Alright you guys, here it is. Another short one I know. I debated on whether or not to make it longer, but I decided to keep it as is. Sorry about it taking so long, my Muse went on vacation and I didn't get the memo. Enjoy!

Blue eyes. Blue eyes and dark hair, like a cloud around her face. A face he felt drawn to. He fought it, mind and body. She meant nothing to him, Nothing! He snarled, refusing to bow to the inevitable. He fought, and kept on fighting, until he was exhausted. He stood, panting, as the figure approached him. He averted his eyes, avoiding the pools of blue he knew would snare him. He jumped at the feel of a hand on his cheek, unwillingly turning into the touch, savoring the contact. Fingers, tracing his jaw, with a tenderness no one had shown him, not in 5,000 years. The feelings he had fought washed over him, kept back no longer, the barrier broken by the feel of skin on skin. Longing, for something he refused to name, and another emotion that pushed the longing aside, replacing it with something he had refused to feel, refused to acknowledge, since before he could remember. It was fleetingly, barely recognizable. Yet it was there, and he whimpered at the knowledge it brought. Then, finally, the ultimate weapon in a battle he could not hope to win. Denial. Refusal to accept what he had seen, what he felt…

Bakura bolted upright, gasping, shaky and sweaty, with his sheets damp and clinging to his body. His dream fled, leaving only the faintest of recollections. The sense of loss lingered though, mocking him. He felt so alone, and he had no idea why. His mood murderous, Bakura stalked to the bathroom and splashed cold water on his face. He shook his head, flinging droplets, most of which ended up on the mirror above the sink.

Running a towel over his face, he growled, cursing Isis to the underworld and back. Her memory wipe had only been temporary, and the events that had assaulted him as he walking in the door had plagued him all night. He wasn't sure why the modification hadn't worked as planned, but he had an idea. Bakura avoided thinking of the real reason for his mood. Glancing at his bedside clock, he grimaced. " 3 o'clock in the bloody morning…." He grumbled as he pulled on a pair of sweat pants, know that any further attempt at sleep would be futile. Black tee next, then sneakers. Maybe a run would help to clear his mind….

Review? Please? My inspiration for this story seems to run hot and cold, so anything would be helpful.