Malik's fingers were caked with powdered sugar and raspberry jam from the donuts Yugi had passed him. The cheese-flavored chips he'd eaten weren't blending well with all the other junk food and soda he'd shared.

Though he was fortunate. He'd eaten far less than the others. Joey was nearly passed out by the end of the third movie, and Tristan had requested Pepto-Bismol. Yugi had walked Anzu to the door and was still missing. Ryou hadn't turned up, something that no one had commented on, and Malik wasn't sure if this was because they thought he might still show up, or perhaps they didn't care.

His mind drifted as sleep--and some nausea--blotted out the sounds and sights from the television.

The first image to float up from his murky, drowsy thoughts was a face. A man's face, young enough to be in his late twenties or early thirties, but aged with secrets and unseen scars.

And hatred.

Malik knew hatred the way others knew childhood blankets. Very few people had bitterness to match what the youngest Ishtar had held for nearly seven years. The messenger was not one of them, though he had a fair amount in his own right.

This man spoke through his eyes, unable to hide the intricate ferocity that itched to loose itself on any deserving mortal. His silent mouth was held in a casual way that seemed practiced; as if he longed to be scowling and would not let himself. He was carefully groomed, his slightly scarred face was clean shaven and his dark red-brown hair was combed back.

Malik remembered meeting this man at the bus stop as instructed in Dr. Newton's message, remembered exchanging the elegant note for vile medication. The thought that this man worked for the doctor caused Malik's blood to pound in his ears, and he longed to have done something bloody and agonizing to the messenger to repay him for his role in Malik's imprisonment.

But he hadn't.

He'd taken the pills, examined them to be sure they were the same he'd been taking the past few months. From the outside, they appeared the same--red and gold skinny tubes which, when shaken, sounded as if they were filled with sand or small beads. There was no way to tell if they were the same chemicals, but Malik had no choice but to trust that they were. So he walked away a few feet, then waited until the man boarded a bus before heading to Yugi's house. Through the whole thing, not a word had been spoken, even when Malik demanded to know how they'd known where he was.

With a twitch, Malik roused from the almost-dream and found a pair of legs standing near his head. Startled, and already uneasy from brooding on the messenger and Newton, Malik jerked away. His shoulder slammed into the newcomer's knees.

Ryou, not a particularly graceful or sure-footed person by nature, fell backwards. He struggled to catch himself on the arm of the sofa, and succeeded only in landing hard on his side.

"Ow..." he grumbled softly, wincing. Then, remembering his manners perhaps, smiled sheepishly. "Sorry, Malik, I didn't mean to surprise you. I was just trying to step over you."

Malik nodded, rubbing a sore spot on his head where Ryou's foot had caught him in the fall. "I was dreaming. Not your fault."

"I thought you were." He looked around the room. "Everyone's asleep already?"

"It's past midnight, isn't it?"

Ryou nodded thoughtfully.

Malik glanced at the sofa to find that Yugi was still missing. The dread of meeting anyone sent from Newton's clinic--even in dreams--had stolen any desire for sleep. Fortunately, Ryou didn't appear to be any more tired than he was. Odd boy that Ryou was, he tended to stay up until dawn when the mood struck him. Malik supposed that was good for Bakura, to inhabit a body that didn't need to sleep as often as most "mortals".

Speaking of... "Your yami agreed to come to this?"

Ryou smiled faintly. "Well, it was either come with me or be left at home without food. The pizza delivery men don't come to our apartment anymore and he doesn't know how to cook very well, so he came willingly. He just...made sure I don't expect him to socialize," Ryou added, tapping the Ring to explain Bakura's apparent absence.

Malik stood and padded to the kitchen, hearing Ryou follow him moments later. He searched as quietly as possible for a glass and poured himself some water from the tap. It was warm, but Malik actually preferred it that way and drank it down greedily, glad to be rid of the slightly sour taste in his mouth.

His skin tingled faintly with the touch of magic, and he turned to find the Ring glowing and then dimming as Bakura took shape beside Ryou, one slouching against the table and the other standing close to the door.

"Well, this was loads of fun," the thief muttered.

Malik shook his head. "The fun started hours ago. You missed it." He refilled his glass, this time sipping at the lukewarm water while he eyed the spirit uneasily. He''d never been able to fully trust Bakura--nor was the thief able to fully trust him--and now he was unsure of himself in the other's presence.

