Yami:...I have no excuse. Seriously. I have homework, and things to do. But after writing the other story, I reaaaallllly felt the need to ge the Reborn plot bunny out of my head. My reasoning behind this story will be explained at the end.

Dark: You are a horrible student.

Yami: I do not deny that.

Kenshin: How sad.

Yami: Yeah, well I got back to our dorm room around 12, sat down, and just wrote, from noon until almost 2 in the morning. 20 pages, and loooots of words. Why can't writing reports be this easy?

Title: Scars

Summery: Out of suffering have emerged the strongest souls; the most massive characters are seared with scars (&). Reborn has many scars, and many tales. These are it.

Genre: Family, hurt/comfort, romance, drama, angst

The Great Question beta-ed this for me. Thank him for it making sense :D

Disclaimer: DO. NOT. OWN! Leave meh alone.

A/N:

Soooo...another thing. On my other Reborn/Luche story, I got a rather annoying review that simply said flame flame flame. It might have been a joke, HOWEVER! Don't do that. It's stupid, it's rude, and it upsets the author. Who then considers starving off writing for awhile. So no jokes like that when reviewing. And if you didn't like the story, you could tell me why in a polite and constructive way that will help me write better stories so that you may all enjoy them. If you don't like the pairing. THEN DON'T FUCKING CLICK ON THE STORY! Hikari and Toitsu don't post fanfictions and barely write anymore because of one too many crude and careless remarks from readers who didn't like their pairing, or how the story went. So remember, make love, not hate. I write these because I like to, and because I enjoy making others happy with my stories. Flames make me unhappy. And when I'm unhappy I don't write. Which makes my readers unhappy. Don't make my readers unhappy please.

A/N: Don't you hate it, when you beta, and beta, and DOUBLE beta it and when you go back to read it once it's posted you STILL find mistakes. FUCK IT ALL! ARG! -goes to die in a corner of FAILURE-

Skin is like leather. Imprinted on it as the years go by are signs of life, of wear and tear, of use and disuse. The calluses upon hands show hard work, hands that for every day for years have picked up wood, held a gun, pressed down on the steel strings of a violin. Wrinkles show many years of laughter, of sadness, of years gone by. Perhaps scars are the most interesting thing that we find imprinted upon the leather that is our skin. Each scar tells a story. Scars that tell of falling off a bike for the first time, of surgeries, of attacks survived. The shape and depth of the scars vary. How deep was the wound? How long the cut? Slashed with a sword or with a blunt object? A bullet or a knife?

But it isn't the visible scars that tell the whole story. No. For under the skin, on the heart, on the soul, the spirit, are scars that physical scars only hint at. Why was there a sword cut across the back? A betrayal from a friend? A bullet scar on the shoulder? Were you protecting someone, arms spread wide? Across the brow. Did you take a punch, or did you simply not see the fist coming at you? What tales are behind each cut, each gash, each stab? A tale of heroics or torture? Of friendship or betrayal?

It has been said that 'time heals all wounds'. I do not agree. The wound remains. In time, the mind, protecting its sanity, covers them with scar tissue and the pain lessens. But it is never gone. (1) True of both the wounds of the flesh, and wounds on the soul. But what causes the mind to cover the wound in scar tissue? What is so horrible it must protect itself from losing its sanity? And what of wounds of the heart? What of the wounds that strike us to our very core? It is not just scar tissue that is thrown up to lessen the pain. Walls are built. Walls of steel, of ice, of titanium and iron, of brick and mortar, to protect the heart from further scarring. How deep the wound determines how thick the walls.

But even with the walls and the scars, the pain is never gone. And it always appears when we least expect it.

(One need not be a chamber to be haunted, one need not to be a house. The brain has corridors surpassing material place (2))

Footsteps echoed in the silence. The soft padding of a child's bare feet against a wood floor, dampened by the Oriental rug underfoot.

Why was there silence?

Even on the darkest, coldest of nights, there was never such lack of noise. The house settled, the pipes dripped, fires crackled down to embers and ash, the wind blew outside, carrying the calls of nocturnal animals. Always there was sound in this house so big and full of life, even when the world within it sleeps so soundly, tucked away in their beds.

Where were the sounds of life?

The rug ended. Cold shot up through the bare feet and caused the child to shiver. It was so cold. It wasn't the proper season for the wooden floor to be so chilled.

Where was the warmth that existed even in winter?

