Disclaimer! All fictional entities featured/ mentioned in this non-profit fan fiction belong to Tsugumi Ohba and Takeshi Obata, with the exception of a few OCs that I made up for the purpose of the plot. Oh, and in case you were wondering this was inspired by an episode of James Manos, Jr.'s Showtime TV series Dexter. Not that I think L was ever a serial killer of course, and I tried my best not to make it exactly like it.

Written for halfpromise for Christmas and as thanks for being such a great friend! This may or may not be canon and in character of L but it takes place in the pre-Kira period and could be considered within the continuity of my alternate version of DN. Jeez, L came out pretty creepy here even for me...

BISCUITS AND BRUISES

My personal opinion of Ms. Duggan is somewhat mixed. Wammy has her employed as the chief house cook and she does her job well. I have sampled both her and Wammy's desserts and can confidently say that they rival each other in quality. The cakes and biscuits she bakes for the holidays in particular are one of the few things I look forward to at this time of the year.

On the other hand…

"Out! Out you bloody vermin! Oh if you weren't Mr. Wammy's charge I'd—"

I can still feel the sting of her spatula against my bottom as she forces me out of the kitchen and into the dining hall. But I'm accustomed to it by now. I turn around to face her, my shoulders slackened and my arms hanging limply at my sides.

"You would do what, Ms. Duggan?" I ask, challenging her as I typically do. "You know, Ms. Duggan, I would think that as a cook that you would know better than to strike someone's rear end with a utensil you use to cook our meals. That's rather unsanitary, I think."

She stares down at me with watery hazel eyes (her right one bulging, her left one squinty), her round cinnamon-colored face inflated and somehow darker with fury, and also splotched with flour and actual cinnamon pasted to her cheeks and forehead from perspiration. She pushes a rebel lock of her wiry black hair back under the red bandana she wears around her head.

"I am in no mood to play games with you today, boy," she growls wearily. "I say the wrong thing to you and I will lose my job. You're not worth it."

But spanking me with a spatula is perfectly acceptable. Although I admit there are plenty of worse cooking utensils she could use, such as the rolling pin or a frying pan, or one of the knives. To the best of my knowledge she has never employed anything more than spatulas to discipline children who interfere with her while she's working. Actually I'm the only one here willing to take that risk in the first place. The others are rather frightened of this stout prickly giantess.

I for one appreciate a challenge. That's more or less the reason Wammy hasn't fired her yet. I could get her fired if I so desired but I don't dislike her enough to and when I can't find a case to work on I need to entertain myself somehow. Roger is also easily frustrated but he just as easily tires and lacks the fiery energy that Ms. Duggan still oozes.

Either way, I am unsatisfied with her response. She's acting particularly off today in a way I can't quite articulate and I'm going to find out why. "It sounds like you don't enjoy being here to begin with. Why not resign and take up a job as a chef? I'm sure you would excel at it, given your skills."

She doesn't answer me with words but I notice her gritting her yellowed teeth and her callused grip on the spatula tighten. I've struck a nerve in her. Not that I really needed an explanation for her current situation. According to her records at one time she did in fact attempt culinary school but for some reason not expounded on she didn't finish. I can think of a few possible scenarios: she infuriated the wrong person, perhaps she experienced some sort of discrimination based on her race or gender, or perhaps…

She storms back into the kitchen with a huff and I wait for a quarter of a minute before following her. I take cover behind the table where the warm spicy-sweet aroma of gingerbread again entices me to grab at least six biscuits of various conventional Christmas-themed shapes lying on the tray as they cool. But I resist my hunger for the time being and peer out at Ms. Duggan from around the far corner. She's at the sink, scrubbing at the spatula as she runs water over it from the faucet. She's mumbling under her breath about things I can't quite make out given the distance and the noise the stream makes as it splashes against steel, likely profanity and/or regarding me.

Then I see something interesting, in more ways than one. After she puts the spatula aside to dry she proceeds to rip two squares off of the paper towel roll and moistens them before applying them to her face, presumably to clean the ingredients clinging to her skin. When she lowers the towels from her face I notice smears of foundation on them and the way she freezes in place as she looks down at the mess in her trembling hands.

