Their current location really isn't big enough to be called a city; it barely qualifies as a town. Malik thinks they probably would have missed it completely if the bus hadn't broken down. He lost track of what country they were in several hours ago, and if the town has a name, he couldn't distinguish it from the rest of the unintelligible syllables these people call a language. It sounds like nothing he's ever heard before, although some phrases don't require a translator.
"You're under arrest" sounds pretty much the same no matter where you go, it turns out.
The prison cell is small, even by Malik's standards, and Bakura is having a sulking fit across half of it. Malik gave up on trying to talk him out of it a few hours ago, and now is seeing how long it will take to steal all his knives.
"Public indecency," Bakura snarls eventually. "You were supposed to be keeping watch." He slaps Malik's hand away from the stiletto hidden in the seam of his jeans. "Give those back."
Malik drops the pile of weaponry on Bakura's stomach. "I was a little distracted, you know. If you want me to be on the look out for cops, it helps if you keep your pants on."
"They weren't all the way off," Bakura protests and sits up. The knives fall off him with a crash, and he starts sliding them back into their hiding places. "And anyway, if you get to be naked, so do I. All the magazines say that equality is very important in a relationship."
"You've been stealing Anzu's mail again," Malik says. "Do you think this place has a bar?"
"Of course it has a bar," Bakura says. "Otherwise why the hell would anyone live here?" It's a valid point. Granted, they didn't have a chance to see much of the town, between one thing and another, but what they did see was spectacularly dull. Alcohol is probably the only thing that can make it tolerable for any period longer than a few hours.
It's far too easy to put the guard under the control of the Rod. The poor bastard has almost no willpower at all. "Boring," Malik mutters as their new friend escorts them out to the street, mumbling apologetic-sounding things. He's drooling a little, too.
"Don't worry, baby," Bakura snickers. "I'm sure you'll have another excuse to wave your Rod around soon."
The thunk of solid gold meeting flesh is immensely satisfying. Bakura clutches his head and swears in Egyptian, while Malik inspects the Rod for damage. It is a valuable artifact, after all.
"I'm going to have a huge lump," Bakura says, gingerly rubbing the back of his skull. "I'm probably concussed. I'm going to bleed out through my brain and die. Again. And it'll be all your fault. Again. Bastard."
"I'm sorry," Malik says sweetly. "What was that? You want me to abandon you in the middle of nowhere and run off with the Pharaoh?"
"He'd mind crush you the minute you put your hand down his pants and you know it," Bakura replies. His eyes glitter dangerously, though, and Malik guesses he's in for another evening of demonstrating exactly who owns his ass now, which is just fine by him. Bakura is so much more creative when he thinks he has something to prove.
Of course, creative was what landed them in jail in the first place, but it's the middle of fucking nowhere, so it doesn't really count. And as soon as Malik gets his hands on a lighter, there won't even be any paperwork left to annoy them. He shares this thought with Bakura, who smirks and pulls out three of them from some hidden pocket.
"I knew there was a reason I loved you," Malik says with a smirk, and Bakura grins back at him, all teeth.
Half an hour later, Malik stands with his back pressed against a burning building, pants around his ankles and Bakura on his knees before him. Around him, the entire town is on fire. He can distantly hear people screaming and fleeing, and he knows that eventually they'll have to leave too, but right now it seems far more important to fist his hand in Bakura's hair and make the bastard stop bloody teasing.
Half an hour after that, they're racing through the empty countryside on stolen motorcycle. It's nowhere near as fancy as the one Malik left behind in Japan, but Bakura is pressed tight against Malik's back like a second skin, still smelling of smoke and sex and sand, and the stars overhead are bright, and it's good enough for now.