A soft scuttling noise. The child flinched, the gripped the weapon tighter and moved forward towards the source of the scuttling. A door stood ajar. The grain and mass of swirling patterns upon its face stood out like a bizarre monster, calling prey to it. The doorway opened into a empty black abyss, like the mouth of the monster, waiting to gobble down its victims.

Step, step.

The child moved closed, wavering silently. Go in, or run away? Something was inside. Something that needed to be discovered. It felt bad. But the discovery must be made. It was that important. Why was it so important? Unknown reasons compelled the child forward, clutching the black Browning HP handgun like a life line. A few steps closed the distance between the child and the gaping mouth-like doorway. It was pitch black.

Where was the light?

Why was the floor wet?

The cold of the floor vanished burning bare feet. Noise filled the room, so loud after the silence it was deafening. Screams, thunder, crackling fire, and rattling rain pressed against sensitive ear drums. Fire burst into life sending a wave of heat and light out into the room. The gun fell to the floor with an earth shattering clatter.

The walls were splattered with blood, sparkling with reflected light. Wall paper torn, slashed, cutting at the wood behind it. Shattered glass glistened from the floor, red flames reflected in each. Furniture overturned, broken, littering the room like so many fallen soldiers. A lake of blood stretched from the center of the room outward, growing larger by the second. Over several still forms that lay in the lake of crimson liquid, drenched in the very stuff, stood a figure clad in black. Gray eyes glowed in the fire light, staring at the intruder upon this scene from hell. A knife glittering with blood was held in his hand, held just above the nearest figure's chest.

They stared at each other, the child and the intruder. Time stretched on for an eternity, seconds passing as hours. Then one of the forms sprawled across the floor gave a strange gurgling noise. The moment of stillness was over. The child grabbed the gun from the floor, and with a vicious scream, fired. The kick back sent the little body flying back, hitting the floor with as much force as a punch to the gut. The intruder laughed, voice low, deep, and scratchy, hoarse so that it sounded as a loud whisper.

"Don't use a weapon too big to handle, or you'll find it turned on you." He turned.

In those few precious seconds the child wasted struggling to get up; the man leapt through the broken window and vanished into the darkness.

"…an…o…" the wet, garbled noise started the child. The gun once again fell to the floor though this time it stayed there, forgotten as the small figure hurried over to the one that had 'spoken'.

"Mamma!"

"G…g…o…" she choked, and eyes black as night but warm as a summer's day began to cloud over. "G…o…w…ay…as…t…"

"Mamma!" Little hands gripped the woman's tightly; ignoring the blood that made the warm hand slick. "Mamma, please hold on! You cannot die!"

"…i…mo…" Eyes widened as another bloodied hand came up and gently cupped a tear stained cheek. A smile, then black eyes clouded over, and the hand fell with a splash to the blood covered floor.

"…mamma?"

Darkness engulfed the room again despite the fact that a fallen chair lying too near the fireplace had caught aflame. As the fire spread, the room grew darker and darker, until all the child could see was the hand still clutched in shaking hands.

"Mamma?" The voice wasn't so high pitched with youth anymore. It was deep, with a slightly hoarse, baritone note to it. The voice trembled, sliding between the two pitches. "MamMA!"

Without warning the fallen hand shot out, seizing the child's throat. A body, thin, little more than gray decomposing flesh clinging to bleach white bones, pulled itself out of the abyss. It thrust its head forward; empty black eye pits stared, jaw hanging limply at an almost obtuse angle, strips of flesh dangling from the skull. A shriek erupted from the mouth. "WHY DIDN'T YOU SAVE US!?"

Choking, the child tried to pry the hand that clutched at the throat. "No…ma…"

"WHERE WERE YOU WHEN WE WERE TORTURED!? WHEEEREEE!?" The grip tightened. With one last gasp, the child's world faded away, the screams echoing forever.

(Within the core of each of us is the child we once were. This child constitutes the foundation of what we have become, who we are, and what we will be (3))

The room was illuminated as a fork of lightning split the sky. Reborn shot up from the bed, hands clawing at the invisible hand around his neck, slowly choking the life out of him. When the thunder rolled just seconds later, reality returned to the hit man, who gasped, swore, and flung off the bed sheets. His bed clothes were soaked with cold sweat, and as he hurried out of the room to the bathroom, a chill set in, burrowing deep into his bones. He shivered, quickly discarding the soiled clothes and turning on the shower water as hot as it could get without boiling. Only once the hot water was pouring over him did Reborn relax.

