Universal Divide, a yu-gi-oh fanfic

Disclaimer: Fancy that. Not one of these universes belongs to me.

A/N: 'Five crossovers I will never write, but which might be fun'. That was the task. YGO is a show I've seen in crossover fanfic quite a few times, and I always wondered if I could do it myself. Lesson learned? Crossovers are hard. Though I think it would be most fun if readers were to guess at the universes crossed over while reading, I've included an index at the end of the fic as well.

Feedback: Reviews are food of the gods. Seriously. They go really well with white sauce and a nice Chianti.

Universal Divide

Shizuka doesn't regret following Anzu's footsteps to America. Granted, she might feel better if Katsuya hadn't gone absolutely ballistic when she told him, but then again, she reasons, it's very difficult to carry out a protection complex when the object of your protection is on the other side of the globe.

She remembers walking in on them not long after her announcement. She remembers Anzu's fingertips, blanched around her drink; the crease on Katsuya's forehead and the crackle of tension like static in the air. Katsuya had held Anzu responsible for his sister's decision, but Shizuka had been quick to set him right.

Hearing about Anzu's dreams planted the idea of moving away, yes, but the resolution to actually go was all her own. She's dreamed of being an actress since she was small – a dream that seemed doomed until he paid for her operation. Now she has another chance to realise it, and after all she's seen and been through and cost people, she won't let it slip away because of simple apprehension.

And so here she is, sitting in a stuffy room with a hideous beige carpet in downtown L.A., a short bus ride from the apartment she shares with two other girls. Julie is a chain-smoker and jobbing dancer-singer. She says she almost got into Moulin Rouge a few years ago. Mandy is quiet and secretive. Nobody is quite sure what she does for a living, but she's prompt with her share of the rent and she doesn't bring bad stuff home with her, so they don't pry.

Outside, Shizuka can hear the snarl of traffic, but inside hums with nerves and anticipation from the auditionees. One woman in particular sits ramrod straight, subtle anxiety radiating from every well-groomed pore. She doesn't chew absently at her long dark hair, but it would look natural if she did. She scans a well-thumbed copy of the script Shizuka also clutches.

As if knowing she is being watched, the woman looks up and meets Shizuka's gaze. Her eyes are dark as her hair. Something about her reminds Shizuka of Mai – maybe the vaguely haunted air that would be invisible to anyone who hasn't seen it before.

"First time?" she asks unexpectedly.

Shizuka shakes her head.

"Me neither. Sucks, doesn't it? In this town you've either got talent, or you've got sweater-meat, and never the twain shall meet, y'know?" Even though she's sitting it's easy to see she's quite tall, with long legs and a modest chest. She looks proportioned – a great drawback in this city.

Shizuka smiles. The speech patterns remind her of Mai, too. Though it simply isn't done in L.A., she finds herself reaching out to take the woman's hand. "My name is Shizuka," she says, her accent clipping her words into strange shapes, like topiary.

The woman blinks, and then smiles. "Ah, an out-of-towner. Should've guessed. Boy, do I see a lot of miscs around here. You've got way too much youthful enthusiasm to be born and bred. I thought it was just some gimmick to go with the ootsy cutesy thing you've got going." But she takes the hand and shakes it anyway. "Nice to meet you, small fry – though I'm still gonna kick butt in there, so don't get upset if I beat you out for this part."

"Don't worry. I will not be offended if you are the more talented."

A self-preening eyebrow-raise. It's so much like Mai used to be it almost hurts. "Cute. I'm Cordelia."

Peter has decided that everybody in the world should live on ground level. Or, better yet, underground. Or, if he can't get the whole world to do it, just those people who live in New York. Saving innocent bystanders from crumbling buildings was old within the first few seconds, and dodging falling debris is so much harder when you have to take an easily-smooshed passenger into consideration.

The girl clings at him but stares down at the street.

"Don't worry," he says, aware he isn't following his own advice. "I do this all the time."

His only reply is a muffled squeak, as he flings himself backwards and shoots off another line to avoid dismembered parts of a gargoyle. Honestly, why does the city even bother trying to pretty itself up anymore? These sorts of buildings are always the biggest targets for super-villains. It's as though the kind of psychos who like to dress up and build scary-ass toys are also the kind of psychos who hold a grudge against Better Homes and Gardens subscribers.

