To L, she was an unknown piece in the giant game of chess he was playing with Kira. Or rather, she was the wildcard third person that had enough influence to disrupt his carefully laid out plays, and that demanded that he solve the enigma known as (...
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Three years have passed since L asked (Y/n) to become his partner.
He spent a considerable amount of time trying to figure out her motives and thinking during the Kira case. Now, he knows all there is to know, but he still watches her.
There is no purpose to it. L knows his partner like he does the back of his hand. He knows how she thinks, her priorities, her hopes and her history. He knows the lines of her palms, the curve of her waist, the bow of her lips and the stretch marks on her knees. He knows the rise and fall of her chest as she breathes, the sound of her heart beating in and out of time with his own, and the tensing of her muscles when his touch manages to surprise her.
No more secrets lie around the edges of her brain or etched into her skin. He has every square inch of her memorized so well, her image remains burned into his mind because that's where he keeps the most important facts of life and without a doubt, he believes she belongs there.
The puzzle she poses has finally been completed after this long of watching and analyzing, but he finds his eyes wandering to her anyways.
He cannot look away. Perhaps he doesn't want to.
It's hard to really put into coherent thought and understanding. This tendency is practically instinct now. When he can't figure something out right away, he turns to what he does know for comfort.
Comfort. Yes, he thinks that is exactly what she brings him. Ease and sanctuary, and an undeniable sense of belonging that makes him forget that he is, by society's standards, an outcast. For the first time, he has somewhere to belong-- he belongs with her, wherever they may be.
He used to be of the firm belief that only the weak seek comfort. L spent twenty-five years believing that his isolation and cold in his life equated to strength.
Now, he knows better. His days are filled with warmth and he no longer forgets that he is alive. Her comfort doesn't feel like weakness. He thinks it feels a lot like strength.
They are pressed together under the quilt as they often are on the nights he agrees to rest. Outside, the wind continues to blow in a faint whistle he can just barely make out over the faint ticking of the clock in her bedroom.