Leaning his head against the tiled wall of the shower, he thought. Thought about the people he was forced to live with, about what he had done that day, and what training he needed to do the next, wondering if he should increase the distance of his targets another yard. Thinking was the only thing he could do. Not thinking led to thoughts drifting back. Back to that house, the flames, the blood, and his mother's dying words. He didn't want to remember. The only thing he needed to remember was the eyes and voice of that man. He would kill him. He would avenge his family. He would lay their souls to rest once he put a bullet through that bastard's black heart.

(From the deepest desires often come the deadliest hate. (4))

Thirty minutes later, Reborn left the bathroom, clad in only a towel wrapped snuggly around his waist. He didn't have to worry about upsetting anyone with his otherwise naked appearance. It was too early (or late) for anyone to be up. Only a month had gone by since he was brought to this house in the forest to learn to live with and work with these people. The L'Prescetla Sette, a group of the strongest and best in their field. He was the best hit man in the world. He had to be.

Back in his room, he sat on the window seat, watching the rain fall while water dripped from his hair. He hated rain. He hated lightning. He hated clouds. He hated storms, and the first that rose afterwards. The only thing he liked was the sun, because it was the only thing that gave him warmth as he struggled through life. That and the brilliant blue sky.

His thoughts turned from the rain, and the black hate boiling in his frozen heart to the clear blue eyes that greeted him every morning across the breakfast table, offering a cup of espresso. Luche was perhaps the only one he didn't hate. Because she wasn't annoying. She didn't watch him from high places, or talk to him about pointless things. She offered him coffee (always with a cookie or other treat, which he refused) and during those few times when he had ventured out to sit in the living room and read, she had joined him, in silence, to read. Her smile was refreshing, bright. Like the clear blue sky.

The rain continued to fall, droplets pitter-pattering against the window. The lightning grew less frequent, and the thunder dulled to a soft purr. Reborn noticed none of this. Head resting against the window, hair still dripping, he had fallen asleep where he sat. Soon the moon came out, lighting the world below with a dull glow. With the blue rays of the moon turning his skin white, the many scars on Reborn's body stood out vividly.

(There's no tragedy in life like the death of a child. Things never get back to the way they were. (5))

People passed by the alley without looking into it. It was as if there was a disease you could get from looking into alleyways, so no one looked. No one ever looked. Perhaps there was a disease you would contract from looking past the bright lights of the open streets and into the shadows, where the dregs of society lived. If you did look, really look, than the perfect world you lived in, with its light and joy and warmth would vanish. You life of ignorance would be over. You would see the truth of the world, and its darker secrets.

Only those who know of the secrets, who accept them, not deny them, look into the alley, and even dare to venture into it. As soon as you step from the beaten path of light, you enter the abyss, the dark world, where everyone has a weapon, and if they don't, they die. Where survival is of the fittest, or the cleverest. The greatest sins of the world are so common in this world where little light reaches. And people wonder why ignorance is bliss.

From a small shelter build of wooden crates and a metal trashcan lid, a young boy looked out at the world. A gun was held loosely in his right hand, eyes rimmed with black watching everything carefully. Everyone in the neighborhood knew not to come near him. He'd already shot three men who thought a little boy would make for a nice plaything. Anyone else who came within ten feet of him found themselves looking down the barrel of his gun, finger itching to pull the trigger. Even the other street rats avoided him. The one and only attempt to get him into one of the groups of children ended in disaster.

The Sun reached high noon. The streets were packed now. Standing slowly, the kid slipped his gun into a holster he had stolen, and vanished into the massive crowd. Everyone was too busy getting to where they needed to be to notice a boy, not even in his teens, with ragged clothes hanging off his skeletal frame. His skin was so caked with grim and filth he looked much darker than natural Italian olive skin tone he should have had.

Long, spindly fingers slipped in and out of pockets and purses, pulling from them wallets, and change purses. The money vanished from them, leaving behind only the container, which the owners would find later. Sixteen victims later, the lad dropped one last wallet and slid into an alleyway. Back in his little home, he counted up his day's taking. Enough money to buy several magazines of bullets, and food for a week.

Most worried about food, shelter, and clothes. He didn't. As long as he had his gun, he could get anything he wanted. The clothes he wore were fine. And despite how cold it got at night, there was always a warmth inside of him that kept him from freezing to death even with just a thin blanket over him. In his little shelter, he needed nothing more, except for people to leave him alone.

