Bakura took the stairs two at a time until he reached the top of the platform where Malik sat sprawled in the Pharaoh's throne, a smirk on his face and the Rod resting against his lips. He laughed as he brushed his jacket off, putting a hand on his hip.
"You look content," he commented, grinning at Malik.
Malik shrugged, but the smirk stayed in place as he let his hand hang over the side of the throne, the Rod clanging against it. "I'm enjoying the moment. It's not every day you overthrow a king. I deserve it after all the work I've put in."
Bakura chuckled. "That won't do, Malik. Where you're sitting is my spot."
Malik's violet eyes were trained on his.
"You heard me right," he continued, approaching Malik and leaning down until their faces were close enough that he could feel Malik's breath on his chin. "Besides, you seem to have overlooked the work that everyone else has done."
He gestured down at the court where their men were dragging away the bloodied bodies of priests and nobles, hacking off hands and throwing them into a pile for the scribes to tally later. To his amusement, Malik looked back at him with a frown. Bakura stumbled a bit as he was shoved backwards, and again as Malik stood, grabbed the front of his jacket and pushed him into the now vacant throne.
"Rough treatment, after all I've done for you?" Bakura laughed again. "That's cold, even for you."
Malik had stashed the Rod away somewhere, for he threw the crook and flail of the former Pharaoh into Bakura's lap. "Keep my seat warm for me, Thief King."