Childhood's End, a death note fanfic

Title: Childhood's End

Fandom: Death Note

Rating: M

Categories: General

Warning(s): Abuse. My interpretation of why L is like he is, if it's caused be environmental things instead of just personality quirks like most people think.

Summary: My play on why L is the way his is; explanations of his quirks to why his name is L in the first place.

A/N: Also, I got the Title from a chapter in the movie Sleepers. Go see it, it's the bomb.

"We all start out as children, as innocents. They evolve. Some people excel and others are haunted by events for the rest of their lives." -Levinson

England, 1980 -1986

She'd never wanted a child, and he'd certainly never wanted a child, and if she had ever considered having one, it would not have been with him. They're parents forced them to marry because of the pregnancy and so their abysmal, unhappy life began. She had the baby boy on Halloween, which was just as well, because having him was a horror. The end of her life. She didn't know what to call the boy, and neither did the father, so they opened the baby name dictionary to a random page, deciding they would name him the first thing that caught their eye.

It was the first page of the L's and a large, cursive 'L' was there, it was the first thing they both saw, it's size assured it, and so that was his name. They gave him no middle name, because that would take too much effort on their parts. Instead they put L on the birth certificate and then the man's last name, which she now reluctantly shared; Lawliet.

For the first three years of the boy named L's life, he was watched by the old French lady next door, named Charlotte Coil. His mother left him in her care for hours and hours upon hours, and sometimes over night if they felt like staying out. Charlotte was 78-years-old, and her first husband Eraldo was dead from cancer, her second husband –a Japanese man who she almost never talked about – had left her for a younger woman, leaving her with a son named Ryuuzaki. She talked fondly of her son, who had apparently been a doctor, and told the boy named L many stories about him. She was an excellent cook, mostly baking, and was best at making deserts. She'd make him whatever he liked.

She taught him how to read, which quite a feat was for such a young boy, at only three years old, but she said he was smart. The boy named L wasn't so sure he believed her though, because his parents often told him otherwise. She read him poems by a poet who was not famous, but who she said she loved the work of, called J. Danuve. For the first three years of the boy names L's life, he was relatively happy, and almost spoiled in comparison to what the next few years would bring.

Because exactly three months and twelve days after L's third birthday, Charlotte Coil passed away in her sleep. The boy named L, who had never spent much time with his parents, was now forced to spend all of his time at home. He was a very smart boy, or at least he tried to think so, because Charlotte was so sure of it, and he knew that death was permanent. It was one of the many things she had been taught by her, and he would remember everything she said.

But just because his caretaker had died did not mean that his parents had anymore time for him, and instead he was shoved away, brought from one person to the other. But they cost too much, and they didn't have the emotional attachment to L to take him in for nothing.

Eventually, every time they couldn't find a person to look after him for the day, they put him away somewhere he wouldn't bother anyone and where they didn't have to worry about him getting out. The closet in the back of the apartment, with the low shelves and the broken bulb in the top. The shelves were so low in fact, that even at three years old he had to crouch down on the floor lest he hit his head. But the carpet was always wet because of a vent leaking, so he was forced to put on the old, grubby shoes that were in the room. They were gross against his feet but it was better than his feet getting wet, and he had to stay crouched like that or else his pants would be damp.

Every week or so, or sometimes every couple of weeks, he would go to a new caretaker (never a daycare, they were always more expensive and expected legitimate information) and he would stay there for a day, a couple of days, sometimes if he was lucky an entire week before the check was due. Then his parents would pull him out, running out on them, scamming them. There were an array of different people he stayed with. Some of them were nice.

Some of them weren't.

"Sit there and watch TV," a woman named Gina told him in a raspy voice, cigarette smoke clogging up the entire tiny apartment, "Don't bother me!"

And so the boy named L sat, and he watched, choosing the educational channel when he fond that the bright, violent colors of cartoons hurt his eyes, which were accustomed to the darkness of the closet by that point. He also sat in the position he used for the closet, he was just so used to it by now. He didn't like Gina; she only had beer in the fridge, and certainly no sweets, so he always went home hungry when he stayed with Gina. He read the magazines she had in the bathroom, though, to improve his skills. He learned things about the world that way.