The sky darkened. All too soon it was night. Rising from his 'home' boy went in search of his informant. The man was old, half blind, but he heard everything that happened, both underground and above ground. He was also the one who sold him the food and bullets.

"What have you got for me?" He demanded voice hard and cold. No child should have such a voice, but the child in him died when his family was murdered.

The man grinned, showing a mouth half empty of teeth. "What's ya got fer me?"

He handed over the money.

"Ahh…in that case…there's a rumor goin' 'round. 'Bout a assassin in black. He comes 'nd goes. Seen recently." Pulling out three magazines and a bag of food, the old man handed both to the kid, who snatched them up quickly. He had turned to leave when the old man called out, "Price of bullets is rising. Won't be able ta keep getting' ya any with the money ya bring me."

He turned, scowling. "Well what else do you expect me to do?" Despite several years on the street, his speech was still that of his former life, leading many to question his origins.

The old man pointed at the gun concealed by the ragged jacket. "Plenty a people pay big money ta kill those they dun like. Ya good at shooting ain't ya?"

He nodded.

"I'll put ya in touch then."

He left. Back 'home' he laid there, drifting to sleep despite his mind telling him to stay on alert for predators. The night was cold. Even with his inner flame, he began to shiver, thinking of the warmth he could have had if not for that night.

(Without a family, man, alone in the world, trembles with the cold. (6))

The knocking would have been annoying any other time. It was made just that much more annoying, not to mention painful, by the violent headache that had reduced him to a mentally moaning wreck. It felt like pair of elephants was doing the sombrero hat dance in his head, maracas and trumpeting included. But the knocking wouldn't stop, so Reborn peeled himself away from the window, winching as joints creaked, and his back revolted from the odd position he had slept in. "What?" His voice came out as a crock. A bolt of white lightning danced across his throat.

"Reborn? It is breakfast time. Everyone is waiting." Luche. Of course.

"Coming." He got up, and dressed. His body moved sluggishly. His head pounded worse with every sudden move. By the time he got downstairs, the world was swaying back and forth.

Everyone was already at the breakfast table. The two youngest members, Skull and Viper, were arguing over who got the first piece of bacon. Fon, the only other person who wasn't very annoying, was sipping his tea. Lal was downing her cup of coffee, and Verde was looking over some papers. At the other end of the table, Luche sat, waiting for him so everyone could eat. When he sat (a little more heavily than he had meant to) she poured him a cup of espresso. With a grunt of thanks, he drank. The pain didn't go away. He poured himself another cup while everyone else attacked the food. Skull ended up with the first piece of bacon and smugly stuck his tongue out at Viper. Lal smacked him over the head.

The food, usually so appetizing, wasn't this morning. The smell of eggs, bacon, and sausage was actually rather nauseating. He managed a few bites of sausage before pushing away his plate and going for his espresso again. After a third cup, he stopped that too. It wasn't helping at all.

Luche and Fon kept casting him looks all through breakfast, though neither said anything. When breakfast finally ended he got up and left.

"Reborn," called Fon casually. "Would you like some tea? It is very delicious."

Reborn paused, thought, then hesitantly nodded. "Sure, have Luche bring it to my room."

Once the hit man was out of eyesight, Skull sighed dramatically. "You two are lucky. Reborn hates me."

"Reborn doesn't hate you," Luche assured him. "He's just…shy."

On the staircase, said man scowled. He was not shy. He just hated stupid people.

Luche continued. "Just wait a little longer. He'll open up to you sooner or later."

"You're just good at getting people to open up to you," Skull commented.

A laugh. "No, I've only just gotten him to start, start opening up to me."

"…"

"That made no sense."

The door cut off the talk from downstairs. With a groan, Reborn fell onto his bed. He was out like a light the moment his head hit the pillow.

(He who fights with monsters might take care lest he thereby become a monster. And if you gaze for long into an abyss, the abyss gazes also into you. (7))

"Good job kid, you've done well."

He looked up at the man behind the desk. He was fat, with a tailored suit, no hair, and a big cigar clenched between yellowing teeth. His three chins wobbled when he chuckled, looking at the pictures the kid had brought him as proof of the kill. It had been four years now. Four years since he started his job as a hit man. At first it had been hard, sneaking it, or waiting atop buildings and in tight spaces for hours at a time. Following, learning, strategizing. The four years he spent on the streets hadn't been for naught. Now fourteen, he was quickly become the top hit man in Sicily. The old man was still his main contact with the clients. Whenever he would appear to drop off the proof, the people thought he was the old man's grandkid, or just a runner. The rumors were the new hit man in Sicily was a tall man with a fedora that had a yellow stripe and a black suit that was never stained.

