AN: I'm so sorry for lengthy delay with this chapter, you guys. The first week I was meant to upload it I was super sick with some sort of 'flu virus, and then the next week I had stupid life commitments and school exams, but it's here now, and hopefully it's okay! So, once again, thanks for waiting. Enjoy!

Disclaimer: I still don't own Yu-Gi-Oh!, the plotline is fictional, and the song lyrics and title are from Konstantine by Something Corporate

Warnings: Slash, angst, violence, mega-AU-ness.

Konstantine

oo3. It's Always You

And then you'd bring me home, 'cause we both know what it's like to be alone.

disclaimer: don't own them, this plotline is fictional, and the song lyrics and title are from "konstantine" by something corporate.

Marik's office is dark.

Bakura walks in, not even bothering to knock or introduce himself, opening the nice, polished, wooden door quickly, swiftly. He's greeted right away by a dim, shadowed waiting room, and he squints his dark eyes as his pupils dilate. Coming in from the shining sun, it's quite a change, and Bakura grumbles something about "Marik being ridiculous" with the fact he seems to have something against fluorescent, overhead lights. There's a small lamp on a shabby desk in the corner, but the light bulb's probably going to die any minute, and it really isn't offering much illumination, anyway. But, Bakura knows better than to complain; even though he initially walked in here like he owned the place (simply because that's who Bakura is, even if he's shaking in his shoes), he knows when respect is needed, and with Marik, it's definitely needed.

Bakura rolls his eyes slightly, closing the door behind him a little less…exuberantly than he opened it. He tries not to let his annoyance and frustration with this whole situation, being summoned here, to this somewhat shady, otherwise abandoned, well-hidden office building, show too badly. Bakura's never been a huge fan of wearing his heart on his sleeve with his work: not a good idea.

He's there to get business done, and that's that.

He's sick of this: having to come downtown, act like it's normal to be walking around one of the most seemingly deserted, notorious areas, then walking into this office building, hiking up nasty, cobweb-covered stairs, and waiting in this dingy, dark room before finally getting to talk to this guy who gives him names and faces to kill. It's hard as hell, sometimes; it takes its toll on Bakura, both mentally and physically (the dark bags under his eyes and the random bouts of anger and shouting prove it), but it's his job. He chose this; this all has some rhyme and reason, and even though he's doing one of the most sick, dangerous things that human beings could possibly do—be an assassin—it seems to make sense in his head.

Because Bakura's got a mission.

No matter how cliche, how scripted it may be, Bakura is set on avenging his family somehow, someday. That's why he works for one of the biggest gangs around: the one Marik commands, the one Bakura kills for; its rivals are the very gang that sent two of its members to kill his family. Now, Bakura doesn't know exactly who killed them, which is a bit of an annoyance; he can only assume that whoever they were, they were pretty high up on the food chain and weren't lackies or business ventures like the people that Bakura normally kills are; they'd be risky and a pretty big job if Bakura was ever sent out to do them in. And so far, he hasn't.

But someday, if Bakura has any say in it, he will.

Maybe it's ironic, even somewhat hypocritical, that Bakura is doing exactly what they did: murdering. But, God, if Bakura can have the pleasure of putting a bullet through the skull of that bastard who shot his mother, his father, and almost him, then all the pain, all the frustration, all the morbidity will be worth it.

It took a while for Bakura to dig up the information about the murders and the gang they were in; it took him a while to really even get the job he now has. He was sent to live with his aunt and uncle after his sister and parents' deaths, and they were set on sheltering Bakura even more than his immediate family was. But, Bakura somehow managed to live out the next twelve years of his live in relative…peace, or at least quiet normality (some twisted form of "normality," at least). He somehow managed to convince all the psychiatrists and therapists that he was forced to go see that he was okay, or at least, managing. And maybe, he was (that, or he was just a damn good actor). He was a pretty normal kid, for the most part. He got in trouble; he made friends. On the surface, Bakura, the "weird, orphan kid" that everyone expected to crumble or go insane and get locked up in some institution, was dealing pretty well. But inside his head, there was nothing but revengerevengerevenge on his mind.

As he grew older, he made more and more friends: friends who were on the streets more than he was, who knew more people and information than he did. They, for whatever reason, didn't mind Bakura poking around; maybe they were just young and stupid, or maybe they found him amusing and even pitied him a little. But, regardless, Bakura managed to squeeze enough information out of his "friends" more and more over his high school years, just fueling the need for revenge that ran through every vein in his body, and one day, he heard a name dropped; it was a pretty creepy name: something that reminded Bakura of disaster: `Havock' or something. But aside from its simple creepiness, somehow, it stuck with Bakura, and as he went home that night, he thought on it. Sooner or later, maybe a page or two into the history chapter he had to read on the French Revolution and the brutal slayings of all the aristocrats, a memory from a long, long time ago surfaced. His six-year-old mind took the lead, and amidst its pre-corruption, naive musings, Bakura remembers watching his father run his hands over his face in frustration after dinner one night, looking over some designs and plans as he muttered, "that Havock is gonna kill me with this new job he's got me signed on to."

