Chapter Text
It wasn’t even eight in the morning, and the Hartwell-Residing Household was already one decibel away from summoning the local police.
“Stop it,” Misa yelled as she descended the stairs in her bright pink robe with the energy of a woman about to set the house on fire herself. Her slippers skidded on the polished wood as she lunged toward her sons, who were intensively in the middle of strangling each other with a length of gold tinsel.
“Admit it, Leo!” Oliver bellowed, pressing the glittery cord against his brother’s neck.
"No," Leo roared back, clawing at Oliver’s hands as he fought for his breaths. “I didn’t touch your stupid game, you maniac!”
“Oliver, stop it!” Misa shrieked, lunged faster than she could, nearly sending her sliding straight into the Christmas tree, which wobbled dangerously and showered loose ornaments onto the floor like falling artillery.
“You lie!” Oliver spat as he pressed the tinsel deeper, his teeth bared like a feral cat. “You’re a liar.”
“I’m not!” Leo screamed, kicking wildly at his brother’s shins, one slipper flying off and smacking into the wall with a dull thunk.
“Then where is it, huh?” Oliver demanded. "Where did you hide it?”
“How would I know?” Leo snapped, shoving his palm straight into Oliver’s face. “Get off me, troll!”
“Don’t call me troll! You’re the troll!” Oliver barked, retaliating by digging his elbow into Leo’s ribs.
Behind them, the TV blared a too-cheerful cartoon theme, its bouncy jingle clashing horrifically with the murder-scene theatrics. A small brown-haired girl sat cross-legged in front of the screen, eating dry cereal out of the box with sticky fingers, watching the cartoon nonchalantly as if her brothers weren’t staging a gladiator death match two feet behind her.
“You smell like garbage!” Leo hollered, yanking and clawing for Oliver’s hair.
“And you smell like farts!” Oliver yelled back, his voice shrill, spit flying as he shrieked inches from Leo’s nose.
“I hate you!”
“I hate you more!”
“THAT’S ENOUGH!” Misa barked again, her voice ricocheting off the walls.
When she finally reached her sons, she quickly grabbed Oliver by the back of his jumper before she yanked him so hard that he let out a startled yelp. His left hand still clutching the tinsel like a soldier refusing to surrender his weapon.
Leo collapsed backward onto the sofa, coughing and wheezing as if he’d narrowly escaped death itself. One hand clutched his chest, the other pointing toward Oliver in the grand performance of a dying martyr.
“Seriously, WHAT IS WRONG WITH BOTH OF YOU?” Misa exploded, dragging Oliver back while he kicked at the rug. Her other hand yanked the tinsel from Oliver's palm.
“Mum! He wants to kill me,” Leo rasped dramatically, throwing his head back like he was on stage, finger trembling toward his brother.
“You’re so dramatic!” Oliver shot back, his voice cracking as he windmilled his arms, trying to break free. “It’s just tinsel, you baby!”
“You were strangling me!” Leo screamed, his face blotchy with outrage. He shoved himself upright and jabbed a finger at Oliver furiously. “Everyone saw it—Maya, you saw it!”
Maya, the girl, didn’t even glance at him, just shoveled another fistful of cereal into her mouth with all the serenity of someone who had accepted her family’s madness long ago.
“Don’t drag your sister into this!” Misa snapped, wrestling Oliver sideways as he tried to lunge into his brother again.
Her hair fell in her face, one slipper was half-off, and she looked one scream away from hurling the Christmas tree out the window. She tightened her grip on Oliver and glared at Leo.
“Other families make pancakes on Christmas morning,” she hissed. “But this family? This family stages a homicide!”
For one blessed second, there was silence. Both boys froze mid-squabble, Maya crunched loudly on a cornflake, and Misa stood there panting like a woman halfway through an exorcism.
Then Misa slowly straightened as she exhaled another exhausted sigh, her grip still firm on Oliver’s jumper, her glare drilling holes into both her sons.
“Alright. Nobody moves. Nobody breathes. And nobody so much as blinks until I get an answer.” She narrowed her eyes at them one after another. “The only reasons two brothers try to strangle each other before breakfast are: one, somebody said something unforgivable about someone’s hair. Or two—” She yanked Oliver back another inch. “—someone broke something worth more than my sanity.”
Leo blinked. Oliver stammered.
“So which one is it?” Misa demanded. “Because if you tell me it was anything else—like toys, or who sat where—I swear to God I’ll personally march outside, lie down in the snow, and let myself freeze, and it’ll be your fault when your father has to explain to the neighbours why his wife is a popsicle!”
“Mum!” both Oliver and Leo yelled in unison.
“Well, hair or sanity?” Misa asked, lifting one brow challenging them. “Which funeral are we planning?”
“It wasn’t me!” Leo flailed his arms, looking offended beyond reason. “Ollie started it!”
Oliver, still trapped in his mother’s grip, twisted like a fish on a hook. “You STOLE my controller!”