"You're lining your eyes again," Bakura eventually said.

Malik nodded once, wondering how to react to that. "You noticed?"

Bakura grunted. "Not getting into any more fights, are you?" That earned him a scowl. "Well, good. You've got enough bruises to last a while."

Malik glowered at him, but it blended quickly into a smirk. "Are you that anxious to rush in and protect me? Longing to be my knight in shining armour or whatever bullshit they say around here?"

Bakura blinked; Ryou smothered a laugh by saying, "You seem better since we last saw you, Malik."

"Uhn." Malik swallowed some more of his water. "Irritated, maybe." He sat down at the table.

"You have your motorcycle back, right? I'd wondered what happened to it."

"Why? Do you want it?"

Ryou tilted his head a bit, not used to Malik being so talkative. Nor had he ever imagined Malik would joke about giving away his bike.

Bakura took Malik's water and drank almost half of it before handing it back, then said, "As if we'd believe you'd actually sell that thing."

Malik rubbed at the rim of his glass and shrugged. "I'd never want to. What took you so long to get here?"

Malik knew there were any number of things Bakura could have been doing, ranging from the sinisterly insane to outright homicidal, but he didn't want to take the time to voice any of them. At least not where Yugi or the Pharaoh could walk in and hear.

He wasn't surprised to see a strange, rather pleased gleam in the theif's eyes. "That's a long story. But the short version is..."

****

Yami had been busy helping Sugoroku with the shop through most of the party. Around midnight they finally finished, and the pharaoh stretched kinks out of his neck while carefully making his way to the living room. It wasn't very likely anyone would be up, since they were all accustomed to rising before dawn in order to go to school, but it was better to make an effort than to be accused of being negligent of his friends.

Yugi was just shutting the front door when Yami passed him, and smiled tiredly at the spirit. "You're finally done?"

Yami nodded slightly. "It was a big freight, but at least we're set for another month. Did I miss anything?"

"Well, donuts I guess. And some horror movies. Bakura's here with Ryou I think, so don't get into anything with him, okay?"

"If you insist." He glanced to the kitchen, where he heard voices. "Is...?"

"Malik's here," Yugi confirmed. "And Bakura, so I should probably try to herd them back to the group."

"Yes, because they're so much less trouble around us." Yami commented dryly.

Yugi responded with a smile. "Sarcasm will get you nowhere. I still need you on policing duty." With that, Yugi turned and padded into the kitchen.

Yami continued on into the living room, where he crawled onto the empty sofa. He wasn't really looking forward to seeing Bakura or Malik, their recent enmity aside. Had he the ability, Yami would have chosen to return his past, and anything which might remind him of it, to the flowing sands of Egypt.

As Malik had earlier that night, Yami drifted into a light sleep, filled with memory rather than dreams. Where Malik dreamt of a stranger, Yami remembered friends and relatives dying under moonlight and sunlight and clouds. One at a time, Yami had sacrificed their lives to spare the peasants and grave keepers who would forget or ultimately turn against him.

He knew that Yugi suspected. He knew Yugi had even seen small portions of his memories... It took everything he had to hold his tongue, to resist the urge to tell the worst of it to Yugi. A glance at Bakura and he remembered his dead family; a word from Malik and he now thought of the pain he had caused those he loved and those who deserved it, before he'd died and after. That was enough to stop him from telling any of it to Yugi.

He felt weight against his arms and opened his eyes to find Yugi laying a blanket on him. He blinked a few times and sat up, despite Yugi's quiet disapproval. He glanced around the room to find Ryou, Bakura and Malik settling down on the floor.

When Yami laid back down, the guilt and betrayal had all but faded from his mind and his sleep became dreamless.

****

Without the curtains drawn, sunlight splashed into the room and into the eyes of all the occupants of Yugi Mutou's living room. Even with that blinding morning greeting, some were slower to wake than others. Most of those latest to rise found themselves attacked by cheese puffs and leftover chips.

They were hesitant to rouse Malik that way, for one. Fortunately he'd fallen asleep away from the group and they were free to go about teasing each other. Their rowdiness would jar him awake soon enough anyway. Yami was another problem, since Yugi was the only one who dared attack the Pharaoh. And Ryou had Bakura...had it not involved touching him, Joey would have tried rolling him out of the way.

