Chapter 12: Sympathy for the devil

Bakura was lying on his bed with his gaze fixed on the dark ceiling. Outside, the sky did not seem tο feel like making up its mind, so it alternated between heavy bouts of rain and a light drizzle.

It could be considered either very late in the night or very, very early in the morning—and it was a peak time for the Golden Egg. The music in the club was so loud that the thin glass of the windows rattled on the beat, even three floors up. The whole building seemed to reverberate.

During his first nights there, Bakura had found that annoying. It had taken a few days to get used to it and learn how to tune it out, but tonight... He kinda welcomed the distraction.

He huffed and let his head roll to the side. On the top of his nightstand lay Ryou's knife, gleaming innocently in whatever light drifted in from his window.

For the fifth time that night, Bakura shot to his feet and started pacing his room.

He'd come to the conclusion that the person he had talked to a few hours ago—the person he'd been following all week—was not his host. It could not be his host. Some form of magic must have taken place. Whatever brought Bakura back from the dead must have teared the fabric of reality and altered the world he'd known into something foreign. There was no other explanation.

He rubbed his eyes. He was beyond tired, but some weird kind of stress kept his heart beating fast and his blood rushing.

It had not taken long to realize that grogginess and tension was a combination made in hell, but he'd still get it over closing his eyes and letting his mind drift. Because every time that happened, his thoughts steered towards the time he spent in the Ring.

And some thoughts they were proving to be. All he could remember was anger and resentment. Those two feelings had been the core of everything; either multiplying and growing into rage and blinding hate, or simmering in the background as annoyance and a general sour feeling towards everyone and everything.

Looking back, it seemed incredibly... one-dimensional. As if his self had been compressed and squeezed until he had become nothing more than one layer of condensed spite. Everything else had become insignificant, irrelevant, and impractical.

There was, however, something worse than that.

He could remember the boy.

He could remember how his presence had felt warm and supple. Pliable. Bendable. Truly an ideal host.

Bakura had been a writhing, gnarly ball of hatred, and he had disguised himself by hiding his thorns under the velvet of that boy's soul. His host had been the soft padding to take all the blows instead of him. And it had been convenient. It had been effective. One could even say it had been cruel.

Ryou had fought him, in his own way. He'd fought by covering and embracing the barbs in his soul so that they wouldn't hurt anyone else but him. He'd been a shield protecting both sides. And still, even though he had darkness pressing in on him at all times, Ryou had been Ryou until the very end.

He had been the kind eyes in the mirror. He had been the gentle smile where Bakura would snarl, he had been the delicate touch on everything that Bakura couldn't handle without destroying.

He hadn't been the person Bakura had met yesterday; not that angular creature, sharpened by hate and spite.

He groaned and ran his fingers through his hair.

He remembered the shape Ryou's eyes took when trained on him; hating and then cold, dispassive, indifferent.

Bakura didn't know why it bothered him so much. If it had been anyone else looking at him like that, he would have shrugged it off and kept on his way. He might have even been amused by it. He certainly wouldn't have ended up pacing his room like a caged animal.

But that was the point: it hadn't been just anyone. It had been Ryou.

His eyes found the small knife again.

Something, somewhere, had gone terribly wrong. And perhaps that why he was back. Nothing made sense otherwise.

He rubbed a hand over his eyes. He needed sleep. He was overthinking because he was exhausted, and he wouldn't get to clear his head unless he slept. That was all.

He forced himself to lie down again and ordered his brain to sleep.

All he achieved was to keep staring at the ceiling and listening to the distant beat of music until the club quieted down. When he finally dozed off, he did not manage to stay asleep for more than ten minutes before jarring images made him jerk awake. The light outside his window gradually grew stronger, until the night gave way to a grey morning and Bakura declared sleep as a lost cause.

He needed coffee. And he needed it badly. He decided he did not have the energy to put on his boots, so he padded downstairs in his socks, grumpy and disheveled and stifling yawns behind his palm. He considered it a personal achievement when no one tried to strike a conversation with him.

The Golden Egg's kitchen was as popular as every morning: the light buzz of a dozen sleepy voices filled the air, most of them coming from a long table in the corner. Bakura squinted to protect his eyes from the light that felt too harsh and merciless and made a beeline for the coffee pot. He grabbed a cracked mug and filled it, taking a look around with bleary eyes.

