***I wasn't planning on posting anything for Valentine's Day, but there's like no Thiefshipping on the "just-in" page, and that's not cool. I feel like the Thiefshippers need to represent. C'mon guys, stop being lazy and start writing :)

Now, SuperSteffy is working on a really good Abridged fic that's for Valentine's Day, but it might be a little late (but keep your eyes opened for that because it's a good story), but until then, tide yourselves over with this.

Sorry, it's not beta'ed. I'm impulse posting again. I intend to add to this story a little bit, but not any time soon because I just wrote this for myself because the zombie story I'm working on has too much plot and it was giving me a headache. But, I think this serves close enough as a one shot to go ahead and post it anyway.***

There was nothing.

That wasn't true.

There was pain, and cold, and a sense of panic, but Bakura had learned how to curl into the back of his mind and ignore the torment.

He thought of Marik.

Marik must have done the exact same as a child, trapped underground, bound, being carved alive . . . being carved alive . . . nowhere to go but his own mind. And the experience split the tomb-keeper in half. Bakura wondered if, he too, would split apart. Perhaps he would shatter, one-hundred Bakuras each as sharp, damaged, and unlucky as the fragments of a broken mirror littering the floor.

Because he curled into the deepest corner of his consciousness, Bakura didn't recognize the transition from dark to wet – both chilled him. Then he sucked in water instead of air. Instinct moved his body; he sat up, sputtering for air and shaking.

"It's okay," a voice said, and two hands held Bakura's chest. "It's okay. You're safe."

Marik's words sounded like a lie, but his voice did not. Bakura ripped his eyes opened, wanting to see Marik's face. Instead he saw light, and he cringed away from the brightness.

"Stop. Calm down. You'll hurt yourself."

Bakura swatted at the hands, but he didn't have enough strength to resist them. They pulled Bakura away from the cold water and wrapped something soft around his shoulders. He blinked his eyes, adjusting to the painful light. Bakura realized he stood in a bathroom, specifically in a bathtub filled with cold water.

"Am I alive?" he asked.

"Yes. It wasn't easy, but I had a lot of help." Marik helped Bakura step out of the frigid water, wrapping another towel around him. "Sorry it's so cold, the magic sucked the heat out of the water."

Bakura stood, quiet and shaking, trying to process that he lived. He caught his reflection in the mirror. "Why do I look like Ryou?"

"I tried to bring you back as you were," Marik said. "I used sand from Kul Elna, and Rishid managed to find what remained of the red cloak, but . . ." Marik shrugged. He wore an odd smile on his face. Bakura couldn't read it very well. Then again, he couldn't think very well, either.

Marik worked on drying Bakura's shivering body; a strange gentleness accompanied his actions. "Ryou donated some of his hair for the spell – because you two were joined together through the Ring it was the only thing I could think that would work. That might be why you look like him."

"What spell?" Bakura asked. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew he shouldn't stand there naked while Marik fussed over drying his body, but everything confused him and he couldn't move.

"Ishizu gave it to me." Marik smiled again, and it confused the hell out of Bakura. "I thought people would try to stop me – when I told them I wanted to find a way to bring you back – but everyone helped instead. They think . . . maybe . . ." Marik's gaze shifted to the floor. "There's more to you than what you showed people, more than a vengeful spirit."

Bakura didn't understand a word Marik said. Dizziness swept over Bakura, and he felt himself fall. Marik caught him, lifting him up with his strong, copper arms.

"Stay with me, Bakura. Bakura? Keep your eyes open."

Bakura registered being carried, and being laid down on a large bed. He noted the soft, warm feel of the comforter below him, and the softer, warmer feel of Marik's skin, but he couldn't process the information correctly. "I want to sleep."

"Not yet." Marik's voice sounded concerned. "You have to stay awake. You have to make sure that your soul bonds with the body the spell created. The cloak was the only thing from your past that we found that would work. Do you understand, Bakura? This is the only chance I have to bring you back. Stay with me. I swear to the gods you better not die in my arms, Bakura."