Although, despite the wetness of the carpet and the cramped pose he was forced into, he preferred his closet to the many people he was thrown between. His eyes had to strain in the darkness, so he always had to keep them wide to see was little he could from the cracks of lights from the bottom of the door. It became a custom for him, not only in the dark.

There were nicer people, who gave him food and sometimes sweets. Like Mr. and Mrs. Barges, who had a pleasant, large home with a library. But any time the boy named L tried to go read in the library, they wouldn't let him. They told him that their books were valuable, and they couldn't risk him getting food on it, with his sticky chocolate stained hands. So even when he wasn't caught in the act, there was always evidence of him reading the books because of the marks his messy hands made, and he was too small to reach the sink.

It didn't take him long to find out that if he only held the books with his pointer fingers and thumbs, there was a much smaller chance of getting it on the books. And he could wipe those tw fingers off on his shirt quite easily without it being noticeable. He only got to read two books in their library before he was moved back to his closet.

Since there was nothing to do for the long and many hours he was stuck in the small enclosed space, he thought about nothing and everything he could with his limited experience. He'd learned many new words, and found that he liked knowing them, learning them, and he thought of many sentences in his mind and different ways you could use the words.

His favorite place, when he was about four and a half, was a motherly woman named Miss Cullen who thought it was her duty to teach the children everything she could. She practically added pre-K to her daycare job, and she was amazed by L's vocabulary, although he talked sparingly. He read everything and anything she gave him, and it was Miss Cullen than showed him the wonders of numbers.

"So, that's addition, and subtraction is exactly the opposite," she explained to him, showing him exampled with candies. That was something else he liked about her; lot's of candy. Although he was only allowed to have it if he ate his vegetables, which he didn't like so much.

He stayed with her for two weeks, because she was forgiving about not paying and enjoyed working with L, who had migrated up to geometry and algebra in only a week. He discovered numbers, and from then on that's what everything was about. He wrapped the fruit roll up around his thumb and chewed on it as he worked on the figures, switching them around, multiplying and adding and anything else he could think up, trying to find patterns or make bigger numbers and find patterns in those.

On the last day with Miss Cullen he had just figured out how to do algebra with decimals and percentages, still sitting in his same crouching way that he always did, nibbling on the fruity candy on his thumb. But his parents took him out, and shoved him in the closet, just like they did with the grimy, ugly shoes that they didn't want to see anymore.

Without his candy, but still with the habit, he kept nibbling on his thumb as he thought. He thought now about the numbers, and loved the depth. He calculated and counted everything he could, including the amount of time he was kept in the closet when his parents were away or had friends over. He compared and contrasted them and analyzed how probable it would be that amount of time he was kept there was eight to ten hours. Because he kept in the closet for the most part of day instead of his bed, and he didn't want to get wet by lying down on the carpet, he was forced to stay awake for the most part, and he got used to it.

Every once and a while he's get a very bad caretaker, like Johnny, who smoked something that seemed like a cigarette, but smelled different and had more smoke.

"Is there candy?" L asked, sitting on the couch.

"Did I tell you to sit down? I don't want you on my couch, ugly brat," Johnny spat, grabbing L's collar and tugging him towards the back room, "I've got someone coming over. Stay in here."

He slapped the boy named L and threw him into the back room, dragging him around like a rag doll. Luckily, he demanded the money on the second day, so he didn't stay there long. He was a scary man, who had tattoos and yelled and swore at L's mother on the first day when she hadn't got the money to him. L decided that he didn't like people like that.

When the boy named L was five and a half, and his parents refused to let him go to school because the supplies would cost too much, he decided to break out. He figured out a way to get out of the closet from the inside, by stealing one of his mother's bobby pins and jiggling it around in the lock until it opened, just like he'd seen on television. He held his key (pin) the way he always held things, with his index and thumb, gently, as though he might get caught.

It worked, and L escaped for the day. He went to a library and read books, and managed to steal a man's library card on his third visit, which he used to check out the many books. He stole a five dollar bill from his mother's purse (which later on he heard them arguing about) and bought a book light that he used to read books in his closet. When he was brought to his temporary caregiver, he hid the books on the bottom shelf behind the clutter of hairspray and old gift bags.

