One thing I do dislike in Thiefshipping fanfics (that aren't 'I have my own body' or 'Holy shit host stop shipping us' AUs) is when Ryou is straight up forgotten, or only referenced in passing as existing. Like I get that that's IC for both Bakura and Malik in some respects, but I always did wonder how Ryou felt about that whole arrangement. Not happy, I'd imagine.

Violence warning, specifically asphyxiation, as well as dysfunctional relationships. Takes place... uh... in that Thiefshipping bubble where they tend to take place, I guess. Certainly not during Battle City though.

Unbeta'd, make my mistakes roll in (probably OOC) salt.

Malik doesn't realize it's not another nightmare until Bakura fails to materialize next to him, cold and dead at the hands of Malik's darker side. It's just him and the host in the near pitch black room, just barely illuminated by a street light through the cheap curtains. Bakura had distracted him from the dark when they first fell into bed but now he desperately wishes he'd at least flicked on a lamp.

The host's face is blank but not lifeless and he doesn't react to Malik's nails digging bloody tracks into his arms or his legs kicking out, which grow weaker every second until he can barely lift them.

A lesser nightmare of his had been that Bakura would turn on him eventually but it's the host who's hands are pressing down on his throat, his vision growing blurred and blackened at the edges while his lungs burn.

Then the host's eyes narrow, his body shuddering just a little before Bakura snaps into control. The horror he catches a glimpse of on Bakura's face just before everything goes dark is more of a relief than it should be.

He gasps as he jolts back into awareness, still on the bed, a freezing towel draped around his neck like one of those airplane pillows. The lights are on too; Bakura must've done that because the host just tried to kill him and there's no way he'd offer Malik that kind of courtesy. His body's still wracked with adrenaline and his skin glistens with sweat, so he can't have been out for long.

The host just tried to kill him.

Malik stays still for a few moments, treasuring each deep breath even as his mind tries and fails to make sense of it. Bakura had never been too complimentary towards him - too soft, too gentle - and Malik simply took his word for granted. The host had seemed rather pathetic the few times he'd been around, easily pushed around out of his own body and to the back of both his and Bakura's concern. He'd always assumed the host simply couldn't muster up the will to fight back.

Evidently, not the case. But before he can think about that anymore something shatters in the kitchen, followed by that quiet hissing of garbled ancient Egyptian and modern Japanese swearing that he's come to associate with Bakura. Standing up leaves him a little light headed and the weight of the towel nearly has him off-balance but he manages to make it to the door, across the host's apartment and into the kitchen. It hurts to move his neck, go fucking figure, so he has to turn his whole body to see what's going on.

Bakura's glaring as he sweeps up the remains of a shattered cup, like it's the pharaoh's fault it couldn't survive a fight foot drop from the cupboard to the floor, while a kettle bubbles away in the corner. Then he catches sight of Malik and he fucking flinches, like he's surprised to see him still here and not hitching a ride to the nearest hotel.

"I was making coffee," he eventually mutters, eyes locked on Malik's neck. "How..."

Malik's skin is tender as he gently prods it and it only hurts to talk a little. "Fine, I think. It's not swelling too much."

"Good."

There's only awkward silence from Bakura then, like he didn't mean to say that as he fetches a new cup. There's already one on the counter with a tea bag string hanging over the edge and Malik only drinks coffee, so it must be his.

"So," Malik says as they wait for the kettle to finish. "What the hell is wrong with your host?"

Bakura opens his mouth, then closes it again. A little like a gaping fish, or a dog who's not sure if they did the right thing or not. He's looking anywhere but at Malik now.

"I'll have a word with him."

"Host."

A few minutes pass before Ryou emerges, leaning on the frame of the door to his soul room. "You called, darling?"

"What?"

People always assume that he's the actor, but it's Ryou who knows how to fake everything being alright - he's just stolen that ability, like everything else. Even this time, he greets Bakura with an apologetic smile like he wasn't already on the attack.

If Bakura thought Ryou was as innocent as they both pretended he was, if he hadn't just tried to kill Malik, he might've actually believed Ryou as he said, "Oh, sorry. I figured you'd be okay with a nickname since you and Malik were getting so lovey-dovey out there. Is Malik the only person allowed to call you that?"

Their relationship isn't 'lovey-dovey' in the slightest, it's acid as they kiss and bruised thighs and scraped knees as they fuck pressed up against some grungy back alley wall, but his face flares anyway. Ryou's face doesn't change but Bakura feels like he's lost that round.

"He doesn't call me anything."

Especially not darling. He wouldn't ever think of Bakura in such gentle terms.

"Liar; he calls you 'god' when he's inside you. Or inside me, when you think about it."

Ah. That's it. The fact that this body isn't his body isn't something Bakura thinks about too much.

"You hate Malik."

Ryou makes a vague gesture as he shakes his head, his voice light and playful. "I pity him really; his first love is truly nothing but trouble."

Bakura rolls his eyes in response and Ryou continues. "Not as much as I pity you though. Physically speaking, it doesn't surprise me; three thousand years alone and I'd roll over like a dog for the first person who wasn't entirely repulsed by me too -"

"Watch it, host."

"- but I didn't think you'd be so upset at the thought of his death as well. You've got it bad."

"I don't give a damn about that tomb keeper."

"You're right. He's sealed your fate now that the pharaoh's seen his back. I'd hate him too."

He has, hasn't he? Malik's destiny was always to restore the pharaoh's soul. Logically, for Bakura that would mean his end. It's a betrayal, the thought of which he should be used to by now.

But the thought of hating Malik for anything other than pulling his hair too hard then not hard enough, for putting his stupid cold hands on his back in the mornings or dragging him out on his motorcycle at some ghastly hour...

He notices Ryou taking control again a moment too late as he comes face to face with the slamming door of his own soul room.

"Hello, Malik."

He freezes in place and he knows he shouldn't have. "Bakura's host..."

"My name's Ryou, if you don't mind. Oh, he's already made a kettle. Milk, sugar?"

He doesn't answer and the host shrugs. "Have it your way."

Picking up both cups, he sits down at the table opposite Malik and takes a sip from his (Bakura's) like he's not sat with someone he just tried to strangle barely ten minutes ago.

It's strange, being afraid of someone who looks like Bakura. But then, for everyone else it's probably the opposite way around.

"What were you testing?"

"Bakura, actually. He's confirmed a few things for me, so I'd count it as a success. Sorry to drag you into this, it's really nothing personal. I'd do the same to anyone in your position."

"Why?"

The host looks down, his hair falling over his face and when he speaks again Malik can see his fists clench at his sides. "He wants to destroy everything, you know. But he always seems to forget that that includes you too. I wonder... Is he really that naive to think he'll be able to save you, if he wins? Or that he'll be spared when he loses?"

He suddenly shudders, the same way he did when Bakura took over before. But this time, he smiles as he looks back up at Malik. "If you really love Bakura, you'll make sure he won't miss you when you're gone. And if he loves you, he'd be wise to do the same. You'll both be better off for it."

Then he's gone and it's Bakura sat before him, frantic as he looks around for what can only be Malik. He hates the brief flash of relief in Bakura's eyes as he sees him alive and well and judging by how quickly it vanishes and his face hardens, he's willing to be that Bakura feels the same.

They don't say a word to each other for the rest of the night. Malik watches his untouched coffee cool and Bakura stares at a thick scar on his hand.