After that, his mother had leaned over and given her husband a kiss, and then upon seeing her little boy in the doorway, she cooed something about freshly-baked cookies, and well, that's where the memory ended.

But it was just enough for Bakura to decide to dig a little deeper.

He wasn't told much when he asked, which surprised him. Normally, his friends were more open, but when he mentioned that name, they got this look on their faces, and it took a long, long time for one of them to finally mutter, "He's a part of this, uh, underground gothcore thing: called the `Blue Bloods' or something."

As soon as he got what info he could on this "Havock" person, he wasted no time in asking who the "Blue Bloods" were involved with: more specifically, who they were rivaled with. Once again, he got more shocked faces and cocked eyebrows than an actual answer initially, but with enough pushing, someone shrugged and said, "They haven't gotten along with these other guys—The Hoods—for a while."

Now, Bakura had heard about `The Hoods.' They were a pretty dangerous, major gang, most known for drugs. He found it sort of strange how a well-known gang apparently didn't get along too damn well with a more underground gang—these `Blue Bloods'—whose name Bakura hadn't ever even heard once on the local news. That probably should have worried him more than it did; usually, a lack of notoriety meant the members and people involved with an organization were professional, legitimate, and dangerous enough to keep under wraps.

But, as soon as he got that new information, Bakura's goal was in place, and nothing was going to stop him.

The very evening after high school graduation, he walked downtown to a warehouse he was directed to by one of his "friends" (the location was revealed to him as a quote-un-quote "graduation present") and demanded to see Marik, whom a friend had told him was leader of The Hoods. At first, Marik's "bodyguards" laughed at him; this kid wanted to see Marik. But when Bakura stood outside that damn place for six straight hours, not moving an inch, not even faltering, they finally let him in.

Marik was pretty nice, at first. He thought Bakura seemed "okay," (Bakura never understood, and still doesn't understand, how he makes such a good first impression), and normally they never did anything like this, but Marik admired his tenacity, and he said he saw "something in him that made him want to keep him around." He was questioned, of course. Who are you? Who are your parents (Bakura made up some quick lie about that one)? Where are you from? How did you hear about us? (Marik and his lackies found it funny when Bakura simply answered `I asked' to that last one) But in the end, it was decided Bakura would be signed onto The Hoods.

When asked what exactly he wanted to do, he said "kill."

Marik had even looked surprised, then, but with a quick look to his bodyguard and a quick peek into a file, he said, "all right."

The next night, Bakura was assigned his first target.

It was sloppy. Bakura was nervous, and it wasn't exactly like he had murdered anyone, before. But he was given specific instructions, very specific instructions on where to be, when to be there (down to the millisecond, and if he was a millisecond late, the job was ruined), what weapons to use, and how to not leave a trace of himself behind at the crime scene. Anyway, regardless of how it was done, it was done, and Marik must have approved enough of Bakura's ways, because he hired him on.

And now, Bakura can add officially "assassin" to his list of employments.

If Bakura's honest, it was not an easy job to get used to. The first few times he killed, he would go home and crawl into his dingy apartment and cry and cry until there were circles black as night under his red-rimmed eyes, and he couldn't keep a bite of food down for a week. Sleep was out of the question, and, frankly, Bakura was just glad he didn't have any real friends so he didn't have to get bombarded with questions about why he looked like Death itself.

But, he got over his regrets, his hesitations, his fears (which he was surprised he had, really) and he learned fast. He had to learn fast; if he reported back to Marik with any sloppy results, one of the second-in-command's far-too-sadistic bodyguards or lackies might show up at his door that night, and Bakura would have more than a few bruises the next morning.

So Bakura got smarter, faster, and cleverer. He perfected his art, and he became this sort of shell of a human, putting on a facade of happiness and smiles for everyone he ran into during the daylight, when really, once night fell, he was nothing but a monster driven by revenge and murder. It was sick, really, but it brought Bakura one step closer to the one thing he wanted more than anything else in life, and, hey, it wasn't like it paid too badly, either (though, the whole "price on a person's head" thing still hasn't stopped creeping Bakura out to a certain extent).

