a/n: First Death Note fic EVER. I would have hoped for more, but of late, I lacked inspiration—until now. So please enjoy this oneshot! :D

Disclaimer: All rights reserved go to Tsugumi Ohba and the manga artist Takeshi Obata; I make no profit whatsoever from writing inconsequent nothings based upon its ingenious plotline. However, if I did own Death Note, L would still be to this day perched on his seat eating sweets and solving numerous thousands of homicide cases (and being his adorably sexy self), Light would have died in the very first episode, and Ryuuk would be spazzing out with apple withdrawal symptoms for my amusement. ;)
I also own the plot to this story. (:

NOTE: Some minor references to 'L, change the WorLd'; nothing too major. :D

Summary (full):

It was when he tried to take his own life that the implications weren't of consequence.

It was also only when his life was ending at the hands of another that he realised how precious living truly was.

Sasukeluva 4eva presents;

Misvattingen

*~*An L. Lawleit Oneshot*~*

.*.*.*.*.

Misvattingen—Origins; Dutch—Translation; Misconceptions: {noun} —a mistaken idea or view resulting from a misunderstanding of something.

.*.*.*.*.

L. Lawleit was never a man of many words.

In fact, the very few that he ever on any occasion uttered were in the form of either requesting another tray of assorted sweets, asking for another generously sweetened coffee (applied by his own hands, of course, because only he could truly know how much sugar was required in order to make the beverage just right for consumption), or giving out orders.

Even his strange requests seemed bearable, as long as he was socialising in the form of words—speech was of the essence amongst his team, his co-workers, and yet he still never spoke much.

It was considered a blessing when he did, because at least they knew that he was indeed alive, and not a dissociative corpse that had somehow managed the feat of not quite knowing when to die properly; he seemed to be the master of this art of impossibilities, and proved to all that if ever there came a time where someone was to be called a sociopathic recluse, then he would fit the bill perfectly.

From his chronically rounded shoulders, to the indelible black smudges beneath his eyes—hell, even his eccentric yet quirky tastes made him an enigma in size twelve trousers!

None of them could comprehend him.

They failed to understand how someone so obviously detached and ascetic could be so feared and renowned for his psychological prowess.

He was modern day Japan's brightest man, the most intelligent being in the entire nation, perhaps even stretching as far as the world; he was known and admired everywhere, from television sets and newspapers worldwide, and yet none of them had any idea who exactly 'L' was.

Was he one that served his purpose through capturing criminals and sealing their fates?

Was he just?

Was he kind?

Was he even human?

Because in all honesty, no one could comprehend the fact that one could have such a powerful inner state of transience, a state of such profound clarity that he was conveyed as almost 'ethereal'; they could not understand how someone just like them was so far ahead in terms of aptitude and astuteness.

This was their first misconception.

L was of a tender sixteen when he started becoming curious.

Curious about all things.

Not that he hadn't been before (he was adeptly proficient when it came to satisfying his hunger for knowledge, his curiosity), but it was just that this particular interest far exceeded that of sheer 'data'.

L. Lawleit found himself utterly enthralled with the prospect of death.

It was something that far since eluded his eyes, as no personal experience could aid him in soothing his inquisitiveness, and it was something that medical texts all over could not portray, an aspect they lacked; it was an experience one had to undergo themselves and live from in order to have the vaguest of understandings.

Of course, he had no reason yet, that he could possibly concoct on the top of his head, as to why he should die.

But if push came to shove, he was not entirely afraid of the concept.

No…

In fact, if anything, L. Lawleit was more than prepared for the scenario.

After all… he was seen as the world's 'reclusive, demented sociopath'.

And in the eyes of the beholder… that meant everything.

It happened.

His reason for pursuing his quest.

He had barely hit twenty when the final bombshell dropped.

His latest case, one of which involved a string of over three hundred brutal killings, had come to a close, with the killer still at large; it was the first case he had never been able to solve—and it was the first that he was blamed for.

All of his associates, from elderly to young, had penalised him, pinning him down as the reason that so many had been eradicated, in such a short amount of time; he knew that his lack of verity in the matter had somewhat distracted him from the task at hand, but there were other matters he was tending to at the time that their suspect managed to elude them, leaving a message to L personally written in bloody scrawl, the blood of his three-hundred and seventy-fifth kill—no traces could be made to the suspect's handwriting.

But that was to be expected.

After all, L had already foreseen the outcome, had already labelled the suspect with a ninety-nine point six percent chance of being the person behind the homicides, which had occurred over the course of a solid ten years.

Ten years of killing, and yet no one had been the wiser.

And L had been negligent enough to have let his prime suspect get away.

Now it was all his fault.

