A/N: This is pretty random, but I like it a lot. And I know it says in Another Note that A is a boy. Or male. Just a different interpretation here.

And, of course, more B. I love B.

So here, have some random angst involving B and A and their fruitless pursuit of L. Go ahead. You know you want to.

:)

D

Observations

"Don't keep me waiting."

B was spread out on A's bed, looking at her coyly as she researched whatever it was she was researching. He didn't bother looking at her PC. He fixed his gaze on her, instead. That gaze usually unsettled people with its intensity, and the sense that, behind those dark eyes, something was not—quite—right—but A was used to the eyes, and the intensity, and she could stare at her computer screen and smoke her cigarette and respond very carefully without bothering to look at him.

"Don't keep who waiting?"

"Me," B said. "You haven't forgotten about me, darling. I'm right here."

"And?" asked A, still click-clicking away.

"And it's Saturday night."

A looked at B, then, pressing her palm to her forehead, carefully balancing that cigarette between her middle and index fingers. She was tired, pale, there were telltale bluish rings under her eyes. "You can't wait?"

"Not a moment, dearie," B said, stretching. "Unless you want me going off and playing with one of the little orphan boys."

"God knows you would," A muttered, saving her work and switching off her computer screen. She stood and crossed to the bed—a real bed, queen-sized, not like the ones L's prospective heirs slept on now—and sat down, level with B's torso. "Fucking nymphomaniac. I don't even know why I stand for this."

"Tension." B grabbed her by the shoulders and pulled her down. He kissed her neck, then lay her right down beside him. Her wide, blue eyes watched him, almost amused, as he grasped at her shirt, pulling it over her head. "Relieving tension. There's so much tension to be relieved." He smiled. "Of course, there's a small chance you might actually like me."

"Mmn." A leaned against him, and B stroked her hair, her long, soft hair. "If you were L, you could tell me just how small that chance is."

"Let's just get on with it," B snapped.

A kissed him, just because. She smelled like smoke. Never mind that she was just old enough to have been smoking and they were just old enough to be sleeping together, and they'd been doing both for years.

No one gave a damn, anyhow, not even them, and the only sound heard from then on is the creaking of bedsprings.

A Memory:

Beyond is ten, riding in the back of a van. It's a nice van, but occasionally there are bumps in the road, and he's jostled. BUMP. He peers out the window with eyes red from rubbing. The man driving the van is old, with thinning white hair, glasses, and a large nose, and Beyond knows his name—Roger Ruvie—more from the letters floating above his head than from any formal introduction. His eyes are on the road ahead of him, and he isn't paying any attention to the two children sitting in the back seat.

There is a girl next to Beyond in a blue cotton dress, her red red hair pulled away from her face in a low ponytail. She's biting her lip. Beyond makes conversation. Or tries.

"Where do you think they're taking us?" he asked. BUMP.

"I don't have any idea," the girl says, staring at her hands, balled up into fists on her thighs. She isn't from here, the UK; she speaks differently.

"I've heard stories," Beyond says, his eyes glinting wickedly. BUMP. "Stories about rich old men who take little girls and little boys to their houses and—"

The girl looks at him, cuts him off. She has a smattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose, and a delicate pointed chin. "Pretty morbid stories," she says. There's a glint in her eye, an almost-tear, and Beyond likes the effect.

He grins. "You're not from here."

"America. They sent me here on a plane, and picked me up at the airport."

"Oh," says Beyond casually. "So much effort. You must be special, then."

The girl stiffens. Beyond reads the name above her head. Alyssa Jeevas. She looks away from him and out the window. He's surprised. She has less time left than he would have thought. Not even seven years. He wonders vaguely what will happen to her.

"Well, don't worry, Allie," he says, hoping it'll shock the girl just a little bit more. "I'm sure wherever we're going is better than where we came from."

She seems surprised, but not scared. BUMP. "How do you know my name?"

Beyond points to his eyes. "It's a gift."

Alyssa smiles a bit, a tiny quirk in the corner of her mouth, and Beyond notices the funny little dent in her cheek. A dimple. He sort of likes the way she feels: scared, but smart, capable. That's what he thinks. "It's only fair that you tell me yours, then."

Beyond thinks for a moment, then decides it can't hurt. "It's Beyond."

"Strange name."

"I'm glad you think so," says Beyond, grinning again. "I chose it myself. My mother died before she could name me, and my father was long gone by then, so he couldn't do it. So now I'm just Beyond."

"So you're an orphan."

"I guess." Beyond shrugs. He rarely thinks of himself that way. He doesn't bother wondering where his father is because he figures he's fine without him.

"I am, too," Alyssa says softly, firmly. "Funny that we have that in common."

"Maybe it's a coincidence," Beyond says. "Maybe not. At least…"

"There will be no one to miss us," Alyssa finishes, fixing him with a stare. "When we're gone."

"I want you to come to my office, B."