“I don’t even KNOW where your stupid controller is!” Leo shot back, stamping his foot and his whole expression screamed the melodrama of a child wrongly accused of a crime punishable by death. He flung his arms in the air for emphasis. “Do you think I care about your dumb games? I have a life!”
“You don’t have a life!” Oliver barked, straining forward against Misa’s grip like a furious terrier. His hair stuck up in all directions. “You sit in your room smelling like crisps and acting like you’re some genius!”
“At least I have friends,” Leo countered viciously, jabbing his thumb against his own chest. “All you do is scream at the TV when Mario beats you. You look like a malfunctioning robot!”
“Take that back!”
“No!” Leo shouted, his voice cracking. He stomped closer, pointing a trembling finger at Oliver. “You flail your arms like a chicken having a seizure! It’s embarrassing!”
Oliver shrieked, his entire body jolting with indignation. “Mum, he’s lying! I don’t look like a chicken—I look like a hawk!” He spread his arms wide like wings, feathers only missing by miracle, nearly elbowing Misa in the ribs.
“Stop it” Misa hissed.
Brutally ignored.
“You look like a pigeon with worms!” Leo mocked again, jabbing his finger so close to Oliver’s nose it almost poked him. “A fat pigeon that waddles everywhere!”
“I’d rather be a pigeon than a rat who doesn’t shower!” Oliver snarled, kicking his feet in the air where it missed Leo’s middle just by few inches.
“Oliver!” Misa warned again.
“I DO shower!” Leo howled, his pitch veering dangerously high. “You’re just jealous because when I shower, my hair doesn’t look like a wet mop!”
“It DOES look like a wet mop!” Oliver screeched, twisting in Misa’s grip with all the force of a hurricane. His eyes blazed, his face scrunched in cruel delight. “It looks like someone scrubbed the toilet with it!”
“BOYS, DROP IT. WILL YOU?!” Misa thundered, her voice sharp enough to rattle the ornaments still dangling off the half-toppled Christmas tree. She gave Oliver a firm shake before swinging a furious glare at Leo, who was already gearing up for another comeback. “One more word out of either of you and I swear Santa’s putting me in therapy this year instead of presents.”
Then she snapped her head toward the sitting room. “And Maya—” Her pitch spiked so high the windows could have cracked. “Turn down the volume of that TV before my brain melts out of my ears!”
On the rug, Maya let out the kind of long-suffering sigh usually reserved for teenagers, not seven-year-olds. Without even glancing back, she jabbed the remote like it personally offended her. The cartoon’s theme dropped a few notches but still bounced merrily in the background, a cruelly cheerful soundtrack to the carnage behind her. Crumbs littered her pajamas like confetti.
Misa’s gaze zeroed in on the half-empty cereal box balanced in Maya’s lap. She dragged a hand down her face. “And who even gave you snacks this early?” she demanded, her voice dripping with disbelief.
There was a pause. The boys froze mid-brawl. Maya froze mid-crunch. Even the Christmas tree seemed to hold its breath.
Misa’s eye twitched. Then she groaned, shoulders collapsing. “Never mind,” she muttered darkly. Of course she knew. Her brain had already painted the scene crystal clear—him, pale and smug at seven in the morning, pressing the cereal box into Maya’s arms like he was handing over nuclear codes.
“Never mind,” she repeated, flapping her hand like she was shooing a ghost. “If I start on that, I’ll have to call an ambulance for myself.”
“Call it for Leo too,” Oliver huffed, trying to wriggle free, “because I’m gonna kill him if he doesn’t give back my controller.”
Leo, affronted, pointed at his brother with the righteous indignation of a saint testifying before God. “See? Mum, this is what I mean—he’s toxic! He’s obsessed!”
“I’m not obsessed!” Oliver spat, his face red as he twisted like a hooked fish. “He’s the one who sneaks into my room when I’m not there!”
“I do NOT!” Leo gasped, clutching his chest like he’d been accused of high treason. “Why would I even want to go into your stinky cave?”
“Because you’re jealous I have better stuff!” Oliver shouted, his voice cracking halfway through the word better.
“You mean the controller you probably sat on and broke yourself?” Leo fired back.
“I DID NOT BREAK IT!” Oliver shrieked so loud the neighbor’s dog started barking outside, adding a new layer of chaos to the soundtrack.
Misa pinched the bridge of her nose like she was trying to crush her own skull, counted to three, and hissed through her teeth, “Where is your father when I need him…”
────୨ৎ────
L padded softly through the hallway, socked feet making no sound against the wooden floor. He was dressed in a fitted long-sleeved navy shirt, dark trousers creased from the car ride, and a plain winter knitted cap tugged low over his unruly raven hair.
A set of keys dangled idly from his fingers, spinning against his palm as though he had all the time in the world. And as he passed the narrow table by the wall, he flicked his wrist and let them drop, the metallic clatter cutting through the noise.