He had been bearing the burden of so many deaths on his shoulders for so many years of his short life, so many that could have been prevented, but had been either deemed necessary to the cause, or tragic accidents in the midst of solving a greater crime; he had had all of that weight crushing upon his very being, his body curving to accommodate those rapid changes, his sleeping patterns equating to none as the full effects of his terminal insomnia finally made itself known—even his quirky, unconventional tastes were accounted for, in the regards that he could no longer digest food without the beverage retaining some large amount of sweetener, lest there be a sour, bitter tang to every bite he took.

All of this attested to his accumulated sorrow and despair.

Some people called him a recluse.

Others call him a big-shot sociopath.

What he had tagged himself to be was neither of these things.

L. Lawleit, in his own eyes, could only be seen as one thing, and one thing alone.

A monster.

He found a blade, sharper than anything he had ever seen before in his life.

The curved edge glinted dangerously in the moonlight that flooded in through the bathroom window, tinging the weapon a silvery-white.

L held it up in vague curiosity, satisfying an inclination he hadn't even been aware he had had until then.

He wondered, in some part of his mind, what it was that made one feel so powerful when they held such a monstrosity in their hands, what made them so compelled to sink the sharpened point into another's flesh repeatedly, again and again, until there was no life left in them.

He came to the conclusion that he would never find out, most certainly abstaining from any further thought on the matter.

It had been foolishly easy to gain such a large, glinting butcher's knife; it was almost horrifying how.

L had simply gone into the kitchen, slipped his hand into the kitchen drawer when he was sure that no one would be the wiser, before lithely slithering back into the darkness in which the shadows supplied him, gliding silently up the winding staircase, before reacquainting himself with his bedroom.

Watari was of no comfort to L, seeing as he was away on another of his top secret missions, and since he had no other to turn to, no friend that could provide him with the warmth, compassion and friendship that Watari did, L could see no better opportunity than now to end what he had been curious about for four long years.

Now he sat, naked with the exception of his pants, leaning against the cool aluminium of his sink's storage compartment, idly tracing the blade with the tip on his left index finger; his brow furrowed ever so slightly at the light twinge of pain that flared to life on the tip.

He had sliced into the flesh, as deep as that of a paper cut, but it seemed that the sting was that of a bee.

Crimson fluid swelled up in the wound, forming a large droplet before the covering broke, all equilibrium lost as the scarlet liquid spilt down his long, pallid finger until it was trickling slowly over his large palm as well, the blood fascinating and captivating the inky-haired detective.

The pain was gone now; not even a dull throb remained.

L smiled.

It was small, almost barely there, but it still qualified as a smile never the less.

Perhaps, if it was like this, he could go peacefully, watching the scarlet liquid run over his smooth, gaunt flesh as it gently lulled him off into a peaceful, never-ending slumber.

He raised the blade to his wrist.

His naturally wide eyes widened even more as he pushed the knife without hesitation into the soft, pliant flesh, watching as he carved a long, straight, deep line across his arm.

There had again been that slight burst of pain as he broke the first part of his skin, but it dulled as he pulled the sharpened blade across his wrist.

Blood spurted from the wound ever so slightly, before pooling in masses over the smooth flesh.

It still wasn't enough.

It would never be enough.

Not for the amount of deaths he had caused, brought about in his short yet meaningless, devaluing lifetime.

The slit vividly showed the muscle tissue and bone matter it had once been covering, the testament to how far he had carved into himself. And yet, even with this, he was not satisfied.

Once again he dug the blade in.

Once again blood rose and spilt everywhere.

Coating his arm, his pants legs, his stomach, the floor.

And again he carved into himself.

And again.

And again.

And again.

He kept cutting until his entire arm was riddled with deep, irreversible scars.

But it still wasn't enough.

He averted his attention to his remaining arm, slashing, albeit awkwardly, across the flesh just as he had before with his impromptu hand, the wounds as deep, if not deeper than the last.

Once again he covered the base of his arm completely.

Blood had pooled everywhere, soaking every morsel of fabric, drying and caking to every piece of flesh.

And yet, he had not fulfilled his quest.

Frowning slightly as the nausea from the blood-loss started to kick in, L contemplated heavily, as to whether or not he should wait longer, or end it quickly.

He decided on the latter.

Once again he raised the blade to his left arm, this time positioning it so that it ran vertically down the length of scarred flesh, before he quickly tore down, through the veins and fibrous tissue, wherein blood splattered everywhere, coating his face, smearing its way down his pectorals, further imprinting into his pants; blood was everywhere.

Blood was all he could give in exchange for the deaths he had brought about.