One day he was in the library and he sat down to read a large book he'd picked up off the shelves. It was about math, numbers and the different ways to use them. He also picked up books about science and history, just like he would if he was in school. He tried to make sure his knowledge was eclectic, and read many different, large books on different subjects. He'd gotten some funny looks from the librarians when they saw the books he was checking out.

The boy named L was sitting in his usual way, reading his book about math, which was 547 pages long –he'd checked –when a man came over to him. L didn't look up; he was used to people staring at him, although he wasn't sure why. But the man didn't move onto his business after five minutes and twenty-three seconds, 323 seconds –he'd counted –so he decided he might have to see what was wrong.

"Hullo," the man said when L made eye contact. "It's a Monday, shouldn't you be at school?"

"I don't go to school," L answered, taking in the way the man looked. It was something he'd learned to do to assess his new care givers. Would it be a Johnny or a Miss Cullen or a Gina? Or possibly something in between? This man had a hat on and graying hair and a black tux, he had a wide nose, a mustache and squinted eyes. He couldn't tell just yet.

"Oh? But you should," the man replied.

"I know," L responded, munching on the tip of his thumb like he had for nearly the passed two years, "I want to."

"So why don't you?" the man asked.

"I'm reading," L answered shortly, evading, looking back at his book. He shifted in his seat, made uncomfortable by the questions.

"Do you not have parents?"

"I do," L replied, trying to concentrate on the words and numbers on the page. "I am reading."

"I can see that, and what a book it is," the man told him, whistling. "Do you understand it at all?"

"Yes," L answered again, shortly.

"Do you enjoy it?" he asked L again and L thought for a moment that he might be being –what was the word? –interrogated. Yes, he remembered, that was it.

"Am I being interrogated?" L shot back, lifting his eyes to the stranger. He kept his eyes open wide, like he always did now, to see everything he possibly could. The unfamiliar person looked at the boy, raising his large bushy eyebrows.

"You're a smart boy," he stated and sat down in the chair next to L. This surprised L, because the only person that had ever told him that so bluntly was Mrs. Coil. Miss Cullen implied it by teaching him constantly, but had never actually said it. "So why don't you go to school?"

"My parents won't let me," L stated calmly, still chewing on his thumb. He looked away, out the window and across the street to the bakery. Whenever he walked outside the library on his way back home he could smell the sweet cake from all the way across the street.

"They're not allowed to do that, you know," the man finally said after a few minutes, and the boy named L looked back at him.

"Huh? Why not?" L inquired and the man answered quickly.

"It's against the law."

"Oh," L nodded and then stood up, "I have to go. They'll be home soon. Good bye, Mister."

"Whammy," the stranger told him as he hopped out of his chair and onto his bare feet. His pants were baggy and hid lack of shoes well, so that he was never stopped. "Quillish Whammy."

"I am L," the boy told the man and saw a subtle widening of the eyes. "Good bye, Mr. Whammy," L repeated again with the man's name this time before rushing out of the library, leaving his book behind.

The next few days when he snuck out to the library, Mr. Whammy was there, and they talked, making L feel important. The last person to talk to him, to really talk to him, had been Mrs. Coil about three years ago. He felt like he was a person, not like those filthy shoes to be hidden away in the closet, out of the way. The man talked to him like an adult, and he found that he was not like Mrs. Coil exactly, nor Gina or Miss Cullen and definitely not Johnny. Instead he was an entirely separate person to L, not just another caretaker. Because he wasn't his caretaker, it wasn't his job to talk to him. Mr. Whammy talked to him because he wanted to.

L told Mr. Whammy about his math, and was glad to see that Mr. Whammy was impressed by all he knew how to do. Mr. Whammy even taught him other things, which he easily caught onto, further striking the old man with surprise. Mr. Whammy told him that he was an inventor, but had also dabbled in law enforcement much earlier in his life. L asked him what he did, and Mr. Whammy told him that he helped catch criminals once upon a time.

"What kind of criminals?" L asked, gnawing at his thumb. Mr. Whammy didn't bother him about his habit, which he liked; a lot of his caregivers told him not to do it. He never listened.

"All kinds," Mr. Whammy answered, "Murderers and thieves…"

L looked at the carpet, somewhat abashedly when he heard that. Quillish noticed the look and raised his eyebrows in confusion.