The sound hit him before the sight did—Misa in her usual bright pink robe, sighed from the kitchen table, the sound long and ragged, like it had been clawing its way up her throat for hours. One hand was tangled in her wild morning hair, the other gripping the edge of the table hard enough to whiten her knuckles.
L stood there for a while before leaning against the doorway to the kitchen.
“Rough morning?” he asked, voice even, almost amused, as if he’d just stepped into a lab experiment that had already confirmed his hypothesis.
Misa's eyes slid toward him, they were sharp and exhausted all at once. “Don’t start,” she muttered, voice flat but carrying the edge of someone who had already fought three battles before noon.
“Start what?” L asked mildly, tugging the knitted cap from his head. His fingers disappeared into his dark hair, ruffling it absently until it stood up in uneven tufts.
He walked closer, the faintest trace of a smile pulling at his mouth. Without a word, he slid his hand gently on her small waist before leaning down to press a light kiss against her cheek.
“All of them are intact?”
Misa let out a humorless chuckle, running a hand through her hair again. “If by intact you mean they’re still breathing and haven’t decapitated each other with tinsel, then yes. Miraculously, yes.”
“Tinsel?” L’s voice was soft, almost contemplative, but Misa caught the twitch at the corner of his mouth, betraying the faintest hint of amusement. “That’s… a fascinating choice of implement.”
Misa’s eyes narrowed, scanning him like he’d just announced the discovery of alien life. Irritation prickled along her nerves—she knew she’d need all her patience for whatever convoluted logic her husband was about to unleash.
“It’s lightweight, flexible, yet capable of entanglement,” L continued, calm and precise as ever. “A simple object repurposed for maximum disruption—remarkably efficient.”
Misa threw her head back, letting out a long, exasperated sigh that seemed to shake the ceiling beams, figuratively.
“Really? Efficient?” she snapped, folding her arms across her chest as she glared at him. “Your sons tried to strangle each other with Christmas decorations, not conduct a physics experiment!”
“Precisely,” L said mildly, tilting his head, his dark eyes analyzing her reaction like a live experiment. “The efficacy lies in its simplicity. Limited risk of permanent injury, minimal cleanup… yet high stimulus. There is… artistry in their method.”
Misa blinked at him, caught somewhere between incredulity and reluctant admiration, and muttered, “Artistry… sure,” she muttered. “Murderous artistry.”
And as if to prove her point, from upstairs came the unmistakable crash of plastic colliding with hardwood, followed immediately by Oliver’s shriek of outrage. Leo’s voice cut across his brother’s, higher and faster, both boys tangling in noise. Then came a solid thunk that suggested someone had been shoved into a wall or possibly a piece of furniture.
Misa groaned, her head snapping toward the ceiling as if sheer willpower could hold the roof down.
“LEO! OLIVER!” she roared, her voice rattled across the floor. “When I said ‘go to your rooms,’ did you translate that as ‘stage a murder upstairs’?!” she asked furiously. “Or do I have to send you both to the North Pole in a box marked ‘RETURN TO SENDER’ and make the postman decide your fate?”
The house went quiet in an instant.
Misa’s head stayed tipped toward the ceiling long after the last echo died, as if she were daring any stray squeak to defy her. The house held its breath; even the cartoon jingle had been swallowed whole. L’s lips twitched into a small, almost-satisfied smirk at the silence.
“Damn,” a new voice said from the hallway—low and amused. “You’re bloody scary when you’re upset.”
Misa’s eyes snapped to the sound like a whip, and her glare found the intruder. A tall blonde man leaning in the doorway where L was a moment ago, with his signature scowl and a foil disk of some canned drink dangling carelessly between his fingers. He looked maddeningly unbothered, like he’d just strolled into a crime scene and was here purely for the entertainment value.
His hair was impossibly wild, jacket rumpled as if he’d wrestled it on. He appeared way too calm for someone who’d just walked into a family apocalypse. For a full heartbeat Misa could only stare. Then the indignation sailed back into her features, sharp and immediate.
“Of all the times to drop by,” Misa sighed defeatedly, hands on her hips, “you pick the exact moment my children attempt fratricide. How helpful.”
Mello scoffed, slouching against the doorway like he owned the chaos, one eyebrow quirking. The corner of his mouth twitched into a lazy, mocking smirk. “Consider it field research,” he said dryly, shrugging as if that explained everything. “Besides—I brought backup.” He held up the disk, dangling it like a trophy or a threat, impossible to tell which.
Then he crouched, dragging something from the floor. Straightening, he stepped closer, extending a grease-stained paper bag with the kind of casual pride that radiated pure mockery. “And Happy Christmas to you too,” he added, a little too chirpy for his usual mood.
Misa blinked, disbelief painting her features. “What is this?”
“KFC,” Mello said, as if stating the obvious laws of the universe.
“I know what it is,” Misa snapped, jabbing a finger at the bag. “But what is this?”