He gave Marik a weak snort to dismiss the notion of dying. Then again . . . his breathing felt light and shallow, and the dizziness refused to leave. He was going to float above his body and then spiral out into space, into another cold, black void that would swallow him.

Two warm hands held his face. Marik loomed above him, screaming. "Come on, you stupid bastard! You've never given up on anything! Don't start now – fight it! Stay with me!"

Bakura blinked back awake; he stared at Marik. He'd always considered Marik attractive, but he never had time to appreciate it. Marik's hair and earthy shoulders were like the light of god spilling over a mountain range at dawn. Bakura found himself reaching up and drawing his fingers through that divine gold.

Marik gasped, closing his eyes for half a second. The reaction made Bakura smile, made him feel a little more anchored to the world. He reached up again and brushed the pads of his new, white fingers down the contour of Marik's high cheek bone.

"Bakura," Marik whispered. He dropped down, his lips ghosting across Bakura's mouth.

Bakura sucked in a sharp breath. It felt like his first real breath. Marik kissed him a second time. Bakura needed more than the light brushes of their lips. He twined his fingers into Marik's hair, dragging him closer still and pushing their mouths hard against each other. Bakura lost control of himself. He acted on instinct, grabbing and clawing at Marik's shoulders, tasting Marik's lips, tongue, and throat.

Marik panted, his breath throbbed just below the skin of his throat, and Bakura felt it against his tongue. He sucked at Marik's skin, trying to reach that breath, that life, so close to Bakura's mouth. Marik called out, and the sound of his voice made Bakura's heart beat hard enough for Bakura to notice it for the first time.

He was alive.

Marik had brought him back to life.

Bakura's fingers tugged at the black, sleeveless shirt that served as a barrier between their bodies. Marik grabbed the hem, stripping the cloth away in a strong, single motion. The heat from Marik's chest settled across Bakura's body and warmth replaced the cold inside him.

His fingers mapped out all the curves and lines of Marik's chest. Before he knew what he did, Bakura found himself tracing the ridged scar tissue on Marik's back. A shocked noise burst from Marik. Bakura pulled his hands away at the sound of it, but Marik grabbed Bakura's wrist and returned Bakura's hand to the scars on Marik's back. Bakura scrambled out from beneath Marik, pressing the other male down on his stomach. He ran both hands down Marik's back, fascinated by the contrast of their skin tones. He kissed Marik's scars, starting at the bottom and working his way up until he reached the wings on Marik's shoulders.

Marik called out and writhed below Bakura's body as Bakura lavished Marik's back with kiss after reverent kiss. When finished, Bakura flipped Marik onto his back, so he could taste his lips again. Marik worked the button loose from his jeans and tore the zipper down. He bucked his hips up in order to slide his pants off of his body. Now each bare inch of Bakura's body was met with an equally bare inch of Marik's body with no cloth to diminish the experience. They rolled against each other, and Bakura savored each second of contact.

Marik flipped Bakura back onto the mattress, once again reversing their positions. He showered Bakura's chest with light bites. His fingers rubbed Bakura's small, firm nipples. Bakura grabbed Marik's hips, pushing up, needing Marik more at that moment than he'd ever needed vengeance.

"Bakura," Marik gasped out the name that Bakura had stolen, but when Marik said it – Bakura felt like it was truly his. "Maybe . . . maybe we should slow down."

"I'll die without you," Bakura spoke the words before he could think them. He felt alive at the moment, breath strong in his chest, heart ricocheting in his ribcage, but Bakura somehow knew that without Marik's weight bearing down on Bakura's body, Bakura's ba and ka would fly away, lost and unable to unite into an akh.

Marik gave Bakura a soft laugh and a kiss. He reached over to his nightstand, pulling a bottle out of a drawer.

