WARNINGS/NOTES: Religious, implied murders and deaths, creepy and violent content, mild sexual content, hints of domestic violence. Trigger warnings for fire victims. In other words, everything expected of this pairing. Dollshipping (Yami no Bakura x Dark Necrofear). Set in perhaps Victorian or Elizabethan England? (I'm pre-medical, I don't know history.)
For DarkShdowRose1. I hope ths does your headcanon justice.
Leviticus
Show your wounds, I'm bored with mine.
His last host was an ancient woman in a nursing home, and he cursed the Gods every second he spent with her. The Ring, needless to say, always ended up in a variety of places, some more sanitary than others. Ra, it was a nightmare. He barely possessed her body, because it was simply useless, though the few times he did the extent of his actions only went so far as to frighten the nurses and earn himself a good laugh.
So it must have been a reward that the mortician found the Ring and decided to keep it.
He seemed to be the most perfect host Bakura could have ever asked for. Male, young, educated, and most importantly, he lived alone. A handsome young man, with white hair (like all his hosts) and blue eyes. Of course, Bakura never really did much with his hosts; until someone solved the Millennium Puzzle, Bakura really couldn't do much, so he mostly passed the time observing mortals and possessing them for him impulsive urges and curiosities. Learning how to use a rifle, playing Devil's Advocate in political discussions with drunk men, randomly possessing his hosts and making completely out-of-character remarks for them just to confuse everyone else… yes, they were entertaining, but he had lived long enough. It had been thousands of years and at least the Gods gave him a variety of hosts to entertain him with but… he was looking forward to defeating the Pharaoh and finally dying.
Of course, he would never admit his deathwish, even to himself, but perhaps this is where his current host came in ,and why he took over this one more than he had with his previous ones. He was a mortician, a man whose job was to prepare bodies and direct funerals. He dealt with death every day. Bakura would have much rather been involved in the embalming process, but after watching his host, he eventually began to entertain himself by actually running some of the funerals. (Of course he rigged them sometimes if he particularly disliked the family, to have the coffin open and the corpse to spring up or something of the nature.) It was almost masochistic, something he wished for and was so close to but couldn't reach. But he couldn't get away.
His current client is a young woman, not much younger than his host. Her skin is pale, dark red curls framing her delicate heart-shaped face. Her movements are feline and cryptic; gold eyes flickering like fire. She has come to bury her husband, though she catches Bakura completely off-guard, because she's not in tears or even close. Rather, she seems a bit disdainful.
"So sorry about your loss," drawls Bakura like a broken record. "And what, may I ask, happened here?"
She fixes her hair (and he sees the blue paint on her hands, all the way up to her forearms and staining her sleeves), a little out of nervousness. "Poor man overdosed on some medication. Tragic."
"Quite," sneers Bakura. He's been alive long enough; he sees right through her. He decides, automatically, he rather likes her. Of course, this implies he'd like to push her buttons further. It's what he does to new toys, and that's what everything is to him. He takes measurements of the embalmed body. "So tell me dear," he continues, looking at her while he works. "What exactly did he overdose on?"
"Sleeping medication," she says automatically. "He had a business meeting and wanted to be well-rested, but he took too many." She dramatically raises a blue hand to her forehead. "I always told him to be careful! And this meeting was so important…"
Quite the actress, thinks Bakura. And a good planner, believable story. What an entertaining young woman. I like her.
"You poor thing." The sarcasm is barely evident, barely, and she may or may not pick it up, depending if she knows that Bakura knows, and he can't tell, but takes the liberty of stopping his measurements, holding the meterstick in one hand and taking her paint-stained hand in his other (he notices her bones are swollen, the sure sign of someone who uses her hands a lot, or premature arthritis) and kisses it gently, almost mockingly.
He decides he likes her much better when she doesn't react physically.
"You are kind, sir," she says softly, perhaps not referring to the case of her dead husband at all but maybe for his civil interaction, who knows. "It was rather sudden, but his family –well, that includes me, I guess—believe he deserves a respectable and timely funeral. I do trust that is possible."
"Of course," he grins. "You came to the right man."
She clasps her hands together and nods respectfully. "I thank you for your services."
"You are welcome, dear. But it's a shame to be widowed at such a young age." When she doesn't show any sign of emotion, he continues to push. "So tell me, how do you feel?"