“Oh,” Mello gasped, mock horror finally crossing his face as realization hit. He shoved the bag into her hands with a flourish. “Breakfast for the kiddos,” he said, voice brimming with self-satisfied smugness, then jerked a thumb at L, who was now helping himself with coffee like a king surveying his subjects. “Also my apology for keeping your husband longer than necessary,” he added.
L hummed, not even glancing up, entirely unbothered, which somehow made the situation worse.
Misa stared at the bag as if it had personally insulted her, then at Mello, her jaw tightening with theatrical scandal. “I am not feeding my children greasy fast food on Christmas morning.”
Mello popped his can with a sharp hiss “We’ll see what the jury upstairs says.”
“You’re the worst.” Misa’s glare hardened. “And I’m surprised I haven’t poisoned you yet.”
"You won't," Mello said unbothered as he plopped himself onto the nearest dining chair and took a slow sip from his disk. “I’m your kids' favourite uncle,” he said smoothly. Then, after a beat his smirk widened. “And also the only one brave enough to bring greasy fish and chips into your kitchen.”
"You really have a death wish," Misa gritted through her teeth.
"Honestly speaking, you're not the only one." L muttered as he plopped a sugar cube into his coffee. “Matt did once,” he continued calmly.
And as the words left his mouth, the room exploded.
“WHAT?!”
Misa's head snapped toward her husband so fast it looked like she might strain something. Her eyes narrowed into daggers, scandal and betrayal sharpening every line of her face. She looked as if L had just admitted to treason of the highest domestic order.
Across the room, Mello kept muttering under his breath “That little—”, cursing low and fast. Something about “never keeping his damn mouth shut” and “always wanting to beat me” slipped out, punctuated with another hiss of irritation as he ran a hand through his hair.
“WHEN?!” Misa demanded, slamming the KFC bag onto the table hard enough to rattle the cutlery. She stormed closer, jabbing a finger at her husband. “When did this happen? And why did nobody tell me about it?"
L blinked up at her mildly, as though he hadn't just confessed a serious crime against his wife's kitchen rules. “Last August,” he said evenly, “while you were shopping for Leo’s birthday gift.”
He took a slow and unhurried sip of his coffee, leaning against the counter like a man in no danger at all. “And as for why nobody told you… let’s just say he made them sign a NDA.”
“What the….” Misa’s face went red, scandal sharpening into every inch of her expression. “And you just let it happen?”
L exhaled another calm breath.
“It was rather an interesting culinary experiment. To determine whether frozen fish fingers and chip-shop oil could, in fact, be deep-fried in our kitchen without structural damage.”
Misa’s eyes narrowed to lethal slits, her brain working furiously to piece things together from past events. “Was this when the whole house reeked of a pub, and you said you’d just gone a little mad with vinegar?”
L set his mug down, folding his long fingers neatly against the counter. “Yes.”
Her gasp of betrayal nearly split the ceiling. She began pacing like a general before a firing squad, hands flying to her hair, clutching it as though she might rip it out by the roots.
“Jesus Christ,” Misa laughed, sharp and humourless. “You mean to tell me that YOU—” she stopped dead in front of L, stabbing a finger at him like it might pierce his chest—“my own husband, let a lunatic bring a vat of OIL into my house, use my kitchen, use my pans, and nearly turned my stove into a bonfire—on purpose?!”
L tilted his head, expression as mild as if she were accusing him of trivial things. “Technically, it was only half a vat.”
“HALF?!” Misa screeched. “Oh, well that makes me feel so much better! What next—did you plan to deep-fry the sofa? Roast marshmallows over the curtains?!”
“Don’t give him ideas,” Mello cut in, lounging back like he owned the place. He tipped his can lazily toward L, smirk curling. “When he gets ideas, people evacuate. Or at least they should.”
“Oh people should,” Misa threw her hands skyward in outrage. “And it’s a wonder nobody’s burnt this house down yet and left us on the street!” She yanked a chair out with a scrape and dropped into it, one hand pressed to her chest like she was seconds from fainting.
“That wouldn’t happen,” L said flatly.
Misa shot him a glare. “Oh, and why not?”
“Statistically, the probability of a total-loss house fire originating in this kitchen is far lower than you imagine. For one, ninety-two percent of grease fires are extinguished before they reach another room. And considering we have two functioning fire extinguishers within arm’s reach, as well as Mello—”
“Don’t drag me into this,” Mello muttered.
“—who, despite his recklessness, has unusually fast reflexes, I estimate the chance of us truly being homeless as less than one percent.” L paused, blinking at Misa. “And in the highly unlikely event that this house was destroyed, there are… other residences available. Several within driving distance. Possibly abroad.”
He blinked, perfectly serious. Silence.
Mello just stared at him, mouth slightly open, as if L had sprouted a second head. Misa’s jaw fell, then snapped shut, then fell again—no sound escaping. She looked as though she might combust, faint, or both.