"What's wrong?"

"I stole something," L told him, digging his toes into the cushion of the seat.

"Did you now?" Mr. Whammy inquired softly.

"Yes," L nodded in agreement, "I stole a library card from a man here, so I could take books back to my house. And I stole five dollars from my mom's purse so I could buy a book light so I could read in the dark. I don't have to go to jail, do I?"

The corner of Mr. Whammy's eyes wrinkled when he smiled, "I think I can forgive you."

About two weeks after meeting Mr. Whammy, L was taken to another person to stay with; this person was another Johnny, L saw right away. It was a woman this time, and he didn't pay attention to her name, because she was Johnny to him. But she had sharp nails that scratched him when she grabbed his wrist or when she slapped him across the face. He only stayed with her for four days and then he was brought back to the closet. He read his books until the next morning, when he knew the library opened.

He heard the door close and started his counting, and exactly fifteen minutes, 900 seconds, later he picked the lock, checked the kitchen for anything to eat and when he found nothing left the apartment. He felt a slight tugging in his chest as he made his way around the corner to the library, hoping that Mr. Whammy would be there. He hadn't seen him in four days, having not been able to get out of the female Johnny's apartment. What if he thought he didn't want to talk to him anymore?

He entered the library and headed over to the far corner with the two chairs that he and Mr. Whammy always sat in. He looked and stopped and then sighed when he saw that both chairs were empty. He lifted his thumb to his mouth and leaned against the bookcase.

"Looking for me?" came a gravelly voice that the boy named L recognized. He turned around and found Mr. Whammy standing there with a smile. "I missed you over the past few days. Let us sit down and you can tell be about your absence."

"Okay," L nodded and went over to his seat, putting his feet in his chair and putting his hands on his knees, a way that had become so familiar to him.

"So, what happened?" Mr. Whammy queried, "You have a scratch on your face."

"I was taken to a new person," L told him easily, "I did not like her."

"Oh?" Mr. Whammy said, reaching out to touch the scabbing scratch on L's face, "And she did this to you?"

"Hm," L affirmed, "I do not like it. I prefer my place."

"Your place?" Whammy looked interested, pulling his hand back into his lap.

L looked at Mr. Whammy and after a long moment of peering at the man, he decided that he would not tell him about the closet. It would be embarrassing. Instead he excused himself to the restroom to break the flow of the conversation. If it kept going that way, then it could be potentially humiliating for him. And he didn't want to be seen like that by the man, Mr. Whammy, the only person besides Mrs. Coil that ever really spoke to him like he was a person.

When he returned, Mr. Whammy was still sitting in his chair, his hands clasped together as he looked at the floor. Then, when he heard L approaching in the quiet of library, he lifted his head.

"L, I have something to ask you," Mr. Whammy said slowly, meeting L's black eyes intensely, so deeply in fact that L paused in mid-step, "I own a school."

L blinked, but knew he'd brought it up for a reason. "Okay, Mr. Whammy."

"I would like you to attend it," Quillish Whammy continued, stunning L.

"What? But my parents wouldn't –"

"I know," Mr. Whammy nodded, "I know. That is why you should not tell them. The school I own is a boarding school, and it is also a home of sorts. You can stay there, and you will learn anything you like."

"You…" L sat down on the chair slowly, this time first to his bottom and then gradually lifted up his knees to his chest, "You want me to run away?"

"You have the most magnificent mind I have ever seen, L," Mr. Whammy told him earnestly, "It is a waste that your parents to not care about you enough to let you use it."

L sat there for a long time, staring at Mr. Whammy with large eyes, gazing in disbelief. It was not possible. It was just not the way his life was. There was no school, no freedom, and certainly no stability. He did not go to school. It had never seemed possible, not even at all in reach for him. Beyond the tips of his tiny, nimble fingers. No matter how far they stretched, he would always be inside the closet, or shifted from one nanny to the next.

And yet, here was this man, offering him a chance to go to school, to actually leave the confines of his closet for good. He said he was intelligent and that he could use it. That he could do something, that he was not something to be tossed aside. He had worth. It was something that seemed inconceivable to L, because no one else had told him he could actually get out. Therefore, with all his deductive reasoning he could summon to explain this suggestion, he decided that the most likely thing was that it was a lie.