The only truth was about his outfit, though it often did get stained with blood… and guts. And lots of other things. He'd collected more scars during his four years as a hit man than the four years on the streets. Still, the worst scar, the one that the old man's daughter always commented on when she treated his wounds, was the one that went down his left arm, a twisted scar half burned, half slash. Caused by a falling piece of wood with a nail in it as he ran from his old home. Of course, he didn't tell her that.

"Tell our boy that I'll call when I need his services again." An envelope was handed to him. He took it and left without another word.

"You're going to kill yourself," the old man's daughter murmured as she wrapped up his chest. She offered him a comforting smile as she put antibiotics on the cut. He flinched and looked away. Her eyes were hazel, not black, but the same warmth was there. The same kindness. He didn't want to be reminded of what he had lost. "There we go." She put down the lotion and started bandaging him up. "Now, just rest tomorrow, okay?"

"I do not need you telling me what I should do," he snapped.

"Of course." She finished working in silence. Getting up, she took the supplies and left without a word.

He lay down, winching as pain raced across his ribs. One day he'd manage a job without getting hurt. Or even coming close. Perhaps he should increase the difficulty on the obstacle course he made.

The teen drifted off imagining what other tortures he could put himself through.

(Monsters are real, and ghosts are real too. They live inside us, and sometimes, they win (8))

The dream came fast and hard, like always. The laughter, the fire, his mother rising from the lake of blood. But this time it was worse. His father, sightless white eyes gaping at him, fingers reaching. He wanted his gun back. He didn't want a monster to have a gun he got for a wedding present.

"I am not a monster!" he exclaimed, backing away from his parents' corpses. "I am not! I am not!"

"Killer!"

"Monster!"

"Foul spawn of my flesh!"

"I am going to avenge you!" he shrieked, becoming hysterical. "I am going to find the one who killed you and avenge you!"

"Murderer!"

"Monster!"

"Do you even know the reason you are killing these people?" A softer voice asked. He whipped around and fought back a scream. Before his stood a beautiful young girl. She looked at him, her blond hair done up in coiled curls like springs. They fell in disarray, falling over half her face. From the hidden side, blood dripped out. The rest of her, the nightgown she wore, was bloody and torn. She looked at him with one wide round eye, such a pale blue it was almost white. "Why are you killing them? Did they threaten someone's family?"

"I…I do not know…" He gulped, trying to swallow the nausea. His cousin, the only other relative he had aside from his parents. She had lived with them after her own parents died.

She tilted her head to the other side. The curls fell away. This time he really did scream. The left side of her face was completely devoid of skin. Blood seeped out from the muscles, her eye unnaturally wide and round looking without the eyelid or surrounding skin. When she opened her mouth, the muscles contracted, spraying more blood. "Then you are a monster, to kill and not know why."

"No! I am not a monster! I am not! I'm not! I'm not!"

"Well you certainly are not who you used to be."

With that they all vanished. He sat there, terrified. He didn't want to be alone. Even if they were yelling at him, calling him names, as long as they were there! Being alone was much worse. He couldn't think straight! The silence was horrible!

Something reached out of the blackness and grabbed his wrist. A body pulled itself forward and grinned at him. It was the first man he'd ever killed, the one who thought he looked like a nice pleasure thing. "Hello little boy, remember me? We're going to have a great time."

(There is no refuge from memory and remorse in this world. The spirits of our foolish deeds haunt us, with or without repentance (9))

The clink of a tray being set down woke him. Reborn looked around, startled. Luche gave him an odd look, before indicating the tea tray. "Tea. Make sure to drink it all. And I know you do not enjoy sweets, but please, some lemon and honey will help your throat. You sound awful."

"I assure you, I am not sick," he said.

"Of course not, you just are not feeling your best right now." Snatching his fedora from the floor where it had fallen, she put it on the bedside table. "Rest. Please." She left because he could snap.

Luche was right. He disliked sweet things quite a bit. He had spent over eight years without having access to sweets. Now that made him sick more than anything. But as he drank the tea with a few drops of honey and lemon (no sugar), he accepted that it wasn't so bad. The honey naturally sweetened the tea without giving it that disgusting sugary flavor that everyone else seemed to need. Obediently, he drank all the tea and changed into a pair of sweats and a muscle shirt. After a trip to the bathroom, he returned to his room and gratefully fell back asleep. The tea might have helped his throat and stomach but it sure as hell didn't help his headache.