Ms. Duggan whips around and dashes out of the kitchen, whereupon I scurry around the table so she misses me as she passes by.

I catch an adequate glimpse of the damage before she hastily pulls the bandana over it like it's a mark of shame. Marring her face now is a grimace and a large contusion around her left eye and the side of her face. Given the vibrant purple color of it, it can't be more than 24 hours old. Given the size and shape, it must be the unfortunate result of a violent physical confrontation.

…

Most wouldn't believe that a person as large and intimidating as Ms. Duggan could ever be a victim of domestic abuse, and I admit I am surprised myself for a moment. Then again, if this has been going on for some time, maybe it would help to explain her consistently foul mood and her refusal to disclose her personal life. Also there's no other reason for her to use make-up.

In my room I crouch into my armchair and begin nibbling on my thumb, sorting out everything I have observed and weighing the options. While we are not close, in a way this is as much my problem as it is for the rest of the house. When I am here I depend on this woman for my food, primarily her desserts. The longer she chooses to stay in this situation, the more likely it is that the quality in her dishes will drop. Also, if it hasn't happened already, she could end up hospitalized. Or worse.

My toes curl and I bite down harder on my thumbnail at the thought, as my body turns in on itself until my head is resting on top of my knees.

Let's see. I could report it to Wammy and Roger and have them look into the matter. Hopefully the constables would be contacted and an investigation would be launched. On the other hand, that would only work if Ms. Duggan is willing to admit the truth and cooperate. Knowing her and what I've read about the majority of victims, she will do neither.

How pathetic.

Maybe I could hire someone to track down her abuser and—no. That would mean I'd have to go to Wammy first. He usually gives me whatever I want but he has insisted that I not be granted my own access to the fortune until I turn eighteen. Also, again it would entail explaining to him my suspicions about Ms. Duggan's personal life. Then that would go about as well as the first option.

Now that I'm thinking of it, I don't suppose I could contact the constables myself in my detective persona. Not that I wouldn't have the power, but it's not in L's character to enlist a bureau to look into a single domestic violence case. It would also imply that this woman is important to L for some reason. I can't afford to be thought to have connections with anyone.

In the end, I conclude that if I want this problem addressed I'll have to do it on my own.

…

Actually, if I do it correctly that might not be such a bad idea.

It could turn out to be an interesting experience.

…

It takes seven days to prepare. Seven days of outlining Ms. Duggan's schedule and that of her partner—I have to catch the latter alone at home when Ms. Duggan is not around—and stealing clothes and make-up from some of the girls who live at Wammy's House. Although Roger insists that she isn't required to work late, Ms. Duggan has consistently opted to stay to clean the kitchen with the excuse of "needing the extra pay."

While I have the advantage of age already, I should alter my appearance in case the perpetrator does try to go to the constables.

I won't kill her. That would be too messy, and too easy. She wouldn't learn anything. I want her to live in fear, as her victim has done for all this time. An eye for an eye. Hopefully what I intend to do will be enough.

Yes, believe it or not, the perpetrator in question is a Ms. Helga Amsel, a hairdresser who works in town. She's rather short and willowy compared to Ms. Duggan. Now that I've seen her, I understand somewhat why the latter never reported the former. No one might have believed her. Not to mention the fact that she would probably be met with backlash if it got out that she lived with another woman. Pathetic.

It's a quarter after six and six degrees Celsius. I am rather fond of the cold but my disguise prevents me from fully enjoying it. The brassiere I've stuffed with tissue is itchy and the wig is worse. I don't typically wear gloves either; I prefer to go barefoot and bare-handed. But for tonight it will do.

It's fortunate that Ms. Duggan lives within walking distance of Wammy's; though I feel that walking to places is beneath me I decide to forego transportation in this case. I mustn't leave behind a trail of witnesses. My ears buzz with the wind whispering encouragement into them (or is it caution?), carolers belting out those holiday songs I despise—which would be more or less all that have ever been composed in the history of the English language—and my pulse. My breath is deep and controlled and leaves my nostrils in wisps of white vapor.