Bakura felt the cold gel against his skin, but Marik's fingers warmed the lubrication up a moment later. Bakura squirmed as Marik prepped him, wanting more than the small touches. When Marik entered him, he groaned. Bakura wrapped his arms around Marik's neck and wrapped his legs around Marik's back, keeping their bodies pressed as close together as possible.

Marik pushed in and pulled away, his expression lost in rapture. Content, euphoric moans echoed in Bakura's ears. Bakura kept his eyes opened. He wanted to watch Marik's face as they moved and sweated together. Time didn't matter, and Bakura couldn't guess how long the the sweet, yearning rhythm of their bodies continued to go back and forth, but after awhile, Marik slipped his hand between their bodies and started to stroke Bakura. Mere minutes after Bakura felt Marik's touch, he came with Marik's name honey-thick on his tongue. Afterward, Bakura held Marik tighter until the former tomb-keeper shook, and called out, and settled on top of Bakura's chest.

"Can I sleep now?" Bakura teased.

Marik watched Bakura's face. "How do you feel?"

"Drunk."

"Do you feel light-headed? Or dizzy? Half here?"

"Not anymore," Bakura confessed.

Marik released a relieved sigh. "Welcome back, Bakura."

Bakura started awake, looking around and trying to gather his bearings. He lay in a bed, both a blanket and Marik half draped over Bakura's pale body. On each side of them sat a nightstand, and on each stand sat a small lamp that gave the room a soft, ambient glow.

Bakura untangled himself from Marik's arms and slipped out of bed. He felt sticky and sore as he walked around the room. Outside the bedroom window, the world looked dark, and the city street below looked crowded. Bakura blinked at the street for a minute before he realized he recognized the street – they were in Domino City, not Luxor. He let go of the curtain and searched the rest of the apartment. Bakura noticed the small, one bedroom apartment had either a light, or night light in every area, and the small, multiple light sources made Bakura's shadow fan out and multiply against the wall.

Bakura checked the refrigerator. He drank some orange juice straight from the carton and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Once Bakura knew the layout of the apartment, he crashed on the couch and fell back asleep.

He awoke to Marik shaking him.

"Go away." Bakura swatted at Marik and turned so that he faced the sofa cushions.

"Why are you on the couch?" Marik asked.

Bakura half-thought of the question, his mind still a touch fuzzy from resurrecting. "I'm a grown man, perfectly capable of sleeping by myself."

"Oh," Marik said, his voice flat. "Guess that makes sense."

A pause stretched out in the room, long enough for Bakura to start dozing again before Marik's voice interrupted him. "Do you remember last night?"

"Marik, I'm sleeping."

"You can sleep all day if you want. Answer my question."

Bakura rolled on his back, looking up at Marik's face. Flashes of memory ignited in Bakura's thoughts. Marik, holier than the sun, grander than Ra, pressing hard and fast into Bakura's body. Bakura felt his face flush at the memory. He felt vulnerable, so Bakura shoved his face back in the couch cushions. "You pulled me from the Shadows."

"Yeah."

"Why?"

"Because . . ." Marik cleared his throat. "Because . . . because we wanted to give you a second chance."

"We?"

"Yeah . . . we. Ishizu, Rishid, Ryou, me, we all helped."

Bakura frowned, peeking over his shoulder. "Why?"

"I already told you," Marik snapped.

"That seems . . . a waste of magic."

"It was our magic to waste." Marik crossed his arms over his chest. "Show a little gratitude, asshole."

"Fine. Whatever. Thanks."

Bakura opened his mouth again, to say more, to say all the things he felt, but it was too much, so he clamped his lips shut and closed his eyes again.

Marik huffed, forfeiting and walking away. "And don't leave the juice on the counter. I didn't bring you back to be your maid."

"Then why did you bring me back!" Bakura screamed the question, so loud that he jerked at the sound of his own voice. He only had a side glance of Marik, but he saw the shock on the tomb-keeper's face.

"I told you," Marik whispered.

"Yeah, a so-called second chance. Why?"