(There is no lasting hope in violence, only temporary relief from hopelessness. (10))

How many had he killed? Two hundred? Three hundred? A thousand? He'd lost count a long time ago. He kept no mementos, no souvenirs of his kills, so he had no way to count. The kills had begun to blend together far too long ago. He got calls, he killed. The only difference was he asked why now. What did the guy do? Why did he need to die?

He's a threat to my Family. He murdered my daughter. He broke the code. He's a traitor. A number of things were the acceptable answer, but no longer did he do it simply because "he got in the way" or "I don't like him." Doing that made the nightmares lessen. But they never went away. Why wouldn't they go away? Is it because he hadn't killed the one responsible for his family's deaths? He couldn't find the bastard. He had searched everywhere! Followed every rumor, but at the end of the day, he was never there!

He scowled and punched the stone wall. It cracked. Another dead end! Why!? Why was the world denying him his right to revenge?! To justice?!

Furious, he walked on through the ruins of the church and finally out into the forest. It had been the bastards hide-out! He had found things that belonged to him! A knife identical to the one that killed his family! But it was all covered over with a layer of dust. Another dead end.

Tree branches and brambles grabbed at him and his clothes. He ignored them. Let them tear his skin up. Let them rip his body to pieces! At least then it would match his heart! With a savage roar, he slammed his fist into a tree. It splintered, then broke. With an almighty crash, the hit the forest floor, sending everything from foliage to bugs spraying everywhere.

His heart stopped.

There, with plant life cling to every surface like a second skin, was the skeletal remains of what must have once been a very beautiful house. Wooden beams, black from a great fire, stood eerily in the clearing, attached to nothing but the ground.

He approached slowly, though there was no change in his usual, confident stride. Reaching the edge of the clearing he hesitated. Something didn't feel right. Something was wrong. But what? There was no one near here. He couldn't sense anyone so what was wrong?

The forest vanished. Stumbling at the sudden disorientation, he found himself at the center of the burnt down house. Swear words escaped his mouth. He started running. This wasn't real. It was a nightmare. He just had to get out of here, everything would be okay once he got out.

He had just reached the edge of the house when things flipped and he was running into it instead of out. He turned and tried again only to have the same results. "Let me go!"

It felt like someone had pulled the rug from under his feet. One second he was standing, ready to fight, the next he was falling…and falling…and falling.

"Mamma!"

""G…o…w…ay…as…t…"

"Remember son, hold the grip tight, aim, and shot. Do not close one eye. Keep both eyes open."

"____ there you are! Aunty and I baked some chocolate cake. Would you care to try some?"

"Oh, such a pretty child. Boy, want to play a game?"

"I've got a job fer ya."

"Good job kid."

"'The past is our definition. We may strive with good reason to escape it, or to escape what is bad in it. But we will escape it only by adding something better to it.'(11)Remember that my young friend. You must find something good to balance out the bad."

"There is nothing good enough to balance out what I suffered."

"Watch out!"

"A meeting for the greatest of their kind. You've been chosen. If you chose not to attend, you won't be the best anymore."

"Reborn…"

"GET OUT OF MY HEAD!"

"Cookie?"

"Reborn."

"I do not like sweets."

"Reborn."

"Mamma…"

"Reborn." The voice, gentle and warm, familiar, called his name again. A cool hand rested against his burning brow.

"Ngh…" Eyelids opened slowly, and closed all too quickly when the light proved painful. The hand disappeared from his forehead followed by the muffled sound of footsteps. A few seconds later, the curtains were closed and the painful light was vanquished. The hand returned to his forehead, than his cheek and followed by his neck.

"You have quite a fever," Luche told him. "What in the world did you do to get it?"

It was a rhetorical question, so he felt no need to grace her with an answer. Instead he asked, "What…" he gulped, throat stinging painfully. "What time is it?"

"Four in the afternoon. The others are out. Lal and Verde on a mission and Fon took Viper and Skull out at my request. So it is just you and me in the house today." Her smile grew.

"Why?"

"Well I was hoping you could tell me that." She dipped a cloth in ice water and set it on his forehead.

He glared at her and sat up. "I am not a child; I do not need to be taken care of." The world tilted to the side. Hands grabbed him, and gently guided him back against the pillows.

