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The second to last decision you made for yourself was falling in love with him.
The final was the decision to forget.
To forget everything before, and everything after.
But forgetting is difficult, because the memory creeps up in your most vulnerable states.
Like when you sleep, curled next to him, your nose pressed to his shoulder, the unblinking eyes of a thousand cameras locked on you.
In your dreams, you wake up alone, in a bedroom with a white canopy and a big, flat screen TV across from you. There's a silver tray at the foot of the bed, covered in towers of macarons and bowls of candy and slices of cake.
Your first instinct is to find. Find the answer, find the way out, find the person who put you here. You were a detective, after all. Top of your class. You feared nothing and no one.
You stood from the bed, hands smoothing down your sides. No badge, no gun, but the same clothes you last remember putting on. You rifle through the dresser drawers and the nightstand. A notepad and pen, as well as all of your clothes. What was happening? Was this the work of the gang you helped catch?
You rush to the window, and lift it at the lip. It doesn't budge, locked. You look at the food tray. It could be poisoned.
You step to it, cautious, but the second you get close, the TV snaps on.
Within the cool white background lies a big L in Cloister Black.
L?!
Perhaps he was here to save you. To talk you through escape. You worked with him, he even offered you a job as his personal assistant. Sure, you didn't take it, but he was courteous about it.
The hope is short-lived.
"I see you've woken up."
You put your hands on your hips, ready for action. "What's happening here?"
"I've taken a liking to you."
Your stomach sinks. Your face drops. "What do you mean?"
"I mean...I'd like you to reconsider my offer."
Constricted horror crosses your face, a twitch of the brows, a widening of the eyes, a quiver of the lip. "This...this is you?"
"You'd make a wonderful addition to my team."
"Let me out."
"I could use your skills in my research, or fieldwork."
Your breath quakes. "L, let me out."
"You could even act as an ambassador or secretary, if neither of those options excite you."
"Let me out," you shriek.
"Yelling isn't beneficial to you. Do you need more time to think it over?"
You, in a fit of helpless rage, throw the tray of sweets at the TV. It crack and dents, the screen glitching in red, green, and blue.
"It appears you do. Sleep on it, and we'll talk after."
A hissing sound surrounds you. You look up, searching for it. Clouds of mist float down from the vents. Gas.
"You mother fucker," you scream, rushing to the wood door. You slam yourself against it, and it bends. Again, and it creaks. As you gear yourself up for the third time, you stumble back, onto the floor.
You try to get back up, but your muscles can't support you. Your joints are weak. You're weak. Your eyes are bleary, unfocused no matter how hard you try.
The last thing you see is a tall, solid figure open the door. You could almost recognize him, but even as he scoops you up, you can't discern his face through the gas mask.
Pleas and curses alike attempt to ring out, but they slip from your slacked jaw, tapered, broken, unrecognizable.
When you wake up again, the air is cleared, but dark. It's night. You don't move this time. I see you've woken up. It implies he could see you, which meant there were cameras. Where? You do your best to look around from your position, rolled onto your side and facing a door that likely led to the bathroom. There, up in the corner. Tiny, the size of a fly, but unmistakable. A lense.
You hear the TV switch back on, and the glow reaches your cheeks.
"Sit up. I know you're awake."
You were caught. What would he do to you if you disobeyed? You decided to play nice, for now.
Slowly, you sit back up. The TV is brand new, like nothing happened.
"There are 40, in this room."
"What?"
"40 cameras. 40 in this room, 30 in the bathroom, 20 in the closet, and 97 in the living room and kitchen. I assure you there are no blind spots."
"Why are you telling me this?"
"Because you were looking for them."
"...you're not getting away with this, this is kidnapping, assault-"
"I'm aware of what charges may or may not face me. I'm fully prepared to avoid or negate them. Think of it as...a testament to my want for your skills."
He was right, in a gut-wrenching way. He was above the law. No country, no matter how strict, could arrest L. They couldn't get their hands on him, and even if they did, he was too valuable.
The world's greatest detective.
But...that just meant you'd have to do this alone. You've done so many things alone, you were an independent person. What's one more thing?
"Why? Why me, why like this?"
"Because you're brilliant."
A month ago, you would have squealed with joy upon hearing praise from L, the L. Now, you wanted to break the TV again. You changed the subject instead.
"So, you're going to watch me in the bathroom? When I change? When I shower?"
"It's for security purposes only."