As soon as the house comes into sight, I adjust my gait into that of a limp. I reach from deep within me and muster all the strength of my facial muscles to construct a grimace, my eyes watering from the drops I'd squeezed into them before I'd left the house. I haven't cried since I was eight, not that I did it often before that. Tears are an indication of weakness, but like most things they have their uses.

When I see the target in the window watching television, I rap against the door two times. Then I "collapse" on the first step of the stoop, grab my ankle and begin to rock back and forth and feign sniffling as I wait for Ms. Amsel to take the bait.

She does. She must do what she can to ensure her sweet façade is maintained. "Oh! Little girl, what are you doing out here?" Her accent sounds mildly German.

I answer her with an accent of my own. "F-forgive me, Madame," I plead. "I-I hurt my ankle! I tried to walk off the pain but I couldn't. I think it may be broken!"

It isn't difficult for me to fake a convincing French accent seeing as how I myself am French, at least partially. I was born in Paris and spent the first four years of my life with a French woman who claimed to be my mother but she turned out not to be. I don't remember her too clearly but from what I do recall she had wild mood swings, much like Ms. Amsel does. Cooing and nurturing one minute, raving and blubbering the next. The difference between them is that Karol almost never struck me, was mentally ill—bipolar disorder—and probably did truly care for me in her selfish awful way, or else she might not have bothered to kill my biological parents and her husband for my sake. I followed the news about her trial from afar and the last I'd heard of her was four years ago when I read that she'd killed herself in prison. Not long after I met Wammy, actually.

But that's all behind me. I'd rather focus on what's in front.

Ms. Amsel grabs at her chest like I've plucked a few chords in her. Her gestures are so exaggerated it's disgusting, which helps to sustain my feigned look of pain. She offers to help me inside where it's warm and toasty, which I readily accept.

The den's interior is mottled with Old World furniture and splashes of golds, reds and browns (excellent shades to cover up the blood that is spilled here) and yet in spite of its throbbing warm appearance the room somehow smells mustier than the library or Roger's office at Wammy's. And cabbage. I detest cabbage. Helga has marked her pungent scent everywhere like a jealous predatory animal. I don't see any photos of the two together anywhere. Either they never had any or Helga destroyed them one by one.

Ms. Duggan never came across as the type who had a taste for these things. These aren't her things I'm seeing. I have crossed into enemy territory and after this only one will emerge from here as the victor. It will not be her.

I keep my eyes trained to the mahogany floor as Helga eases me into a wooden chair, her bony fingers clenching around my hand like tightly wound tether. For the sake of keeping up appearances I can't sit like I usually do. It's dreadfully uncomfortable for me to sit normally but I bank that I won't be in this chair for long.

"Ah, I've gotten so swept up in the moment I've forgotten to ask for your name, little girl."

I fake another sniffle. "Leala. My name is Leala."

"Leala, would you like me to take a look at your ankle?"

I bet you never asked Azalea permission to touch her before you bruised her face. You shouldn't have done that. I prefer that you would have kept it the way it was. "No, please don't touch it. It hurts too much."

Something ominous flashes in her turquoise eyes for a moment but it quickly dissipates. "Hm…all right. At least let me call your parents so they can come pick you up. I'll get a stool to rest your foot on. Would you like something warm to drink?"

"No thank you, Madame. I will give you their number, but first I must know: why are you being so nice to me?"

She seems surprised at my question. Her answer to it is just as ridiculous. "Why, because it's the Christian thing to do when you see a little girl in distress. And it's Christmastime, besides." This is but a fraction of the reason I am atheist. Like most, I only care for the holiday for its food and presents.

"The Christian thing to do? Are you Christian to everyone?"

"Hm? Yes, of course I am."

"Even Azalea?"

She freezes. "Azalea? I'm not sure which Azalea you're speaking of but I do have a…special friend named Azalea."

"Are you nice to your friend Azalea too?"