"Of course, of course. How could I ever mistaken you for a bratty child who pretends everything is perfectly fine and he is a big strong man who needs no help." His glare intensified. "Of course, a grown man would never be caught dead crying out in the middle of the night, now would he?"

It had taken years of practice, but Reborn had eventually learned only to show three emotions, neutral, the glare of anger/hatred, and confidence. So his surprise and horror didn't show on his face. However, Luche saw it in his eyes, the way the pupils dilated, and his lips thinned just a little. He said nothing.

"Of course, I suppose crying is hardly the correct term. But you were certainly talking in a distressed way," she admitted.

Still nothing.

"Well if you have no desire to speak about it, I will not force you. However, if you do. I shall be here." And she sat in a chair pulled up next to the bed. Grabbing a book, she sat back to read.

Reborn determined it was best to ignore her. Sooner or later she would leave. Just like they all did.

(Our life is made by the death of others (12))

Screaming, crying, shrieking, and howling. It all rang in his ears even as he pressed his hands against the sensitive organs. It never stopped. It would never stop. Not until he killed the intruder. Not until he got his revenge, his justice.

The noise level increased. He clenched his jaw, struggling not to cry out. It hurt. It hurt. Ithurtithurtithurt! Too loud, too much. He couldn't think, he could barely breathe! Wind whipped around him, swirling, snatching at his clothes and pulling at his hair. He dare not open his eyes for he knew what he would see. The decomposing faces of those he'd killed, or the three he let die. They never left him. They never stopped chasing him, torturing him, haunting him. He couldn't go back and fix anything so why did they do this to him? If the intruder had never killed his family, this never would have happened! Why did his family have to die? Why were they all killed so viciously and he was left alive? Why? It didn't make sense. WHY!? No matter how many people he threatened, blackmailed, how much information he gathered, nothing told him why his life had been torn apart when he was only six!

It's not fair…

(There is a sacredness in tears. They are not the mark of weakness but of power. They are messengers of overwhelming grief and of unspeakable love (13))

Someone was screaming. He didn't know who he just wished they would shut up. It kept him from thinking straight and he couldn't figure out why someone was holding him down.

"Reborn! Calm down!"

Luche's voice sounded in his ear. Opening his eyes, Reborn realized it was he who was screaming. He snapping his jaw shut and looked away. He was the greatest hit man of the time. This was absolutely ridiculous. Worse, it was embarrassing!

"'The basis of shame is not some personal mistake of ours, but that this humiliation is seen by everyone (13).'" Luche quoted. "Luckily, it is just me here, and I will not tell a soul." She put a finger to her lips and winked.

"…"

"…"

"It is not fair," Reborn stated abruptly.

"Life never is, but tell me why you think so."

For a moment, Reborn thought to tell her exactly what he thought, not about why life isn't fair but about her. Her nosing into his business, taking care of him when he didn't ask for it. She was an enigma that despite his amazing abilities to read people, he could not read her. Luche, the sky, remained as unreachable, and as mysterious as the meaning of life.

The impulse died away when he looked into her eyes. Beautiful blue eyes, so blue it appeared as though the very sky was carried within them. The smile was so reminiscent of another female with blue eyes the crude words turned to ash on his tongue. Swallowing, he began to talk.

They always say it's good to talk about the things that haunt you, like nightmares. Getting them out and letting another person share in the information helps to lessen the burden on your own soul. So he told her. Everything. Anytime he stopped, because any normal person would be sick and disgusted by what he had just said, she simply nodded, and gave him an encouraging smile. He must have talked for hours before finally ending his long sad tale. When he finished they sat in silence, the sun looking over at the covered window, vaguely curious. Had the true sun set yet?

Without warning, arms wrapped around him and to his horror he felt something wet fell against his shoulder. "What are you doing? Why are you crying?"

"Because you refuse to," Luche whispered, hugging him tighter. Her shoulders began to shake. Awkwardly, Reborn put his arms around her. He hadn't hugged anyone since times long since passed. In that time, Reborn had forgotten how nice they felt…it still felt incredibly awkward to hug anyone after so much time of avoiding bodily contact (except for when he was having sex. Hey, he was a healthy, young man, who liked to have sex every now and then.)

Time stretched onward. They stayed like that. When the sobs finally died down, and Luche still hadn't released her hold on him, Reborn thought she had fallen asleep. Closer inspection proved him correct. With a sigh, he pulled her all the way onto the bed and laid her down. After a moment's hesitation, he once more closed his eyes. All too soon, he was fast asleep. Luche smirked and hugged the hit man closer. Sometimes a hug was really all someone needed.