He sets the girl down at street level, on the corner of Fifth and Main. At the same time he scans the rooftops for signs of the bomber. He really doesn't need another escape with The Bugle breathing down his neck on JJ's latest aggressive smear campaign.

"There you go, Miss. Safe and sound, just like I promised."

She wobbles a little, but stays on her feet. Good. He hates it when they keel over and his natural desire to make sure they're okay prevents him from following the bad guy. He disentangles himself and is just about to web away when she catches his wrist. Under his mask his face turns irritated.

"Thank you," she says, her accent marking her as foreign, though her leotard isn't exactly streetwear. She probably came from one of those dance studios on the upper floors of the Majestic Tower – and wasn't that name just a subtle advertising ploy? He doesn't know, catching her mid-plummet and all. Not exactly time for chitchat in that kind of situation. He thinks MJ talked about going there once, when she was thinking about rekindling the childhood love of ballet that was eclipsed by a love of acting when ballet lessons were too expensive and took money from Daddy's precious beer fund.

Nope, bad idea to think of MJ right now. Thinking of MJ means thinking of what he has to lose – thinking of how she could be exploited should anyone ever learn his identity like Norman. He'll carry the image of her in her pyjamas, windswept hair and wide, terrified eyes into his grave with him. He'll carry Norman's death rattle, too, but that's a whole other can of worms. Thinking of MJ means distractions of the kind he can't afford when picoseconds could be all that stand between him and street pizza.

There's a crowd beginning to gather, disregarding the possibility of more rubble coming down on top of them without police there to menace them and keep them back. Peter snatches a sideways glance, and it seems to cow a few of them – probably Bugle readers to a one.

"Uh, you're welcome. Any time," he says absently, wondering whether he needs to pry the girl's fingers off his wrist or whether she'll just let go. "All in a day's work for your friendly neighbourhood Spider-Man."

Her grateful smile gains a harder edge, then. She doesn't look quite so helpless; as though consorting with superheroes is something she does often. She releases him and steps back, but not before saying, "Kick him in the balls for me, will you?" Then she bobs over to the crowd, shouting, "Get back! Can't you see it's not safe? Get back, you morons!"

Peter is in the air before he can shake his head, and by then it'd be a really bad idea to mess with his balance control, so he doesn't bother.

Will doesn't often stop while making deliveries. He's been told enough times not to dawdle, that he's blessed to have an apprenticeship and should thank his lucky stars by working hard and doing what his master says. Foundlings don't often amount to much, young Turner, is his fat old neighbour's favourite saying. That he's already a cut above most should be reason enough to keep quiet and do exactly as he's told.

Still, he's a young boy, and distraction favours the young.

Once he's finished, and has a signed Proof of Craftsmanship parchment under his arm, he marches back through the narrow, humid streets, thick with manure and smells he doesn't care to think about. More than once he's had a chamber pot emptied over his head when someone carelessly tossed the contents out a window. For that reason he keeps one eye aloft, mindful of the petty dangers that throng Port Royal and have nothing to do with the port itself.

He almost doesn't see the girl until she's upon him. She's running, dodging in between people, under arms and around carts in such a way as makes Will think she might have thieved something and is being followed. However, her hands are empty, and when he fails to step aside quickly enough she stops abruptly and looks up at him. Her skirts are dirty, despite how she hitches them up. A lady would never display her ankles so openly, but her face is smudged and the fabric of her clothing cumbersome but of cheap and durable quality.

"Turner?" She sounds surprised to see him.

Will racks his brain to remember who she is. His childhood hasn't included much play, though he's been known to roughhouse with other lads – usually when they've made some objectionable comment about Miss Elizabeth or her father. Apart from Elizabeth, who is often at lessons or away accompanying her father on voyages, he doesn't associate much with girls.

This one seems to know him, though. She grabs his wrist in her tight little hand and pulls him in the direction she's come. "Quickly, you must help."

"Excuse me?" He resists. "Help whom?"

"Mr. Mutou. He's taken all funny – Yuugi says it's one of his turns."

Ah, yes. Will remembers Mr. Mutou – a peculiar old man from some distant country, who runs a shop housing what most folk call only 'eccentricities'. Still, he makes enough to remain in business and on the right side if the law, and is mostly harmless, as far as peculiar old men go. He lives with his grandson, who is also his apprentice, as Will recalls – a sickly boy whose delicate health is most likely the reason they came to the Caribbean.

