The second fic in my "Human Becoming" series, an AU wherein Atem chose to remain behind with Yuugi after losing the ceremonial duel-but in doing so, he unknowingly damned the fragmented soul of the thief king to remain behind as well. It's recommended that one read the first fic, "Not All That Men Desire", before reading this instalment, but it can be read as a stand-alone.

Please enjoy! This is an interesting pairing to write for, so hopefully I can do it justice, and please excuse any typos. I tried to weed them all out.

Justice in Blood

Waking to Bakura's terrifying memories was something Marik was becoming readily accustomed to. It was not, however, the thrashing of the other man beside him that pulled him from sleep, nor was it a particularly loud shout or cry in the otherwise silent room. No, instead it was always, without hesitation, the unnatural stillness and silence of his companion, which never failed to rouse Marik from even the deepest of sleeps. Bakura was never still in sleep for long periods of time unless there was something wrong. Otherwise, he was always shifting or moving, something that had, at first, driven Marik to near insomnia before he found he had grown accustomed to it. Now it was when Bakura was still that he could not sleep, because he knew…

Well, he knew too much. There was nothing else to say.

Sleep still pushing at the edges of his vision, Marik groggily sat up, trying to clear his head before he glanced beside him, where Bakura lay eerily still, not unlike some creepy porcelain doll. His hair was covering portions of his face, and with a sigh, Marik carefully cleared them, waiting for Bakura to rouse, as he always did. The former thief may have been trapped in memories that were not quite his, but he always responded to touch. It was uncanny.

Sure enough, Bakura's eyes snapped open, and Marik was just glad he hadn't freaked out this time and tried to fight before he realised who it was. It was, admittedly, more rare these days for Bakura to pull violently out of his memories, but it did happen on occasion, as Marik's bursts of temper did.

Despite his repentance in Kaiba's little tournament, it was still—hard. There were times when he detested the pharaoh so strongly that he was sure his heart would burst from his chest cavity and devour the man whole, and there were times where he wished that would happen—times when Bakura would frown at him and shove him lightly into the nearest chair, telling him to breathe, but that was only when the silver-haired man didn't immediately get angry as well, muttering plans about how he would place the pharaoh's organs in canopic jars after tearing them out with his bare hands.

Though doubtless calming Marik was never Bakura's intention when he spoke such things, they did anyway. He would use the moments of clarity to bring himself back to the present, to firmly remind himself that he was free, that the items were gone. He could leave the tombs now, without having to hide. He could make a life.

Even with the memories carved onto his back.

"The hell are you thinking about?" Bakura asked moodily, and Marik smirked, returning his attention to the thief.

"Nothing. Were they better this time?"

Bakura's silence answered the question, and Marik smiled sadly, sighing.

They had declined Yuugi's offer to stay in their house, citing that the hotel they had checked into was more than sufficient, but both Marik and Yuugi had known that the real reason Marik had refused was because of Bakura and the pharaoh, who had only eyed each other with mixtures of distrust and wariness (the pharaoh) and hatred and contempt (Bakura) since being placed in the same room. The hotel room they were in now was small, but, as they didn't spend much time there, it worked for them, and there was some comfort to be had in the fact that Ishizu was roomed nearby, even if Odion had opted to stay behind in Egypt.

"Stupid pharaoh," Bakura grumbled then, rolling over slightly, facing away from Marik. The Egyptian frowned.

"You need to tell him, Bakura," he said wearily, and wasn't at all surprised with Bakura's swift reaction. Doubtless Marik would have found himself pinned to the mattress, the thief looming angrily over him had he still been lying down. Instead, Bakura turned sharply to face him, lifting himself on his right arm as he scowled blackly, muttering something under his breath. The refusal was clear on his face, and Marik had to suppress another sigh as he leaned against the headboard of the bed, drawing one knee up to his chest as he returned Bakura's glare.

"The pharaoh's not exactly on my list of top ten individuals, either," Marik said, a sullen note entering his voice, "but for god's sake, Bakura, he doesn't even know! He thinks this is all because you're still bitter about Kul Elna—" and Marik felt a flash of regret as he saw the shadowy pain that crossed Bakura's face, grief and anger and hatred warring together as a result of memories that belonged to him, and yet did not "—and the fact that you lost the duel."

Bakura's eyes sparked angrily at him, and he opened his mouth to speak, but Marik continued, eyes narrowing in determination.

"He needs to know."

"Why, so he and his snivelling little friends can titter pityingly at me over their teacups?" Bakura spat, prompting Marik to reach out and rest a hand against the man's pale upper arm. He was gratified that Bakura didn't pull away from the touch, though he did stiffen, and a wary light entered his eyes, warring with the frustration.

"Because you want to tell him."

Bakura went completely still at that, and Marik felt a jolt of worry run through him as the thief's chest stilled as well, no breath leaving or entering his body for too long a time before he abruptly exhaled and sat up, scowling darkly at the window that lay across from the foot of their bed.

"Stupid fucking Pharaoh," Bakura hissed lowly, resting his head on his drawn up knee even as Marik shifted, angling his body towards the thief, a frown present on his face. "He didn't even think—and now I'm stuck here, with these god-forsaken memories that are mine and not mine and he gets to frown at me and act like he has the right to them!"