(Family is a heaven in a heartless world. (14))

"Reborn and Luche, sitting in a tree. K-I-S-S-I-N-G…" sang Skull childishly as he danced just out of reach of the hit man.

Reborn gave their youngest member a deadpan look. "Kid, I assure you, we do more than kiss."

Viper scowled, and Lal looked away, blushing furiously. Skull covered his eyes and had a mini mental break down while Verde pretended to vomit. They all stood or sat (or hovered) in a hospital room in Sicily, run by Luche's Family.

"All that aside," Fon said to save the group some face in front of the hospital staff, all of whom were chuckling. "What is the child's name to be?"

"Aria," Luche told them all, "Because she will be the new sky, with new air opened to all."

"Fitting," Fon agreed, smiling his usual smile.

They all fussed over the newborn, Skull clamoring to hold her, Reborn kicking him away when he got annoying, Verde examining her with his eyes. ("If you even think of experimenting on her they will never find your body.") Lal ended up being the first besides the parents to hold the new addition to their strange Family, much to her discomfort. ("Imagining what it will be like once you and your student hook up? What was his name? Nello something?" "Shove it Reborn.") Skull finally got his turn and rather excitedly telling her all about what he'd teach her. All about motorcycles, and music, and mechanics. ("If you teach her a single stunt…" "D-d-don't threaten me Reborn-sempai!" "Both of you, no fighting.") Fon simply smiled down at Aria who looked up at him sleepily and made a weird gurgling sound. When it was Viper's turn, she turned brick red and mumbled something under her breath. It apparently pleased the baby, for Aria reached up and placed her hand over one of the markings on the teen's face before yawning and promptly falling asleep.

"They certainly are an odd family," one of the nurses said to another as she watched the group of people coo and chatter quietly over the baby.

The doctor chuckled. "You have no idea."

Later that week, everyone in the household got a lovely view of Reborn's scars as he came downstairs without a shirt on, a crying baby in his arms. "Luche, she…"

"Jesus Reborn! Put a shirt on!"

"Whoa…where'd you get all those scars?" Skull inquired, staring in awed fascination at the collection of pink scar tissue against Reborn's ivory skin.

Reborn glanced down at himself before saying honestly, "Life. Luche, she refuses to stop crying. I think she needs changing."

"Oh for the love of, change her then!...and put on a shirt, only I get to see you without it."

Skull and Viper both gagged. The more mature members simply rolled their eyes and went about their business like usual.

Yami: Okay, quotes outta the way.

The quote from the summery - Kahlil Gibran

1-Rose Kennedy

2-Emily Dickinson

3-Dr. R. Joseph

4-Socrates

5-President Dwight Eisenhower

6-Andre Maurois

7-Friedrich Nietzsche

8-Stephen King

9-Gilbert Parker

10-Kingman Brewster, Jr.

11-Wendell Berry

12-Leonardo da Vinci

13-Milan Kundera

14-Washington Irving

Yami: I was watching Criminal Minds the previous night as I muled over this story, and then Reed said the first quote in the story and I said...I wanna use that. And that's how the story really actually got written. On a side note, I like quotes XD

So, my reasoning... I took one psy 101 class, but I've always had a rather fairly useful gift for undestanding (not empathy sadly) others. So to continue from the last story.

Reborn: His personality in the flashbacks. He's strong, and even when he has his arms crossed defensively, he still has a much stronger aura than the others. His mannerism suggests that he was actually orginally from a well to do family, and when he was young he suffered a hardship that forced him to grow up very quickly. His cold exterior is most likely a protective mechanism the brain does. Keep others out so there is no more pain. That gives more to suggest there was something painful in the past, a betrayal, a death. He is also the type of person who would rise from the bottom up, and do it fast, effectively, and efficently. It also explains his social awkwardness when we first saw him dealing with Luche. I don't care what you all say, he was shy and nervous. Tugging at his sideburns was probably a nervous tick. Everyone has one. Those like him do not show weakness, and to have it shown, being sick, is not good. It makes them edgy, uncomfortable, and more prone to panic, especially if one has a fever. So despite the OOCness Reborn's actions and reactions were reasonable by my reasoning. FEAR MY REASONING!

R&R

(And lets hope I offically got all the mistakes this time -hits self repeatedly-)