Sunshine and Lemondrops

A/N: Sorry this is just a revamp of the previous chapter. I actually have a direction I'm going with this now, so a few subtle thing shad to change. Overall the chapter is still the same though. Once more I don't not own Harry Potter or Katekyo Kitman - just the plot and any OCs.

Chapter One: It's Been a Long Day

"If there were no mystery left to explore life would get rather dull, wouldn't it?"

Sidney Buchman

"Well, that's not something that you see every day."

In fact, the cadaver – one foot planted firmly on the base of his office window and the other stretched beneath him to what Shamal prays is a ledge – is something he could go without seeing on any day. Happily so, he might add.

Goddammit.

"This is not what it looks like," blurts the corpse, British accent thick and eyes flying from the still open doorway to the ground below it. "I swear."

Seeing as how the last time Shamal saw this specimen there was far more skin and teeth removed from all their proper places and those bright green eyes were lifeless on a cold slab in the morgue, he isn't quite sure what this is supposed to look like to him. Probably a nightmare? A one-way ticket to the nearest asylum? Or, maybe, just another Tuesday.

Shamal is sure no one else deals with this much shit on a regular basis. At least, no one who doesn't already go looking for it. Just him.

Heaving a sigh, he can already feel the warm press of a fresh cigarette against his lips, Shamal shuts the door behind him. "I'm guessing you don't want me calling the police. Or perhaps the mortician?"

It winces, the leg on the ledge shifting for a better brace – to jump or pull back, he isn't sure which he would prefer right now. "I don't suppose that was a poor attempt at a dark bit of humor for breaking into your office? I could leave through another window – you know, if that helps?" It says, weakly.

"Not so much," Shamal grunts, "You may not remember this but we're already more acquainted than I'd care to be." It blinks. "You don't remember - you, me? The ambulance driver trying not to lose his lunch from the bits of you we didn't take with us on our threesome adventure?"

It groans, "I don't suppose the last time you saw me I happened to be breathing then?"

Shamal snorts, reaching his desk to begin shuffling through his drawers, "Didn't even make it to the hospital. If you want to look at what was left for you, I've got the papers downstairs. You were real photogenic, gotta say." Lighter…lighter… for all that is good and holy, that secretary had better not have snatched it again.

"When was this," it steps back into his office to slump against his previously perfectly cadaver free wall. And lovely – there was still a tag in the big toe of the left foot.

Shamal checks his watch. Isn't even happy hour anymore. "Four hours ago." Maybe they hadn't found his scotch yet.

There was moment of silence. The cadaver stares at what he assumes is the back of his head. Shamal ignores its existence and continues looking for his scotch. There has yet to be a problem he couldn't just drink away. If this was it – it couldn't hurt to try anyway.

"You're handling this better than most," it comments.

And there was no scotch to be found. Great.

Shamal groans, long and loud and full of what he hopes translates as his goodbyes for a peaceful day, "Between the two of us I'd say you're handling your 'not-death' much better than I am. Do make a habit of breaking out of the morgue through the attending doctor's window?" No alcohol, no cigarettes – was there any good left in the world?

A chuckle, deep and throaty like a recovering cold – or shards of a windshield still rattling around, caught in the skin of a pale throat – "Well you can't expect me to walk out through the front door, can you?"

Great. It has a sense of humor. Post-mortem. How quaint. "To be honest I don't think it's reasonable to expect you to be walking anywhere at all. And for that matter," he began, throwing himself into his chair and finally facing his very own zombie, "Why did it have to be my window anyway? Why not Carl's? Nobody likes Carl."

Wide green eyes blink once more from a pale face – maybe regeneration was limited to the bare necessities of life, was blood propagated only until it could sustain – "You're not going to call security?" it questioned.

Ha. "And tell them what? 'Hey guys, disregard whatever brains they're still peeling off the fender. Turns out the guy is just fine'," he shoots back, caustically, "yeah, that would work out well."

"A car?" It hisses suddenly, voice dripping with disdain, "I got hit by a bloody car?"

Shamal shrugs, "If it makes you feel any better – it was a minivan. With kids and everything."

Now the cadaver looks horrified, and more than slightly sick. "I – are the kids ok? I mean, they didn't…"

"See you play whack-a-mole with the front of their windshield, you mean?" he questions lightly, "No – from the reports you flew a good distance off. I doubt they even realized what happened if not for the bloody smear on the window."

It still looks queasy. For the sure-fire two-year minimum counseling the kids will be receiving or the recounting of his own demise – Shamal doesn't really care either way. "You're…very blunt."

"And you're still breathing despite my own up close and personal experience with your corpse," he agrees happily, standing. "Now that we've established the obvious, I suggest you stop loitering in my perfectly zombie free windows and find your way out without alerting the media. From the second story. Good luck."

