Death Note Fan Fiction ❯ Psych ❯ Sidney ( Chapter 1 )

Psych
Death Note AU
(L/Light or Light/L)

Summary: Sometimes the strangest of happenings, by that merit alone, are the most memorable. Lawliet, a professional who makes his living by understanding the workings of the human mind, finds that a chance meeting throws him a real curve. Yaoi. (As always, it will be of the L and Light variety)

Disclaimer: I do not own anything pertaining to Death Note, which is property of Tsugumi Ohba and Takeshi Obata. I do, however, claim ownership over both my story ideas and OCs. :)


---
Chapter 1: Sidney

The dark-haired figure staggered in the alley, shoulder bumping roughly up against the muted red bricks as he made his way through the drunken labyrinth of the passageway.

Another day, another night. Another bust.

His fists clenched briefly and a laugh burbled up in his throat, as wrong as the salt of tears.

I am more than this. Aren’t I?

---

Lawliet pushed his rectangular, black-framed glasses up his nose with an eloquent gesture that practically screamed ‘consummate professional’. He should know. He’d practiced it with unrelenting focus until it was perfect.

“Now tell me, Mr. Saizawa, at what point in time did you realize that your wife was part of a secret organization?”

The dark-haired man before him looked spooked. Rightly so, with what he’d come to learn about his partner’s personal life.

His client cleared his throat. “A-About four months ago.” He looked distinctly uncomfortable.

“And you fear for your safety, correct?”

The man looked left, then right. “She doesn’t know I’m here. I mean, she shouldn’t know I’m here. Does she? I didn’t tell her anything and I watched for tails.”

“I’m quite sure she is unaware of your location, Mr. Saizawa. No need to worry.”

His client breathed a sigh of relief. “That’s good.”

“Now tell me, at what point did you realize she was consorting with aliens?”

---

Lawliet breathed a ragged sigh of exhaustion as he closed his office door for the evening. There were times he wondered what the hell he was doing working in this field. He had no particular affinity for people. Not to mention having a wreck of a personal life. And yet, he had always been told what a great listener he was. Go figure. Maybe psychiatry had held the promise of allowing him to see behind the scenes and make greater sense of the human condition. Or maybe he’d pursued it merely upon someone’s suggestion, and had failed to see any reason not to. Nothing else was standing out to him anyway. Why not?

He laughed to himself - somewhat bitterly, he thought in the back of his mind - as he descended the steps to the ground floor. It was amusing, in a dark sort of way. People sought him, hoping for answers. It was a classic case of the blind leading the blind. Not that he made them aware of this fact. It wouldn’t do anything to help them, after all. Besides, most of them just wanted someone to listen to them. And he was a great listener.

He crossed the parking lot and took out his keys. It was rainy tonight. Good thing he’d decided to drive.

The car he drove was, perhaps, not what one would expect a successful doctor of any sort to be driving. Simple, white, certainly far from new. He’d gotten a good deal on it. It drove pretty nicely, being of German make, and only stalled out on the rarest of occasions. The interior was black leather and was fairly worn. The sunroof leaked, as it was doing now, and the intermittent drip kissed the tip of his shoulder, bleeding through the fabric of his grey suit jacket. It was a beautiful night out. Good thing he’d recently changed out his wiper blades for ones that actually worked.

Home wasn’t too far away, just a short, ten-minute drive, depending on traffic.

He was renting a small condo in a building that looked much like a hotel. The doors at the entrance were glass with long, brass handles. There was a man stationed at them, dressed in a red suit, who would open one before you could so much as lift an arm to let yourself in. The lobby was tiled with expensive marble flooring and housed a long mahogany counter where three bright-looking, professionally dressed women smiled from their stations, waiting to be of assistance.

“Good evening, Doctor,” the blonde one said with a wink. The other two sent him friendly looks as well.

“Good evening,” he replied cordially with a nod.

They’d weaseled information out of him early on, in his attempt to be polite and passably social with them. Curse them.

“Hot date tonight?” the curly-haired brunette asked as he stood at the elevator, praying for it to hasten his encounter with his waiting bed.

He gave a sheepish smile over his shoulder. “Not tonight.” It was a not-so-subtle dig for opportunity. He didn’t want to be bothered. But it wouldn’t do to be rude.

“Would you like one?” she suggested slyly.

The doors chimed and slid open. He stepped into the elevator and turned to face the opening. “I’m afraid I’d make for dull company,” he said, touching his brow in a vague salute.

She pouted, starting to protest, as the doors slid closed.

Doctor.

The title had a ring to it. And a smell too, perhaps. The smell of money. He didn’t blame them for being interested. Then again, he didn’t blame himself for being uninterested.