He spotted a tattooed bulk sitting at the edge of a table. After a few blinks he identified said bulk to be Enki reading a newspaper and munching at a bagel. Bakura took his mug and made his way towards him.

"You look like shit," Enki said instead of a greeting.

Bakura set his mug on the table and dropped in the empty seat next to him.

"Yeah, thanks for your input."

The steam that rose from his mug had a weird smell. Not all that appealing. When he took a sip, he almost gagged: it tasted like burnt dirt.

He rose to rummage around the cupboards for sugar.

"Didn't sleep well?" Enki asked in the indifferent, almost bored tone he always carried.

"I slept great."

He sat back down and started spooning an outrageous amount of sugar in his coffee.

"You look like shit," Enki repeated and resumed reading.

Bakura scoffed and stirred at his coffee, staring unhappily at the swirling black liquid.

A glance towards Enki's watch revealed it to be nine-thirty. Normally, at this time he'd either be outside Ryou's apartment or following him to work.

What a major failure that plan had turned out to be. He guessed he should be content that he no longer had to hang about freezing streets.

He felt his mouth twist in a sour grimace, so he drank some more coffee. The sugar had done little to improve the taste.

"Something on your mind?" Enki asked, eyes fixed on the newspaper.

"No," Bakura growled, thinking of Ryou's face and Ryou's stupid knife and Ryou's stupid cold glare.

He decided he was content that he no longer had to follow him around. He had all day to himself. He could do something productive for a change. He could try to locate the Mutou boy and see if a certain obnoxious Pharaoh was with him.

...The prospect did not excite him in the slightest, but it would certainly be better than sitting in his room and sulking.

"If it bothers you enough to make you lose sleep, do something about it," Enki said; he'd spoken in such an absent tone Bakura wasn't sure if he'd actually been talking to him.

"What?"

"I said. Whatever it is, if it bothers you so much, do something about it."

Bakura lowered his head to scowl at his mug. "Nothing bothers me," he growled under his breath.

Because it was true. It did not bother him. Enki had no idea was he was talking about.

What was there to do, anyway? As far as Ryou was concerned, he'd done everything that was in his power, and it hadn't worked. There was nothing more he could do without making things worse. If he tried to talk to him again, Ryou might fling himself off a bridge or something, just to spite him. Bakura definitely thought him capable of something like that.

He downed his coffee in as big gulps as he could manage so as not to taste it.

He replayed Enki's words in his head. Do something about it.

He scoffed out loud, but said nothing more. He stared at the cracks in his mug, where coffee had seeped in and turned them black.

There was nothing to do. His host was a dead-end. Engaging with him would be the exact opposite of being productive.

The entire day stretched before him. Endless hours to spend however he pleased.

This day, and then the one after it, and the one after.

Every day, until he found out why the hell he was back. If he ever found out at all.

Endless days, during which he'd be nothing more than a lost soul; a shadow severed from the body that cast it, with nothing to tie him to a world where he did not belong, serving no purpose, reaching no goal. No answers. No rest.

"...Oh, fuck this," he hissed. He set his mug down and rose from his chair.

Soon after, he was outside Ryou's apartment.


Unbeknownst to his yami, Ryou was currently a few miles away, sitting curled at the edge of Yuugi's leather couch. Malik was sitting cross-legged on the carpet, not far from him. Atem and Yuugi were huddled together on the other end of the couch, while Jounouchi had claimed the rest of the living-room for himself by spreading his gangly limbs across every available surface.

Ryou hugged his knees and rested his chin on them. Raindrops thrummed against the apartment's wide glass front. He stared at the rain and the occasional thunder and hugged his knees even tighter. This weather was good news; it meant that his yami would have a harder time following him. Hopefully.

In the middle of the living-room stood a pot of coffee, but all their mugs lay cold and forgotten. They were currently passing Yuugi's smartphone from hand to hand, so that they could all get a good look at what was displayed on the screen. At the moment, the phone was on Atem's hands, who was staring at the screen with a somber look on his face. Ryou knew what the Pharaoh was looking at: the image of a well-kept and quite handsome gentleman nearing his seventies, with neat grey hair and sparkling blue eyes.

"So," Jounouchi said, breaking the brief silence, "to sum up. We have this guy, this mister Thomas Bur-"

"Thomas Blackwood," Malik corrected him.

"Yeah, him. We have this rich, famous gentleman kind of guy, who is funding the whole Millennium Spellbook project."