It scrambles to its feet, swaying and instinct has Shamal's whole body violently flinching in its direction, prepared for a fall. He clenches his fist, breathing deeply from his nose, and plants his feet – unmoving.

"Wait!" It cries, steadying itself against the wall.

"Why?" Shamal cries back.

"I need your help-"

"No." He refuses immediately, on principle in fact.

"But you're a doctor," it argues.

"So?"

"You're supposed to help people!"

"Women," he corrects. "I help women. I didn't really have a choice in your case – and luckily you were already mostly dead by that point. Which you might be again if you don't leave my office," he growls, hand already twisting the doorknob.

It splutters, seemingly at a loss for words, before lurching and throwing its entire body at the door in some sort of uncoordinated mass of limbs. Fast. Much faster than Shamal expected – previous corpse like state notwithstanding. "But you've got to help me," it pleads, pressing its entire weight uncomfortably against the door like it was the only thing keeping it upright. For all he knows, it could be.

Window – not a great idea after all. "You have to help me," it demands, still pressed up against the door.

Shamal lets go of the handle, stepping back and letting his fingers curl up into his sleeve. There was, on the surface, absolutely nothing threatening about the young man in front of him. He could barely even stand upright. If not for the look in its eyes and Shamal's gut twisting itself into knots, that is. "Again – why should I?"

It scowls once more, something fierce, gaze hard and challenging. Shamal fingers a capsule. "Do you really want a patient you pronounced dead just hours ago-"

"Four hours," he mutters.

"-to be caught up and walking, perfectly fine, and in plain sight? I wouldn't if I were you." The thing has the gall to look smug, still clutching at the door like a lifeline. But smug as it was, there was, again, nothing overtly threatening in its face. The lines of the mouth were turned down, but relaxed – its knuckles white from keeping itself upright, but fingers clearly displayed and open. Not that a hospital gown had many places to hide any sort of weaponry.

But you learn not to underestimate unknowns regardless of the circumstance.

Shamal squints, lips curling. "You're bluffing." There was only one type of person that he knew of who could walk away, eventually, from an accident like this boy had. Not a good kind of person either.

It juts its chin out, green eyes flashing with a victorious smirk plastered across its unblemished skin. Briefly another image superimposes itself – less skin, more red painting what was still there, less life and fire burning in those bright eyes. "You're not the first doctor whose window I've had to climb out of. Try me."

Shamal blinks and it is gone. In its place is a scrawny brat with legs too skinny to hold up its own inflated ego. Maybe it's all the hot air in his-its head keeping it afloat. "Fine, goddammit fine!" Throwing his hands in the air and whipping around to a tall cabinet shoved between the wall and corner, he starts throwing drawers open.

This kid was no assassin. But that did beg the question – what the hell was a civilian doing with active flames?

"What am I getting," he barks, "If it's your cloths I'm not sorry to say they've probably been thrown in the bin by now and no way am I dumpster diving. And shut that window!"

Now, perfectly content in its victory, it quickly moves to do as told, if still somewhat unsteady. "No – it's a piece of wood. A polished stick really, along with an old cracked ring. They would have been inside pocket of my jacket."

What. Was the kid joking?

"They're family heirlooms," it snaps, defensively. So, he must've said that out loud. Still.

"A stick is a family heirloom," he questions dryly, grabbing an old beanie and a very ugly pair of glasses from the bottom drawer of the cabinet. "You got ripped off in the family will, gotta say. Either way those things could be at the police station by now for all I know. They usually dump the personal affects there until a friend or family of the deceased come to claim it. Just get a friend to pick it up," he growls, dashing back across the room to grab his thinner coat.

The kid just blinks, incredulous, gesturing to his general person, "Doctor – I'm a cadaver climbing out of your second story window – how many friends do you image I have?"

Good point. "You mean you and all your zombie buddies don't get together to have midnight raves and snack on brains?"

It smirks, "Only on Halloween."

"Sad part is I can't even tell if you are joking," he huffs. "Fine! I'll go check and see if your stuff hasn't been carted off yet. But, so help me, if they are gone you are on your own."

"Deal."

Shamal shoves the collection of cloths in its arms with a bland smile. "And you're coming with me."

They are immediately, and very rudely, dropped. "What!?"

Swiping the beanie off the floor, he shoves it over the unruly black hair smothering the kid's head, tufts still sticking out the side and through the occasional hole. "You could barely walk three feet before face planting, do you really think I'm going to let you climb out that window only to cart you back in when you're found dead at the bottom?" He asks flatly.

It rolls its eyes, "I'll be fine – motor function never takes too long to kick back into gear. It's just a bit shakier this time."

Shamal pointedly ignores that last statement for his own sanity. "No."

"I'll just wait here then."

