Chapter Text
It started, as many crimes against professionalism do, with Matsuda.
"Matsuda," L said, voice flat, eyes sharper than usual as he peered up from his crouched seat, "may I ask why you've brought a kitten into the headquarters building of the Kira investigation?"
The others turned. And yes, there it was: a tiny, sopping wet creature, wrapped in Matsuda's coat like a mewling burrito, its huge blue eyes blinking under fluorescent lights like it, too, was confused by the situation.
"It was outside in the rain," Matsuda mumbled. "I picked it up on the way here. Someone left it in a box. It was meowing."
"Matsuda," Aizawa said, already rubbing his temples. "You can't just—"
"My landlord doesn't allow pets," Matsuda added quickly. "So I—I didn't know what to do. I thought someone here might... want it?"
Silence.
It was the kind of silence that stretched just long enough to feel like being politely disowned by your own family.
Light Yagami, resident genius, tried very hard to look like someone above feline-related discourse. But his eyes lingered on the kitten for a moment too long. It made a pitiful sound like "mrrrp?" and tucked its head under Matsuda's chin.
"No," Aizawa said, backing up. "Nope. I already have a kid and a dog."
"I'm allergic," Mogi added, with such finality that even the kitten looked apologetic.
Soichiro Yagami, head of the task force and certified Dad™, gave a sympathetic wince. "My wife, too."
Everyone slowly turned to L.
He regarded the kitten the way one might regard an untagged grenade. Then, with a level of ceremony typically reserved for religious rites, he reached up and took the kitten from Matsuda's arms.
He held it up above his head. The kitten dangled there, dripping onto his shirt, its front paws curled delicately toward its chest.
It was the smallest, fluffiest, dampest little thing anyone had ever seen. Soft gray fur, faint tabby stripes, big round eyes that blinked in slow motion. It gave a single, questioning "meep?"
Light, in an act of self-preservation, bit the inside of his cheek.
"…Cute," L murmured.
The word struck the room like thunder.
L had said something was cute.
L, who stared down hardened criminals without blinking, who consumed sugar by the pound and still looked like a sleep-deprived ghost, had just praised a kitten.
"It's fine," he said, lowering the kitten gently to his chest. It immediately began climbing him like a tree. "It can stay here. The newest member of the Kira investigation team."
Soichiro cleared his throat. "Maybe… it's more like a mascot?"
"You're already stifling his potential,"
The chain between them jingled like an awkward reminder of their not-quite-bond as the kitten dove under the covers, popped back out, and attempted to pounce on L's hand.
L was lying on the bed—slightly crooked, back hunched—with a red string in one hand and a fond expression he tried to disguise as neutral. The kitten, small and full, was a determined blur of fluff. Every time L wiggled the string, it pounced with the ferocity of a creature ten times its size.
Light sat stiffly at the edge of the bed like a man resisting the pull of doom—or something worse: affection. He watched the kitten try to bite the string, miss, and somersault into L's chest with a tiny "mrrp."
"Cat food delivery in Tokyo takes under twenty minutes," L said, as if it were a data point in a police report. "Surprising,"
"We had to use my account for it," Light grumbled, crossing his arms. "Do you have any idea what kind of targeted ads I'm going to get now?"
L didn't reply. He was too busy with his eyes on the kitten.
The kitten paused, tail flicking, and launched itself again—this time straight into L's face.
"Mmmph." L caught it gently, and nodded solemnly. "We are a family now."
Light stared at him.
"I'm sorry, what?"
"A small family. Just the three of us. You, me, Mochi."
"We are not at all like a family,"
L tilted his head. "A dysfunctional family?"
Light shot him a look, grabbed the chain between them and let it swing. "Ryuzaki. You are the lead investigator in the Kira case. I am your prime suspect. We're handcuffed together. We live in the same room because you think I'm secretly orchestrating mass murder. This is not domestic bliss. This is surveillance."
L frowned slightly. "Ah, yes. There is that. Momentarily, I forgot."
"How could you possibly forget?"
"Because," L said, gaze drifting to the kitten, "when I see you like this—with a scowl on your face and a cat on the bed—I feel like I'm perhaps somewhere else."
Light blinked.
There was a pause. Like the kind of silence where something unspoken sits politely at the edge of the room, sipping tea and waiting to be noticed.
"And Mochi?…It doesn't need a name," Light muttered, retreating from the moment like it had teeth.
"Why are you being so cold?"
"I'm not cold. It's just—okay, fine. I've never had a pet before, alright? And it's just some stray Matsuda picked up off the street. It could have fleas or… toxoplasmosis or feline calicivirus or something."
L nodded solemnly, as if considering it. Then he picked the kitten up with both hands and slowly, pointedly, shoved it within an inch of Light's nose.
Light recoiled. "Hey—!"
"Then we take it to the vet,"
"We are in the middle of a global investigation."
"And now we also have a small, confused carnivore in our care. I like challenges."
Light sighed, running a hand through his hair. The kitten, sensing its moment, reached for the chain and tried to bite it. Its tiny teeth barely made a sound.
The two of them sat in silence, watching the creature then wrestle the blanket like it was prey. It dug its paws into the fabric, scratched a few times, then looked up, betrayed, when nothing happened.
"You can't dig here," L told it gently. "That's not dirt. That's a duvet."
The kitten gave up its futile efforts, let out a slow, sleepy yawn, then stretched its tiny paws like a miniature lion before curling itself snugly between them.
“You’re really going to keep it, aren’t you?”
“I didn’t think you’d say no,”
“You don’t ask for permission for anything,”
L paused for a beat, then asked with sincerity, “…Can we keep him?”
Light flopped back onto the bed and muttered something unprintable into his pillow, the kind of phrase that translates roughly to, 'Fine. Whatever.'