There was nothing else for him, there couldn't be.

"I can't," L said finally, and stood up again, looking across the street toward the bakery once again. As much as he loathed to think that the man that has been so kind to him over the past couple weeks could lie to him, but he saw no other way.

He walked from the library, leaving Quillish Whammy sitting there, looking intently after him.

The next day, L went to a different place. He went to a bookstore that was in the opposite direction of the library and read in there in stead. It wasn't as good, because he could not bring the books home with him but it would hold him for a while. Until the man forgot him. He was taken to another caretaker a week later, but it did not last, and then he was once against moved back to the closet, which he snuck out of constantly.

He missed his conversations with Mr. Whammy but he knew that that offer was merely a bomb of false hopes waiting to explode inside him. He could not be let down like that, it would be like…like Mrs. Coil dying all over again. Over a week after leaving Mr. Whammy at the library, when L was in his closet rereading one of his books as his parents and their friends drank in the living room (he could smell it from where he was) there was a knock on the door.

He expected it to be the pizza man, because he had heard them call the pizza place about thirty minutes earlier, but when his mother opened the door, he heard a familiar voice, not the unknown voice of a strange pizza delivery boy. But this voice L knew and he tensed in his position in the closet, because it was Mr. Whammy, and he was talking to his mother. This wasn't good, not good. He'd met Mr. Whammy when he'd snuck out of the closet, which was against the rules. L strained his ears to listen.

"Mr. and Mrs. Lawliet, I'm Quillish Whammy, and I am the owner of a school in London," L heard Mr. Whammy tell them, "I would like to discuss your son."

"Sorry guys, you've got the wrong place!" came the voice of one of L's dad's friends, "They don't gotta son!"

Guys, L's brow furrowed and he bit down hard on his thumb. So Mr. Whammy wasn't alone?

"Please leave, sirs," Mr. Whammy stated, and after another moment there was a click sound and then a few panicked shouts.

"Hey man, that's not cool!"

"Whoa, put that thing away!"

"Now, as I said before, please leave," Mr. Whammy said again, and this time L heard the shuffling of many feet against the carpet and then the slamming of their front door. "Now, Mr. and Mrs. Lawliet, I'd like to discuss the schooling of your son."

"He doesn't go to school," L's dad said gruffly.

"Yes, so I'm aware."

"And how would you know that?" Mr. Lawliet responded, his voice was rough and scratchy.

"He told me."

"Where'd he meet you?" L's mother asked grumpily.

"Roger, please search the house, I'm sure he's here," Mr. Whammy said to, what L supposed, was the other person, evading the question.

"Hey! Don't go into –"

"You see Mr. and Mrs. Lawliet, we can do whatever we want," Mr. Whammy replied to their shouts in a cold, hard voice that he'd never used with L. "Because unless you cooperate with me, I'm taking this to the police. You'll spend years in prison for abuse, neglect and whatever else you've done to that boy. And oh look –drugs too. "

The boy in the closet heard rummaging in the rooms not to far away beside the sounds of the voices, the man named Roger looking for him. L stayed silent; he didn't want to be found like this. Alone in a dark closet, scrunched up with mucky shoes on his feet, tossed out of the way.

"Okay, okay, what do you want?"

"Well, Mr. Lawliet, I want your son to come live with me in my school and attend it," Mr. Whammy answered. "You'll let him, or I'll turn you in to the police. It's a win/win situation, I get to have him at my school and you stay out of jail."

"How did you find him?" L's mother asked again, her voice sounded weak and shaky.

"It is none of your concern," Mr. Whammy said dismissively and L frowned from his place in the closet. Why was Mr. Whammy doing this? It seemed like a long way to go to prove a lie…

"I think it is!" Mrs. Lawliet declared angrily. L shook his head again, listening to the conversation intently.

"Either you let me take L of your hands, or I tell the cops I suspect negligence, they find out about whatever you've been doing to him –"

"What did he tell you!?" Mr. Lawliet demanded.

"Nothing too incriminating I'm afraid," Mr. Whammy snapped, and again L was surprised by the venom in the man's voice. "Congratulations, you embarrassed him into secrecy. Make a choice, now, or I'm calling the police."