Roger's voice was firm, and B wondered vaguely what he'd done wrong. There were a lot of things, actually—perhaps Roger had found out that he'd taken to vivisecting small animals again. Perhaps one of the younger orphans had been scared by his unusual laughter, or his eyes, which sometimes glinted red in the right light. Or perhaps someone had heard he and A having one of their "discussions" one night.

He let Roger lead him through the hallways, where the other children are having their classes. Other children brought in just in case he and A weren't good enough. Well, Beyond was good enough. Beyond was beyond good enough. The thought almost made him giggle.

B had been in Roger's office more times than he could count these past few months, because his little experiments have been enough to get him noticed in all of the wrong ways. But they did get him noticed, and "noticed" led to "meetings." So B knows Roger's bookshelves, his oriental carpeting, his tall, bright windows by heart, and he focuses on the playground outside, where the children who know too little to know better play happily without a care in the world.

Roger sat at his desk and folded his hands. "Have you noticed anything wrong with A?"

"A?" B repeated dumbly. He had noticed several things wrong with A, the worst, of course, being that she had less than a month to live.

Sighing, B could tell that Roger was too tired with him to beat around the bush. "Yes. She's cut off all of her hair and dyed it black."

"Not all of her hair," B corrected. "She still has a good few inches left. Henh henh."

"So you know about this?"

"Well, I have seen her," B said impatiently. But he did know about this. He'd bought her the dye and encouraged her to use it, and she hadn't exactly been unwilling to give it a try. "Is that all?"

"I'm worried," Roger said, in his concerned-yet-somehow-detached adult way. "I'm worried about both of you, B. This experiment—"

"Was an experiment," B interrupted. "And we are the products. And you have to wait and see how we turn out in the end." He walked away from Roger, hands in the pockets of his baggy jeans.

"Learn to love the results," he called over his shoulder. "Henh henh henh. We're all you're going to get."

A Memory:

Beyond and Alyssa are both fourteen when they finally meet the mysterious L. They have been studying for four years already, trying to be him, this eccentric genius detective, his name known worldwide. There are a few other children by then, C and D and E, but they are somehow not as important as Allie and Beyond, the original copies. Those two have this look in their eyes, see, that mark them as somehow different.

Beyond wears a tight red T-shirt and black jeans, his hair brushed neatly for the occasion, although he's almost sure that L has better things to do than give a damn about what his successors looks like. Allie is dressed up the same way, though. She's taken to almost a punk-rock style, but today sports a crisp button-down white shirt, a brown skirt, and black leggings. She and Beyond act aloof, because the best way to be intellectual around here is to do so without trying.

They're both half in love with L already, even if they don't know it yet.

L is presented to them by a man named Quillish Wammy, the creator, the one who owns the house they live in, who has provided for them all of these hard years. His name is attached to the orphanage, the one that raises geniuses, geniuses who might, someday, become L. He's been parading L around the world. He's the reason that Allie and Beyond haven't met their idol. Until now.

When they enter the room, they see a boy only two years older than they are. Natural black hair, loose, informal clothing, rings under his dark eyes. He crouches in his seat and picks at a bowl of sweets with only his thumb and index finger.

Beyond is, somehow, pulled to him immediately, and very strongly, because he is so unlike anyone else ever, even Allie.

"Well," Mr. Wammy says from behind them. He doesn't say anything else, because what else is there to say when an unattainable ideal is sitting right in the room?

I've always wondered what you'd look like, Allie yearns to say, but can't.

It's a pity you only have nine years left, Beyond wants to tell him, but can't.

His true name, interestingly, is L. L Lawliet. Beyond calls him Lawli in his mind and saves the thought for later.

L looks up at them both and says "Hello," and that is the beginning of the end.

"Well, I like your hair," B murmured, stroking it. It's soft, still, but much shorter, and it has a little bit of a wave to it now, just like his hair. L's.

A sighed in B's arms. "You would," she said. "It's practically your hair, too, you know. The same cut, but you've never had to dye it."

"Jealous?" B asked, although he's trying not to be so spiteful now that it's clear A doesn't have much time left. Only three weeks left. B's betting suicide. A looks so tired all the time.

"You could look so much like him with so little effort," A mused.

"Is that why you like me?"

"Who said I like you?"

B laughed. "Well, you did dye your hair when I asked."

He kissed her, but she broke away, stood up, and went to look into her mirror. She was so slight, but so, so feminine, with her soft curves. Something else B would hold over her in the L department. Something that would always put her a little farther away from L. She cupped her face in one hand, her high cheekbones now more emphasized than ever with the new haircut and the weight she'd been losing in the past few months. Her slight eyebrows were black now, too, but her eyes were still wide and green, and not black.

"It's only because…" she said to herself. "Because. You understand."

"Of course I do." B nodded, and patted the space where she used to be. "Come back over here."

She obliged, crawling under the covers, touching B's face instead of her own. "I wonder if either of us will ever get him," she said. "Ever actually have him, instead of each other."

"And how would you manage that?" B asked, chuckling.

"I don't know, I'd feed him some sort of crap about preserving our bloodlines." A curled up against B. She was always so warm, he was always so cold. "Creating a genetic superbaby. No one could resist."