He wasn’t rich. Not by any means. But he did well enough. He might do better if he charged as much as some of his colleagues, or if he was as free with writing prescriptions as they, but he had some standards, ethics and the like that dictated that he march to a different drum. He was in it to help people. To “fix” them. Not with drugs or intensive treatment plans, but by learning them from the ground up. It took some effort digging around in their brains, encouraging them to open up. Above all, he listened. It still amazed him how much good simply listening to them could do. Not everyone needed drugs. Some just needed a safe place to break down, be themselves, or be accepted.

Ah, home,he thought as he crossed the threshold.

His abode was fairly spartan, but it was clean. Wood floors, black leather couch, a wall-mounted flat screen TV he rarely used which sat over a credenza that managed to irk him a bit every time he looked at it - because he could still remember how overpriced it had been as well as the salesman’s smile which had inconceivably persuaded him to buy it.

He sighed and dropped his keys on the counter.

Though his stomach was rumbling, he didn’t want to be bothered with preparing something to eat. He loosened his tie and shrugged out of his jacket. Free at last.

The plush king-size bed in his room beckoned to him like a siren. He trudged up to it and fell face first upon it, bouncing a bit and interring himself there for the night.

His belt buckle was an uncomfortable lump digging into his abdomen, but he didn’t care. He would rather fall to sleep fully dressed than wait another moment, wasting time. His clients wore him out most days. But lately he’d been feeling it more than usual. A pervasive exhaustion had set in and had also rendered his brain a tricky thing to manage indeed. Circular thoughts had been cropping up with frequency. Things that should be shrugged off, not dwelt upon. And yet, he was dwelling. Brooding. Becoming restless and discontent.

Sleep should resolve the issue, he told himself. And maybe it would. It was a nice theory. He’d love to test it out. Only problem was this pesky insomnia he’d been experiencing.

---

Lawliet entered the doctor’s office, having traded his suit and tie at the end of the day with a sloppy white sweater and baggy jeans. His hair, he’d mussed in order to look the part. The glasses he’d stowed in a case in his car, slipping in a pair of contacts. Sometimes he would even forgo shoes, just to see how the doctor handled such a thing. But, tonight, he felt less an exhibitionist than normal so he refrained.

He wasn’t sure when or why the idea had come to him to frequent psychiatrists’ offices in the city, but it had become something of a habit. Like bar-hopping might be for some people. For him, it could be a catharsis. Or fucking irritating, when it came down to it. But he never knew for sure until he met the psychiatrist. It depended upon them - their personality, professionalism, and their methods of treatment. The good ones left a good impression, making him feel that he had comrades in arms. The bad ones.... made him want to kick them in the throat. Repeatedly. Until they either passed out cold or had some sense knocked into them. The very thought of those misguided methods being applied to people who were at their most malleable and vulnerable... it got him all bent out of shape.

What are you really doing here, Lawliet?

“What are you doing here, Mr. Lawrence?” the stately, balding psychiatrist asked, breaking into his thoughts and reminding him of where he was and the chair he was sitting in.

What are you doing here? What do you hope to accomplish?

“I’m sorry?” Lawliet asked, distracted. He took pains to shake off his inner monologue. There was an uncomfortably persistent thought clinging in the back of his mind like airy cobwebs, whispering to him of purposelessness, insecurity, and Hope - the last bastion of the desperate.

“I said, what do you hope to accomplish?”

He frowned, hearing his own words spoken back to him. “I’m no different from anyone else,” he said a little testily, not liking the man’s manner. “I want help.” (And what if that isn’t entirely a lie, just for this act of yours?) The thought came unbidden and unwanted, putting him further on edge.

“Help,” the psychiatrist said obtusely, a patented concerned look upon his face. “What sort of help?”

Oh jeezus. This guy was rubbing him the wrong way already.

“The kind where you listen to me?” he prompted, annoyance creeping into his voice. “Figure out what’s wrong?” Had anyone ever come through this office feeling helped? This guy couldn’t even manage the fundamentals.

The portly psychiatrist leaned back in his chair, steepling his hands. His gaze was mildly condescending behind the professional veneer. “I’ll tell you what. Why don’t you listen to me, hmm? I am the doctor after all.”

“Okay.” I want to punch you in the face.

“Why don’t we start with a journal? I’d like you to write about your family, some of your earliest good and bad memories, and a little about yourself.”

“Don’t you want to know why I’m here?”

“I should think that’s obvious,” the man said egotistically.

“Is it?” It was a struggle to keep his voice calm and slightly imploring. He was getting more aggravated by the minute.

The man gave him a cursory glance, obviously noting his appearance. “You are suffering from social anxiety and have been secluding yourself in order to spare yourself the pain of rejection.”

“Based on what?” Lawliet asked, his voice starting to really slip. Appearance alone? Really?? This asshole was making assumptions all over the fucking place. It was so unprofessional and arrogant!

The doctor smiled. “Now, now, Mr. Lawrence, let’s keep things professional. I can’t discuss trade secrets with you, so how about we start with that journal?”