He's walking alongside the girl and then leading the way until he stops and acknowledges that he doesn't actually know the location of Mr. Mutou's shop. "Um …"

She grabs his wrist again and drags him along. She's very forceful, for a girl. "We must hurry," she says without looking at him.

"But shouldn't we tell an adult?"

"Didn't you save your master when he took funny with chest pains last Autumn?"

"Well, yes." But that had been a case of thumping on the drunkard's chest until he took another soggy breath and rolled over. Will doesn't know what would happen if he thumped Mr. Mutou the same way. He's not a brawny boy, but hard work has made him stronger than ancient ribs. "But we should still tell someone. He might need some sort of linctus."

"Leave that to me. You must go and help him as best you can." She deposits him on the corner and points. "Down that way, in the little alley on the right. His name is above the door."

"Um, all right, but - "

"And don't listen to Yuugi. He's sweet, but too hesitant for the good of either of them in situations like this. Just do what needs must until I fetch my grandfather. He's known Mr. Mutou long enough to know what to do."

"Right." Will sets off, then turns. "But what good can your grandfather do?"

"Well he is Dr. Hawkins, so probably more than you or I could think of."

"Ah."

Dr. Hawkins is famous about these parts for his jolly nature and scythe-like intelligence. Will ran across him once, coming out of a fevered woman's house with some strange scrap of material covering his nose and mouth. Dr. Hawkins believes in little things called 'jurms' that actually cause sickness through dirtiness, and all sorts of other gibberish.

Effective gibberish, nonetheless. The woman had been up and about after only a few days when everyone else thought she might die.

"All right," Will says. He doesn't know Mr. Mutou especially well, but it isn't in his nature to simply let someone die when he has the power – however slight – to prevent it. "But be quick."

"So … you're seriously telling me that's not a Shen Gong Wu?"

"Shen Gong Whosit?" The sprawled boy looks up at her with wide startled eyes. "I-I'm sorry, but I don't know what you're talking about."

Kimiko sighs. She could have sworn the scroll showed them an image of that exact same pendant. It's just ugly enough to be a Wu, too. Grand Master Dashi was mondo cool and talented to create the magical artefacts, but style? So not something he took into proper account. Plus, Dojo had said this was the right place, and the odds of his nose being wrong were slim to none, even if he couldn't pinpoint the location exactly and had forced them to split up to look.

She fights down an inappropriate smirk at the memory of Rai's expression at the prospect of a search through some Japanese metropolis with only his wits to guide him. Instead, she offers the kid a hand.

"Look, I'm not going to hurt you," she says impatiently when he looks at it like one might look at a rabid dog straining at the end of its chain.

"Excuse me if I'm a little hesitant about that." He gets to his feet on his own and brushes himself down, never taking his eyes off her. "You did jump off the fire escape and knock me over."

"Yeah, sorry about that. My bad."

"You were screaming."

"It was a warcry, actually. I thought you had a … never mind." It would take too long to explain, and she needs to find the Tabula Rasa Torque before Spicer and his goons beat her and the other Xiaolin Dragons to it. She makes a quick bow and turns to leave.

"It was my Puzzle, wasn't it? You thought it was a … Shen Gong Poo thingy."

"Shen Gong Wu," Kimiko corrects without thinking.

"Which I am stealing from right under your nose, Kimiko!"

She whirls, just in time to see Spicer lifting the kid backwards into the air by his necklace. The thing is bulky, meaning Jack can get a good grip with both hands to pull, but the kid is holding onto the chain so tight his fists may as well be clamps. It presses into his throat and under his jaw. His little feet kick when they leave the floor.

"Hey!" Jack frowns and wiggles to and fro, his helipack whirring with each change of direction. "Let go, shrimp! This is an official mugging. Fork over the Wu and I'll let you go with only minor injuries and a full rendition of my evil laugh."

"Ngg."

"Aw, nobody wants to hear my evil laugh now Wuya's not around. She was the only one who appreciated the nuances of the evil genius."

Jack must have come up through that open drain, Kimiko realises, seeing the grate up on the floor and the slime dripping from his coat.

"Hrrk! Hgggghh – khk!"

The choking noises alert her that the kid is being strangled. Her body goes into combat mode without conscious thought. She runs at the wall of the alley she cornered him in, using her speed to mount the vertical surface and keep on going. Once level with Spicer she lets fly.

"Star Hanabi! Fire!"

