Though L's side of the room was in disarray, scattered with books, papers, and bits and pieces of hardware he'd used to create and modify Sal's damn virus, he had taken great care to ensure that there was nothing for Blythe to trip over by piling it all on his desk. He had covered that with his ghost-costume sheet, the only indicator of the disorganized heap beneath being Nietzsche's judgmental face peeking out from one of the eyes. L cursed and shifted the sheet so that only camera parts were visible behind both of the cut-out holes.
There were no pencils to stack today, and nothing for L to indulge the habits that hurt his relationships with others and hid his face from the world. His monitors were blank and empty, since he'd, for once while in his room, abandoned his vigilant watch on Emptiness. Though he'd been busy these last few weeks, fighting for his survival and evading Light's attempts to derail his efforts and his sanity, and trying to gently reject the obsessive B, L's thoughts had seldom strayed far from Blythe. Her face, her possible thoughts and actions, her words both stern and gentle. There had been times, with Light and while making sense of those times afterwards, when simply letting go had been tempting, but out of the question, thanks to thoughts of her. L owed her a great deal, and the words in his hand reminded him what had to be fixed. He respected Dostoevsky, and could apply the man's words to someone else he respected. There were things left unsaid, and they had brought much unhappiness into their world. Following logic, saying those unsaid things should chase away that unhappiness, but L had life as an adult long enough to know that it was seldom so simple.
The fact was... when Blythe had ended their courtship, here in this room weeks before, L had been, in essence, a child. Stacking pencils, and trying to evade the truth, wayward and needing of a mother more than a lover and gentleness more than honesty. It was his fondest hope that today Blythe would come face-to-face with someone older, and wiser, and focused on one objective: her safety and her her ability to pursue her own happiness without fear. It was still selfish of L, to place her above others simply because she was someone he cherished, but it was a nobler kind of selfish and a nobler reason to murder Light in cold blood several days from now.
"Blythe," he answered, though his tongue cleaved to the roof of his mouth. He reminded himself that she was here because she was worried, because he'd failed at successfully concealing his troubles. "How... how are you?"