“I don’t have one,” L said to be difficult.

“Not a problem. On your way out, see my secretary and she can provide some assistance. You can also request your prescription slip. Unless you’d rather us call it in to the pharmacy on your behalf?”

“Prescription for what?” L muttered.

“All right,” the doctor said brightly, obviously looking at the clock. “It looks like our time is up.”

Thank god for small favors.

L stood up and saw himself out.

This one was one of those leave-and-then-go-get-drunk sessions. He hated the ones like this. They pissed him off so badly. That someone like that should be allowed to practice!!

What am I looking for? Answers? Ha! Looks like I’m looking in the wrong places.

And perhaps he was. He wanted to know things, like why in the middle of a successful career, and a life that wanted for nothing... why did it feel like all so much emptiness? What was the purpose in life? Where was the meaning?

Heh. The blind leading the blind. They all were. They all sat in their big leather chairs, himself included, pretending to their clients that they had clarity, that they knew the secrets of life, success, and happiness, and would be willing to instill that knowledge, like some great prophet, for only a nominal fee.

What made him think that any of them had the answers when he himself did not? Ridiculous. It was all a sham. Life made no sense. Maybe that was the point?

He shuffled into a local dive, set on having one or several libations to soothe the tenor of his thoughts. Belatedly, he remembered his state of dress, and instead of ordering something top shelf, making himself conspicuous, he ordered a beer. He didn’t much like beer. But alcohol was alcohol and at the moment, he didn’t care. He took a swig and contemplated the shiny surface of the bar.

When did I start drinking? With some consternation, he realized he had no idea. It was some time after University.

“Dr. L??” someone said at his elbow. Their voice was full of disbelief. He entertained the possibility of feigning ignorance versus owning up to his identity. Did he want to deal with a patient right now? More importantly, should he? Professionalism was of the utmost importance in his line of work and having someone seeing him look shabbily dressed with unkempt hair and a beer in hand.... He turned to look at them and assess his course of action depending on who it was.

“I’m sorry, do I know you?” Lawliet asked, screwing up his face with a look of concentration.

“Yeah, Dr. L, it’s Sidney,” the man said, his enthusiasm surely meant to jog his memory. “You were the one who got me started on AA. You saved my life!”

“You must have me confused with someone else,” he replied, shrugging the man off and taking a hearty swig of beer. Shit. Of course he remembered Sidney, though it had been a while since he’d seen him. The man had been a train wreck. It was amazing he was still alive. If not for AA and medical treatment, he wouldn’t have been. The last thing he needed was to see his psychiatrist, who had expressly maintained that all alcohol was off limits, out drinking.

“Are you sure?” Sidney laughed, nudging him as if waiting for a responding chuckle. Like teasing between old friends.

“I dunno. I look like a doctor to you?” He drained the rest of the bottle and signaled the bartender for another. “Look at me, man, and you’d see your mistake.”

Sidney frowned, taking up residence on the adjacent stool. “But you really look like him. I coulda sworn...”

“By the way, pal,” Lawliet drawled. “If some doc saved your life by getting you into AA, what the hell are you doing in a bar?”

Sidney had the good grace to look sheepish. “Well, you see... I got things under control now... and my new girl, she likes to drink a little. I’m fine though. Really.”

Chances were, he wasn’t letting his girl drink alone. This would be the slippery slope that had landed the man in rehab in the first place, revisited. It was pitiable and also disheartening. He’d worked with Sidney for over two years. He’d been a difficult case and he’d had a propensity for addiction. It was a miracle he’d recovered at all and now he was falling into the exact same patterns. Lawliet shrugged, a response befitting a total stranger, which he was still pretending to be. “Whatever, man, it’s your funeral.” He tipped his beer bottle in a mock toast as he stared straight ahead, then took a drink. He could see his distorted, dingy reflection in the mirror behind the bar.

The last thing he looked like was a doctor. He looked like a freaking hobo, and not a very good one. (Nothing against hobos, mind you.) Whereas Sidney, confused and slightly offended as he was, looked infinitely more presentable as he stood and muttered, “Jerk.”

Lawliet watched him through the mirror’s reflection as he made his way back to a table where a pretty girl, presumably the “new” girl, sat. He exchanged some words with her, and she shrugged as he grabbed his coat and donned it. Soon he was exiting the bar without a backward glance.

Well, optimistically, L could hope that he’d jogged the man’s memory and sense of survival. Pessimistically, the same might cause a rift in the man’s relationship with “new” girl, thus upsetting his fragile equilibrium and causing him to reach for alcohol in order to cope. Hmnn.

He downed the rest of his second beer, deciding to call it quits before some other hapless patient of his had the misfortune of recognizing him.

---
TBC

A/N: If it seems like a slow start, bear with me! :)