt said finally. "Mello probably thinks I died or something."

"Yes." L said something under his breath, which might've included the words active imagination.

As Matt was headed out the door, he heard L finish with a smile in his voice: "Mello is lucky to have a friend like you."

…so he kn—

…well, I guess Mello must've—

…He needs to get some sleep, thought Matt, and shivered.

(Two days after L died and Mello left Matt tried chocolate syrup on cookies and donuts with whipped cream. It tasted absolutely disgusting. It didn't help him sleep, either. )