"Why yes, of course I am." Her eyes narrow at me. The beast senses a trap but isn't quite smart enough to back away from it.

I keep my accent up but my voice then drops in volume and plummets in warmth and tone. "So would you say that hitting Azalea is the Christian thing to do?"

Helga stumbles a tiny bit in her stance. I have caught her off-guard. "I—I'm sorry? What are you talking about?"

"If you don't mind me saying, I think it's rather pathetic that you have to resort to beating Azalea just to feel better about yourself and the fact that your salon is losing money and possibly going out of business. And you can't even do that right. The only reason you haven't been found out is because Azalea's good at covering for both of you."

"I…are you sure you haven't hit your head as well? Perhaps I should call an ambulance as well as your parents?"

"Thank you, but no need. Now if I were you and you were Azalea, I'd at least take care to not let the bruises show. Like this."

Before Helga can react I spring up from the chair and swing my right hand, now balled up into a taut fist, into her abdomen just below her diaphragm. The three swift thwacks my fist makes against her soft flesh is gratifying to a degree I can't describe at the moment, and the way she half-gasps, half-chokes in shock and pain as she doubles over and stumbles backwards to the wall parallel to us heightens things.

"I've just struck your solar plexus. Right now your diaphragm is partially paralyzed which is making it difficult to catch your breath." Wammy says that to be a great detective I must have a well-rounded general knowledge of most topics, and it seems my anatomy lessons with Roger are paying off nicely.

Now she's staring up at me with wide feral eyes as she tries without avail to stagger back onto her feet. "Wh—what are you—are you some kind of psychopath?" she coughs.

"I'm surprised you know that word. Actually I'm more of a sociopath, if a high-functioning one. That makes two of us."

Thwack! Thwack! Thwack! This time I'm hitting the upper right quadrant of her abdomen, her right, that is. I'm hoping to strike her liver in such a way that I tap her vagus nerve. Her cries of pain become increasingly hoarse with each landing blow until she sounds almost like the distant whistle of a train. While she gurgles out in protest I explain, "Now I've struck your liver."

Thwack! Thwack!

"The nice thing about the liver is that when you strike it just right you'll hit the vagus nerve, which tentacles out to the rest of your body," I say into her ear as she tries to twist away from me.

Thwack! Thwack!

"This causes your brain to short-circuit, your body to shut down, which leaves you with a wave of overwhelming feeling resembling…terror. Had you hit Azalea in this way you could amplify her submission towards you, as you are now towards me."

Thwack!

By this time Helga's blonde hair streams over her pale gleaming face like blood from a cranial injury from blunt trauma though I've taken care not to hit her head. As much as I am tempted to, I need her to be aware and alert for her to listen to me. Her irises have become almost completely black from how dilated her pupils are and she reminds me momentarily of a painting I saw in one of Wammy's art books, The Scream by Edvard Munch, except whatever scream she'd like to release is trapped within the confines of her clenched, twitching jaw. She has her teeth bared like the cowardly animal she truly is.

I clutch at the collar flaps of her blouse and force her to look me more squarely in the eyes. "Don't worry, I haven't come to kill you; I have come with a simple request. Listen carefully to what you're going to do: tonight when Azalea comes home you're going to tell her that you're sick of her…let's see, oh yes, 'her fat filthy ass,' and you can't stand to look at it anymore." My voice undertakes a hiss as the profanity blurts out of me. "You will make her believe it. I'm sure you can do that without laying another finger on her. If you aren't convincing enough, there's a chance that she'll let you back into her life and that I will not stand for.

"You're not even going to hire a moving van to take your things; you will take the minimum you need to start over elsewhere and leave the rest with her. By tomorrow morning, you will be gone. I will check to make sure you have left. You will not recognize me. If you ever come back anywhere near Azalea again, I will find out. And I promise next time I won't be so easy on you."

I let her go so she topples over on her side, exposing her back to me. I can't resist the urge to get one more in to drive my point, so I drop-kick her left flank and listen to her cry out once more in muted wheezing agony.