Malik confirmed this with a small dip of his head.

"He has demanded absolute secrecy," Jounouchi went on, "which means that no one except his very special team and a few high-ranking Council of Antiquities officials know about this project, right?"

"Exactly. At least, no one else was supposed to know," Malik added, looking pointedly at themselves.

"Right," Jounouchi said. "So, he's sending off millions to pay for the project-" he started counting with his fingers, "he is letting no one else near the Book, and no one has access to either the workshop or the files concerning the project."

"Yes," Malik said grimly.

"To his defense," Yuugi intervened, looking at his phone's screen over Atem's shoulder, "he appears to be some kind of archaeology enthusiast. He seems to have funded several similar projects."

"Yes, I saw the articles, too," Malik said. "But he has never done so under such suspicious circumstances. He has always worked in collaboration with the local authorities and other archaeologists."

"Not to mention that, this time, he is not dealing with just any archaeological find," Atem said brusquely. "He has a powerful magical tool in his hands."

"Yes, but..." Yuugi said, biting his lip. "Can't we just ask him nicely why he's so interested in the Spellbook? He might not know how dangerous it is-"

"Ishizu tried, many times over," Malik said. "I think we are done 'asking nicely'. This guy definitely acts like he has something to hide."

"I agree," Atem said.

"Look at this," Yuugi said, taking his phone in his hands and scrolling down. He started reading out loud. "Thomas Blackwood funds the construction of Holy Trinity Hospital... Thomas Blackwood to fund the renovation of the National Gallery... blah blah blah... Supports young artists... Builds new orphanage... There are articles upon articles about his donations and charity events. The list seems endless." He looked up, his violet eyes wide and unsure. "He doesn't seem like a bad guy."

He passed the phone to Ryou, even though he'd already seen the list once. Ryou accepted it and looked at the article Yuugi had left on display. It showed a picture of Thomas Blackwood standing before a magnificent building and wearing a suit that probably cost more than what Ryou earned in a whole year. Under the picture, the header read Sir Thomas W. Blackwood at the inauguration ceremony of the Blackwood Gallery of Antiquities and Fine Arts.

Ryou shook his head. "Don't let any of that fool you. Every rich person makes donations like these. It's just a strategy, for tax allowance and a good public image."

"I dunno, Ryou," Jounouchi mumbled. "Seto donates great sums of money to orphanages and schools, and I know for a fact that he doesn't give a damn about taxes. Nor his public image, for that matter," he added with a shrug.

"Kaiba might not give a damn, but others do," Ryou insisted, giving Yuugi back his phone.

"Are we sure that he is the one funding the Spellbook project?" Yuugi asked, still looking unconvinced.

"Yes," Malik replied. "That's the one thing we know for sure."

Yuugi deflated and fell back into the cushions. "Okay. I guess we can consider this a clue. It's better than nothing."

"It's all Ishizu could learn," Malik said with an apologetic wince. "She had trouble coming across more information. And, from what I've gathered, the Council is not happy with her prying so much."

"Then she should probably step back," Atem said. A frown sharpened his eyes and he looked at Malik with utmost seriousness. "This man could be dangerous. We don't want her in his bad books."

"How are we ever supposed to learn more without Ishizu?" Jounouchi cut in.

Atem's shook his head. "I don't know, but I don't want anyone in harm's way."

"Sis can take care of herself," Malik said with conviction. "She knows how to avoid unwanted questions, but... She's not supposed to know this much about it the first place. She can't go asking around about it much longer."

"Atem's right," Yuugi said. "Ishizu has done enough. It'd be better if she drew no more attention to herself."

"Yeah, guys, that's very noble and everything..." Jounouchi said with a skeptical frown, "but how are we supposed to deal with this without her?"

Malik gave a sideways glance at Ryou. "I guess we... take matters into our own hands."

Ryou noticed his friend's look and their conversation from a week ago flitted through his head.

"Okay. I repeat: how?" Jounouchi insisted.

"We recruit Kaiba," Ryou said simply, echoing what he knew to be Malik's thoughts.

Jounouchi whirled around to look at him as if he were crazy. "We recruit whom?"

"Think about it," Malik said with an enthusiastic spark in his eyes. "We know that Blackwood wants the Spellbook. We know he has money and power. Probably friends in high places, too. I think it is safe to assume that it will be hard to tackle that without similar resources. So..."