Marik extended an arm, wrapping his fingers around the base of Bakura's skull as he absently drew the thief's head towards him and kissed his forehead. To his surprise, Bakura allowed it, and when Marik withdrew his hand he felt Bakura grab his wrist, his grip tight, almost to the point to bruising.

"Sometimes I see Kul Elna die," Bakura growled, his head still bowed, and Marik moved so that he was on his knees, facing the thief. "And they're my eyes, but they're not, and I still feel so fucking angry, and I want to find the pharaoh and wring his neck because it doesn't even matter if he wasn't responsible, he still reaped the rewards, as always. His little soldiers, his little kingly pawns, just waltzed right in and slaughtered them all for the glory of the king; everything for their precious pharaoh, spoon-fed life from the bones of the dead. His soldiers don't wear armour anymore, but they'd go to hell and back for him—your family did."

It was Marik's turn to stiffen as Bakura's free hand moved to rest on his back, fingers splaying across the scars that had been carved into his skin, detailing the memories the pharaoh had craved, and that he had been unwillingly sworn to guard. Slowly, he lowered his head, letting out a jagged breath. He felt a twinge of irritation at Bakura's comment, but the man was right, and the evidence of that was permanently etched into his very skin.

"Justice in blood. It's how the monarchy works, however unwittingly. Tell him what he did," Marik said, and though his voice was soft, almost a whisper, it was also firm. "Just tell him. It might take some of the wind out of their sails, if nothing else."

Bakura's fingers curled into a cage, but with a visible effort he made them relax again, and in the silence Marik let himself slide back under the covers, dislodging Bakura's hand as he flipped onto his stomach, his head partially buried in a pillow. He could feel fatigue creeping up on him again, and somewhere in the room bright red numbers flashed 4:41, even as Bakura's hand slowly returned to his back, carefully tracing the hieroglyphs. Justice in blood, both that of Marik's family and the village of thieves that had been wiped out thousands of years ago.

"Your dissociative personality. You never remembered anything he did, did you." It wasn't a question, and Marik cracked one eye open, instantly feeling the tension in the room dissolve, much to his amusement.

"I don't remember skinning my father, if that's what you mean."

There was a certain degree of oddity, speaking so calmly about such a gruesome act, but coming to terms with his alternate personality had been one of the first things Marik had done upon his return to Egypt, desperate to prove to Ishizu and Odion that he was still worthy of their love, his affection for them like an overwhelming blow to the stomach. He still felt hot flashes of anger when he thought of the pain his father had put both him and Odion through, but there was no danger of those terrifying blackouts, and of returning to himself only to find he did not remember the actions others had claimed he did. The hatred never went away, but he dealt, and he had willingly lead the pharaoh and his friends to the place of the pharaoh's final duel with his reincarnation, narrowly escaping, as they all had, the destruction of the tomb as the pharaoh made his decision—dragging Bakura with him, whose soul hadn't been completely destroyed, as they had all thought.

Bakura snorted somewhere above him, the hand on his back stilling.

"And I don't want to remember," Marik continued. "I still hate that man, but I'd rather not have to see his death throes in my dreams."

The thief's laugh was cruel and quick, but Marik only smirked at it. He knew Bakura was skirting the issue once more, but then again, he had never really expected the former thief to launch into his inner turmoil like a good like psychiatrist patient. Bakura was the type to let things out in short bursts, revealing the whole truth only when it suited him, and for a moment Marik was reminded of their alliance, back when Zorc's soul and that of the once-Thief King had been mixed, before Zorc had been destroyed, leaving Bakura with part of the thief's soul and part of something unknown.

"Lucky."

It was Marik's turn to snort, the sound slightly muffled by the pillow, but he turned a baneful eye on Bakura, relaxed by the easy words that were now passing between them.

"I suppose. We're all just a bunch of merry murderers, it seems."

"Yes, we're just so damn cheerful all the time," Bakura retorted roughly, but his hand grasped Marik's shoulder as he spoke, prompting the tomb keeper to roll onto his back, one eyebrow raised in amusement as Bakura moved to hover over him.

"Attractively broody murderers, then," Marik said, not without amusement.

Bakura looked unimpressed. "Only to you."

Marik smirked, but did not deny it. He did, however, sober up his expression, which caused Bakura to eye him carefully.

"You will tell the pharaoh, though. I don't give a damn if you tell his friends, but he needs to know, if only so he doesn't look confused when I glare at him," Marik said, and when Bakura sighed, he knew that the pale man was at least considering it. He did not say anything, though, instead choosing to brush his lips against Marik's nose before he flopped back onto his side in a manner that should have been awkward and choppy, but instead looked almost feline in its grace. He did not move from the position he had fallen in, and Marik allowed his mind to drift back into darkness.

Ten minutes later, when he felt Bakura shift closer to him, one arm moving to encircle his waist, he allowed himself a small smile. He said nothing, and neither did Bakura, but there was no need for spoken sentimentalities, and Marik surrendered himself to images of crumbling tombs and a golden ring, and the thief that had thought to possess them all.