"Feel? Sad, of course. I try not to show it."
"No, that's not what I mean." His grin goes darker as he pushes into personal territory, hoping to make the stoic woman flustered. "You know the property rights of the Book of Leviticus. A girl belongs to her father from birth, and when she marries, she belongs to her husband. Your husband is dead. Does this mean you are dead as well? Or are you free?"
It's at that question that their spirits click. It has something to do with the Gods, but their eyes just lock in a different way, there's something much more personal in the way she smirks and says, "they are one and the same, no?" She's not dead by the law, not by any means. If anything, having no children, she should be set to marry her husband's brother, if he has one. But she doesn't want to; she's had enough. She's tired of being property, and to her, her husband's death brings freedom. And if as a woman she is not property, if she rebels against the submission that is expected and dictated then perhaps she has found the freedom only attainable in death, and perhaps, therefore, she is dead.
It's at that point that Bakura decides he'd like to explore this young woman, explore her as opposed to manipulate her. She may be mortal, but she understands. "They are exactly the same," he agrees. "Sometimes we live because we have the gift. Sometimes we live because we have no other choice."
She nods solemnly. "You must think about these things all the time; you work with death so often. Does it drive you mad?"
"Madness is relative," chuckles Bakura. "But as long as it fuels one, what is wrong with madness? What is your profession, dear?"
"I am a dollmaker," she says, not with pride as much as identity. "You work with the dead, and I work with the not-quite-living." She laughs softly. "Speaking of which, I must get back to work. Thank you again."
Parting words are exchanged, secret glances exchanged (not bedroom eyes, but just.. glances), and she leaves in perfect posture. When she opens the door and steps back, her hair shifts so slightly behind her and he sees a bruise near her shoulderblade, one she couldn't cover with makeup.
Bakura decides not to rig this funeral. He knows this woman will be held accountable for everything, as it was the husband's family who threw the responsibility on her shoulders. Like him, they are very unforgiving people, and Bakura is not exactly a sympathetic person, but on his scale of hatred, he hates them much more than he hates the woman. He won't give them the satisfaction of criticizing her.
She doesn't wear a corset to the funeral, he suspects, by the way her bust sinks into her dress instead of protruding like all the other women. The paint on her hands has been poorly scrubbed off, but at least the black dress doesn't carry any stains. He think he rather likes her in black, but then again, he always wears black as a mortician. It's become his favorite color.
The process goes smoothly, words are spoken and tears are shed, of course from his mother and father, insolent blubbering aristocratic fools with egos undeserved. His wife, the slender young feline woman with golden eyes, speaks her words, giving him no more credit than she need include. Parades in, parades out, homilies to a God he doesn't believe in… he's so used to it.
After the whole thing is over, he hears the man's parents talking to the young woman. Who wouldn't, with the tone of their voices? He's always hated the aristocrats, and these are no exception.
"You are a disgrace!" hisses the woman. "I never liked you from the start, and now my poor baby is dead because you couldn't take care of him!"
"And to think I liked you!" roars the father. "You're worthless! Just you wait, we will have the bank repossess your pathetic doll shop-"
"You will do no such thing," she growls fiercely. "I owe you nothing. You lay one finger on my dolls and you will rue the day you were born."
Bakura finds this incredibly entertaining, as he's always had an affinity for conflict. Especially when someone stands up to the people who were born into their riches and didn't have to fight for them, like he did.
"Is that a threat?" asks the father, raising his eyebrow. "You're in no position to be making threats, young woman."
"Remember the property laws of Leviticus!" The mother wags her finger in the woman's face. "You belonged to him, and he is gone of your own fault. Who will marry a tainted girl now? You're dead to the world!"
"No," says the woman, smiling darkly, fists clenched. "I am free. With his death, I am released from the laws of marriage, and I am free to remarry as I please." With that, she turns on her heel, leaving them stunned that someone would even talk back to them, and marches back into the funeral parlor to gather her belongings and formally say her farewell and thanks to the mortician.
She stoops down to pick up her purse. "You're a fighter," laughs Bakura darkly, amused. She looks at him in surprise, as she hadn't heard him entering. "Tell me, how long have they been tormenting you?"