“Did I say something that doesn’t make sense?” L asked, calm and measured, and from the way he said it, Misa knew—truly knew—that he had no idea.
Mello leaned back in his chair, boots thudding against the opposite one. He cracked a grin, shaking his head in disbelief.
“Do you even hear yourself, man? You just bragged about having backup houses like they’re spare batteries.”
L blinked again. “That wasn’t bragging. It was context.”
“Normal people would worry about insurance!” Misa groaned, slapping both hands over her face. “And over here, my husband is planning international relocation like it’s ordering takeout.”
Mello barked a rare, unrestrained laugh. “Careful there. Push him, and he’ll start listing which countries have the best kitchens for frying experiments.”
“Greece does rank higher for olive oil quality,” L observed mildly. “Though Japan’s fish supply is superior, and France—”
“Stop!” Misa held up a hand. “Stop before you decide we need to import an entire vineyard to the back garden!” She raked her fingers through her hair, tugging at the chaos atop her head. “I should have used your deep pockets to get myself into therapy years ago.”
L tilted his head, tone as even as ever. “Your credit line is already unlimited. If therapy was your preference, you could have rotated between Zurich, London, and New York for optimal results. International specialists statistically improve outcomes. Annual cost—roughly 1.6% of our discretionary budget—negligible.”
Misa lowered her hands just enough to glare at him through her fingers. “Forget therapy,” she snapped, spinning dramatically to Mello with the kind of sigh reserved for opera deaths. “I want another husband.”
“Tough luck,” Mello mumbled into his drink, like someone who’s been there and lost the t-shirt.
L stirred the coffee in his cup with one finger.
“A replacement spouse would, by definition, lack the extensive legal, financial, and logistical ties already binding you to me. Divorce proceedings in this jurisdiction average twenty-seven months, and with international assets involved, perhaps double. The probability of you securing someone with equal or greater resources is statistically insignificant.”
He paused, looking up at her with those unblinking eyes. “So, while hypothetically possible, the expected outcome is that you would remain here—with me.”
Misa dropped her hands, gawking at him. “Did you just threaten me with math?”
Mello snorted so hard he nearly inhaled his drink, doubling over in a coughing fit as laughter threatened to burst out of him anyway.
Of course L had to phrase it like that—so cold, so precise, like he was reading a weather report instead of laying claim to a person. He swore under his breath, trying not to laugh again, because of course only L could turn what sounded like a ransom note into a marriage vow.
If L had a love language, it was statistical inevitability. And yet, even wrapped in numbers, the meaning landed clear as a gunshot: you’re mine and you’re not going anywhere.
Mello bit down on another bark of laughter as he watched Misa just sat there and stared disbelievingly at her husband while the said husband just shrugged and popped another sugar cube into his mouth.
Misa was just about to fire back when the sharp ring of the doorbell cut through the room. The sound made all of them flinch—heads turning instinctively toward the door. Misa froze momentarily, her hand hovering in midair as her eyes flicked to L.
“Are we expecting someone this early?” Misa’s voice wavered slightly, a frown tugging at her lips as she pivoted on her heels.
“I don’t think so,” L said, tilting his head slightly. He paused, then added, almost as an afterthought, “Not that we expected Mello this early in the first place—but here he is.”
“Yeah, yeah, roll out the red carpet,” Mello clicked his tongue with theatrical disgust. “It’s an ice age out there, and apparently sarcasm is a crime punishable by exile when someone’s nesting. One snide remark and—poof—I’m out on the curb like last week’s garbage. So—congratulations, I’m your problem now.”
Misa snorted.
“That bad?” She asked, giving him a look that was equal parts sympathy and well, you probably deserved it.
“That’s not even the worst part” Mello muttered darkly. “She told me to ‘come back when you learn to be supportive.’ Supportive of what, exactly? The curtains? The throw pillows? The baby that apparently already hates me?”
L pursed his lips, silent as always, while Misa just sighed, torn between pity and laughter.
The doorbell rang again.
Her brow furrowed. “Did I… buy any Christmas decorations I forgot about?” she muttered, rising slowly to her feet before pivoting on her heels toward the door.
A few steps away, she suddenly froze, her mouth parting in realisation.
“Ohhh, fantastic,” she huffed, throwing her hands up. “Must be another game thing. Next week it’ll probably be a spaceship or a castle expansion pack, and then what? We’ll need a second mortgage for their imaginary kingdom?” She whirled toward her husband. “I swear, if you don’t block Leo’s access—”
“It would be wiser,” L interjected mildly, “to establish spending parameters and monitor their purchases. That way we collect data while teaching them moderation.”
Misa’s eyes narrowed dangerously.
“Spending parameters?” she repeated humourlessly. “Fine. Here’s one: if the access isn’t blocked by the time the sun sets down today, you’re going on a one-slice-of-cake-a-week plan. And don’t test me, because I will personally cut the slices.”
And for the first time in a long time, L genuinely looked terrified.