"What? In case someone busts in and saves me?"
"No. In case you attempt to escape, in any way. You won't be leaving here for a very long time."
Ruthlessly blunt. You almost wished he lied and said it was for your safety.
"...you're a coward," you growl.
"why is that?"
"You want to lock me up in here, talk about keeping me forever, and you won't even show your face. Why is that, hm? Afraid of me?"
"I never said forever."
"Don't change the subject. Coward." Anger has made you brazen.
"Do you need another nap?"
"Another faceless threat."
"...I'll be kind to you. Stay awake. And think about my offer."
The screen flickers off.
His assistant. Perhaps, if he had offered you a more enticing deal, before he had detained you, you would have said yes. But now? Not in a million years.
You stand from the bed, and pace the room. You felt as if your thoughts were being amplified to him, as if these cameras picked up on your planning.
You eventually reach for the door. With as much force as you can, you yank the handle. It was unlocked, this whole time.
It led to the living room, and a kitchen. Nice place, if you weren't kidnapped. You searched for more things to use. The kitchen had no knives or forks. The windows here were also locked, and so high up nobody would see if you tried to wave, or hear if you tried to scream.
You wandered into the bathroom. Complimentary soaps, accompanied with a note card.
"Thank you for your stay at the Marriott."
So you were at a hotel. You flip the card over.
"Gracias por su estancia en el Marriott."
You were likely still in America. The only translation was for Spanish, and the card's front was in English.
You go back to the living room. There's a TV guide, which you give a cursory glance.
Discovery, PBS, AMC.
Definitely America.
You grab the remote, and go to settings. The time and date were there, along with the letters PDT. Pacific Daylight Time.
You rush to the window. You could barely make out a billboard, advertising a local law firm with an attached phone number. 310 area code: you were in LA, likely beverly hills given the lack of beach view and the particular buildings that surrounded you. There were only three marriots in beverly hills. You find the notepad and paper again, and scribble with an attempt to remember everything you've found: Cali, LA, beverly hills: could be in the Waldorf Astoria, The Beverly Hilton, or the Cameo.
Meanwhile, L watches. Watches as you rush around, looking through the clues he left for you. An ant, driving through sand, as if your decisions had any purpose. Based on what you've looked through and written, it seems you've deduced yourself down to the country, state, and city. Smart girl.
You drum your fingers. If this was a hotel...there had to be other people. You look around, and spot a landline phone. Without hesitation, you pick it up. You begin to dial...but the buttons don't beep. You look down. It's missing a cable. Of course.
What now? You wander to the door, and try the handle, just in case. It doesn't budge. Then, in a final effort to notify anybody, you scream. You scream loud and hard, until your vocal cords feel close to snapping.
The TV in the living room snaps to L's moniker.
"I wouldn't waste my breath. I bought out the floor below you, and utilized it for sound-proofing."
You whip around. "What about the floor above?"
"This is the highest point of the building. I wouldn't attempt to climb out through the window, either."
"You're sick."
"Name-calling is childish."
"You're childish."
"I'm aware. There are snacks in the fridge, if you find yourself hungry. You may want to settle in, there won't be any escape for you."
And the TV is off again.
Nothing above you. The Waldorf had a rooftop dining area. You walk to the notepad, and scratch the name off.
L, from his residence below you, smiles. So entertaining, to watch you. If his goal were to toy with you, he would be satisfied. But he wasn't satisfied, only amused. Satisfaction would take your complacency. It would take your presence beside him, willful. It would take you feeling the same about him.
He noticed, in his time with you, that you were a comfort. Something about your energy and expertise radiated through him, even through a camera, and made him sharper. Streamlined. As if everything were clear. Watching you through these cameras had a similar effect, as he closed up the case you worked with him on.
The fact of the matter was that you were too valuable to release. You were now as needed as his posture, or his sweets, or his sitting position. And, he had to admit, too pretty not to keep. Those eyes, that hair...that body...he wanted you to himself.
He's never felt like this before.
He fears he'll never feel it again.
He can't lose you. he gets everything he wants, and you won't be an exception. Detainment was only the beginning.
In the few days you spent searching, snooping around, hoping to find anything to help, you formed a plan.
You stared out the window. The night was clear. Enough people were walking by, but not enough to create traffic. The perfect amount. It was early enough that nobody was drunk. You press your notepad to your chest, hunch over it, and quickly write something down.
