Borath: Hey! We got reviews so here is chapter 2. (Looks to Pachelbel) From here it's all
downhill you realize? Best way for it if you ask me. ;p
Pachelbel: *while coasting* Hey, I'm in LOVE with downhill, after a few early- spring bike rides!
Oh, and lovely readers! *Hugs* We, meaning Borath and I, have this story roughly planned out.
So, *holds an eraser to future chapters* if you ever want to see more, review!!
Malik handed Bakura a plastic jug filled with a sweet-smelling red liquid. "Mix this."
Bakura stirred the contents while Rishid chopped onions and kept an eye on three different
mixtures already on the stove, and Malik finished painting his windows black.
They'd been skulking in Malik's kitchen for just over an hour now, Malik barking
instructions which Bakura and Rishid obeyed. Bakura guessed that he was putting together the
unfamiliar potion needed for the spell; he had the urge to eat what Rishid was making more than
he did for what he was throwing together. Still, Bakura found it irritating that after Malik got so
excited about his idea, *he* was being made to do all the work.
"Are we making dinner or making the pharaoh's life hell?" Bakura snapped, freeing his
hand long enough to brush away the tears Rishid's onions were causing to form in his eyes. As a
result he got some of the goop on his fingers in his eye. Which stung. A lot.
"Both," Malik answered, pushing furniture aside to make room for their spell casting
ceremony and completely ignoring Bakura's creative little curses. "Using magic always makes me
hungry."
Bakura sniffed and shook his head. "Of course. You're always hungry. It's what you get
for not eating any meat!" 'Bloody freak' was added to that sentence in a significantly lower tone.
Malik heard it anyway and shouted back, "Why do you care what I put in my body? And I
didn't invite you to stay and eat with us!"
So he was doing all the work and not even getting a meal out of it? This did not please
him. "Good! Your cooking sucks!"
"Don't say that around Rishid!" A glass vase holding stale water and dead flowers flew
past Bakura's head and shattered against the wall. Malik never was a good aim with anything non-knife-like. "I won't tolerate you insulting him!"
"Hurry and get the damn spell ready so I can leave!"
"Why wait? Get out! I don't need you!"
"Good!" Bakura slammed the jug down, sloshing the liquid (which he now suspected was
Kool-Aid) onto his hands, and stalked out the door. Deciding to go and pound on Ryou for a bit
to cool down, he left with a palpable thunderstorm over his head.
Rishid watched this display with dull boredom, like a critic who'd seen a movie just one
too many times. His golden-green eyes turned briefly to Ryou's wallet, which Bakura had left on
the counter, but he didn't say anything. The spirit would be back sooner or later, which would
result in a 'kiss and make up' session between the two (emphasis on the "kiss") and it would start
all over again.
He sampled one of the broths on the stove. Perfect, as usual. Glancing at Malik, he
noticed that he was pouting slightly as he lashed black paint onto the glass viciously. Rolling his
eyes a little, Rishid settled for finishing in silence.
Bakura had practically kicked himself when he realized that he'd left his (Okay, Ryou's, but it was practically his) wallet at Malik's. He had no profound desire to return there just yet, but he needed the one credit card he hadn't memorized yet to get some stuff off E-Bay. Ryou had been stupid enough to go on it whilst he was out so now thousands of hard-to- come-by goodies were at his fingertips.
So now he trudged back to Malik's, still fuming but eager to do the 'kiss and make up' crap. He wondered if he wasn't too late for dinner, the thought of a warm meal and an escape from the looming storm clouds quickening his pace as he walked.
*~*~*
Malik and Rishid were eating in the living room when it started to rain, the shorter of the
pair excitedly outlining his schemes as Rishid listened patiently. He glanced out at the rain briefly
as Malik continued, idly wondering what was taking Bakura so long.
"-And so with the spell in place, the only thing left to do is to get that stupid pratt to
ingest the potion. The spell will instantly go to him. It's brilliant!" Malik cackled excitedly, spilling
the scalding broth across his hand and bringing about a long line of curses. A pigeon exploded
outside as a familiar set left his mouth.
"We need now to find a way to get Yami to consume it," Rishid pointed out, placing his
bowl on the table.
Malik pouted a little. He hadn't quite thought of that bit yet. "Force feeding? You hold
him and I'll ram it down his throat!" Malik illustrated this eagerly on an imaginary Pharaoh.
Rishid waited until his master was finished. "I think that with all the trouble we went
through to produce this spell, a method with more finesse would be more appropriate."
Nodding a little, Malik thumbed a pointed wing on his Item and began to think.
Bakura was 'fucking freezing' when he finally got to the house, and the back being closer
to him than the front, he'd settled for going in through the kitchen rather than through the front
door. That would also be far too civil and polite for his liking. He actually felt a bit dirty thinking
about it.
It smelt like cherries in the kitchen, which was disturbing enough without the reminder
that it was Malik's kitchen he was in. The equipment they'd been using earlier was still strewn all
over the place, bowls of various things left lying around. There was a dead mouse next to one
bowl, actually in the middle of a circle of spiders (all of which were impaled on toothpicks). Well,
that was a clear indication that Bakura shouldn't sample anything from there.