"You weren't supposed to see that," she says quickly. "Anyways, thank you for your services and I wish you the best."
"That's it, then," chuckles Bakura shamelessly. "You'll go back to your life and I'll never see you again."
"Why, did you want to see me again?' she asks suspiciously. "I'm really not that interesting of a woman."
"You're an interesting person," whispers Bakura, pressing one hand on her waist and bringing her towards him, his lips very close to her ear. "I know more than you think I do. I like a fighter."
She doesn't feel comfortable being touched, not yet, but doesn't move. She's stronger than that, but she still looks at him fearfully, because what if he knows? She could go to prison or be executed!
"I want to see your dolls," he continues, sliding his hand to the small of her back. "I've shown you my end of death. I want to see the not-yet-alive."
"Not-quite-alive," she corrects him, trying not to lean into his manipulatively gentle touch.
It's odd, walking down the street with him; they look just like a couple, but her heart is completely locked at the moment. His has worn out. And yet, they walk together, neither smiling, rarely talking, but something about each other's presence is comforting. Bakura never took the presence of another human being seriously, as they were all ephemeral, and he never chose to get attached, but for the time being, he'll enjoy this unusual person. As for her, she thinks, as long as she keeps her guard up, she'll be fine.
She unlocks the door to the shop (Victoria's Dolls, it says on the outside), and they step in. It's not a large shop, but it is exquisitely decorated. He can tell she's put her whole heart and soul into it. Most of the dolls are standard, skin colored with frilly dresses and hair, while others are… not. Some are painted off colors, broken or mutilated, one with an axe through its head, another grotesquely cut in half. Some of the dolls are made with extra body parts, or misplaced ones…
"And what is this?" he asks, as he sees her current creation. It's a life-sized art mannequin, being painted in… blue?
"This is me," she says calmly.
"Blue?"
"The color of skin at night. I am nocturnal by nature, though society does not allow me to function as such. It is not finished yet."
"And when will it be done?" asks Bakura out of pure curiosity.
"I am not sure," she replies nonchalantly. "I change it as inspiration strikes." She hands him a porcelain teacup and sets one on her desk. Hospitality. "Tea? Citrus." He nods, and she pours it. It's a deep red color, like her hair, like blood. He takes a sip before setting it down. He's never liked tea, to be honest, he just puts up with it for the façade.
"Victoria, is it?" he asks. He should know her name, she's his client but he never remembered his client's names just through business.
"Yes. But if you're going to address me on a first-name basis, then I shall address you as Edgar." The alto of her voice is punctuated by the clink of her teacup against the glass case next to her desk.
"I don't care what you call me," shrugs Bakura, because none of them are his name.
It's all entertainment for Bakura. That's all it is. Entertainment. Because sometimes life is uneventful, so he stops by Victoria's little shop more and more frequently, more and more intrigued by the grotesque dolls.
"Do they ever sell?" he asks her. "These morbid dolls."
"Rarely," she answers, not looking up from the small doll she is painting. "But I like to make them. They deter my … violent tendencies."
"Is that so?" ruminates Bakura, not seeing any violence in her as her hand delicately paints a green eye on this child-sized doll. "Pretty girls shouldn't have violent tendencies."
"Is that a compliment?"
"Perhaps."
She blows on the doll. "Finished." And with that, she takes a hammer and smashes its head.
She plays his mind games. He likes it; it makes life so much more entertaining. This woman, who is both dead and free, she doesn't give in easily to his manipulations. It's almost gotten to the point of seduction. Perhaps that's further that it was ever meant to be, but things happen. Her eyes flicker with each subtle touch, kiss on the hand, touch on the shoulder, finger under her jawbone… it's almost healing, these soft touches. Bakura would never consider himself healing, but the circumstance is not something he can control. Maybe it's because all she has known is fighting, and all he knows is manipulation.
"You have a little something there…" purrs Bakura, leaning close to her and wiping paint off her cheek. She doesn't even flinch, and it vexes him. His forehead nearly touches hers and she still doesn't break eye contact. How does she do it, he wonders. Their noses touch, and she still doesn't-oh! was that a slight movement? Eyelashes blinking together, surprisingly. A butterfly kiss, breaths held to see exactly where this little game will go.
