Hateshipping (Atem/Yami Bakura)

. . .

It was really about time he figured out how much he actually remembered.

Bakura slid down the stairs a few steps at a time, letting the soles of his feet slide over the edge of each step. He had his hands shoved in his pockets, but extracted one to run a hand through his hair, mussing up his host's otherwise perfectly combed locks. The motion caught the attention of a trio of girls gathered around a display of ancient Greek vases, and one of them grabbed the elbow of another to whisper excitedly to the other. Feeling a little mischievous, Bakura sent them an exaggerated wink, and was rewarded by a soft gasp and the third girl immediately diving to her phone to start tapping something out on it.

Before they could pursue him any further, however, Bakura wove his way out of the Greek exhibit and down the dim stairs towards the Egypt section. As hilarious as it would be to watch his host wake up with dates he didn't remember and dissolve into a puddle of social anxiety, he had other priorities today.

He took his time, though, loitering by a few steles and pretending to have a look at the empty sarcophagus at the center of the room. A few couples had given him looks as he walked in, and he knew enough to realize that a lone teenager in a history museum often attracted more attention than he would have liked. Perhaps he should have brought a notebook and pretended to be a student. After a few moments, though, people seemed to forget he was there, their attention taken up by the exhibits. Good.

He used the glass for the pottery exhibit in the corner to check behind him, and make sure the security guard wasn't looking. A cursory glance was given to the door that he knew led to the lower floor, and the special exhibit he was most interested in. No alarms or locks—an easy in.

He grinned to himself as he took his chance to bolt. He was through the door and easing it shut quietly behind him before anyone was the wiser.

That left him all alone with the tablet he was interested in.

He made his way across the room, sneakers echoing softly against the walls. Here it was…the tablet of the nameless pharaoh. It wasn't much to look at after three thousand years. A bit banged up. The name, of course, was removed, seemingly chipped away.

"You still look dashing as ever, though," he murmured, eyes fixing on the distinctive relief figure of the nameless pharaoh.

He reached out to the tablet, but his fingers hit the glass, and he was left with his hand pressed inches above the stone's surface. Irritation curled his lip, and he curled his hand into a claw against the glass. He could break it, he supposed. He wanted to touch it; wanted to trace the relief and see what memories it stirred. He remembered most things clearly enough, but there would always be some holes after all that time spent in the dark.

He didn't break the glass, though. That would certainly set off an alarm. He settled for tracing the image with his eyes, each line and curve of the pharaoh's artistic rendering. His mind supplied the original image, the short yet commanding figure, the fiery crimson eyes, the broad, tense shoulders and the clenched jaw of determination. He couldn't help but smile.

"Haven't changed worth a damn, have you?" he hummed. "Little fuck."

A laugh bubbled at the base of his throat, and he pulled his hand away from the glass to press against his chest to still it.

"Gods," he said, grinning. "It's been so long. So long since I saw your stupid face."

He grinned at the image on the stone, feeling the excitement course through him.

"Let's pick up where we left off," he whispered. "Our little game of cat and mouse. I hope you're as excited as I am."

The stone didn't answer, of course. But it wouldn't be long before he was able to meet the real thing again…not long at all…

. . .

A/N: idk what happened but I'm suddenly having fun with this oneshots again. Hopefully that momentum lasts haha :'D Next is Halfshipping (Miho x Ryo).