Disclaimer: Ryuuzaki, please stop.

A/N: I am so, so sorry. I can't even express it adequately. My only excuse is that SuperWhoLock ate me. Well, to be more precise, I was already into Doctor Who, even before I read Death Note, I got somewhat into Sherlock over the winter, and then I sold my soul to Supernatural, in a way that I haven't done since reading DN, while on spring break. Also, I joined tumblr, which contributed. I wrote this chapter while listening to the music from [S] Cascade.

Necessities and Objections

Quillish had told L that if he did not cooperate, Quillish would not act as go-between; breaking that now would simply function to teach the boy another negative lesson.

Besides, even with Mr. Ruvie, Quillish was busy.

If Quillish left now, there would be no one keeping a special eye on the boy.

And government officials might notice that both go-betweens were also employed by Wammy's House, and put two and two together.

But if he didn't do it, L would get bored. Quillish did not want L to get bored. In fact, he would do nearly anything in the world to keep L from getting bored. So he agreed.

"Good. Now that you have agreed, we must find a pseudonym for you, to keep authorities from discovering that you are also from Wammy's house. From now on, while on your go-between missions, you will be known as Watari." L said. Well, that took care of one of his objections.

"Alright," said Quillish.

"You'll need to book the next possible flight to Germany, my case there is still unfinished. If you could do that now?" The boy looked up at him from his position on the floor.

"Of course," Quillish replied.

As he was on his way back to his office, he passed Carla, seemingly on her way to go check on L. She could probably handle him, so that knocked down another objection.

When he arrived in his office, he began to arrange his trip to Germany. He also called Mr. Ruvie in.

"Mr. Wammy?" Came Ruvie's voice.

"Come in, Mr. Ruvie." Quillish answered. The door creaked open, and the employee stepped through. "Roger," began Quillish, too frazzled for formality or preamble, "I'm going to need you to take my duties for a few weeks, with appropriate pay increase, of course. Would that be possible?"

"Of course. May I ask why?"

"Something's come up. I have to leave." Quillish busied himself at his desk, making it clear that the conversation was over. Roger left after a few moments.

The next day, Quillish sat in his Germany-bound airplane and buried his nose in a book. It was a phrasebook; he spoke a touch of German, but it had been a while since he'd used it, and it might not be enough to get him through a longish stay even if he had remembered all of it. He needed to get his knowledge back up to at least "enough to ask for directions"-levels. So he read the little black phrasebook, and tried saying a few aloud, (under his breath of course). Still, it caught him an angry, heavy-eyed glare from the gentleman sleeping next to him.

By the time the plane landed Quillish was fairly confidant in his ability to ask for directions, order coffee, and say "Take me to your leader!" in German.

After disembarking, he wended his way through the airport, hoping people would forgive the nice, tourist-y old man his lack of knowledge of their language. He was fortunate; no one tried to speak to him on his way out, and when he finally made it to the street, the taxi driver spoke good, if heavily accented, English.

"Where to?" asked the cabbie. Quillish gave him the name of the hotel. The driver whistled. Quillish was a little embarrassed. It wasn't as though he liked to brag about his money. The cab ride was short.

When Quillish stepped out of the taxi, he looked up. And up. And up. The hotel was huge, and he was beginning to regret getting a room on one of the top floors. But it was close to the offices of the BKA, (the German criminal police), and he was supposed to meet with the president of said agency the next morning. Besides, it wasn't as if he had an aversion to luxury. He was just a little embarrassed by the extravagance, and a little bit scared of heights. So he made his way inside.

When he got to his room, he called L.

"Quillish," L answered the phone, just as Quillish had expected he would.

"Hello, L," greeted Quillish.

"I assume you are at your hotel. Why have you called me?"

"To make sure you organized all the meetings and other necessities, and to ask you exactly when I am doing what, again?"

"You're meeting with the head of the BKA at 9 am tomorrow. That is all you need to know for now."

So Quillish unpacked his suitcase – only a smallish one, he only brought the necessities for a week-long stay. He put his toothbrush and other related items in the bathroom, and placed his clothes in the dresser.

It was still only about 5 pm, he had nothing to do until the next morning, so he continued his German learning, deciding to do a bit of practice as well. He made his way to the front desk of the hotel, and enquired about any nearby cafes. The woman at the desk directed him to a small coffee shop just down the street, within walking distance. He thanked her, and set out. On the way, he attempted to greet people in passing for practice. Most just looked down and hurried past, unwilling to speak to the foreign stranger. A good number greeted him back though, smiling. One boy simply laughed. Quillish scowled comically at him. The boy simply laughed harder, and Quillish chuckled in return.

He arrived at the tiny café, and claimed himself a table. He made it through ordering tea and cheesecake with barely a hitch, and chattered with his waitress amiably without having to bring out the phrasebook too often. Surely, what was enough to get him through idle conversation with a stranger would suffice for the meeting as well. Quillish fervently hoped so, anyway. At that moment, though, he could ignore his linguistic worries, as the cheesecake was simply superb.