L, from his place watching you, furrows his brow. With the way your body was covering it, his cameras couldn't pick up on the words. You certainly weren't being discreet...which led him to believe you were about to do something reckless.
You rip out the paper, toss the pen and pad to the side, and hold the note between your teeth. Then, with all the force you can use, snap off the plastic window locks.
L's eyes widen. What the hell were you doing?
You take a coin out from your bra, one you found in the corner of the bathroom, and fold the note over it. You can hear the vents hiss once more, releasing the gas. You don't have time to worry. You open the window, and toss your weighted slip to the sidewalk.
Normal, every day police officers don't know about L. If someone, anyone can find your note and read it, they'll be able to contact the police or talk to a security guard, and hopefully get you out before L gets the chance to intervene using federal agents. Then, you can make a break for it and start a new life.
You hope "psychopath holding me. Marriot. Top floor. Help," is enough as you tumble into bed, and doze off in a haze.
When you wake up, it's somewhere new. A grey cell. Was this it? Were you...free? In a police station, maybe?
The walls are padded. The bed is little more than functional. The room, at every angle, was covered with cameras. Out of reach was a TV, with L's moniker.
This wasn't the police station.
"That was clever. You should be proud of yourself. I underestimated you."
"You asshole-"
"However, you caused quite a problem for me. It was difficult to explain to the local police, but after hearing that you were detained as a suspect by the FBI, they were swayed. This can't go unpunished."
"Now where am I," you snap.
"A holding room. I was lenient with you, to give you your favorite foods and spacious quarters, but unfortunately, I can't trust you with the privilege now."
"This is- this is inhumane! This is torture!"
"This is the consequence to your action, nothing more."
The TV blacks out.
You storm about, kicking and punching and screaming obscenities. A temper tantrum. Like all tantrums, you tire yourself out, and sit on the bed, silent. Hopeless. You look to the door, iron and sealed shut with no window. Next to it is a slot, connected to a tray. You look to one corner, and there's a sink, tooth brush, toilet, and sad excuse for a curtained shower. You look up at the fluorescent lights.
When you look away, your eyes hurt. You can't see anymore. It takes multiple minutes for them to adjust. There's food on the tray now.
You walk over, and nudge the metal flap of the slot. It doesn't budge. You tilt your head at the food. A cup of water, and a slice of toast with ham and cheese.
L watches you, a frown ghosting his lips. This wasn't fun for him either. He liked to watch you work, he didn't like to see you rot, but it was necessary. You pick at the ham, just as L picks at his cookie. Boredom consumes you both.
You only keep track of time by the number of sandwich meals you're served.
After 12, you spend all of your time crying, sleeping, and then crying again. Your showers consist of cold water, brandless soaps, and curling into a ball on the floor.
After 24, you begin to spend half your time sleeping, and the other half muttering to yourself. Your clothes haven't changed since you got here, a drab grey nightgown with no bra, and panties you decided to abandon after 6 sandwiches so as not to get an infection.
After 42, you beg.
"Please, let me out," you sob, back to the wall. "I won't do it again, please...I can't stay in this godforsaken place any longer!"
L's voice, the first time you've heard it since sandwich 1, cuts on over the speakers.
"Do you promise?"
"Yes! god, please let me out!"
"What you did was incredibly dangerous."
"I'm sorry, okay? I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, just let me go," you wail.
"...I suppose, something can be arranged."
"Anything! Anything, I swear, I can't do this!"
"I will release you from this cell, if you allow me to converse with you in person."
"...allow you to...?"
"Yes. If you attempt to attack me, the deal is off, and you will continue to atrophy in here. Understood?"
you nod, and wipe your nose. "Fine."
He pauses. A wicked grin you can't see passes over his face.
"Say thank you."
you bite your lip. Thank him. Like you could ever feel thankful to someone like him.
"...thank you."
"You're welcome."
The TV turns black. You sit still for who knows how long. The door cracks open.
In he walks.
A man, tall but hunched, with big, curious black eyes; his hair is unkempt, wild and raven; his skin is pale, as white as the shirt that covers his torso; his nose is arched and sloping. The only color on him is the pair of jeans that shroud his legs, nearly covering his bare feet.
Your hands twitch. You want to lunge. You want to leap up and hurt him, like he hurt you. He was so skinny, so frail looking. You could grab his twig arms, and snap them in half. You could dig your uncut nails into those eyes and gouge them out. You could kill him.