That was never going to happen. Mafia or not (and he still wasn't sure on that point – Omerta was a bitch) he has a lot of sensitive information stashed away here for the moment. The least of which was now on this kid. "You either shove the rest of that on or find another doctor who is willing to claim temporary insanity when charges are inevitably pressed. Besides," he flings a ratty scarf at his face, "the best way to get in or out of somewhere is usually through the front door."

"I don't know," it drawls, "The second floor looks pretty promising."

"Just put on the coat."

And it does – looking far more like a living person than the dead one from hours earlier. Shamal can't tell which is better. The former, probably, if just for the sake of morality and that this was less disturbing to look at. Standing at an impressive of height of no more than five foot seven, the young man (maybe even a late teenager) is swallowed whole in the wool of his old ratty coat. The beanie a more comical addition than anything with the way his hair jutted up from it like a demented troll doll. Even the glasses hang precariously off the edge of a small nose.

All in all, the cadaver looks rather like a hobo with uncommonly good hygiene. Shamal snorts.

"What," he-it squawks, indignant. Really, he can't be more than sevente-

Nope. Not going there.

Shamal grabs the scruff of the coat and hustles the kid along. "Come on. The sooner we get this done, the better. And don't do anything stupid."

It just glares and jerks away from his hold, twisting open the doorway and tumbling out into the hallway.

Where he proceeds to do something stupid.

Like tumbling into Carl.

Shamal groans, long and loud, his goodbyes to a peaceful day.

"Watch it," Carl, with his thin lips, thin eyebrows, and thin patience snaps, his spindly legs bending around the force of a one hundred-pound teen with all the grace of an awkward giraffe. In fact, the only things not thin about this delight of a human being were his nose and his pride – both of which stretched far longer and wider than either had any right too.

Nobody liked Carl.

Zombie-kid mumbled an apology, face burning beneath his cap. It would've been cute – if Shamal hadn't seen his face covered with a very different shade of red not too long ago. Carl was having none of it, glancing suspiciously between the pair. "Shamal, what is this?" he demands.

"Well, Carl, I'm fairly certain this is a teenager. You may have seen one before, on occasion," Shamal drawls, wishing now more than ever to have a lit cigarette – if only to annoy the man opposite him more.

Carl draws himself up to an impressive height, swelling as much as possible with a mixture of pride and indignation," I know very well what a teenager is – I'm more surprised to find that you do, seeing as how there is a distinct lack of leopard print leather miniskirts and questionable morals," he sneers in reply. "I meant, what is he doing up here."

Shamal merely shrugs with a sly smile at the jab – the man made a fair point after all. "He's my nephew. I had to pick him up after an unfortunate meeting at a motel left him without out –" Shamal continues past the pain in his foot and the cadaver's muted fuming, "a wallet and a way home." He winks, "An attraction for leopard print runs in the family after all."

Carl leans away from the cadaver-kid with a grimace (and Shamal might actually get a kick out of imagining what everyone's reactions would be if they really knew what the kid was – it was like when he went through four hours of secondary school with a dead armadillo in his backpack on a dare because, why not? The detention was worth every girls' scream).

With the kid continuing to dig his foot into Shamal's toes, ears burning with embarrassment, and Carl sufficiently disgusted by humanity's offspring, Shamal concludes that his good deed for the day is done. "Now if you'll excuse me I'm just going to do a quick examination to make sure nothing untoward was passed on. Unless you-"

"No," the man quickly cuts in, "That is perfectly alright. I'm sure even you can manage to be slightly responsible without adult supervision for a change," he sniffs, briefly giving a poorly disguised glare of revulsion to his companion– who looks just as repulsed and angry as Carl. Then he turns and leaves without a backwards glance.

"I told you not to do anything stupid," Shamal says, once Carl is out of sight, grabbing the scruff of the jacket once more and proceeding to drag the kid down the hallway.

But he, apparently, was also having none of it. "I didn't," he fumes. "You're the one who dragged me out of the office and into the hall. And why did you tell him I bloody slept with someone and got robbed!?"

Shamal chortles, merry as could be. "Did you have a better excuse?"

"Yeah," it grinds out, "not telling him about my theoretical sexual exploits!"

"Not much of an idea – or an exploit really," he says. "Now where's your stuff. The sooner we part ways the happier we'll both be."

The promise of separation seems to calm the kid. "It's down in the mortuary where I woke up-"

"And you didn't think to grab it then," Shamal hisses.

"If I had the chance maybe! Bit hard to do when the mortician is coming down the stairs and you're on the opposite side of the room."

After that they entered the more populated areas of the hospital – doctors and aids rushing down hallways, carts pulled along and pagers ringing in a nonstop litany of noise. Even so, there settled an uneasy sort of silence between the two, only interrupted by the ding of an elevator as the doors slid shut.