Just as L was anticipating the response from his parents, biting down hard on his thumb and tensing in a mix of hope and apprehension, the handle to his closet was jerked. L's eyes widened as he looked at knob of the door as he heard it unlock. It opened, light rushing in, and L closed his eyes against the brightness compared to dark of the closed in space. L opened his eyes, adjusting to the light and looked up at a man that must have been Roger.

Roger stared for a moment and then held out a hand for the little boy to take. After a few moments of wide-eyed blinking, L took the hand and stood up, leaving his shoes behind and let go of the hand. He didn't like standing, since he spent most of his time sitting down reading, and his bad posture made the upright position uncomfortable. He shifted himself against the gaze of Roger before he was led to the living room by the man.

Mr. Whammy stopped his glaring at L's parents and then looked at L.

"Mr. Whammy," L looked at said man, lowering his hand from his mouth, "You shouldn't have come here."

"I found him in the closet, sir," Roger told Whammy, whose brow creased and eyes opened in surprise, "He was locked in."

"He was…" Mr. Whammy's eyes flickered from L to his parents and then back to L, before finally settling on his parents. "I suggest you say yes this instant before I decide to use this."

L saw Mr. Whammy lift his hand and then he saw the things that had made his parent's friends shout before. A gun. L looked at the gun with more awe than fear; if Mr. Whammy was holding it, then he would be safe.

"Fine, then, take him," L's mother shrieked. L looked at her, shocked. What? He could…he could go? He could leave? No more caretakers or closets or sneaking out to get books? No more grubby old shoes or wet, soggy carpet? He'd get to go to school? It wasn't a lie?

"I'm so glad you agree," Mr. Whammy gave a smile that didn't really look like a smile, and handed the gun to Roger, who put it away in his jacket. Mr. Whammy held out his hand to L, which L stared at hesitantly before taking, "You see now, L? Now you can come with me, and you don't have to worry about…them anymore."

L looked over at his parents with impassive eyes. They had given birth to him, but nothing more. He knew nothing about him. He never went to them for comfort from a nightmare or when he wanted a hug –not that he ever wanted a hug from anyone, not since Mrs. Coil. They were merely people that owned this apartment, who bought food that he ate sometimes. People who shoved him away like the ugly shoes they didn't want to look at. They were strangers to him.

"Good bye," L said slowly.

Mrs. Lawliet walked down the hall and out of sight and Mr. Lawliet grunted, grabbed a beer from the coffee table and plopped down on the couch, turning on the television. Mr. Whammy led him from the apartment then, Roger behind them the entire way to a very nice black car that L got into. It was cold outside, and windy too, the wind-chill making L shiver. Mr. Whammy talked to Roget outside for a few minutes before getting into the backseat with L.

"How are you, L?" Mr. Whammy asked, tilting his head to the side.

"Fine," L answered, scratching his head quickly before returning his hand back to the tops of his knees.

"That's good," Mr. Whammy replied, "You're cheek is healing. How does it feel?"

"It doesn't hurt anymore," L once again brought his hand to his mouth and began to nibble on his thumb, not even sure why at the moment.

"Ah, excellent," Mr. Whammy nodded, "Now then, are you hungry?"

"Yes," L answered truthfully, and felt the car start beneath him. He'd never been in a car like this before; a bus, yes, many times, to get from one caretaker to another, and sometimes the subway, but never a car. It felt sort of strange to him, but he guessed that was because it was untried.

"What would you like?" Mr. Whammy asked him, and then felt his lips tug at the corners at the dubious look the small boy gave him, "Yes, anything you like."

"Anything I…" L opened his mouth wide and took a breath, looking at Mr. Whammy all the while, cautiously, "Cake."

He'd told Mr. Whammy about his love of sweets, so the man wasn't all that surprised. In fact he nodded again, as if it were expected.

"What kind of cake?" he asked, and L thought about it. Maybe Mr. Whammy wasn't kidding, that he would really buy him cake. Miss Cullen hadn't even done that, just hard candy to chew on while he was working.

"Chocolate," He answered, remembering that Charlotte Coil had baked that kind a lot for him; it had been her favorite. And while he somewhat preferred vanilla cake with strawberries, he decided to choose chocolate this time, for her.