"If resources is what we need," Yuugi caught on, "then Kaiba is our best chance."

Jounouchi chuckled and shook his head. "You guys know that Seto will just scoff in our faces, right?"

"Perhaps he won't," Malik said with an all-too-knowing look.

Jounouchi's smile gave way to an offended pout. "Hey, I hope you don't expect me to convince Seto. Because, let me tell you, the man's a handful. I can't convince him to do the simplest things, let alone-"

"I'm not talking about you, Jou. I'm talking about the Pharaoh."

At the mention of his person, Atem's head snapped up. He found everyone looking at him.

"Oooh, that's right," Jounouchi mumbled, eyes going wide.

"What about me?" Atem asked.

"Well, I think you might be the only person that could ask Kaiba a favor and actually achieve something," Malik said.

A perplexed line appeared between Atem's brows. "Why me?"

Jounouchi burst out in laughter and rolled on the carpet, hugging his belly. "Oh, man, don't you remember Seto?"

"Yes, but-" Atem stopped talking as realization hit him. His puzzled frown turned to a disbelieving one. "You don't mean to say that Kaiba is still caught up in our... rivalry?"

"That's exactly what we mean."

Atem turned to Yuugi with an expression that suggested he considered all of this a farce. "Is it true? Even after so many years, is he still...?" He trailed off, looking at Yuugi questioningly.

Yuugi gave him half a smile. "Oh, you have no idea."

Atem still seemed unconvinced, but Yuugi's reply seemed to be enough for him. He turned back to the group. "So you want me to... What? Challenge him to a duel in exchange for his help?"

"Yup!" Jounouchi said cheerfully, rolling back up to a sitting position and spreading his legs in front of him.

Atem shook his head. "I'm not sure about this, but... I'll see what I can do."

"Alright!" Jounouchi exclaimed and punched the air. "The game is on! With Seto on our side, this Blackwood guy won't stand a chance!"

Yuugi took Atem's hand in his and gave it a small squeeze, eliciting a fond smile from the pharaoh.

Ryou looked away from the pair and back towards the rain.

Yuugi and Atem didn't seem to notice how evident they made their affection for each other. It seemed to flow out of them as effortlessly as breathing. Ryou was happy to see this kind of bright light back in Yuugi's eyes, but... Seeing Yuugi and Atem so close only served as a sore reminder of his own situation.

However. Jounouchi was right: if Kaiba agreed to this, then there wouldn't be much that would be able to stop them. And if they got their hands on the Book, Ryou might be able to get rid of his yami once and for all.

His gaze got lost in the horizon. The rain had diminished to a drizzle, but the clouds showed no inclination towards dispersing. All the worse for his yami.

His lip curled in vindictive satisfaction.

"Let's not get ahead of ourselves, though," Malik said. "We still don't know why Blackwood wants the Spellbook so badly, nor if he actually used it."

"Or plans to use it," Yuugi added.

"Well, that's just part of the puzzle, isn't it?" Jounouchi said with a wide grin. "It's just something we'll have to solve! One more big adventure, just like old times!"

"Someone's fired up," Yuugi giggled.

"Yup, and the bad guys'd better watch out!" Jounouchi said, pointedly flexing his biceps. "Katsuya Jounouchi is out to get them!"

"What about us?"

"Oh, fine. Katsuya Jounouchi and Co."

Among the laughter and the banter that erupted, a timid and quiet voice reached Ryou.

"Are you okay?"

"Hmm?" he started, prying his gaze away from the window. Yuugi was looking at him, face soft with concern.

"You've been awfully silent today. Are you okay?"

"Oh. Umm... Yeah. I'm fine, I just... I haven't been sleeping well lately," he blurted out, trying not to think how he hadn't slept at all. He added a smile, just in case.

Yuugi made a sympathetic grimace. "It's... understandable." His eyes flicked back towards Atem, almost like a reflex.

Ryou felt the urge to look away again. He didn't, but his fingers clenched around the fabric of his jeans.

"Are you sure you don't want to stay with one of us?" Yuugi went on. "Just in case-?"

"No," Ryou said firmly. "I'm fine, really."

In the background of his thoughts, his yami mocked and sneered at him, and he tried to push the image away. He had decided to let no one know about last night. If they learned what happened, they would worry—especially Malik—and Ryou didn't want them to fuss. He would deal with this in his own way, in his own time. He had to, just to prove to himself that he could.

