Written for a request on the livejournal community fic on demand; Yami Bakura x Ryou Bakura, slash, post battle-city; no native speaker, I apologise for possible English mistakes.

Disclaimer: I don't own Yu Gi Oh.

Intersection

He watched, with narrowed eyes, as the boy walked back and forth in the room, avoiding the chairs and the table and all the other furniture, seeming perfectly comfortable existing in the ethereal ghost-form that was the only form of independent existence he was capable of when he was in control of his body.

Maybe he did enjoy it; maybe, being able to be a ghost, or something close to it, was something he had always whished to achieve.

As if he was sensing the thief's insisting gaze on him, he briefly turned round, smiled slightly, still calm, and disappeared in the corridor that led to his room; the spirit had no idea what he was doing – there wasn't anything he could do, unable as he was to touch anything but him and, maybe, with some effort, but he would not allow that, a duel monster card or another object closely connected to the shadows – nor why he was smiling. It was pure mystery to him, and it was annoyingly unsettling.

He should be glad.

All resistance, no, the very thought of revolt had left his host since long; since duellist kingdom, to be exact, if he wanted to trace the process back to its origin, but then, maybe the long silence between their first confrontation and the time Bakura had foolishly used the ring again should be marked as the beginning. If he wanted to count the boy's slow acceptance for anything at all: after all, once he'd let himself be enticed into letting him back into control, his further reactions were unimportant.

Almost. Almost entirely negligible, if everything went right and he didn't allow himself such a foolish weakness as during the monster world game again – but it was never wrong to keep a backup plan. So he'd been careful with Bakura; he might have been the first time as well, if he'd had enough time. For once in his life, he'd given way to impatience, and it had come back on him. He could only blame himself.

So he had done what he should have done the first time, smothering the boy into trust slowly, carefully interweaving truths and lies. It had been a long, tiring process, but all things considered, it had been easy. He'd been surprised, almost disappointed how easily Bakura was mellowed into giving in to him after defying him so fiercely.

But, he mused, people were easily deceived into believing what they wanted to believe; and Bakura's defiance had not lasted long against the soft voice he could never get ride of, and that promised not the be an enemy anymore; the prospect of true magic given to him, to never, ever, have to fear aloneness again – at least the spirit, who had gone through the trouble of finding out more about the boy, as much as he disliked wasting time, thought those were the reasons. There was no way to find out for sure.

Because, somewhere, during the process, Bakura had obviously lost his mind. One could not give up his will and still be so perfectly content without being mad, in the thief's opinion.

He should be glad; the most dangerous obstacle to his plans that Bakura had been for such a brief time was gone; he'd been able to easily use him during battle city, so easily that it was, again, unsettling... he'd not gone through all this work to have Malik, out of all people, take advantage of it!...

Bakura came back inside the room, and, again, smiled at him.

Of course, he had searched his host's soul room for clues, had spend many hours there, but there were only so many things one could conclude from its setting: it was a peaceful looking place, despite of the many somewhat macabre objects and pictures there – tombstones, an a little kitschy looking haunted castle, half-faded photographs of his sister and his mother – they hadn't always been fading like that. New was the less dark atmosphere he remembered from the time he'd first been there, a little after his first takeover; new was also the picture of him – or of what Bakura imagined as a picture of himself. There was no saying which one it was. The spirit didn't like either option.

"What's wrong?" Bakura asked. "You look annoyed."

The spirit fought to keep calm; sometimes, he wished he hadn't succeeded so well. If Bakura still believed him an evil entity that would ban him into shadows for the slightest infraction, he'd not dare question him on his facial expression. Stupid mortal. Any other person, he could just get ride of.

"I'm fine," he growled, not bothering trying to sound friendly. He was beyond the need of so much carefulness.

Bakura nodded, but didn't seem to take this as a clue to leave him alone; he remained where he was, and didn't quit locking at him calmly. The thief fought the urge to punch him, if only to destroy that peaceful impression he was giving. But that wouldn't do any good: not only might it have his host regain some of his mistrust if the spirit hit him, but it would also eventually get back on their body.

Bakura cocked his head to the side, so the long white hair that wasn't there, and which he had previously brushed behind his ear, gracefully framed his face: the transparency suited him, changed the somewhat unnatural paleness into something different, a little glimmering.

The spirit wondered for how long he could go on with things like this, allowing his host nothing but this unreal existence to the price of having to constantly waste some of the ring's magic on him, before he would complain; he was tempted to try. But it was neither wise nor necessary to push his host.

"You don't look like it..." Bakura remarked, and stepped forward.

Before the spirit could think of anything to say or do, his host had raised his hand, and gently laid it on his forehead, as if to take his temperature.

The spirit took grip off his arms and showed him away.

"What's wrong with you?"

Bakura glanced up at him, with an expression the thief couldn't read – sad? concerned? afraid? – and didn't answer. The thief clenched and unclenched his wrists; he could count the times Bakura had spoken during that last days on one hand. It was a pity. He liked the soft, forceless voice that was his when he was in this state.

Bakura smiled mysteriously, then shook his head slightly, as if to chase a thought.

"I have homework to finish," he said.

The spirit narrowed his eyes once again and looked his host up and down.

"No. You don't."

Bakura looked at him, sighed, seeming to mean that that had been obvious, but that the spirit should have accepted that light lie and let him back into control. The spirit considered drawing him back into his soul room: it was something he enjoyed doing, a gratuitous display of power.

Of course, he knew what the appearance if his picture in his host's soul room might mean – desire to overthrow and replace him; or... simply that his importance to his host had grown that much...

He had little hope to ever find out the truth. Bakura was a lousy liar, but since he was lousy at seeming confident and sincere even when he was telling the truth, that didn't help any. And less distrust or not, it wasn't as if his host told him anything.

"No, but – you look really tired. Let me take back control. Please?"

Again, the spirit narrowed his eyes at him. Innocent, genuinely concerned. As always. Fool.

Bakura sighed.

"I'm not trying to trick you into giving up control," he informed him, unimpressed by the way the spirit's glared at him at that. "I'm just concerned for you."

He looked almost angry, now, almost challenging, determined at least, like just before he had betrayed him to Yugi. The spirit wasn't very found of determined-looking hosts.

"Why?" he asked, accepting the challenge; he was, however, not prepared for the answer.

Later, he wondered why his sharp instincts had not made him prevent the boy's move, something as intrusive and dangerous, such closeness, exposure of something as vulnerable as his neck and his lips.

He gasped in surprise; Ryou took this as an opportunity to deepen the kiss, and after a moment, the spirit remembered that it was in his best interest to play along.

He found that it wasn't hard.

Review, please!