Hello again~ Sorry for the disappearance, you crazy people who apparently like my stuff, I was majorly blocked even though I spent pretty much every waking moment of a week without lappy planning this ^^' I will get around to finishing Burning Symbols at some point this millenium, promise...
I'm not going to post this as a crossover (is there even a CSI section on here?) because I'm not going to use any named characters, just generic peoples. Though if you're as much of a fan of the original Vegas series as I am, you might spot a cameo or two shuuuush :)
I am determined that there will be no YGOTAS references in here. To that end, I'm calling Yami Marik 'Marik' instead of Melvin (going along with the Malik=hikari, Marik=yami thing). Spot the pun on That Man's last name. Phonetics go~ *Neeeerd* ...I think I just got Piccolo'd O_OU Okay, on with the fic~

Contains A HELLUVA LOT OF ANGST AND EMOTIONAL PAIN. Uber-warning for you. Clashshipping, non-con [and definitely not hatefuck] Darkshipping.
In this chapter: Contains Brief violence, fluffy hinted Clashshipping, much angst. Actually this chapter is kinda tame compared to stuff I've written before, and what I've got planned for the next chapters *epic foreshadowing*
All characters (c) Kazuki Takahashi
CSI (c) Antony E Zuiker.

Chapter One

The dull yet persistent sound of gun shots. Then silence, broken only by the sound of muffled sobbing. Warm arms around him, hands pressing at the sore and weeping wounds with gentle care. Closing his eyes, choosing to look away from That Man lying sprawled on the floor, redness leaking from him. Everything seemed dull but for the redness and the tan arms around him, holding him safe and secure and trying to staunch the redness on his chest, arms, legs. No use, it kept flowing.
No use, Marik. Just let it flow, he thought. He tried to pay attention as he dimly heard Marik trying to talk to him. Something about pain? No, there wasn't really any pain. He didn't know how he should feel.
"…hear me, Yami? Yami, can you hear me?"
Drifting in and out of awareness, barely feeling anything except the occasional breath of wind on his bare skin and the comforting warmth of Marik's arms around him. It was a long time before he realised the source of the sobbing was his own throat. He tried to stop himself from crying but it tore from him, uncontrollable and separate from his mind, disconnected as that seemed to be anyway. He felt Marik rocking him like a baby, stroking his hair gently back from his face. So slowly Yami didn't even notice it at first, the pain started washing over him in slow waves, each more intense and painful than the last. It swept through his body. Stinging at the wounds that wept red tears. A dull pounding at his wrists and a tingling in his fingertips. An aggravating twinge in his right eye and temple, his eye refusing to open from the sore puffy swelling that grew with every passing minute. And a wrenching, tearing spiking of agony that ripped through his insides whenever he moved his hips or legs. So he didn't move. Though his throat and chest hurt from the wracking, convulsive sobs that he couldn't stop.
Footsteps, many of them, pounding through the door. Bang, bang, bang. Yami flinched and huddled closer into Marik's arms, unsure why the sound made the bile rise in his throat and fear to clutch him icy-cold. Brash, commanding voices ringing through the relative silence. Their voices grated on his ears and he couldn't make sense of their words, only the tone. He gave up on trying to understand and clung limpet-like to Marik, trusting him to know what was happening. Marik cradled him gently, as if he were fragile.
Marik was torn from him, pulled away by the booted men. He reached out with a wordless cry and recoiled as pain flashed through him, scabs cracking and redness flowing afresh. The spike of pain bore through him and he screamed, curling up on his side, tears stinging the cuts on his cheeks he hadn't even registered before. Strangers surrounding him, putting blankets and bandages around him, trying to get him to sit up. He looked for Marik, seeing he was being held on the other side of the room.
"Yami?" Marik was calling for him. "Yami, they're going to take care of you, stop fighting them."
Yami looked at the kind-faced people around him blankly. He hadn't realised he'd been fighting them. They mumbled meaningless phrases and gently pulled him to sitting, patting his hand when he cried out with the pain of the spike jabbing through him again.
"It hurts," he whispered, the first coherent words in a long time. "Marik, it hurts…"
"I know, I know," Marik said soothingly, straining slightly against his captors who refused to let the tall man go to him. "They're going to help with the pain, Yami, don't worry. That's what they're here for."
They tried to get him to stand and he screamed, blackness surrounding him as he fell.