B smiled against her hair. Her black, black hair. "A child of yours and L's, dear, would be screwed up beyond belief."

A isn't looking at him, but B can almost feel her raise that eyebrow against his chest. "I'd like to see you think of a better way."

"I wouldn't need to think of anything. I'd ask very politely, and then I'd use force. If necessary."

"You wouldn't." He knew she wasn't really surprised, but she acted it anyway.

B lowered his head, just a little, to whisper against her ear. "Oh, trust me," he said, lowly, dangerously. "You don't know the half of it. The things I've thought of doing to that man…"

A wrapped her legs around him. "Show me."

And B obliged, because A didn't mind pain. Not one bit.

She was hopeless.

They both were.

A Memory:

B and A are alone in the library. B sits, crouching, in a chair, with a jar of jam. He saw L eating the strawberry sweets, so strawberries are his favorite, now, and he dips his finger in and licks the jam off. He forces himself to think that he'll never get tired of sweets, now, because L never does, and he's started wearing baggier clothes, because L does that too. B's already noticed that he and L look remarkably alike, and he decides that, gradually, he's going to capitalize on this.

He thinks that A is sitting across from him, reading her book—something on forensics, as per usual—but she's actually been studying him the entire time.

"You and he could be related," she says suddenly.

B looks at her and grins. "You mean 'he' as in L?" he asks, licking the jam off of his finger. "I'm glad. He's sort of the only family I have."

"What, like a brother?"

"Something like that."

"I had a brother once," A says quietly. "He was nine years younger than me, and they put him in foster care. I haven't seen him for years." She fixed B with a stare. "I do know, however, that wherever he is, my feelings for him don't match up with your feelings for L."

She said his name gently, like a prayer. L. "Am I that obvious?" B asks. He stands and walks over to the other side of the table, so that he's standing behind her. "Or are you just having the same feelings, hmm?"

A swats at him with her book.

"Ever since he left, two weeks ago…he's all I can think about," B says. A confession. He kisses A's ear, and barely knows why. "Confused sexual feelings, that's what the adults would say. Confused…sexual…"

A finds that his fingers are working at the buttons down the front of her shirt and looks up at him, confused, amused. "Now, Beyond," she says.

She's the only one allowed to call him by his real name, because she's the only one who knows it. B wonders vaguely when Beyond became B, and Allie became A.

"Humor me, Allie," he says softly, trailing kisses down her neck. "Just…"

She gasps a little—they're so young, it's the first time either one of them have tried anything like this, whatever it is. "Confused sexual feelings, is that it?"

"That's what they'd claim," he murmurs against her skin. "But you don't think so, do you?"

"Not at all." She stands, and B has her pinned back against one of the shelves before she can react. Not that she minds. She doesn't mind. He can tell by the way that she looks at him, that she kisses him.

"We are so fucked up," she says into his shoulder.

"Not our fault," he says. "You're so pretty. I couldn't resist. I could never resist." And when he whispers "Lawli," he almost hopes she hears it as "Allie" instead.

A has twenty-four hours. She steals one of B's razors and hides it in her bathroom cabinet.

A has twelve hours. She tries to sleep.

A has six hours. She hasn't slept. She barely eats breakfast.

A has two hours. She doesn't eat lunch. She's all too determined.

A has one hour. She calls B to her room and clings to him one more time, grasping for something she will never have.

A has fifteen minutes. She doesn't send B away. She tells him. Everything.

A has five minutes. She is alone. She is alone.

A has thirty seconds.

A has.

Gone.

A Reflection:

Then: Two children in a room. One of them sits at a computer. She has red hair.

Now: Two children in a room. One of them sits at a computer. He has red hair.

B would call them fourth-generation, the fourth breed of L's successors, but B is long gone by now in every way possible. The boys barely know B for what he is, or what he was. Whatever he was.

Instead, they have their own dreams, and their own questions.

They are only eight, but that will change, soon.

"Hey, Mel?" asks the redhead.

"What?"

"Do you remember that one girl?"

His blonde friend frowns. "Which one?"

"The one with the hair. The red hair."

"Oh yeah, her. The one who…" The blonde lowers his voice. "The one who killed herself last month?"

"Yeah. Who was she?"

"I dunno." He pauses. "One of L's original successors, I think. They were kind of a screwed-up batch, all-in-all."

"Oh."

The blonde resists until he can't bear to rein in his curiosity. "Why do you ask?"

"I think I knew her," says the redhead. "Once. A long time ago." He thinks for a second, then laughs. "Nah, forget it. It's silly."

He goes back to his computer game, and the blonde returns to his reading, and they forget it ever happened.

B would know. B would see the redhead's name as Mail Jeevas, and understand.

But no one ever asks B.

Anything.

"Goodbye, Allie."

A/N: Just toying with a lot of random ideas and tones here. In case you didn't get it, A was Matt's sister.

The Wammy's children. They are so intriguing. No answers here, really, as to why A did what she did, but you know, mysterious and all. Like? Hate? Share!