There's only one direction to go, and he closes the space between them, pressing his lips to hers. As much as he likes to be in control, it's more entertaining to see where the situation would take itself; gives her the liberty to pull away and won't blame her if she slaps him for it.
Her eyelashes flutter softly and her free arm, the one that isn't occupied with the paintbrush, wraps around his neck and brings him down to her. He feels the edge of her desk jutting into his stomach but doesn't care and tangles his fingers in her hair. She sighs lightly, bringing her other hand to his face and getting paint in his hair and neck. The cold texture of the acrylic shocks him enough to freeze, but he doesn't break away until she does.
"I think…" she whispers, forehead against his, "I am in love with the idea of you."
"That is a very dangerous place to be," he warns her. "You're asking for trouble."
"At least I am aware of the condition of my heart," she says with a smug little smile. "Yours still beats, you need to keep an eye on it."
"This heart is not mine," he says bitterly. "My heart is dead."
"Wouldn't that be nice," she muses. "A dead heart. Dead and free."
He doesn't quite know what gave him the notion that stealing something for her was a good idea. He never stole for anyone but himself, but he figured she would like the ring. It was just a small ring, and his kindness would confuse her.
"Take it," he says gruffly, throwing the embroidered emerald in her face.
"You can't be serious, I'm sure it cost you a fortune. I can't take this." She closes the box and hands it back to him.
"Don't insult me, young woman. Take it!"
"Goodness, you're so upset." She puts the ring on her finger. It's a little big, but she won't complain. She hasn't had a real present in a long time. She wonders why he got it for her, and asks him.
"Thought you would like it," he says humorously.
"It's going to turn my finger green, isn't it?" she tells him suspiciously. "Knowing you."
"Your fingers are so many odd colors, you shouldn't complain."
She laughs softly. "So tell me, how has work been going?"
He sighs and sips his tea, force of habit. "I have to do a funeral with an empty casket. They never found the body."
"Hm." Her eyes flicker unnoticeably, and she goes back to work.
The rain has not stopped, and damn if he's going to walk in it. He's not afraid but his host would catch a cold if anything. He doesn't need a sick host, so he stays in the doll shop. He's taken quite a liking to it, has enjoyed watching Victoria working on the blue doll. Now she measures the doll's legs, taking circumferences and muttering to herself, writing down numbers and that one Greek symbol he never cared to remember (and he's surprised because no woman should understand mathematics, even if it is basic geometry).
She interrupts her work suddenly and looks at him. "It was stolen."
"What?" he nearly chokes on his tea.
"The ring. You stole it."
"What makes you say that?"
"I know where this is from," she says sharply. "And Mulligan always takes the security marker off with pliers and marks his jewelry in the process. There's no marking here, and it's a new design. No one would sell it secondhand. You're a thief, aren't you?"
"That's quite the accusation, coming from a murderer."
The paintbrush falls to the floor and clatters. She tries to form words, and it takes a minute, before she spits out, "you have no right to judge!"
"You called me a thief. I called you a murderer. It's the truth. I'm man enough to admit it."
"Alright," she says bitterly, moving to her desk and getting a new paintbrush. "I admit it. I killed my husband." She opens the drawer and lifts… a gun. Points it at Bakura's head. "And I can't have you telling the police, so you'll have to go next."
How easy would it be for him to just sit back and take it, finally accept death and freedom, at the hands of a beautiful dollmaker? It sounds too good to be true. He could just let her shoot him, and he could finally join the spirits of Kul Elna after spending thousands of years wandering, waiting for someone to solve the Puzzle so he could defeat the Pharaoh. The adrenaline of the situation is almost sexual, Victoria so dominating with her gun, the struggle for power and control, the invasion of privacy that just happened…
No, he thinks. I still have to live.
The Ring glows under his shirt, and the gun locks on itself. Shadow Magic binds her body and renders her voice useless. She loses the grip on the gun and it falls on the glass with an unpleasant noise. "You really think you could kill me?" he sneers. "Mortal woman, you do not know who I am. I am a thief and a stealer of souls, and I have done terrible things in my quest for the Millennium Items. I have been around for thousands of years and I possess an ancient magic powerful enough to destroy mankind if properly unleashed."
She glares at him, only a slight trace of fear in her eyes. Her hand fists itself and the hair on the back of her neck raises. An animalistic response, because she won't go down without a fight. All of a sudden a dark glow appears around her. It catches both of them by surprise.