So Bakura and Malik continued to sleep while the rest of the room wasted the last of the snacks in a half-hearted food fight.

When everyone was up, and showers were taken, Malik gave Ryou--and Bakura, now back in the Ring--a ride home. He considered going home for a while himself to see if Isis or Rishid needed anything, but decided in the end that it could wait. He had a few errands to run first.

****

The man was tall and broad, and he chewed so much cinnamon gum it made Malik's nose hurt. His name was Ice, or so his half-obscured name tag said. He was dressed in dark blue, greasy coveralls, which matched his greasy, wavy black hair. And he was raking his eyes so carelessly over Malik's motorcycle, the Egyptian was afraid the paint would chip.

"Well," Ice drawled slowly, and paused a second to mash his gum a few times, "I'll give you 700 for it."

This might as well have been an insult. "700? That's not even half what I paid for it! Not to mention all the adjustments I made, the extra parts I had put on!"

Ice shrugged, making it clear that he'd heard similar arguments before, and wasn't about to start listening. "Well, it's worth more in single parts. Then you're not selling a motorcycle, y'know. You're selling some tires and scrap metal."

Malik thought he might be sick with rage. "Forget it!" Without a second glance he jammed the key in the ignition and drove away.

****

Isis swiped the keycard through the lock and wearily opened the door to her hotel room. Her home. It was empty and dark, and a quick glance into her brothers' room showed her that she was alone for the moment.

It took a moment for her to wonder where her brothers were. Her thoughts did not immediately turn to concern that they might be injured or in need of help. In truth, her first reaction was slight irritation that they had eaten the last of the leftovers.

Deciding to ignore their inconsiderate habits for now, Isis kicked off her shoes and lay down on her bed, sighing in relief at the soft mattress under her back. She could hear the neighbor's television blaring through the thin walls and frowned. She had been raised without electricity and television was more a nuisance than a novelty for her. This was not true for Malik, who relished every new technological advancement he found, while Rishid enjoyed a few mid afternoon talk shows but otherwise agreed with his sister.

These thoughts were light on her mind, allowed her head to swim all it wanted without touching down on anything substantial, and she was content to keep it that way. Her head ached, mostly just above her eyes, and it was unrelentingly exhausting.

A few minutes passed and she opened one eye to peer at the red digits of her alarm clock. 7 p.m. Malik at least ought to be home, and it was a safe assumption that he'd taken Rishid with him. She felt another flash of irritation for her brothers, this time for not leaving her a note as to where she could reach them.

An hour later the door opened again, allowing in Rishid, who had brought dinner.

"Vegetable lasagna," he explained. "I helped a kind woman at a diner and she wanted me to have this."

Rishid was a reasonably good cook, but Isis couldn't imagine him working at a diner. To avoid unnecessary thinking and mental images of Rishid in a chef's hat (she wasn't the type to laugh at people, especially her brothers), she chose to nod and thank him--profusely--and set out dinner.

"Have you heard from Malik?"

The man shook his head once. "I have not seen him since last night. Perhaps he is still at the Pharaoh's?"

She frowned. "I doubt it."

"At Bakura's?"

"I hope not."

Rishid smiled a bit, but whether it was because he was amused or agreeing with her, Isis couldn't tell. They sat down and ate, and were nearly done when Malik came in. Isis silently checked him over for new bruises. She hadn't asked about those he had come home with last week, but she did find herself looking him over more closely now.

Satisfied that he wasn't hurt, she motioned to the last tin container. "Rishid brought dinner. You may want to heat it in the microwave first."

"Thanks." He took it, scooped the lasagna onto a paper plate to put in the microwave and turned on the TV.

Isis hesitated before asking, but during a soap commercial she finally cleared her throat and relented. "Where have you been?"

Malik glanced at her. "At Yugi's."

Isis pursed her lips and pretended to not be watching him. "Anywhere else?"

She could see him bristling. "A few motorcycle places." His tone was dismissive, if a little annoyed. He returned his attention to dinner and a sitcom.

How to phrase this so that he wouldn't misunderstand? Malik resented being controlled, and he would buck against even her if he thought she was meddling in his affairs. "I think that we ought to leave each other messages...so that we may find each other if we need to."

Malik was still for a long time. Then, quietly, "Alright. I'll leave a note for you on the night stand when I leave." Isis fought a relieved sigh.

That hadn't been so bad.