Misa didn’t wait for any smart remarks before she padded down the hallway, muttering under her breath about bubble wrap, delivery fees, and the idiocy of paying shipping that cost more than the item itself.
The bell rang again, sharper and more insistent this time, echoing through the house.
“Coming!” she yelled, irritation blooming in her chest like wildfire. She could already feel her jaw tightening, her patience wearing thin with whoever thought hammering the bell was a good idea.
She swung the door open, her lips already parted to unleash the full weight of her annoyance—ready to nag the courier about double-ringing, to scold her kids for bankrupting them with online purchases, or just to complain to the entire world for existing.
But the words snagged in her throat. Her brows knitted, confusion suddenly overtaking irritation as her gaze landed on the figure before her.
“Honey?” she asked uncertainly, the syllables hesitant, as though her mouth didn’t trust what her eyes were seeing.
The figure’s eyes went wide, sharp with recognition—but also shock, like he had just stumbled into a scene he had no business being part of. His posture stiffened defensively, the way someone might react when caught trespassing.
“What are you doing here?” Misa demanded, her voice thinning as her chest tightened. She turned her head sharply toward the kitchen where, only moments ago, she had left him standing by the counter with Mello, the sound of their voices still faint in the air.
She looked back at the figure in the doorway.
Then at the kitchen again.
Then back.
Her breath stuttered. “How did—”
The words froze midway, fractured and broke apart, her question collapsing under the weight of the impossible as the realisation started to dawn on her. Her heart spiked so fast.
She looked back again, straining to hear that kitchen conversation to Mello’s sarcastic drawl, L’s flat rebuttal, the faint scrape of utensils and then back to the impossible sight standing on her porch.
This man was her husband, but at the same time also not him.
He appeared younger. That rigid and almost defensive posture like the world hadn’t yet worn down his sharp corners. Misa could see his dark hair slipped beneath the black hoodie he was wearing, untamed in a way that spoke of too many nights spent working without sleep and no one to drag a brush through it. His clothes were simpler, a little ill-fitting, the kind of careless uniform he used to live in before she forced colors and fabric softener into his life.
And his eyes—God, his eyes. They were the same stormy black she had fallen into a thousand times, but these weren’t softened by domestic routine or the comfort of family. These were hungrier, colder, scanning her like a problem that needed solving.
Her stomach twisted violently. It can’t be. It can’t.
Yet every detail, every line of his face, every tilt of his head told her it was him—not the man in the kitchen, not the husband who had learned how to share space with her and their children, but the man from before.
Her lips parted, trembling, but the words wouldn’t come. For three solid seconds, she could only gape, her mind scrambling to fit shattered pieces of time back into a frame that no longer made sense.
“Misa,” she partially heard her husband calling from the kitchen, the sound thin and distant through the static roaring in her ears. “Is everything alright?”
She flinched at the sound, jerking her gaze back toward the kitchen. His voice was real. Tangible. Alive. Then she gazed back again at the man on the porch. His eyes were locked on her with razor-sharp focus, wide enough to betray that he was just as thrown as she was.
For once, he didn’t look like he had every answer at his fingertips.
“Misa?” she heard him calling again, a hint of concern threading through the usual flatness of his tone. “Are you okay?”
Two voices, two bodies, the same man split down the seam of time. One calling to her from the house. The other standing impossibly close, cold winter air curling around his silhouette.
“I don’t think so,” she managed, the words scraping out of her dry throat.
The sound of footsteps quickened behind her, steady at first then a little sharper, betraying urgency. Each step seemed to drum louder against her rattled nerves.
Misa didn’t know how, but in the next split second, her husband was there standing in front of her, his tall, wiry frame a barrier between her and the impossible figure at the door. The motion was quiet, effortless, but it carried an edge of instinct, as if shielding her had been decided long before thought could catch up.
His shoulders squared just slightly, not enough to look aggressive, but enough to make his presence clear. Misa’s breath hitched as she saw his posture falter—barely, but enough for her to notice. A subtle flinch in the angle of his shoulders, a faint hitch in the line of his jaw, like even he hadn’t expected what he was seeing.
The silence that followed was unbearable and heavy. Every second stretched until it felt like the walls themselves were holding their breath.
The air in the hall grew thick, electric, as the two versions of the same man finally locked eyes.
It was like watching a mirror meet its own reflection and realize, for the first time, that it wasn’t alone. The younger one, sharper around the edges, tilted his head with razor precision, eyes narrowing in a dissecting kind of curiosity. The older one, tempered but no less dangerous, stared back with a composure that was only half intact, his fingers twitching once before stilling against his side.
She peered at the younger man through the thin gap over her husband’s shoulder, her pulse hammering so loud she could barely hear anything else. Her chest heaved once, twice, then again, ragged air scraping past her throat.
And then—before she could stop herself—the words tumbled out, raw and cracking under disbelief:
“When I said I wanted a new husband,” she blurted, eyes darting frantically between them, “I didn’t mean this.”