"A ka?" he gasps. "A rather weak and unused one, but you have a ka."
"What is a ka?" she asks, eyes blazing at him.
"What you just unleashed." He tilts her chin upwards. "We could have some fun together, before I decide what to do with you."
She glares at him, hard.
"No, not like that. I mean, we rob the nobles. Your in-laws. I'll rob them, and afterwards –because I want them alive for the robbery—you kill the Hell out of them. Wouldn't that be fun, dear?"
Her expression eases a little and she nods lightly. He releases the Shadow Magic, and she rubs her sore arms. Not that pain is foreign to her.
The robbery begins uneasily, because of the antagonism, but after he steals what he can, even with the security, and he gets his satisfaction, he feels content. Familiar. Like he's in his body. And then she breaks in and raises Hell and shoots them mercilessly, not in the vitals, but where they're begging for death. And then the headshot. She leaves the bodies to rot.
They leave on foot because a carriage would make too much noise.
Not until they reach the doll shop do they regain their breaths, laughing in adrenaline-induced ecstasy.
"I think I am in love with your violent tendencies," Bakura mocks, leaning in and kissing the corner of her mouth.
"And I am in love with the idea of not Edgar Cunningham the Mortician, but an old spirit as insane as I am." Victoria kisses him back. "What is your name?"
"You may call me Bakura." The name sounds so foreign, because he hasn't used it in years.
"Bakura," she repeats, running a hand over his chest and into his hair. "I like the sound of that."
Later that night he discovers he likes it too, occasionally on her lips, heart slamming against hers in a fury of twisted limbs, because the adrenaline never really went away (dress and suit on the floor in a mess, and he might was well stay for the night.)
She doesn't get emotional, because she's not the type, but the possessive touches are very close to romantic, and it's all new to her and her chest knots up, just a little. All she knows is to fight, and it doesn't seem to apply here.
Perhaps they should rename themselves to Bonnie and Clyde, Bakura thinks, because this has become too much of a habit and the robberies/murders are making the newspapers. (They read them together and laugh at the idiocities of the mortals. He sometimes forgets she is one.)
"Good Lord," he hears Victoria groan. He pulls the blanket of himself. She tries to lace the back of her dress, but it won't work. "Bakura, help me with this?"
He groans as well and gets out of bed, and tries. "It won't close," he says. "There's no way. It's going to rip."
"But I've barely eaten," she tells him. "I've been sick with something, I keep throwing up—" Her eyes widen in horror. "Oh Lord no."
"I've always wanted to repopulate Kul Elna," he muses. Because becoming a father, well, it's entertaining. One more experience to put in his pocket. He decides immediately he'll stick through the pregnancy, even if that means he'll be in control of his host at all times, just for the experience, if nothing else. If not to spend more time arguing with Victoria. She's the most entertaining thing he has at the moment.
The town thinks the child is from her deceased husband.
She lets them believe it.
She knows Bakura is much more of a husband that he ever was, and she knows she's not a whore.
Two of them. Girls. Blonde hair with a slight wave, and they're always laughing. Bakura can sense a light ka in both of them. They rarely cry.
"They're happy because they're dead," she tells Bakura. "Born of a dead mother. They're dead and free."
He watches them grow under the sunlight, and it really is a good experience. He thinks he'll have his host become a parent more often, though it is time-consuming. But he has all the time in the world, he thinks bitterly. Because no one has solved the puzzle. Has anyone even dug it up?
Family, he thinks. It's nice to have one. It's not the family he had in Kul Elna, and there's not the same sense of security with Victoria, but in the end, security is too strange to be comfortable. And the girls, they're so cute and just love him. Look up to him, almost, in a different sense than they look up to their mother. It's a nice feeling. Really nice, actually. He could get lost in it if he doesn't watch himself.
Emily locks arms with Marie, and they spin in circles. Victoria watches them, no less beautiful than before she had them, and Bakura puts a hand on her shoulder. Loves the feel of her skin beneath his fingers, and can't wait until the girls grow up so he can teach them acts of thievery and their mother can teach them how to kill. And paint, maybe.