Scowling and pissed off that he'd apparently missed dinner, Bakura figured that he'd at
least taste what Rishid had been making earlier. Walking over to one of the larger of the bowels,
he grinned when he saw that there was still some liquid in it. It didn't look much like broth; in fact
it was tinged slightly blue in colour. However it smelt delicious and Rishid wasn't always one for
the conventional. In fact, if the lean man thought that there weren't enough blue foods, which
there weren't, he'd find a way to make some.
Bakura was pleased to see that, with Malik as picky about what he ate as he was, there
was plenty of Rishid's cooking left. Sticking his finger into the concoction first, he found it to be
reasonably warm. Putting it into his mouth, he also found that it tasted delicious, fruity in fact.
After glancing about for some kind of utensil, he shoved the many knives, daggers and the one
blowtorch to get at the ladle. Dipping it into the bowl, he helped himself to a generous portion
and downed it in one go.
Feeling rather satisfied after the first helping and quite eager for more, Bakura went to put
the ladle back into the bowl. The great, hulking cloud of gold that suddenly appeared in front of
him made him pause in his actions. He only had time to stare at it stupidly before it finished
'collecting' and dive-bombed him, sending him up and over the kitchen table and into the opposite
wall. His head connected joyfully with said wall, allowing him to bid a fond greeting to the little
Millennium Rings swimming around his head before all went dark.
Bakura didn't know how long he'd been out but it was pitch black when he came to -with
a splitting headache he might add-, meaning that Malik had turned off the lights and not seen him
sprawled on the floor. With a sneer, Bakura wondered just how Malik had missed seeing the huge
dent in the fucking wall. Unless Malik was still pretending to be mad at him, which was unlikely,
as the damned psycho probably didn't remember what he was supposed to be mad about.
Sitting up slowly, Bakura glowered when he saw that he'd wrecked yet another shirt. It
made a change in that it was his own blood for once, apparently from the back of his head, if his
pounding headache and sticky hair were anything to judge by.
The reason for his injury came back to him in a painful flash, making him wince mentally
as well as physically. He looked up at the stove, which seemed somehow ominous and.terrifying,
given what had just happened. The pan....no! It couldn't be. Rishid had not made a delicious,
blue pregnancy potion, and.. NO!!
Bakura squoze his eyes shut and used the Ring to search for any change in his body,
besides injuries. The thief shuddered in revulsion when the tiniest flicker of magic and life was
found low in his abdomen.
His eyes widened several times in horror as the truth of it sunk in. Poking his stomach
cautiously with one finger, he blanched at the residual telltale warmth of the spell and smacked his
skull back into the wall. Right where he'd already cracked it. Suffice to say it hurt a bit.
When the little Rings had gone for the second time, he started thinking. It was very likely
that the Ring would see this problem for what it was; absolutely more evil than he was, and
destroy it for him.
Just as he was having these comforting thoughts, he felt the Ring warm and groaned when
he felt it expand it magic around his stomach, effectively cocooning the crap that had been stuck
inside him.
Maybe he could just ignore it and hope that it went away. He certainly wasn't going to tell
anyone; not only would that ruin his reputation, but it would also force him to accept the damn
thing. Maybe he should just go back home now and set about drowning the thing with substantial
amounts of alcohol. But first, he needed to hit something other than his head against a wall.
He stood up and moved stealthily to Malik's room, paused in front of the closed door, and
went back to the kitchen. He armed himself with the blowtorch and a monkey wrench (blades
were used mostly in sex, and he wanted to think about blunt-object torture right now). Now
prepared, he went back down the hall and kicked open the door.
Malik looked up groggily, just in time to see Bakura light the blowtorch. "What the fuck
are you doing?" He mumbled, too tired to think straight.
Instead of answering, Bakura smacked him with the wrench. Malik rolled off the bed.
"Ow! What the hell-?" He dodged another blow before tackling Bakura and effectively setting fire
to the carpet.
Rishid, yawning, walked in about four seconds later and doused the flame (both on the
floor and Bakura's weapon) with a bucket of water. Still with eyes barely open, he turned and
stumbled back to his own room.
The two continued pounding on each other and wrestling for various weapons, straight
until dawn. When the first red light of sunrise filled Malik's plain white room, they were sitting
back and, when strength could be mustered, smacking each other petulantly.
"Let's go get drunk," Bakura muttered, knowing Malik might object, since he didn't like
public bars.
Unnervingly cheerful for this early in the morning, and while covered with hundreds of
bruises and lacerations, Malik replied, "Okay, but I'll have to buy some alcohol. Convenience
store down the street?"
"I don't care, as long as we take the motorcycle." Bakura hoped that Malik's driving skills
would be extra suicidal today. Just in case there was a faster way to kill whatever had infected him.
Review! You know you want to. Yes, even though the last part was last- minute-thrown-together stuff. We're holding future chapters ransom, so you'd better send feedback!