But you didn't. You sat still, even as he crouched before you, and stuck his thumb against his lip.
"How are you?" His voice was so smooth and dulcet without the modulator.
"Shitty," you force out. You glare at him. If looks could kill, he would be chopped into neat pieces and tossed in a duffle bag.
"I imagine. You must be bored."
"Let me go."
"I can take you to another hotel, and you will enjoy your original freedoms."
"I want to go home."
His eyes flick to your hands as they twitch once more in your lap. "That won't be necessary. You can go to the hotel."
"Take. Me. Home."
His placid expression dips, just a little. "I should let you know, even if you do manage to harm me or escape, you're an international criminal."
You, for the first time in 42 sandwiches, feel the sharp ping of an actual thought. More than raw animosity or deluded musings. A piecing together of a puzzle. "What?"
"Yes. After your...adventure, I've taken new precautions. The governments of all 193 countries know you as a treasonous scoundrel who attempted to murder the greatest detective in the world, myself."
You shake, every muscle tight. Then, like a spring, you scramble forward, screaming as you jump at him. He easily slips out of the way and to his feet, surprisingly lithe. You land on your stomach, and he places a foot on your back.
No matter how hard you try, you can't get back up. Either you've grown incredibly weak, or he's deceptively strong.
"How unfortunate. I was hoping you would see reason."
"You bastard! You fucker! Let me out! Let me out! I hate you! Kill yourself before I do it for you," you shriek.
He only sighs, and bends to pat your head. "Another few weeks should fix you. I'll be watching."
He pushes off to walk away, using enough force to take the breath from your lungs. You want to reach and grab his ankle, drag him down, but he's already gone.
It takes two months to dumb you down to nothing. There were attempts in between, pleas to be released, followed by his visitation, followed by your attempt to attack. It always ends with him shaking his head, and leaving you on the ground.
The final time, he comes to you, laid across your bed with empty eyes, crouched in front of your face.
"You know, I have an odd confession for you."
You don't react.
"Seeing you like this, it's made me realize how much I dislike your suffering."
You don't think about how ironic that is, or how he's a fucking hypocrite. You don't think at all. You only stare at the wall.
"I've realized...I love you."
That brings your eyes to his.
He reaches out, tentative, and places his hand on your tear-stained cheek. You don't flinch or claw his eyes out.
"I never thought it possible, for someone like me to love another person, but your presence brings me a peace I cannot explain otherwise."
A thought occurs, for once. Of course he does. It only makes sense. He wouldn't hold you captive over a job, but over love. How utterly disgusting.
"Would you like to leave now, and regain your privileges?"
you nod, silently, and sit upright.
"Good."
He walks out, and as the door shuts, gas pours from the ceiling. Not again.
You wake up, for the howevereth time, somewhere new. A new bed, a new TV, a new room. But it had comfort. Amenities. A toilet in a different room. You stood, and peaked into the living room. There, seated on the couch, was L. Laptop on knees, typing away.
"You're awake," he remarks, not looking up.
"Why are you here," you spit. You've regained some semblance of sanity, now that you were somewhere with dimension.
"As I said, I love you. The peace you give me only hightens when I'm nearer to you. So, it makes the most sense to spend as much time with you as possible."
You creep closer.
"And, as I'm sure you remember, you're a wanted criminal. If you kill or bypass me, you will only be found. No new look, name, or country will allow you to evade this."
You pause. He was right. There was no escape. There will never be an escape.
The following months were spent trying to resist him. Trying to stay as far from him as possible. You did try to escape again, eventually. You climbed down the side of the building using bedsheets as rope while he slept on the couch.
To your surprise, you were able to touch ground. For a moment, you were finally free. You could breath the city air, and feel the wind on your skin, and listen to the chatter up close. It smelled like weed and trash and cigarettes, but you didn't care. It was life.
"Oh my god, it's her!"
You turn to look at the voice. A woman clings to her husband, shakey as she takes her phone out. You cock your head. She quickly dials, and brings the phone to her lips. "It- it's the girl! The treasonist!"
He wasn't lying after all.
You bolt. Rocks stick to your bare feet, but you don't care. You have to be free.
You hear footsteps behind you. Arms wrap around your waist.
"No! No, no, NO!!!"
"I've got her," the man shouts, squeezing you, constricting. You kick and scream, but to no avail.