Next to him, the kid remains tense, strung up and ready to bolt at the nearest sign of trouble. Once more Shamal let his thoughts wander. Being tense was a normal reaction – the absolute stillness of the body next to him, not even a finger twitching, eyes constantly roving over his surroundings? Not so much. That looked like a trained reaction. Trained to what was the question of the day.

Then again, reports of a missing body could come blaring over the speakers at any minute. It would be unsettling in any case – especially if you were the body.

"Why aren't you more freaked out?"

Shamal raises a single brow, pushing the kid through the elevator doors as the slid open to the lowest level of the hospital floors. "Would you like me to be?"

He frowns, "Of course not. But you can't deny that your reaction is…unusual."

"I'm the unusual one?" Shamal deadpans. "You're joking right?"

"People usually freak out a o lot more," he defends hotly.

"I'm sure they do – this might come as a surprise to you, kid, but I've seen stranger."

"Really?"

"Yup."

"Stranger than a body coming back to life?" He counters, skeptically. And for good reason – anyone else would have suffered a severe meltdown. But Shamal thought of babies and flames and time travel. Then he snorted.

"It's a big world out there, and you've not even seen a slice of it." Though he might have to soon, if what he thought was going on was true. God, a civilian? An active civilian?

It takes him somewhat by surprise, then, when all the kid does is smile softly, something close to gratitude in his eyes as he looks at Shamal. "You're right, I guess there is still a lot to learn."

What a weird kid.

It doesn't take much longer for them to reach the basement, and with the command for the kid to 'stay here and don't do anything stupid. Again' Shamal is in and out of the morgue with a strangely patterned stick and the old, cracked family ring.

As soon as they are in sight they are snatched from his hands – once more in that unnaturally fast movement that made him tense and clench his finger uneasily around a capsule. Something was still not right with this kid, besides the obvious, but hell would rain down on him if it was going to be any of Shamal's business.

"Thank you," the kid begins, "I really can't-"

"Then don't," Shamal interrupts. Pushing him back to the elevator doors. "Really don't mention it. You've got your stick and your ring, now go home."

"But the paperwork-"

"Will be taken care of," he grinds out.

The kid slaps his hands over the door as they attempted to close, though, staring at him, suspicion warring with gratitude in his eyes. "I can't ask you to do that." It doesn't sound like he would have anyway. "I've got to make sure that the paperwork gets destroyed. No one can know-"

"I'm not an idiot," Shamal snaps back. "This isn't my first rodeo either. You don't have authorization to get to the paperwork necessary. I do. You are a corpse. I am not. Ergo, you need to leave and I'll make sure this is taken care of."

But he doesn't move, hand clamped white knuckled against the door as he stares Shamal down. Suddenly it felt like his soul is being weighed – by judge, jury, and executioner all at once. And, as he watches a finger twitch on the door, it seems the executioner wasn't squeamish.

He clutches a capsule between his fingernails, digging into the hard shell enough to make a groove, but not crack it. Not yet.

Then – the kid sighs, hands dropping and tension fleeing. A smile made way on his face instead. Eyes bright once more with something unnamed. Almost trust, but not quite. "Thanks, then. I guess I really don't have a choice in the matter." Somehow, Shamal doesn't think that is true, but he drops the pill in his pocket anyway.

A hand is suddenly thrust under his nose. "By the way, I'm-"

"Not interested," Shamal interrupts with a lazy smile and a brief handshake. The palm was warm, rough with callouses along the finger tips. There was a flutter of a pulse beneath his hands and he quickly lets go. "First floor, head straight, then to your left after the fifth door. It's the smoker's exit and no one will notice much leaving that way. Hope I don't see you around, kid."

Then the doors shut and Shamal breathes.

Because not knowing his-its name made it much easier to swallow the fact that a teenager found it completely normal to be run over by a minivan and wake up alone in the morgue. It wasn't his job to know who, what, when, or, most importantly, how that came about.

Shakily, he goes back through to Gregory's, the mortician's, office. He always had a lighter in there somewhere. Because it might not be his job, but the potential existence of an Active Cloud who could propagate himself from death was something to keep track of.

And he'd be damned if he stole that paperwork without a smoke first.

A/N: Sooo...sorry it took so long, but after writing just one chapter I spent ages trying to figure out where I was going with the story and had no freaking clue. So I took a long sabbatical and now have an actual plot with conflict and vague chapter outlines planned! A heck of a lot more than last time anyway. As such, this story is no longer following the challenge that it previously was so that means that Harry is not Reborn's grandson. I just had to make sure that was clear. What else happens is up to you guys to figure out!

Also, if anyone would like to Beta read for me that would be phenomenal. Having someone review my writing and be there to bounce ideas off of would be great! Ping me if you are interested.

All the best,

BeIntrospective