Lately Victoria's been dabbling in the occult, trying to tap into her unused ka, and the twins have taken a strange liking to it. Bakura caught them trying to summon spirits with an Ouija board she made. "Don't mess with that," he warned them. "It carries curses, you need to be careful."
"We promise," said Emily, just as coy as her mother. Little liar.
The girls are happy, but antagonistic in nature. Like Bakura and Victoria, they stick together, even though they argue. And when a beetle crawls on Emily, Marie pounces on it and kills it in an instant.
"Don't you hurt my sister!" She tells the dead bug.
"Remember that when you're pulling each other's hair," says Victoria, smiling softly. Bakura loves it when she smiles. It's unlike her, but it reminds him of his mother.
"Mommy, where do you go with Mister Bakura at night?" asks Marie. They don't call him Mister Edgar Cunningham because word would spread. No one knows of this Mister Bakura except them.
"Mommy goes to take care of her problems with Mister Bakura," says Victoria in a childish voice, kissing Marie on the head.
"What's your problems?" asks Emily.
"Not now," chides Victoria. "When you're older." She ties identical bows in their hair, and ushers them out the door, to Church, because maybe they'll believe and find some guidance and not have problems like Mommy.
There's something nice about waking up next to Victoria, Bakura notices. He likes his solitude, but he likes her too. She doesn't make him want to be a better person, but helps him unleash his darkness. It's not healthy in the least but he doesn't care. They bring out the worst in each other and they love it. He thinks this is why he keeps her around, why he's so drawn to her. Because she makes him feel comfortable in his own skin. He always was confident, arrogant, but to be validated by another person… Well, it's not something he hates, anyways. And that's saying something.
Her eyes flicker the moment they open, deadly, staring into his red-tinged ones. She never smiles when she wakes up, and neither does he, and neither of them have to pretend they're happy romantic people. They might even be using each other, who knows, but it feels damn good.
He runs a hand over her waist. "You don't need a corset." It's the first thing he has to say, but they're done with formalities.
"Mm..." she sighs in agreement. She's always hated corsets, so constricting. (She'd rather wear pants, men's clothing. So much more functional.)
Victoria knows this time, because she'd been through it the first time and knows well the signs. She can't pretend this baby is from her husband.
She doesn't care what anyone has to say.
Victoria takes the girls to work with Bakura, and they watch the embalming process. They squirm a little, but they both find it so interesting. So unusual for girls; so expected for daughters of those two.
Bakura takes them out to lunch. It's nearing Christmas, and the girls have tried to behave themselves so they can get presents from Santa Claus or whoever the man who sneaks into peoples' houses. It's amusing to watch their behavior as they try not to fight childishly.
"What do you want to do for Christmas?" asks Victoria. "We might as well celebrate. It'll be an excuse to close the shop."
"Whatever you like, dear," shrugs Bakura. "Surprise me." He doesn't care. It's all trivial to him. He never remembers these things anyways, not when he's been alive for five thousand years.
Bakura walks back from work and stops again by the doll shop. Victoria has her hair pulled back, and is finishing up her mannequin. She beckons him to come on in, and he does. He sees an odd design of armor on the blue doll.
"What is it?" he asks.
"Armor. I saw it in a dream. I didn't question it." She takes him by the hand to the basement, eyes lighting up. Their feet pad softly on the worn-out steps, echoing throughout. There's almost an eerie feel to the whole thing, but then again, it is Victoria's doll shop. "Look what I made for the girls." Two life-sized dolls of them, carrying boxes. Identical, one in red and one in blue, hair made of synthetic fiber, probably very expensive. Surely there are more presents in the boxes. "You can't see what's inside before they do. And this-" she shows him an unfinished doll—"will be for the new baby. I'll finish it soon."
"You've stopped making the grotesque dolls, I noticed," he says.
"I have," she agrees. "I don't need to repress my violent tendencies anymore."
"You're welcome," smirks Bakura, snaking his arms around her from behind and breathing in her scent. Turpentine. To thin the paint. He likes it; it's so much more memorable than lavender or vanilla like other girls. "Have I broken you?" he asks. "You don't fight anymore."
"I don't really need to," she answers honestly. "People tend to take the path of least resistance; if they try anything, I fight back and they leave me alone now. It's refreshing but I miss the serious fights. Which is why I have you."
He can't help but wonder what the world has come to, when he's everything a woman wants. He'd never wanted to be, but… he doesn't really mind.