"All right then," Mr. Whammy responded to the request, bowing his head, "Chocolate cake it is."

They went to the bakery that L always stared at, from the other side of the bakery. When he saw where it was, he gasped and looked at Mr. Whammy in surprise. The man gave him a small grin, the wrinkles on his face creasing further with the strain. They got out, and then they ate chocolate cake, and L was given tea for the first time. It tasted weird, with a bitter taste until Mr. Whammy handed him the sugar.

He remembered vaguely that Mrs. Coil used to drink something this color –a brown, glassy liquid –and she used to put eight sugar cubes in it. He remembered asking her why, and she said 'because it tasted sour'. Now he knew that drink was tea, and he'd never had it before. He was always given milk or water or juice. He put eight sugar cubes in, and Mr. Whammy made a face, sort of a crossbreed between a wince, a smile and a grimace.

"What's your school like?" L asked finally, sipping on his tea. He held the handle gently, with his index finger and thumb, as usual. He decided he liked tea when it had enough sugar in it.

"It's for children like you," Mr. Whammy told him, explaining, "Smart children. Children who…want to learn. It's also a home, as I said before. You'll live there, with your own room and you'll go to classes…"

"What kind of classes?"L inquired, his heart beating faster with every word Mr. Whammy spoke, excitement seemed to pump in his very veins.

"Any kind you like," Mr. Whammy told him, "Anything you want to learn will be taught there, I can find a teacher for anything. If you want to be a doctor or a lawyer or an artist or a writer or…anything! You can do whatever you want to."

"I don't want to be an artist or a writer, I don't think," L told him, recalling unpleasantly boring coloring periods with Miss Cullen and the Barges, "I don't know about a doctor, though. Saving lives does seem nice though, but I dunno about the blood. Not sure about the lawyer thing though, it sounds okay. I'm not really sure. You were a police officer, right?"

"Yes," Mr. Whammy countered, "A while ago. Maybe thirty years. But your brilliant, L, you shouldn't waste your time writing speeding tickets. "

"I don't really know," L shrugged, "I wouldn't want to do boring stuff, anyways. I don't have to decide now do I?"

"No, no, of course not," Mr. Whammy said, shaking his head and twiddling his top at in his fingers. "Finish your cake. We've got a long ride ahead of us."

The ride to Whammy House was two hours and 43 minutes, 13 seconds long, approximately163 minutes, 9793 seconds. It was a large place, and beautiful, astonishing L by its sheer size and appearance. It was possibly the most wonderful building he'd ever seen, but then, he'd only been a few places in his whole six years of life, and most of them were in the slums of London. Dirty places with graffiti and trash. This place was like something out of a movie. A mansion with a large metal gate in front of it, which L stood in front of, gaping through the bars at the building.

L saw kids his age, younger and older, playing in the yard, laughing and smiling and running around. He didn't do that. He saw a girl painting a tree. He didn't do that. He saw two boys building toy bricks into a large block building, big enough for kids to actually walk trough. He didn't do that either. It wasn't interesting to him at all. Maybe this wasn't a good idea.

"From now on, please call me Watari," Mr. Whammy told him as the doors opened, and L looked up at him, perplexed by the appeal. "It is what they call me here. Most of them do not know my real name, and I do not wish them to."

"But you don't mind me knowing it?" L asked, staring up at Mr. Whammy from his small height, much closer to the ground than the older man. His bare feet scraped against the hot cement.

"No," Mr. Whammy replied as the gate opened, "I don't mind you knowing."

As Mr. Whammy –or rather, Watari now – walked him through the halls of the school, L got many looks. He saw other kids around him as well, and not all of them were conventionally 'normal' looking. Many, like L, had dark bags under their eyes as though they didn't sleep much at all, and L wonderer if it was because they'd been locked in a closet as well. But he doubted that was the normal practice here if the enraged look Mr. Whammy got when Roger told him about it was anything to go by.

Watari explained to him that each person was given a fake name to keep their identify hidden, and that after the examination results, he'd be given one too.

