A/N: This turned out a little differently than I expected, but that's what I get for trying to finish it on the Fourth of July between cookouts, fireworks, and watching 1776. End quotations are from 1 John and Song of Solomon respectfully and are not actually found together...but that's what artistic license is for.

The Bargain

She is twenty-four years old, but at the moment she looks far older. The harsh glare of the hospital lights steal the color from her eyes and skin and emphasize the dark circles under her eyes and the lines of worry that have creased her skin so recently. She is still a beautiful young woman—but she couldn't care less. Not as the uncertain beat of the heart monitor counts off each stolen second, not as she strains her ears to catch every labored breath, not as the hand clutched in hers grows weaker with every passing moment.

"Mm…Mai…"

She squeezes his hand tighter. "It's okay," she whispers, although her heart is breaking. "I love you too."

The smallest of smiles crosses his face—the ghost of the old Joey—and his eyes close. In his faint breath, she can hear the whisper of a rattle. Behind her, she hears the drone of a flatline. Their time has run out.

She wants to scream, wants to sob, wants to tear her hair out and shake her fist as the heavens. She sinks back in her chair and stares at her lap with unseeing eyes while tears dribble down her cheeks.

The door opens and she slowly looks up, expecting a doctor, or maybe a nurse, come too late. There will be paperwork of some kind, she supposes dully, and wonders whether they will ask her to sign anything.

It is not a doctor. A tall young man in a black trenchcoat walks into the room. His skin is ghostly pale, nearly as white as his long, wavy hair. His eyes…no, they're just a rusty brown. But for a moment she could swear they were as red as blood.

A smile she cannot like plays on his lips as he saunters into the room. She stands in front of the bed, some instinct propelling her between her love and this stranger.

"This is a private room," she says and is appalled at the note of fear in her voice, What is she afraid of? The worst has already happened.

"I've come on business, I'm afraid. " Whatever she expected him to sound like, it was not that. His voice is as smooth as melted butter, but beneath it lies a different note, harsh, yet also amused, like he is laughing at a private joke.

Her eyes narrow. "Do you work for the hospital?" If he says yes, he's a liar.

But he is shaking his head. "No, my business is of a more personal nature." He smirks. "I'm here to collect the debt I'm owed."

"Debt?" she echoes. "Joey never mentioned any—"

"No, he wouldn't have," the man agrees pleasantly. "Do you mind stepping aside for a moment. I do have other engagements today."

"Are you insane?" she bursts out. "He won't be paying you anything! Not today, not ever!" She bites her lip hard to keep from crying. The coppery taste of blood fills her mouth. "If you'll send me a bill, I'll try to see that it gets paid in the next couple of days. But not today. Leave me in peace."

"You would pay his debt?" he asks. He tilts his head to one side as if considering. Finally, he shakes his head, a little regretfully. "No, the deal was with him," he mutters to himself.

"What are you talking about?" she demands. "What kind of deal?"

"Are you sure you want to know?" He smiles, a white flash of sharp teeth, and an icy chill runs down her spine.

She hesitates. But she has to know the truth. Her hands clench. Nothing could change the way she feels—felt—no, feels still—about him. "Tell me."

He shrugs. "There was something he wanted that I could help him get. In return he promised me something that I wanted." He turned his eyes on her, those piercing eyes the color of dried blood. "What he wanted was you, my dear." He smirks at her shocked expression, confusion mingling with dread. "And what I wanted was his soul."

"Who are you?" she whispers, quivering voice laced with cold horror.

"I am a thief and a stealer of souls," he replies. "I've had many names. You may call me Bakura, if you wish." He steps between her and the bed and lays a pale hand on Joey's forehead. "Now to collect my prize."

"Wait!"

He turns as she rushes forward to grab his arm. "What if…" she swallows, struggling to find her voice. "What if I made a deal with you?"

"I already told you," he says impatiently. "The deal was with this one. One soul cannot simply be exchanged for another."

"I know that. But if I traded you my soul…could you bring him back?"

She feels his eyes on her, sharp as twin knives, piercing her, peeling back the layers of her being. For a second, she has the eerie feeling he is looking right at her soul. There is an appraising gleam in his eyes. How much is it worth?

Finally, he nods his head. "It's a deal." He extends his hand.

She hesitates. If she does this, if she agrees to this bargain, there is no going back. She's never thought much about any life beyond the here and now, but if she truly has an immortal soul then it must be a grave and terrible thing to barter it away. She looks into the stranger's eyes. They are cold and pitiless. What is he, this stealer of souls? What does he want with her? There is a predatory gleam in his eyes, a rapaciousness almost akin to lust, but deeper, darker. A shiver runs down her spine, a chill breeze from a yawning void. What will happen to her if she accepts?