The small, shuriken-like Shen Gong Wu whips through the helipack's rotors like an extremely hot scimitar through butter, and carries on in as wide an arc as the alley will allow. Though it trails flames, when she catches it between her fingers it feels cool. She lands lightly, immediately falling into a defensive crouch.

"Yaah!" Jack yelps as he comes crashing to earth.

"Hllpt!" That from the kid, who doesn't have as far to fall, but still manages to land on his butt.

"Let him go, Spicer," Kimiko warns, switching to an aggressive stance and brandishing the Star Hanabi like a semi-automatic. "That's not a Shen Gong Wu. It's just a cheap piece of tacky jewellery."

She can't be sure, but the kid looks indignant at that.

"Liar!" shouts Jack, still clutching the necklace and dragging the kid over backwards when he yanks possessively at it. "You're just saying that because I got to it first, and I didn't even have to Showdown you for it! You had your chance, and you fudged it. Now it's mine – mine, I tell you! All mine!"

"I beg to differ." The kid suddenly sits up, speaking in a voice that's the same and yet very different than the one he used when Kimiko mistakenly ambushed him. "It is, in fact, mine."

With one swift tug, the necklace leaves Jack's hands and clinks back around its rightful neck. And while on the topic, shouldn't there be some red marks around that neck from the, y'know, strangulation with a chain thing? Kimiko's been throttled before. The aftermath isn't pretty. That the kid can talk like that, not a bit hoarse after all those noises is a minor miracle in itself.

His eyes flash red. She blinks, but she didn't imagine that. They're actually flecked with red where before they were a deep purple she attributed to contact lenses. That idea fits in with the vaguely gothic clothes he wears, but she's never known any Goth spontaneously change eye colour before.

She's beginning to get the feeling that something here is not quite kosher.

"Hey," Jack pouts. "You're not allowed to do that. Jackbots! Atta - "

But the kid just waves a hand. Jack pauses in the middle of speaking and then keels over. He's still breathing, but has gone from totally conscious to totally unconscious in the time it took for him to hit to floor, and, amazingly, nobody had to throw a punch first.

Definitely not kosher.

A Jackbot hovers halfway out of the sewer grate. Kimiko launches herself at it, crumpling its head with a well-aimed kick. There are five more underground, and she makes short work of them since they have no orders and just hover obligingly while she kicks the crud out of them. When she emerges and closes the grate, it's to find the kid bending over Jack with an ear to his open mouth.

He looks up and smiles sheepishly at her. "He's … he's going to be fine."

"Yeah, well, at least until he wakes up and starts talking again. He will wake up, won't he?"

"Oh, yes." The kid nods vigorously. He gives no indication that anything untoward has happened, and is using the same soft, polite voice as when she first spoke to him.

Kimiko eyes him suspiciously and runs a hand through her hair. The Tabula Rasa Torque wipes memories. The scroll, Master Fung and Dojo all said so. That is what it does. It doesn't give the wearer super healing powers, or psychic knockout abilities, or anything like that. The thing around this kid's neck has 'Magical Artefact' written all over it in ten-feet-high, neon green flashing letters, but it's not a Shen Gong Wu.

Which begs the question … what is it?

And she thought tracking Shen Gong Wu was weird. Just wait until Raimundo hears about this.

"Have you ever tasted Baratie mussels? They're the finest in the world – fresh as a sunrise and tasty as a glass of water in a desert. If you ever have chance to try them, do. People travel hundreds of miles to dine at the Baratie, and they always come away praising the soup and the mussels most of all."

Despite what Bobosa told her as a child, Anzu isn't sure she trusts the food at a restaurant with a knife and fork crossed behind a chicken's head as its insignia. There's something absurd and altogether underdeveloped about the idea of a floating restaurant, even though it proved itself a resounding success long before she stepped aboard her first ship. It feels like she's fallen into a childhood dream when she walks through the doors – part of a world where bad guys can be defeated by a pointy twig and then leap up to be good guys seconds later.

They're seated in a corner by a window, around a large circle of a table – solid wood under the white cloth. There are champagne flutes with napkins folded into them, and more forks than either Jounouchi or Honda knows what to do with.

"What's this little one with the funny prong for?"

"That's for eating your dessert with," Anzu hisses, wishing that for once they'd forget they're uncouth ruffians and at least try to blend in. She's had quite enough of pulling their fat out of whatever fire they've set under themselves – not that she ever asked for the job in the first place, but the smaller blazes usually fall to her to sort out.