Something went wrong, something went absolutely horribly wrong at the bakery, and Victoria doesn't realize it until she comes out of the basement. Half the block is in flames, and the police officers are in a frenzy. The girls—the girls!
She can't find the girls.
"EMILY! MARIE!" she screams, looking through the store, clutching one hand over the unbornbaby protectively. "WHERE ARE YOU GIRLS? ANSWER ME!" She unhooks her mannequin and slings it over her shoulder.
They're hiding, playing a game.
She throws the dolls around, trying to see where they could possibly be. Runs to the basement and sees that it's already on fire. The girls! They're in there!
One hand against the collapsing foundation, she makes her way down the stairs, feels how hot fire actually is against her skin. Another step. Another. She refuses to scream. She knows what burnt flesh smells like, and it's been smelling strong before she even entered to fire.
She'll save her girls, and the dolls (especially the dolls), if it kills her.
She's already been dead for years.
Bakura stares at the ruins. Most of the dolls are charred to bits, burned beyond recognition. He sees a woman's body, and it must be Victoria's, though he can't tell from the sight of it. And two smaller ones, must be the twins. He holds Victoria's form against himself, unsure of how to feel. He's lost so much to fire. This should feel familiar, feel like nothing new, but… he's grown a little attached to his little family. The second family he's ever had, and the second to be taken from him in fire.
Another error he made in his lifetime. He should learn to be more careful with himself.
All that remains uncannily unharmed, are the blue mannequin and twin dolls, and the incomplete baby doll, though it does have a crack in its head she never got around to fixing.
There's the Ouija board the twins were playing with. It says "DEATH."
It should read "freedom." A freedom they have, but he has not earned yet.
And he takes care of their funeral. He is a mortician, after all. He's the only attendee, but he knows they would like it better that way. There's no point in embalming the bodies, as they are damaged beyond recognition, but he won't leave an empty casket at her grave.
Apparently Kul Elna wasn't good enough for the Gods.
He refuses to weep, because he lost the ability a while ago.
(And retreats into the Ring.)
(Bakura throws his head back and laughs, their cards in his hands, because it's just too perfect, really. He mocks the Gods for an instant. He still keeps his possessions, and they've arrived in the most perfect form. He is the King of Thieves, until the day he earns his death.
He knows they will help him, will fight for him tooth and nail.
After all, she needs something to do with her violent tendencies.)
Fin
A/N: Leviticus is a book in the Old Testament of the Bible that deals with property law. It, and other books of the Bible, especially the Old Testament, treat women as second to men. One book of Leviticus (18?) deals with how a girl belongs to her father, and then a girl becomes property of her husband. She has rights, and he is expected to love her and act in her best interest. Corinthians states that a woman whose husband dies is released from the ties of marriage and free to remarry. So she's not dead if her husband dies, not by any means. That's just my brain working.
I didn't expect it to come out this religious, especially for a gift fic because this could be considered very offensive. In Victoria's case, her husband did not act in her best interest at all, and since he did not uphold his end of the commitment, she didn't see reason to uphold hers, and killed him (which is like, not okay). If she remarried, she would become property again, and she doesn't like that. She's tired of following the rules and breaks free; by turning away, she finds the freedom only found in death supposedly. I just wanted to play with this idea that attacked my brain. (Notice she never asks Bakura to marry her?) This is where the death part comes in. It is not canon Leviticus at any point. It's also supposed to parallel with Bakura's desire for death, to be free from this duty to avenge Kul Elna and to rest for once. It's the child of my cracktastic musings. It makes sense in my head, okay?
Oh, and for the record, I'm Maronite Catholic, but that doesn't mean I can't muse and twist and write cracky fanfiction, becaue we all know it's never going to stay straight when Bakura's involved.
This was written for DarkShadowRose1, in response to her headcanon, that Bakura has had many hosts over the course of his lifetime, and at one point he had a family with a woman whose Ka became Dark Necrofear and the children's Kas became the Twin Cursed Dolls. (Did I get that right?) So basically I wrote the most offensive gift fic ever and DarkShadowRose1, I am so sorry. If you are offended beyond belief this I understand. I can totally write you another once a decent plotbunny comes. They are just so rare with me so I wanted to act on this one.