Marik sat at a boring steel table, opposite a severe-looking and weary woman. He glanced up at the clock on the wall and saw it was that odd time between late night and early morning when no one really wanted to be awake. Night shift was a bitch, it seemed.
"Could you confirm that you waive the right to an attorney?" She asked, putting a voice recorder on the table between them. Marik stated again that he had no need of a lawyer, fidgeting anxiously and wondering how Yami was. They had taken him to the hospital and Marik wanted to be at his side; Yami had been almost out of it, earlier, barely able to make sense of what was happening around him. Marik knew he was in agony and would be confused, his hard-won confidence torn into shreds thinner than before.
The woman opened a paper folder and took out some photos. She pushed one over to him. It showed a mortician's photograph of That Man, eyes closed in seeming peace. Marik felt his lip curling up in distaste.
"What was your relationship to the victim?" she asked, watching him closely.
"No relationship," Marik said coolly, pushing the photo back towards her. "Tonight was the first time I'd ever met him."
She absorbed that, nodding slightly to herself before pushing another photo towards him. It was a side shot of Yami's face, showing the black eye and bruised temple Marik had feared would develop. Leaning in a bit closer, Marik saw that Yami's eyes were red from crying; he looked weary and frightened, biting his lip in what Marik knew was shame and misery. Marik felt his heart twist. "What about him?" She asked softly.
Marik reached out and with a fingertip stroked the side of Yami's face in the photograph, wishing he was there with him. When he spoke, his voice was soft and sad. "Yami," he sighed. "I guess the simplest way to describe it would be to say – er – romantic." He glanced up at the woman hesitantly, expecting to see judgement. Her face was blank, however, inviting him to say more. He looked back down at the photo. "How is he?"
"He's in the hospital. They're treating his injuries."
Neither said anything for a few minutes. The woman watched as Marik fidgeted between looking at the photo of Yami's beaten face and scanning the room.
Eventually the woman broke the silence. "I'd like you to tell me what happened earlier this evening."
"Would you now," Marik muttered. "Fine. Yami called me saying that he was in trouble, and I ran to him."
"Can you verify that?"
"Sure. My phone has a chat log, you know. I left it at Yami's place, I'm sure your people can find it. Or you could ask my friend Duke, who was there when Yami called me."
The woman scribbled in her notepad. "We'll be checking on that. So what happened, from your perspective, after Yami called you?"
Marik's face went devoid of all expression. "That Man," He said in a toneless voice that nonetheless managed to convey a bitter hatred, glancing at the picture of the dead man, "Was hurting Yami."
"And what did you do?" The woman asked in a quietly intense voice.
"I punched him in the face to get him off Yami," Marik said, fists bunching. His knuckles started weeping where the already-cracked skin was stretched again. "After that I don't recall. I remember holding Yami, and then the cops coming in and putting him through so much pain that he blacked out."
"Do you own a gun, Marik?" The woman asked. Marik shook his head. "The victim was shot a total of five times, three in the chest, one in the head and one in the groin. Does Yami own a gun?"
Marik almost smiled at the thought of Yami buying a gun. "No."
"So where did the gun come from?" The woman asked, lifting her eyebrows. She obviously suspected he was lying.
"That Man must have brought it. Why don't you check that out?"
"We will."
"Are you charging me with anything?" Marik asked, shifting anxiously towards the door.
"Not as of now," the woman said. "You may leave, but don't leave town."
"I wouldn't dream of it," Marik said with a perfectly serious expression. "Yami needs me."
"Just out of interest," the woman said casually as Marik put his hand on the doorknob, "Do you even know the victim's name?"
"No. And he was in no way the victim here, in any sense of the word," Marik said tightly, thinking of Yami's shattered heart.
The woman lifted her eyebrows again. "He was Bakura Shhadenfroid."
Marik looked at her blankly. "And now, he is dead."

Yami stared at the floor, hands clenched tightly together. He didn't look at the woman on the other side of the table; he was sitting sideways in the chair, facing the door. He wouldn't be sitting upright without the drugs they'd given him, and he could feel them starting to fade.
"What's your name?" The woman said gently, putting a voice recorder on the table. Yami glanced at her quickly then away, feet tapping nervously on the floor.
"Yami Motou," he answered softly, looking around. He wondered where Marik was, he needed Marik with him. Now more than ever, and where was he?
"How old are you, Yami?"
"Twenty two," he muttered, biting his lip as dull aches rippled through his hips and back. "Th-the meds are wearing off…"
"I'll be quick," she said in a tone that she had probably practised on small kittens. Yami gritted his teeth, biting back a sour comment. He did not appreciate being treated like a child. She pushed a photo towards him. "What was your relationship with this man?"
Yami took one look and, with a jerky motion, shoved the photo away, closing his eyes. Trembles controlled his limbs and he hugged himself tightly, wishing harder than ever that Marik was with him. "No relationship. I met him twice."
The woman raised an eyebrow sceptically. "That's it? With a reaction that pronounced? What happened last night, Yami?"
"Where's Marik? Can I see him?"
"Not yet," the woman said gently.
"I need him," Yami mumbled, rocking slightly. He hated how weak he was – yet again, it was like the past year had been in his imagination. He was back in that place again, and he needed Marik to get him out.
"Just answer my questions as best you can and you can go," the woman said, leaning forwards. "What happened last night?"
Yami shook his head vehemently, hugging his knees to his chest, feet on the rungs of the chair legs. "I don't want…" He didn't want to look at his memories of the night before. He had carefully blocked them since, trying to hold himself together. He didn't want to get trapped in those memories, not like the last time.
"I know it's hard," the woman said, looking slightly bored. "Attacks can be traumatic, I know. Just take me through it once, only once."
Yami drew in a shaky breath, gripping his knees tight. "H-He found me again. He tried – he did – oh gods he did…" Yami whimpered, burying his face in his knees.
"Again?" The woman said sharply. Yami nodded miserably. "What happened the first time you met him?"
Tears leaked from his lids, burning the barely-scabbed cuts on his cheeks, marks from That Man. He flung the old memories away, having dwelt in them for so long he was reluctant to revisit them yet again. He had thought he was over it, that he could move past it with Marik's help – they had tried, and it had been so good… Yami had felt his confidence returning, his fear abating… and then last night, the fragile illusion had been shattered into tiny pieces for him to try and reassemble. But he needed Marik to help him, only Marik knew the exact shape the pieces made. Despite him, as they always did, the memories squatted hideously in his mind, transporting him back. The words spilled out of him in a breathless rush.
"He raped me."
If Yami had looked up, he would have seen the shock on her face. But he didn't. His cheeks hot with shame and damp with tears, he hid his face. He didn't see the disbelief turn to sympathy and pity. He didn't see her bite her lip as she watched him tremble and struggle to escape the memories that had haunted him for so long. He didn't see her struggle to say something, anything, to either comfort him or question him. Eventually, she simply said, "Tell me everything, from the start."

In the next few chapters there will be flashbacks. Hey, it's based around the CSI concept. CSI is flashback city~ Anyhoo, see you in the next chapter...? *hopeful*