She's not entirely sure how you eat mussels, so she plumps for soup. Mai skims her eyes over everyone in the room without turning her head, and then breaks into a wide smile that shows all her white teeth. She decides on a bowl of chilli, and somehow convinces both Jounouchi and Honda to follow her example. It isn't surprising, really. Jounouchi would follow Mai into Hell if she adjusted her bustier and crooked her finger, and Honda isn't about to be outdone by either of them.

"How about you, Yuugi?" Anzu slides her eyes across to where their captain is playing with his napkin; having flattened it on the table, Yuugi is refolding it into some other shape, like origami.

He looks up, startled. "Hm?" To see him like this, nobody would ever think him their leader. Yuugi is good at blending into the background – exceptional, if you take his bizarre hair into consideration. Anyone who can look like a dyed porcupine, stand in the centre of a room wearing mismatching clothing and still be ignored has unnatural talent.

"What are you going to order?" Anzu chides, feeling like his mother more than his friend and crewmate.

"Oh, I just … um, what are you having?"

"Carrot and spicy lentil soup."

"Oh. I'll have that, then." He returns to his napkin.

Mai rolls her eyes and slings an arm around his shoulders. Yuugi stiffens, and only relaxes a small amount when she drawls, "You need to take a few more chances with your food, little man. Take a few more risks. You're too conservative – too meek."

Anzu isn't sure the last batch of pirates who tried to raid their ship would agree with that.

"I'm happy with soup," Yuugi protests, trying to wriggle out of her grasp. "Honestly."

"Obviously a man who doesn't appreciate fine cuisine," says a voice.

Anzu turns in her seat to see a shock of blond hair with a black suit attached. A few seconds later she notices the man inside it all. He's pale, with rakish bangs coming off a side parting, through which a single eye peers at them. In one hand he carries an order pad. He doesn't look like any of the other waiters – doesn't carry himself like them, either. There's a sense of thinly veiled egotism to his stance, and Anzu finds that one eye both confident and unsettling.

She's gotten better at assessing people as threats and potential allies since they started this hair-brained voyage. This man doesn't scream 'enemy' at her, so she's content to let him flourish a pen and smile jauntily. His gaze lingers maybe a little too long on Mai's cleavage, but it is kind of difficult to miss in that outfit. She just hopes Jounouchi doesn't notice and try to pick a fight.

"May I take the order of such a beautiful young lady?"

It takes a second for Anzu to realise he's addressing her. "Oh! Uh …" A faint blush creeps into her cheeks. She's used to being sidelined by men when Mai's around. It's not that she's ugly – not even when compared to Mai – but next to the older woman's long legs, canyon-like décolletage and tumble of blonde curls it's easy for Anzu to be considered … well, plain.

It must be a line, she thinks cynically. Yet the man's smile is infectious, and she finds herself untucking her hair from behind her ear so that it falls – hopefully winsomely – across her face.

"Just the soup for us two, please," says Yuugi, looking between Anzu and the waiter with a strange expression on his face.

"Perhaps the lady can speak for herself?" the blond mad suggests.

"Sure I can."

"Ah, a spirited beauty. And what, pray tell, is your name?"

"Anzu."

"Ah, meaning 'peach'." He smiles again, obviously pleased he knows that. "Fuzzy, yet robust. Sweet, yet piquant. Your name warms my heart, miss."

Jounouchi makes a noise like a baby blowing a raspberry. "Sleazeball."

"If you think paying a lady compliments is sleazy, then it's no wonder you ended up with a guy." The waiter's tone snaps off his tongue and clicks between his teeth, totally at odds with the suave voice he's just been using. It sounds so different, and changes so fast that Anzu blinks and takes a moment to play catch-up in her mind.

In that moment Jounouchi has both drawn himself up and shifted his chair away from Honda's. "Hey, punk!" he growls, spoiling for a fight. Of course, he's always spoiling for a fight. Jounouchi grew up on the streets, where fighting was the fastest, if not easiest means of getting to the top of the heap. He's mellowed a lot since meeting Yuugi, but he's still got enough rough edges to cut yourself on.

"Sit down," Anzu orders sharply.