"Joyeux Noël, Madame. By the way, that was your kidney. I would expect to see some blood in your urine for a few days."

With that, I show myself out the door after I've checked to street to see if it's vacant. It's unlikely that Helga will call the police without making trouble for herself in the process, and hopefully she'll have recovered enough to do as I've asked by the time Ms. Duggan returns.

I feel dizzy and my fist and foot are sore. I slowly inhale to cool my insides and ride out the ebb of adrenaline dissipating from my system. It's not uncommon for me to get like this after I've solved a case but somehow it's intensified, probably because this is the first time I've ever gotten physical to accomplish a task.

I can't wait for the snow, and the tea and biscuits that beckon me back to the school. The sooner I can get out of this dress and wig, the better.

…

"Honestly, I don't know whether to be proud of you or angry with you for doing something so reckless!" Wammy exclaims the next time we're alone.

"It's not as if I did it without thinking it over first," I say tonelessly, scratching one foot with the toes on my other one. "No one's going to believe that a grown woman was assaulted by a twelve-year-old 'girl' in her own home. I just can't help but take exception to…having what's mine be threatened in any way."

"You could have very well come to me for help. You know I would have—"

"It wasn't so much you that I had trouble with so much as I had doubts about Ms. Duggan. She would have denied everything, like most people in her position often do because they're afraid. I don't have the patience for that. So I took care of the matter myself."

Wammy sighs. There's nothing he can do to take back what I've done without getting us both in trouble. I admit I don't like it when he's disappointed in me. He has no reason to be. "L…I'll attend to Ms. Duggan to make sure she is safe and Ms. Amsel has left. But please promise me you will not do this sort of thing again. Violence should not be treated as anything but a last resort. Talk to me first."

As much as I hate to ever concede on a point, I nod to placate him. "Yes. Next time we should hire someone. Doing your own dirty work is exhausting."

…

It's been four days since that eventful night and once again I'm back in the kitchen to pester Ms. Duggan. I catch her in a private moment in which she's dabbing at her eyes and blowing her nose into a paper towel. She isn't the type to quit working when distressed; she uses the work as an escape.

She tosses the crumpled paper into the garbage and turns on the faucet to wash her hands. "Ms. Duggan?"

She looks over her broad shoulder at me, still wringing her sudsy hands under the water. "Huh? Oh. It's you. Sorry boy, but I need to make lunch first before I start on the biscuits."

"Are you okay? You look sad."

She doesn't answer for a spell and rolls her eyes to her right as if focusing on some other object will help collect her no doubt disorganized thoughts. "It's…nothing. It's not something you would understand."

"I understand the majority of things." For one thing, you may be upset but you've been considerably calmer since your girlfriend left you.

She snorts. "Bless you, you're twelve. You say that now, but mark my words the day will come when you will realize to the contrary."

"That day will not come any time soon," I assure her. I don't need her to tell me what's happened. But I suppose she could use some company. The holidays are reportedly a time where many couples break up. When she feels better and gets her fire back, after the holidays at least, we will resume our relationship as adversaries.

"Ugh, that Mr. Wammy, he means well but he spoils you far too much if you asked me."

We don't exchange another word for a few moments more. As she makes her way to the fridge I wonder if she's still wearing foundation. Probably, if only until her bruises have completely healed. "Well? What do you want?" she asks me as she opens it to fish out ingredients.

I press my thumb up to my lips. "May I help?"

…

"Pardon me?"

"I'm very bored and I'm craving sweets. If I help you prepare lunch you should be able to have it ready faster. Then we can get on to baking. I will help myself first."

She looks me over dubiously but finding no reason to deny me she slackens her posture. A small smile not without sadness twists at the corner of her leathery-looking lips. "Mmm…all right. I suppose it's about time I taught you something useful. But I won't tolerate any monkey business, and don't be putting your fingers in your mouth while we're cooking. Go wash your hands and put on gloves. I'll see if I can't find you something to pull your hair back."

Fine. Not like I haven't done all that recently. I pull my thumb away from my mouth and nod nonchalantly. "All right."

END