After an ordeal of cops and calls from L instructing they leave it to him, you're back in the grey room. L sits across from you on the floor, stern.
"Trust is a very fragile thing."
"Fuck you."
"This is only the consequence. If you were good, this wouldn't be happening."
A month is all it takes this time.
In that month, you made a decision.
A decision that would finally free you, for good.
On the day of your return, you head to bed early. He believes your excuse that you're tired, and you want to sleep somewhere comfortable for a change. You only leave when the clock strikes 3.
You stumble from bed, to the living room. L is asleep, once again. You don't want to wake him.
"L," you whisper.
Nothing.
Carefully, you walk back to the bedroom, into the bathroom. Under the sink is a gallon of Drain cleaner.
Your breath shakes as you curl yourself into a ball, jug in hand, and press yourself to the shower door.
This was it. Finally. Release.
You carefully unscrew the cap. Bottoms up. Goodbye L. Goodbye hotel. Goodbye grey room. Goodbye torture.
Just as the rim touches your lips, and the thick liquid spills into your mouth, L bursts into the room, accompanied by Watari, who you now know as the man who carried you into the bed all those months ago.
Watari pulls the container from your hand. L yanks you to your feet.
His hand, for the first time ever, grips your face with violent certainty. He forces your mouth open, looking inside for any hint of chemical cleaner. Your teeth are blue.
"Dispose of it immediately," he orders Watari.
As soon as Watari leaves, L slides the shower open, and you fall to the shower floor with nothing to support you. Never releasing his bruising grip, he cranks the shower on.
He holds you still as water floods your mouth, leaving you no choice but to hold your breath and close your throat.
"Spit," he commands, like you're a dog.
And like a dog, you do.
"Again."
He makes you rinse and spit until there's nothing left to poison you. Half of his body is soaked, while all of you is drenched.
When you're finally done, he turns the water off, and releases your jaw.
You deign to look up at him.
He's shaking, seething. You've never seen his eyes so crazed with rage.
"Tell me, are you stupid," he asks quietly. His words are like static, harsh and electric.
You don't answer.
"Are you stupid," he barks.
"No," you whimper.
"Then when will you learn? When will you learn you cannot escape me, not even through death?"
You shiver.
He stares into your wide, fearful eyes.
"Dry yourself off and change. You'll be punished."
Tears finally spill from your eyes, and you grab at his legs. "Please, no, don't make me go back," you sob.
He kicks you off.
"Please," you wail, watching as he walks out, crawling toward him as if it mattered.
"PLEASE!"
This time, he doesn't have to wait for you to behave. You would have accepted any mercy from him any day. No, this time, you wait for him to allow you.
And he doesn't allow you until he's sure you're broken.
Until you're pounding your head against the wall, over and over. Until your curled into a ball, shaking and crying.
Only then, after the three short weeks it takes to get you there, does he let you return to the hotel with him.
Upon your return, you get into the shower, and use the soaps with an actual fragrance. You change into a nightgown made of pink silk, rather than grey polyester. You settle into a bed with more than two inches of mattress.
And you make your decisions.
You realize that there truly was no escaping L. Not the most cunning, stubborn, patient man on the planet. Not even in death.
So you could sit here, and be tormented for the rest of your life, or you could do what he wants.
You can love him.
You can trust him.
You can be his pet.
You slowly stand from the bed, and stalk to the door. It creaks open, and like the shivering rabbit searching for its sly fox, like the wide-eyed doe searching for its silver-gunned hunter, like the twitchy mouse searching for its cunning snake, you spot him.
Him, sitting on the couch, typing on his laptop. You creep closer.
You walk slow, dreamy, up to the couch.
And you settle next to him, with your head on his shoulder.
He freezes, hands stilling, breath stilling.
He almost asks.
He continues typing.
And then, right then, you close your eyes, and make your final decision.
☆•☆•☆•☆•☆•☆•☆•☆•☆•☆•☆•☆•☆•☆•☆•☆•
"Why? Why me," you whimper, tossing and turning. L sighs, and smoothes the crease of your brow with his thumb.
"Because I love you," he whispers.
His lips come to yours in a gentle, soothing kiss.
You stir.
"L..." you murmur.
"You were having a nightmare."
"I was..." you nod slowly. It was easier if it was just a nightmare.
"Go back to sleep, my love."
You purse your lips, and settle your head on his chest.
"Goodnight. I-...I love you."
"I love you, too. Good night."