Older L’s shoulders stiffened. His dark eyes slid half over his shoulder in the faintest flicker of disapproval, but he didn’t correct her, didn’t even sigh. Instead, his gaze snapped back to the figure on the porch sharp, steady, like a scalpel held inches from skin.
“If this is what I think it is,” the older L said at last, his voice low and precise, “then you know you shouldn’t be here.”
The younger L didn’t argue. He only studied him with unnerving calm, like he was cataloguing every shift of breath, every twitch of muscle.
“I shouldn’t,” younger L said after a moment. “Yet, here I am. Which suggests inevitability.”
Older L’s gaze sharpened, his head tilting just slightly, the gesture mirrored in eerie synchrony by the man at the door. “Or it suggests a fracture,” he countered evenly. “One that requires correction before it spreads.”
Misa’s stomach twisted, her nails biting into her palms. The words were too abstract, too clinical, but the weight behind them made her skin prickle. They weren’t shouting, weren’t even raising their voices yet the air between them was so taut it felt like it could snap.
The younger L shifted his gaze past the older man, just for a heartbeat. His eyes flickered toward Misa, toward the warmth of the house behind her, before returning to lock with his counterpart’s.
“Correction or not,” he murmured, “we both know curiosity will not let you turn me away.”
Older L didn’t blink. “Perhaps,” he allowed, the faintest tremor of his voice carrying both concession and warning.
Both men looked at each other again, silence drawn tight between them.
Then footsteps thundered down the hallway. Mello rounded the corner, leather jacket half-zipped, a half-eaten chocolate bar in his hand.
“Fucking Christ,” he groaned, throwing his free arm up. “I knew you both hated me, but this? Leaving the door wide open in the middle of winter just so I can die of hypothermia? Genius plan, really. Slow, cruel—totally your style, L.”
He jabbed the chocolate accusingly at the older man’s back. “Seriously, you’re just standing there while Misa gets frostbite on her ankles? At least pretend to be human and close the damn door!”
Misa opened her mouth, wanted to say something, but no words came.
Behind L, the younger man tilted his head—just enough to watch Mello with cold, curious precision.
But Mello didn’t notice. He stomped closer, scarf hanging loose, teeth chattering theatrically. “Unbelievable. The world’s greatest detective, frozen in a doorway like some socially-inept gargoyle. I hope you’re proud.”
It wasn’t until Misa’s strangled and tired sigh broke through the tirade that he finally looked up past L’s shoulder and saw him.
The chocolate bar slipped from his hand, landing with a dull thud on the floor.
“…Holy shit.”
────୨ৎ────
Time seemed to pause, the world contracting to the narrow corridor, the frozen tableau of three figures suspended in disbelief. Even the winter wind outside seemed to hesitate at the edges of the doorway, as if it, too, were processing the impossibility.
How could two of him exist at once? The man she had once called a pervert on their first meeting—the one who insisted on his ridiculous methods, who spent endless nights obsessing over cases and cookies in equal measure—and the man she had married, the one she shared a life and children with, both standing there, separated only by time, mirrored in form?
Her brain wanted to scream “this is impossible,” but her life with L had long taught her that the impossible was often just Tuesday.
Her mind scrambled, firing off ridiculous, impossible thoughts. Her initial thought went straight to her children, especially the middle one, Oliver. He’s the family’s tiny troublemaker, the chaos incarnate, whose “brilliant” schemes constantly tested the limits of patience, physics, and her sanity all at once. She loved him, of course, every impossible, infuriating, ingenious part of him, but some days she swore he was deliberately trying to age her by ten years before morning even through.
Then there was Leo, the eldest, who squabbled with his brother endlessly yet would never, ever say no if his little brother dragged him into some scientific experiment or “totally safe” intellectual adventure. The boy was clever, infuriatingly clever like his father, and somehow adored chaos as much as he tried to control it.
And then her only daughter, devilishly sweet little Maya who could melt anyone with one glance and one tiny smile, sometimes also had her moments, subtle, quiet, perfectly executed mischief that left her mother cleaning up messes she didn’t even know were happening.
Her brain began connecting dots that probably shouldn’t be connected. Had Oliver somehow gotten his hands on a time machine? Had Leo, against all logic, helped him? And Maya, possibly the mastermind, quietly orchestrating some experiment on the very fabric of reality?
Of course, she knew her children were endlessly curious about their dad’s past, whether he had a mother or a sister, where he came from, what shaped him before he became the man they knew and loved. L had never shared those details, and the mystery had always captivated them. And really, knowing her kids, it wasn’t hard to imagine how their combined brilliance and occasional recklessness might have led them to take matters into their own hands.
She could practically hear Oliver’s voice in her head: “Since Dad won’t tell us, why don’t we just bring his younger self here?” followed, inevitably, by Leo calculating the logistics, and Maya adding a quiet, perfectly executed plan for the time machine.