Marik shrugged. "Never gave you the Rod like I promised. Consider this your consolation prize. I'd offer the secret on my back as well, but . . ." Marik stormed off until all Bakura could see were the sofa cushions, but he still heard Marik's voice. "Guess you got all you needed out of my back last night."

Then he was gone, leaving Bakura naked and curled into the couch as if to shield himself. Bakura kept touching his lips, tracing the soft skin and remembering how he kissed each scar, and kissed Marik's mouth afterward. Bakura's thighs tensed, ready to spring up and chase after the other male, but Bakura's fingers dug into the couch cushions to keep him in place.

That's how he fell asleep, exhausted and confused. He woke up when something landed on him. Bakura sat up. "What's this?"

"Clothes. They're mine, but they'll have to do while we go shopping."

Bakura tossed on the black t-shirt, for something to wear, for some sort of protection. "Don't bother, I'll just—"

"Steal something?" Marik finished Bakura's sentence and then sat down on the coffee table, looking at the former thief. "No, Bakura. Remember? This is suppose to be a chance for you not to be a thief. We're going shopping and buying clothes like everyone else does."

"I don't want to owe you anything." Bakura gritted his teeth, hands fisting around the pair of khakis Marik had dropped on him.

A sad look fluttered across Marik's eyes. He looked away to hide the expression. "You don't owe me anything. As far as I'm concerned – we're still partners."

"Partners for what? There's no more Pharaoh. I lost my last chance to get vengeance." Bakura couldn't stand being naked at that moment. He stood up and slipped the pants over his lower half, needing the clothing. He felt better dressed.

"Look." The sadness returned to Marik's face. "Back then . . . when I needed help – you helped me. Let me even the score, okay?"

"Is that all this is? You evening the score?"

"Would you like it to be more?"

Of course he did.

"I'd like for you to quit playing games and just tell me where I stand, Ishtar."

Marik's golden eyebrows furrowed. "You tell me."

Bakura dropped back down to the sofa. His legs couldn't support his weight any longer. "I'm tired."

"The more you use your new body, the better you'll feel. The spell said it could take a few days for the soul to completely settle in after the initial bonding."

A crooked smile marred Bakura's face. "Use my body? I wouldn't mind using it some more."

Marik returned Bakura's smile. "So you do remember last night?"

Bakura thought a moment before answering the question. "Vaguely."

He remembered everything, but he couldn't tell Marik how much he'd needed the tomb-keeper the night before. He'd seem too weak. He used to be strong, with the Ring, when hate drove him like a whip, but now the Pharaoh was gone, and Bakura felt far too weak without his hatred to fuel him.

Bakura added, "I remember enough to know that you're a good lay."

"It was easy . . ." his voice dropped to a soft volume, "with you."

Bakura stared at his knees. "Well . . . we always did make a good pair, didn't we?"

Marik rested his hand on Bakura's knee. "What do you want, Bakura?"

He jerked at the question. "What do you mean?"

"You're alive, and there's no Pharaoh to chase after. What do you want?"

The room spun; Bakura closed his eyes. "I don't know. I – I want . . ."

To kiss you.

"To sleep. I just want to sleep. I'm tired."

Marik shook his head. "Food will help, and moving. You can't just sleep. I told you, you need to get used to this body."

Bakura jabbed at his stomach, the black t-shirt hung loose around his midsection. "Stupid, scrawny body."

Marik grinned. "You look good in it."

Bakura tried standing up again, rolling his eyes. "Don't patronize me."

"I'm not nice enough to patronize you."

Bakura's stomach rumbled loudly. He pressed his hands on his stomach as if that could mute the noise. For some reason, the very physical, very human, bodily reaction made him feel ridiculous. He'd been above such things, as a spirit in the Ring.

"You need food. Let's go."

Marik's shoes were too big, more so than the clothes, but Bakura had no choice but to plod along in them while they went somewhere to eat. The closest place was a Western-style hamburger restaurant. It was the sort of place teenagers liked to hang out at, but the smell of food lured Bakura through the doors and to the front counter. He ordered three hamburgers, rare, no fries, and a chocolate malt. Bakura normally didn't care for dessert, but his body craved the sugar as well as the meat.