It was with the weight of a guilty conscience that L raised the knife to his right arm, the left shaking uncontrollably as the crimson fluid discharged and spurted into his coal black eyes, before he swiped the blade down the bleeding appendage, the arteries completely severed as the blood painted everything within reaching distance an ominous red.

L leaned his head against the cool aluminium once more.

So this was what it felt like, to have the life leaving you from your body, he thought with traces of whimsical clarity, a small, faint smile etching into his lips as the warm blood flowed over his slashed arms, his dark ebony orbs making their final close as the scarlet liquid streamed down from his eyes, looking as he himself were shedding tears of blood for all of whom had lost their lives.

This was his repentance.

This was his justice.

L awoke.

It wasn't the expected scenario at all, to be honest.

In fact, using the knowledge that he knew of in order to commit suicide correctly, he should have been well and truly dead by now.

But he wasn't.

He could tell by the faint beeping of a heart monitor, from the ache that resided from both of his now secured arms.

The lighting above him was dim, signalling that another night may or may not have passed, maybe a few since he had tried to end his quest for knowledge.

But it wasn't as if he didn't not want to live either.

Had he been given the second chance, he would have gladly have taken it, just to correct the wrongdoings he had done over the years.

But honestly.

Dying would have been preferable, almost… nice.

It had been a pleasant experience from what he could recall, and it had been peaceful, something that he didn't think he was entitled to.

Not after everything he had caused, had done.

The faint smell of something sweet lingered in the air, tickling at L's tastebuds until he could have sworn he was salivating.

Raising his tired gaze over to the area in which he was sure he was smelling the delicacy, he spotted a figure, slouching heavily in the armchair provided, in what appeared to be a deep state of slumber.

L recognised him immediately.

"Watari."

Almost as if by saying his name alone, the elder man sprang up from his position in the chair, eyes zeroing in on the kinky detective.

The relief and worry were ever present, etched into the very contours of his face itself.

Worry for him?

That seemed almost inconceivable.

"Master Ryuzaki, you are awake." His voice sounded strained, thick with sleep and anxiety.

"I assure you Watari, the surprise is unwarranted. I had no intentions of even waking up. How is that I am still alive now?"

L was keenly aware that the fatigue was starting to set in, the extreme loss of blood most likely accountable for it.

"I found Master Ryuzaki leaning against the bathroom sink on the floor, bleeding profusely. What else was I to do? I had you taken to a private doctor, a personal friend and client of mine, and had him revive you appropriately."

The following words needn't be said.

L already knew.

"It won't happen again, Watari. That is my promise to you."

The older man simply smiled, rueful yet satisfied, before wheeling a tray over to L filled with assorted sweets from many different regions.

"I know, Lawleit, I know."

L was surprised.

It had been a long time since Watari had referred to him as simply 'Lawleit'.

The affectionate gesture must mean that he is feeling rather sentimental.

"Now, how about some extra nourishment?"

L couldn't have kept the smile from his face even if he tried; Watari knew exactly what he needed at times like these.

*~*Years later…*~*

He was dying again.

This time though, it was not peaceful, not by his own hand.

The final blow had been dealt by Kira, otherwise known as his only true friend and comrade Light Yagami.

And now he was being set free at the most untimely of times. Normally it would have been something he could have attuned himself to, been ready to accept.

But he simply couldn't.

Not yet.

Not while 'Kira' was still 'on the loose'.

L still had so many regrets, so many things he wished to say, to do for others.

Over the years he had learned to become more social; although awkward and constrained to certain limits and capabilities, he could still do it.

Not like before.

And his deduction skills had improved more so than ever.

He had pinned Light from the very beginning, and yet he wanted to bring him in closer, not just because he wished to keep an eye on him, but because of all the people out there, he was the only one that could comprehend him, his way thinking, his way of acting, his way of life.

But now, L's existence as he knew it was over, reaped from the earth far before his time.

No one had ever questioned his choice of attire from thereon out, his personality, or his eccentric tastes, because they had grown to accept L for who he was; L.

Only he and Watari knew why he wore long sleeved t-shirts every minute of every waking day (to hide the scars of his past, the imperfections that had led him to believe his worth equated to that of nothing, the devaluing blemishes that marred, disfigured him, for life), why he acted the way he did, why he ate to such peculiar abandonment, and why he was the way he was.

He was like that because he was a scarred man, one whom had, on a whim, decided that death was his only way out—who had offhandedly remarked that death would feed the curiosity that had welled up inside of him.

But only now, as he died a murdered man, did L. Lawleit realise that life was truly a precious thing, something that needed to be cherished and fostered in order for life to be in actuality a beautiful thing.

This was his final misconception.

L. Lawleit smiled amidst it all.

~Owarimashita

a/n: Please review! (: