:3 This pic won an award from:

And behold, 22 year old Yami from History of Magic. Turned out rather gangly-lookin'. Must be left over CLAMP influence.
Yep, I left out the Puzzle again. Damn gaudy thing... **curses**

Done for all those people who seem to like Yami's hair down. O.o

And yes, I've included a spoiler. I know I shouldn't. I know you guys are gonna yell me, but here it is anyway. **cowers** (And yeah, when I say spoiler, this time I... kinda sorta mean it).

Bakura: **snorts** Way to sound confident.

---

Yami felt the familiar tilt of Shadows and forced himself out of slumber just in time to feel someone brush tears off his cheeks.

Tears? he thought with alarm, and someone to witness them?

He jerked his head away, searching through his memories for an explaination...

...Yugi had cried himself to sleep.

Che.

The spirit exhaled heavily, one arm thrown over his eyes. His hikari was collecting scars on his soul.

Yugi was his aibou, his partner, and that implied a certain measure of equality. He had long since determined to let Yugi live his life, knowing that his own had ended over 5000 years ago. That meant letting the teen-turned-man make his own decisions.

But someone had made his hikari weep.

And someone was going to pay.

Yami clenched his fists, anger bubbling under the surface, but forced himself to relax when the stinging on his left palm was accompanied by warm, coppery wetness.

Bleeding.

Again.

The ex-pharaoh pushed himself up on his elbows and looked around, ignoring the sandy grit in his eyes.

On the coffee table was a tray of bread and broth, compliments, if the fading trails of Shadow magic was any indication, of his Dark Magician Girl.

The spirit sighed. Wonderful, he thought with wry resignation, They'll be even more protective now than ever.

Shaking his head, he reached under the bed and pulled out the first aid kit, digging for a new set of bandages. Carefully peeling away his old ones, Yami flexed his hands. They were healing nicely with the aid of his magic. Almost entirely whole again, in fact... with just one exception.

Yami chuckled darkly.

Simon, my friend, it seems that you named me more appropriately than you know.

Where his left hand had pressed against the Potter boy's forehead, a distinctive wound had etched itself into his palm.

Weeping liquid crimson, the King of Games now sported a distinctive red lightning bolt scar.

---

O.o o.O O.o

Hrrrmmm... I have to rephrase that last sentence. I think the modifier's attached to the wrong subject...

**dives under her bed with her dust bunnies** Now please don't send the demonic vacuum cleaners after me? **sweating**

Dustbunny: Squee?