She closes her eyes, unwilling to further contemplate such black mysteries. What matter the price, if it buys her even a little longer with Joey? But can she trust him? Will he keep his bargain? But Joey got his bargained price; he got her. And then he died.

She shivers. Even if she agrees to this, there is no guarantee that it will end happily. He could get hit by a car tomorrow. She could get hit by a car tomorrow. Or a year from now. They could break up. Joey could come to despise her for trading her soul for his life. She could come to despise herself. Their love could turn to hatred. She could end up regretting this decision forever.

Or she could spend the rest of her life wondering why she hadn't had the courage to save the man she loved.

She took his hand. It was like touching ice. "I accept."

He smiled. "Very well, then."

She let out a long breath. "So, what happens now? Do I sign my name in blood or something?"

He chuckles and it is like the trail of a cold knife-point against her spine. "Nothing so barbaric." He leers at her. "Shall we seal it with a kiss?"

She quavers, but does not flinch as he presses his cold lips against hers. A brief touch of frostbite, a brief taste of blood, of darkness and death, and then nothing. She opens her eyes. He is gone. The room is empty and silent, except for the steady beep of the heart monitor.

"Mai?"

She whirls. There he is, struggling to sit up, his eyes open and his color returning to his face. She rushes to his side. "Joey!"

He smiles. Not a ghost-smile or a half-smile, but a true, real smile, like a ray of sunshine bursting through a month of storm clouds. She entwines her fingers with his, blinking back the tears that spring to her eyes. "I thought I'd lost you," she murmurs against his skin.

"I'm right here," he whispers back. "But Mai…there's something I gotta tell you…"

She shakes her head. "It's okay." She squeezes his hand. "I love you too."

She is eighty-four years old, but at the moment, she looks far younger. Under the bright hospitals lights, her pale, fragile skin seems almost translucent, and the white-grey of her hair shines like silver. She is ethereal, her violet eyes half-closed in sleep as a half-smile plays at her lips. The sluggish beep of the heart monitor keeps the dwindling time, punctuating the hushed murmurs that fill the room.

A little girl, long blonde hair pulled back in a messy ponytail, plays with a mylar balloon, while her sister kicks her feet against the legs of the uncomfortable hospital chair. Her mother pats her lap to quiet her. Beside her, her sister leans her head against her husband's shoulder. He strokes her hair and bounces their baby boy on his knee. Across the room, the teenagers cluster, silently texting between long, worried glances at the hospital bed and the frail figure in the chair beside it. A heavy silence, as cloying as the scent of the African violets on the bedstand, hangs over the room. There isn't much time left.

A long sigh from the bed breaks the silence as her eyelids flutter, and then close.

No one sees the black-coated stranger enter the room. No one except for Mai. She is waiting for him, watching his silent approach. He saunters over to her bedside. The years have left him untouched. He is exactly as she remembers, pale as moonlight with delicate, beautiful features. He smiles, the bright lights making a halo out of his cloud of white hair, and for a second, he looks almost angelic.

Then he opens his cold, piercing eyes, and she remembers that Lucifer was an angel too.

"So you have come for me," she says. The words come easily and without pain and she knows that she is dead.

"I have come." He lays an icy hand on her skin and she feels herself irresistibly pulled, like iron to a magnet. He smirks. "You are mine, now." His dark eyes gleam with corruption and lust.

With her last glimpses of freedom, she looks around the room. Already the colors seem muted and blurred, the voices dim and muffled. But still she sees their faces, her sons and daughters, the tears already brightening their eyes as they gather round her body. She sees them cling to their wives, their husbands. She sees them reach for their children. The baby wails at the fuss, too young and full of life to comprehend death. They are all full of life. They have love and hope and bright futures waiting for them. They are her gift to the world, hers and Joey's.

"Come," the stranger says, and she cannot help but obey. Slowly, her spirit drifts free from its corporeal moorings. She smiles as she looks back at her family in silent farewell.

A soft cry in the room makes both stranger and spirit pause. "He's not breathing!" a voice shouts. They are too blurred now to be distinct.

"Someone get a nurse!"

"Dad!"

"Is Grandpa going to be okay?"

"I think it's too late."

A brilliant light kindles beside the bed she has so recently vacated and in a moment she can see him—brown eyes shining, wrinkles uncreasing, vigor returning.

"So you've come to join our little party," the stranger mutters, but his tones have lost their butter-smooth amusement. Now they are as corrosive and coppery as blood. He lays his hand on the corpse and pulls away the spirit. "How kind of you to save me a trip," he sneers. "Two damned souls for the price of one." He turns away. "Come," he snarls. "I don't have all night."

Behind him, violet eyes met brown. No words are spoken. None are needed.

The two spirits join hands as they follow him into the darkness.

There is no fear in love. Perfect love casts out fear. For love is stronger than death.

FIN