At the table, Marik kept an amused look on his face.

"What?" Bakura snapped.

"I've never watched you eat before. You have the grace of a starved dog."

Bakura wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

Marik rolled his eyes and handed him a paper napkin. "Here."

Bakura stared at it. He gave up and used it to dry the blood off of his lips and wrist.

"Not to say you don't pull it off well." Marik nibbled on his french fries as he considered Bakura.

"Pull off what?" Bakura only half-listened. The second hamburger tasted better than the first.

"The starved dog look. It's rather appealing on you."

Bakura grunted as he ignored Marik, shoveling the rest of the burger into his mouth. The third hamburger tasted better than the first two, and the shake completed the meal.

When they returned home, Marik lead Bakura to the back room. He stepped into his closet, sliding hangers around to give Bakura some closet space.

Bakura frowned. "Why are we sharing a closet?"

"Because it's a one bedroom apartment," Marik answered.

"But it will be inconvenient to come in here for clothes if I sleep on the couch."

"Then don't sleep on the couch."

"I . . . I'd rather sleep on the couch."

Marik glared at Bakura. The pale purple of his eyes reminded Bakura of ice and flames at the same time. "Bakura?" Marik asked. "Do you regret last night?"

Regret it? It had been the only beautiful experience Bakura had ever had in three thousand years. Marik had brought Bakura back to life more than any spell ever could. It had been so real, and pure, and complete, that Bakura felt his hands tremble at the mere memory of it, but all he could do was shake his head and mutter "no" while hoping Marik didn't notice that Bakura trembled.

"Then what's your problem?"

"Nothing," Bakura snapped, balling his hands into fists and storming out of the closet. "I just need a little space, Ishtar." He escaped from the room and down the hall, but he didn't know what to do with himself. He ended up in the kitchen, slumped into a wooden chair and drinking juice from the carton again.

A minute later, Marik appeared. He scowled at Bakura, taking a glass from the cupboard and slamming it onto the table.

"That's too small," Bakura murmured into the carton before taking another swig.

"It's a juice glass."

Bakura shook his head no. "It's too small."

"So, what? Now you're just going to sit there and drink all my juice?"

Bakura nodded his head yes and stole another drink from the carton.

Marik opened his mouth to yell, then stopped. "Wait, are you doing this to be an asshole, or are you still hungry?"

"I'm not . . . hungry." Bakura thought of Marik's question, wanting to know the answer himself. "Shit, I don't know what's wrong with me. I just want sugar, okay?"

"Oh." Marik sat down across from Bakura.

The kitchen was a small square, enough room for appliances and the table but nothing else. It didn't bother Bakura, however, to be snugged up in a small space with Marik. In fact, Bakura didn't want to admit how much he liked the feeling.

Marik rested his cheek in his hand, considering Bakura again. "It makes sense. You need the simple carbohydrates."

"How does that make sense?" Bakura paid more attention to Marik's lips than his words.

"Energy, Bakura. Your body is new and it needs quick energy while it's adjusting."

"Oh," Bakura said, setting the empty carton down next to the unused juice glass. "I hope you didn't want any, because I really did drink it all."

A small smile teased the corner of Marik's mouth. "I'll give you some money to go to the store tomorrow."

Bakura smirked. "Do you really trust me? I might go and dice it away."

"Like you'd lose in a dice game." Marik stood up. "And yes, I really trust you. You're the only person, besides my siblings, that I've ever trusted."

The words made Bakura look away, staring at the juice glass instead of the golden haired beauty only a table's length away from him. "Marik?"

"What?"

"I do . . . appreciate it, you know – you bringing me back."

Marik shrugged. "What are partners for?"

***And thanks to Supersteffy and Revengineer for leaving corrections in the reviews :) ***