Why Doesn't L Have Eyebrows?
Inspired by a 4 am discussion. :3
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Once, L tried an experiment. He’d been reading up on observing facial expression and discovered that eyebrows gave away more about a person’s emotions than their eyes. If one removed the eyebrows, he hypothesized, it would give him an advantage against an opponent. He also suspected the freedom would increase his own reasoning ability by about twenty percent.
So he went into the restroom, got out the electric razor, and looked at himself. He was a mongrel born to mongrels, most likely: his features were an odd mix of nationalities, Asian muddled by European influence, the nose suggesting a bit of Russian. Unkempt black hair and hunched posture. His own appearance was so irrelevant he doubted anyone would care, especially not himself.
Bits of hair littered the sink and floor by the time Watari found him.
Seeing the look on Watari’s face was like being clipped by a car. Not disappointment, exactly, although it made L disappointed in himself. It was more like fleeting alarm, quickly washed away by Watari’s usual benevolent expression. Then he stepped forward and eased the razor from L’s hand and suggested a good hearty breakfast. Waffles and whipped cream. Peaches. Tiramisu.
L knew it would be a long time before he would again be allowed to shave unsupervised in the mornings.
It was unfortunate, as well, because while it was true no eyebrows made his face harder to read, the theory that it would boost his reasoning ability didn’t quite hold true. Instead of twenty percent, it fluctuated between five and seven percent, reaching maximum only when it rained. So it had been a risky procedure, with less pay off than he would have liked.
It still might have been worth it, strictly speaking, if not for the way Watari looked at him. That counteracted any benefit given to his detecting skills. L carried it around like a stomachache, afraid Watari was still giving him that gaze when his back was turned. For they both knew there was a thin line separating brilliance from madness, and there were times when he teetered. Times when the church bells got so loud he couldn’t think and when he closed his eyes all he could see was the cathedral. So far he’d been able to reason around it, hold it back, guard himself with logic and truth.
But there might be one day L would awake and deduce there were spies in the television set, poison in his food. Wolves at the door. And then it would all be over. That’s why there were others monitored at Wammy’s House, waiting to take over, fill his hypothetical shoes. Because there might come a time when he was snubbed out, not only physically, but mentally. He was the first L, and the first model of anything is never quite right.
L could see himself as everyone else did: like a ballerina, standing on pointe for years. He was every small bone in the ankle, suffering under the weight, until finally the whole thing gives and the dancer tumbles off the stage, irreparable. Never again to bask in the spotlight.
Or perhaps that’s even too kind an image. Maybe he’d be more like a racehorse with a broken leg. Unable to live. Fixable only with a shotgun. A more brutal analogy, but more likely. About seventy-eight percent more likely.
His eyebrows never grew back.
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Once, L tried an experiment. He’d been reading up on observing facial expression and discovered that eyebrows gave away more about a person’s emotions than their eyes. If one removed the eyebrows, he hypothesized, it would give him an advantage against an opponent. He also suspected the freedom would increase his own reasoning ability by about twenty percent.
So he went into the restroom, got out the electric razor, and looked at himself. He was a mongrel born to mongrels, most likely: his features were an odd mix of nationalities, Asian muddled by European influence, the nose suggesting a bit of Russian. Unkempt black hair and hunched posture. His own appearance was so irrelevant he doubted anyone would care, especially not himself.
Bits of hair littered the sink and floor by the time Watari found him.
Seeing the look on Watari’s face was like being clipped by a car. Not disappointment, exactly, although it made L disappointed in himself. It was more like fleeting alarm, quickly washed away by Watari’s usual benevolent expression. Then he stepped forward and eased the razor from L’s hand and suggested a good hearty breakfast. Waffles and whipped cream. Peaches. Tiramisu.
L knew it would be a long time before he would again be allowed to shave unsupervised in the mornings.
It was unfortunate, as well, because while it was true no eyebrows made his face harder to read, the theory that it would boost his reasoning ability didn’t quite hold true. Instead of twenty percent, it fluctuated between five and seven percent, reaching maximum only when it rained. So it had been a risky procedure, with less pay off than he would have liked.
It still might have been worth it, strictly speaking, if not for the way Watari looked at him. That counteracted any benefit given to his detecting skills. L carried it around like a stomachache, afraid Watari was still giving him that gaze when his back was turned. For they both knew there was a thin line separating brilliance from madness, and there were times when he teetered. Times when the church bells got so loud he couldn’t think and when he closed his eyes all he could see was the cathedral. So far he’d been able to reason around it, hold it back, guard himself with logic and truth.
But there might be one day L would awake and deduce there were spies in the television set, poison in his food. Wolves at the door. And then it would all be over. That’s why there were others monitored at Wammy’s House, waiting to take over, fill his hypothetical shoes. Because there might come a time when he was snubbed out, not only physically, but mentally. He was the first L, and the first model of anything is never quite right.
L could see himself as everyone else did: like a ballerina, standing on pointe for years. He was every small bone in the ankle, suffering under the weight, until finally the whole thing gives and the dancer tumbles off the stage, irreparable. Never again to bask in the spotlight.
Or perhaps that’s even too kind an image. Maybe he’d be more like a racehorse with a broken leg. Unable to live. Fixable only with a shotgun. A more brutal analogy, but more likely. About seventy-eight percent more likely.
His eyebrows never grew back.