"The hell I will. He insulted me - "

"I don't care. You hit anybody, and I do something terrible to you while you're sleeping." He knows she means it. There's no use making idle threats with people like Jounouchi and Honda. She knows he wouldn't hit her back, since she's a girl, and despite street life he has some elements of propriety in him, but not following through would just make things more difficult down the line.

Grumbling, he slumps in his seat.

"Beautiful and dynamic." The waiter uses that polite voice again and whistles, his curly eyebrow climbing into his hairline.

"Hey, what am I, chopped liver?" Mai leans on the table with her elbows, one fist propping her chin. It's a position that best shows off her cleavage while also making it look totally accidental.

"My dear, you are about as far from smelly old liver as is possible to be. You are ambrosia. You are caviar. You are champagne."

She chuckles, tipping her head in approval. "I like him," she announces to nobody in particular. "He's good at compliments."

"Hey, I gave you a compliment just this morning," Jounouchi pouts.

She sighs. "Saying I wash dishes like a pro does not constitute a complement, you dumb lunkhead."

"You make her wash dishes?" The blond man sounds aghast at this. "With those delicate hands?"

"We all take turns," Anzu is quick to point out in an effort to defuse more friction. It barely works. She can practically hear Jounouchi's teeth grinding. "We're all equal, and we all pull our weight. Nobody does any more or less than anybody else on our ship."

"And I'll bet you're the captain of that fair vessel, my dear."

"Actually - "

"Actually, I am," says Yuugi, an octave deeper than usual. His eyes are still a deep purple, but tiny red flecks are beginning to unfold around the pupils.

Anzu wonders why the hell he's changing now. He has a lot more control over his powers than Ryou, whose darker impulses are at the wheel almost all the time, and it's unlike Yuugi to go dark outside of battle. Yuugi is watching the waiter with an expression Anzu last saw when he was contemplating how best to tip an entire posse of pirates off the mast without snapping it in two. In a public place and left with no other option (well, except maybe jumping on the table and lifting her skirt to distract everyone) she kicks him on the shin.

Yuugi blinks and flashes back to purple. He looks at her, puppy-dog eyes hurt.

She looks right back at him and inclines her head a smidgen, willing him to understand. Sometimes he loses touch with reality a bit – though they don't know enough about devil fruits to say whether that's all Yuugi or the fault of the yami yami fruit he and a starving Ryou once shared.

The waiter looks from one to the other and runs a hand through his hair. The index and middle fingers on his right hand have tiny grooves, like you might get from too many years of holding cigarettes, but there are no nicotine stains under his nails. When he smiles again his teeth are all pearly white.

"Are you going to take our orders some time today?" Seto's position doesn't change – leaning back in his chair, arms folded, head bowed and eyes closed as if in sleep – but his tone overflows with irritation. It's the first time he's spoken since they sat down, and evidently the first time the waiter has noticed him.

Seto Kaiba both unsettles and aggravates Anzu. He is only sailing with them because their pursuit of Ryou coincided with the kidnapping of his brother, Mokuba, and they had the fastest ship in all East Blue that wouldn't take a week to prep for such a long and arduous voyage. Most of the time Seto ignores the crew of the Millennium Dream as if they are tactless topics of conversation, and yet Anzu is certain that if someone were to ask him at any given moment where any of them are in relation to him, he'd be able to reply with the exact distance in centimetres, bearing relative to magnetic north, and with precisely calculated grid references.

The blond waiter huffs a little, repertoire interrupted by Seto's brand of coldness. You only notice Seto when he wants you to know he's there, but once you have noticed him he's impossible to ignore. "I probably could, but I'm having so much fun talking to your beautiful crewmates. It isn't often we get real high-class ladies in this joint."

Seto snorts. "Take note, Kujaku. This is the first and last time anyone will ever call you a high-class lady."

The waiter hasn't eaten any yami yami fruit, but Anzu could almost swear she feels the same vibe rolling off him that she felt from Yuugi. She checks just to make sure his blonde hair hasn't spiked up, but it still hangs down foppishly into his eyes. He looks like some nobleman who's just been slapped with a leather glove.

"That ain't any way to talk about a woman."

"Hey, lover boy. Yoo-hoo. I'm fine with it." Mai spirals a hand at the wrist. "Don't mind Seto. He's just a dried up old prude who wouldn't know a good time if it painted itself purple and bit him on the ass. I don't take anything he says seriously."

"Remember who's been bankrolling you people these past few months," Seto mutters.