Ridiculous? Absolutely. But in their world, if curiosity met capability, impossible became just another weekend project.
Then her brain went darker.
A clone? Maybe some lab had raised a secret twin of L, working silently for years, waiting for the perfect moment to appear. Mad scientists bustling around, muttering about “temporal experiments” or “genetic anomalies,” all devoted to delivering this absurdity to her doorstep.
Almost immediately, she dismissed it. It was too ridiculous, even for her exhausted brain to hold onto.
Then her mind settled on what seemed the most plausible explanation, given the absurdity of everything else. Maybe it was an elaborate prank, the kind her husband could, and sometimes did, orchestrate just to test her reactions. She had seen enough viral videos online to know that people enjoyed setting up elaborate “impossible scenarios” for reactions like hers.
Misa’s gaze flicked quickly around the doorway, the kitchen, the hallways, the snow-covered front porch, and the tree just beyond the edge of the yard, as if searching for a hidden camera or a mischievous friend ready to record her bewildered expression.
She squinted at the younger L past her husband's shoulder, half-expecting him to wink or smirk, the telltale sign of a perfectly staged joke. Every detail, the frozen air, the uncanny resemblance, the impossibly sharp eyes was still too real, too precise, but her mind clung to the possibility anyway.
Maybe, just maybe, someone had rigged this entire scene for the perfect reaction shot.
Her fingers twitched as she reached up to adjust the sleeve of her robe, a subtle, almost instinctive gesture to make herself appear normal in case the cameras or the pranksters were really there.
But somehow, nothing about this felt staged. And judging from the way her husband stood rigidly in front of her now, protective yet tense, it was clear he wasn’t in on any joke. His dark eyes were sharp, calculating, and unmistakably real, scanning the younger version of himself with the same precision she knew all too well. Every tiny movement, every tilt of the head, spoke of instinct honed over years of obsessive logic.
Her thoughts spiraled faster than she could contain, a cyclone of disbelief and fragmented reasoning. Two of him. Two real hims. Both impossibly tangible.
Her chest tightened as she watched, protective instinct mixed with awe. The younger L flicked his gaze toward her briefly, measuring, weighing, acknowledging her presence, then slid it past her toward the house.
“Correction or not, we both know curiosity will not let you turn me away.” She caught the words faintly.
Misa’s eyes widened.
Did he just… declare he wouldn't budge? Or worse, was he implying that her husband’s future self was too stubborn, too obsessed, too completely L, to actually say no?
Her brain scrambled, cycling through a hundred half-baked responses: Do I say “Absolutely not, this is insane”? Do I laugh and pretend it’s a joke? Do I grab a blanket and hope the universe fixes itself?”
She glanced again at her husband, expecting him to step in, to assert reason, but his body language betrayed nothing. Shoulders squared, eyes calm, evaluating, like he was weighing the absurdity against his own curiosity and probably losing.
“Perhaps” he said softly.
Really?
Misa let out a bitter little sigh, tugging at the sleeve of her robe in frustration. Of course he’d consider it. Of course. Why bother with the sane, clean answer when you can invite a walking paradox into your damn living room?
And then, because the universe clearly wasn’t done stressing her, a set of heavy, impatient footsteps stormed down the hall. The voice that followed cut through the chaos like a knife but her frazzled brain only caught fragments as they snapped past her.
“Hated me—”
“Door wide open—”
“Hypothermia—”
“Close the damn door—”
The rest turned into static, background noise against the far more aggravating decision in front of her: either swallow this madness like it was just another one of L’s “experiments” or admit, out loud, that her entire life had been hijacked by his brand of lunacy. And now, apparently, by two of him.
She wanted to say something, anything, but all that bubbled up was the urge to laugh in that hollow, hysterical way that came right before losing your mind. A quip, maybe, something sharp enough to pierce through their stone-faced staring contest.
“Sure, why not, let’s keep him. Maybe we can put him in the guest room next to the laundry.”
But the brilliance of sarcasm died on her tongue. What came out instead was a strangled sigh, halfway between exhaustion and defeat.
“Holy shit.”
Mello.
Frozen in the hallway now, blond hair askew, eyes wide, mouth open. For once, he looked just as blindsided as she felt. And that honestly was the most alarming part of the whole circus. If even Mello didn’t have a smart remark locked and loaded, then reality really had slipped straight off its rails.
So now, what’s left was… nothing.
Nothing except the absurd little thought that if the universe insisted on dumping paradoxes in her doorway at ungodly hours, she might as well salvage something normal. Shower, laundry, breakfast—pick your poison.
At least toast wouldn’t multiple itself without her knowing.
Without another word, because if she spoke she might scream, Misa turned, shoulders heavy with resignation, and started walking back inside. She moved slowly, as if each step were a sarcastic protest. As she brushed past Mello, her lips curved into a bitter half-smile that didn’t reach her eyes.
“Thank you for the breakfast.”