He was shown to a room, a very large room perhaps bigger than his entire apartment, and he was told that was his bedroom. He wasn't sure he believed it. Mr. –Watari, L corrected himself mentally, then brought him to his office, where he said he'd be given a test to show them how much he knew. L did it, and it took about an hour and thirty-three minutes and four seconds, 5584 seconds. Watari told him the test would be graded by tomorrow.

L went to lie in his new bed, hoping that when he woke up in the morning he wouldn't be in his apartment. A part of him still thought this was a dream, and so instead of sleeping, he looked around his room, finding a pad of paper and a pencil that he used to write a lot of numbers, working anything he possible could to keep himself occupied. Anything to not go to sleep, for fear that he may wake up.

Morning came, and he found that he had successfully stayed up the entire night, and although his brain felt slightly heavy, there was really no toll on his physical performance. He ate breakfast consisting of strawberries and pancakes drowned in syrup and Watari came in with a piece of paper. After a moment, L guessed it was the test results from the test, and he was informed by Mr. Whammy that his score had been off the scale. L supposed that was good.

"Listen, L, you aren't just a normal child, and this school is the end of that other life that you had with your…parents," Watari told him, crouching down beside him to look into his eyes, "You'll be great, L. I can assure you of that. Would you like your name?"

L nodded tentatively.

"It is...L," Watari told him, smiling slightly at L's shocked expression. "You see, it's such a unique name, it sounds fake. An alias that is not really an alias is clever, don't you think?"

"Yes," L was secretly glad that he could keep his name. It was part of him, it described him; and Mrs. Coil had always said how much she liked its originality. But something told L that was not the reason his parents had picked the name out for him.

Watari told him they he'd get him a list of classes and then bring it to him, and he could choose whichever one he'd like. When he left, L walked over to the window, wiping a dribble of syrup off on his shirt sleeve. The window was large and showed much of the wide, grassy landscape that surrounded Whammy's school. It was not a closet. It was not dark. And he was out in the open, not shoved away like a pair of unattractive, worn shoes.

Mr. Whammy was right. It was the end of the life with his parents. The conclusion of a chapter in his life. But it didn't feel like an ending. Whenever a movie ended or he got to last page of a book, L was hit was a strange sense of finality. This was not that feeling. Instead it was the feeling he got when he found a new book or started a new movie. It felt like the launching of something amazing and important. As much as it was the end of one childhood, it was the beginning of another.

Because he was not always the greatest detective in the world.

Once, he was just a little boy named L.

I felt by making up a name for L's parents, it would take away from the story, which is why in the begining it merely calls them 'he' and 'she' and later on 'L's mom or dad' or Mr. and Mrs. Lawliet.

Okay, so it explains the sugar-loving thing, the bad posture, the thumb biting, the holding things in a strange way, hatred of shoes (a thus socks as well) and being moved from one place to another, having no stability so early in life can stunt social and emotion abilities. Reason he's never had a friend (before Raito) and why he's so childish. I explained all his pseudonyms too, which was a pretty spur the moment type thing. I always thought he would have just selected a random name, but I thing I like it this way, him keeping Mrs. Coil with him always. She was like a mother to him.

So, I hope I played L correctly. I'm much better at writing Raito, I must admit. So it was a challenge to get L down, and subtract about nineteen years off him. I hope I made him innocent enough, but was able to convey the negligence's effect on him, as well as the unnatural intelligence that he no doubt possessed at that age. I also like Watari's role in this. I think he's a very underappreciated character, which is ludicrous since if you love L then you must see that Watari is a huge part of his life. So I tried to give him some character here.

The gun that Watari brought to the Lawliet home was just a precaution, in case you thought that was over the top. Keep in mind that Watari was not sure how far the alleged abuse went, and he didn't want L's life in danger if his parents were violent at all.

Also, I didn't want this to be full out abuse. As you can see, mostly it was just neglect and perhaps emotional abuse, I didn't want it to be obnoxiously cruel beatings or sexual abuse, because I think that would be exaggerated story, and I wanted this to be as realistic as possible, the only abuse happening being from strangers that smack him around sometimes. It's very mild abuse compared to what I usually write.

So, I really hope you enjoyed this. It's a really long one shot. Please tell me what you think about it, I'd really appreciate it. Thank you for reading! Please, please review!

Nilah