"Remember who's been putting up with your … you-ness. Without throwing you overboard, I might add – though not for the want of it. Sometimes I think a good dunking is what you really need," Mai replies without missing a beat. "And remember who knows where to find your brother." She gestures at Yuugi.

Seto grunts. He knows better than anyone that the connection between Yuugi and Ryou, having eaten from the same devil fruit, is a better bet than any tracker his money could buy. However, it still rankles with him that he is dependant on anyone in any way, shape or form. Seto Kaiba gives new meaning to the word 'self-supporting'.

"Well …" The waiter seems just a little put out at not being able to distribute retribution for the insult. "If you don't want me to teach him some manners …"

"Hasn't worked so far," Mai says cheerfully.

"So," Jounouchi bites off. "Our orders?"

"Will be seen to forthwith by one of my - " the waiter smothers a grimace – badly " – esteemed colleagues. Unfortunately," his eyes slide sideways to something behind Anzu, "I'm afraid I now have to depart from your gracious company, my dears. Though it pains me greatly to be parted from such beauty." Without warning, he lifts Anzu's hand off the tabletop and brushes his lips over the back of it. It's scarcely a touch, the barest hint of breath across her skin, but it makes her toes tingle.

"Uh …" she stutters.

"Oh, don't blow a gasket," Mai tells Jounouchi, shattering the moment. "I'm too far away for him to kiss my hand without coming all the way around the table." There's a hint of something in her eyes, daring him to do just that.

Jounouchi visibly bristles, more than a hint of something quite different in his eyes.

"Alas and alack." The waiter bows at the waist, arms flourished and legs ramrod straight. He has very long legs. He might even be taller than Kaiba. "I must away, my sweet. But rest assured, your loveliness will be forever burned into my memory." He strides away at a fast clip, disappearing through one of the swinging doors that lead to the kitchens, judging by the stark white walls and sounds from within.

"Jerkwad," Jounouchi mutters.

Anzu rests her hands in her lap, thumb absently stroking where the man kissed her. Yuugi is looking at her again, his mouth a little smaller than usual, yet before he can say anything there is a terrific clamour from the kitchen doors.

As they watch, the blond waiter is ejected backwards, as if shoved or thrown from the room. He skids to a halt, takes a moment to fix his tie, and then marches back in, long arms swinging.

"You take that back, shit-eater!"

"I will when you start pulling your weight, you little shyster."

"Little? I could knock your block off with one hand tied behind my back. No – with both hands tied behind my back!"

"I'll tie you up like a side of beef if you don't give back that notepad and put on an apron."

"I'd like to see you try."

"Just quit flirting and get these damn orders filled."

"Fill them yourself."

"I don't pay you to pretend at waiting tables so you can talk to pretty girls."

"You don't pay me at all!"

"Shut the hell up and do your gorram job."

"Old fart."

"Lanky streak of piss."

Jounouchi and Honda exchange a look. "Aaaand … whose idea was it to come here?"

Everyone except Seto points at Anzu.

"You," Honda says, "have got a real weird taste in restaurants."

Anzu raises her hands, palms outward. "Don't blame me, blame Bobasa. He's the one who said this place was great. I was just following his recommendation."

Yuugi frowns. "But doesn't Bobasa eat mouldy cheese and say that's great, too?"

"Well … yeah, but - "

"And didn't he once climb down into a barbeque pit to clean up the dripped fat because he said he was hungry?"

Jounouchi pulls a face, but regroups his features enough to jab a finger on the tabletop. "Okay, next time? I choose where we eat."

"Wonderful," Seto says dryly. "So it's Honest Shinji's Lunch For A Beri from now on, is it?"

As Mai and Honda restrain Jounouchi from clambering over the silverware to pop Seto in the nose, Anzu raises her eyes heavenwards and debates what to do to Bobasa when they finally get home and she gets her hands on him.

FINIS.

1 - Angel (pretty early on in the show, probably the first half of Season One, when Cordelia was still nursing real dreams of becoming an actress in between being secretary for Angel Investigations).

2 - Spider-Man (movieverse, in between the first and second movies).

3 - Pirates of the Caribbean: Curse of the Black Pearl (pre-canon. Way, waaaaaaaay before the main events of the first movie).

4 - Xiaolin Showdown (mid-Season Two).

5 - One Piece (pre-canon Baratie, though not especially long before the Straw Hat Pirates and Don Krieg went there).