And that's how Bakura lives his life: with a sick, twisted lie. He says, to the "friends" he makes, that he works as a technician at clubs. He still likes music (because, maybe, there is something still human about Bakura underneath all his pain), so he does stop by concerts and shows and help set and clean up, having a drink, talk, and forget about everything for a little bit. But that doesn't last long. Bakura's far too aware of his reality, what he is, what he does. He has never let himself relax too much. He has never let himself have too many drinks, say too much. And, most of all, he's never let anybody get too close.

Well, except for one person.

Bakura shivers.

No, he tells himself, don't think of Ryou: not at work, not like this. Already, the other boy is too affected by what Bakura does; Bakura isn't stupid, and he sees the way Ryou's face falls when he leaves so quickly, so nervously, and he sees the anger, the hurt, and the bags of worry and sleeplessness under his best friend's eyes. Bakura thinks, in a way, that if Ryou crosses his mind while he's at a job and he dwells too long on him, then somehow, he's involving the skinny boy in what he does even more, and, that's just cruel.

So, when Bakura finally opens the door to Marik's office, he completely banishes his mind of anything to do with Ryou. Which was, as Bakura will find, a good idea.

Not a second into Bakura standing but a few feet in the dark office, the door swung swiftly shut behind him, an unmarked manila folder is thrown onto the desk in front of him, and Bakura stares at it. He swallows gently, not moving an inch. On the outside, that folder is like any other folder in any other office in any other place in the world; Marik, or, at least, whoever puts these "jobs" together, probably bought it at Staples or Office Max or someplace equally as ordinary. But Bakura knows better; in that folder is a picture, a list, a profile, a face for Bakura to murder next. That thought in itself is enough for Bakura's jaw to tighten, and his spine to straighten just a little bit as he looks up from his next job to Marik's face.

He's always found it funny how Marik dresses.

You'd expect one of the most dangerous people around dress in something besides jeans and a lavender shirt, but that's Marik for you. He's the first-in-command to such a huge organization, and he sort of...unnerves Bakura.

"Bakura," Marik speaks, a small, pleasant smile coming onto his features. "You did good last night."

Bakura doesn't return the smile; he just lets the compliment float right over his head. Who wants compliments on how they kill, anyway?

"I did my job," the man simply, politely replies, shifting his weight from one foot to another, and Marik smirks and lets out a light laugh, leaning back in his dark blue desk chair, spinning to the side, slightly.

"You look tired, Bakura," he says, then. The sad thing is, Marik isn't mocking him or teasing him; he's legitimately concerned, because maybe Marik thinks he and the other boy might actually be friends if the circumstances were…different. But Bakura just shrugs in response to his boss's query, licking his lips slightly, letting Marik know he'd like to get this done as soon as possible without words (he wouldn't dare say anything like that out loud).

Marik exhales deeply and moves forward in his seat, pushing the folder up toward Bakura a little farther. "Here's your next case," he simply says. "All you need to know is in there." And then, Marik pauses, half-smirking, half-smiling at Bakura in the dim light of the room. "And, Bakura, you don't have to be too brutal with this one. He's not a big threat, not a big mistake. He's more of an…annoyance. We just want him out of the picture because he's so damn irritating." Marik waves his hand, then, beginning to spin around slightly in his chair, as if he's suddenly bored of talking about this, of Bakura's presence. "Burn the file after you're done."

Bakura nods once, biting his tongue so hard it bleeds.

And then, he's scampering out of Marik's office, slamming the door behind him and heading out into the bright sun. He inhales deeply and feels like he's breathing for the first time after being underwater for hours, closing his eyes for a moment, the file held tightly between his fingertips. And then, he swallows, beginning to walk down the street, as fast as he can back uptown. It doesn't look good to linger.

When Bakura leaves, Ryou is probably more upset than he should be.

There's a frown on his face for the next few hours, and he can't bring himself to read anymore of his book, so really, he just sits there and stares into space, wondering what to do now, what just happened, and how annoying the ticking clock is in the kitchen.

He doesn't understand Bakura.

One minute, the other boy is smiling with Ryou on the couch, and then he's stormed off, disappearing into his room for hours before rushing back out and just leaving him for what will be undoubtedly hours more.

To say that his best friend is "frustrating" is somewhat of an understatement.

Ryou wishes he could have more closeness. He never got it really as a child, and even though he is very tight with Yugi, there's something about Bakura that's addictive, that makes him special and makes Ryou want more and more of him and no one else.

But he'll never get it, will he?

For whatever reason, Bakura doesn't seem to want Ryou as much as Ryou wants him.

R&R, once again sorry for the delay!