Yuugi seemed to realize there was no point in pressing the matter, so he simply said, "You should try to get your mind off things for a while, though."

Ryou shook his head. "We're finally making some headway-"

"Yup, and you'll still be involved, but... You should rest a bit."

"I could say the same for you," Ryou deflected, pointedly looking at Yuugi's tired eyes and dull skin.

Yuugi rubbed the back of his head and chuckled. "I know... But- Hey!" he exclaimed suddenly and his whole face lit up. He looked around at his group of friends with a big smile on his face. "This week is launch week, so there won't be much for me to do at work. How about we all do something together?"

"Game night!" Jounouchi shouted at once.

"I was thinking of something like a welcome party for Atem," Yuugi said, flashing a smile to the pharaoh. "We never welcomed him properly-"

"There is no need, aibou-"

"No, no, Yuugi's right!" Jounouchi butted in enthusiastically. "We should throw a party!"

"Wait," Yuugi turned to Malik. "Your birthday's coming up, too!"

Malik smiled shyly, looking both flattered and a bit taken aback. "Yeah, it's on Thursday."

Ryou felt his stomach drop.

Of course. The 23rd of December. Malik's birthday.

With all that had been going on, he had totally forgotten about it. A few weeks ago he'd started making a miniature replica of Malik's bike as a birthday gift, but after the impromptu reappearance of his yami, it had flown from his mind.

He took a deep breath. He shouldn't panic—he still had time. He would go back home and work on Malik's birthday gift right away; he would work through the night if necessary.

He started mentally going through a list of all the materials he was missing to finish the miniature, distantly aware of his friends making arrangements for a party on Thursday night. Jounouchi yelled and whooped, shouting about a double party and double the cake, while the rest laughed and pondered over snacks and the guest list. Malik joined in with genuine delight and a faint blush on his cheeks, smiling and laughing along with the others.

Ryou watched him and felt his own chest warm up a bit. He could not think of a person more deserving for a bit of celebration on their birthday day than Malik; he deserved presents and cake and friends and laughter to make up for all the birthdays he spent without them. He thanked Yuugi inwardly for bringing this up and went back to listing crafting supplies.

If he wanted everything to be ready on time, he'd have to adhere to a pretty tight working schedule; so, when Jounouchi got up and said he should get going because he was invited to Shizuka's for lunch, he grabbed the opportunity.

"I'd better get going, too," he said and rose.

"I can drop you home, if you want," Malik offered, wide grin still on his face. "It looks like the rain has stopped."

Ryou looked outside to confirm this and his heart sank. On the other hand, if his yami was on his trail again, he'd definitely lose him if we were on Malik's motorbike.

"Sure. Thanks," he said.

"I don't have a second helmet with me, but I'll drive slowly," Malik said with a grimace as he got to his feet.

"Don't worry about it."

He went to the hallway to put on his sneakers, while Malik lingered a bit to talk about party arrangements. Ryou was tempted to go ahead on his own and check the street for any sign of his yami, but he rejected the idea. It would seem too suspicious; Malik would definitely demand to know why he was acting so strangely. He waited until Malik had put in his boots and his heavy biker's jacket, bid goodbye to everyone, and left.

Contrary to the old, claustrophobic box of Ryou's building, Yuugi's elevator was modern and roomy; they rode it down in silence, Malik still smiling faintly.

Outside, a red motorbike was waiting for them. As Malik took some time to put his helmet on, Ryou glanced up and down the street as inconspicuously as possible. He spotted nothing suspicious.

A stray raindrop splashed on his cheek and he turned his face towards the sky. It looked like it would start raining again soon.

He put his hood on and climbed on the bike behind Malik.


Bakura was standing in the familiar alley across from Ryou's place, watching the dull front of the building while grumbling to himself.

He hadn't managed to come across a satisfying excuse as to why he'd come there. At first he'd told himself that he was there only to return Ryou's knife and nothing more. The plan had been to hang around the building until the area was clear, then leave the knife outside Ryou's door and go.

Two hours had passed and the knife was still in his pocket, resting against his knuckles. The area had been clear all morning, but he'd made no move towards the building. He simply stood in the alley, trying his best to avoid the rain.

It was almost noon and so far Bakura had spotted no signs of life from his host. His windows were closed and the curtains drawn. Nothing had moved behind them.

He had started wondering whether Ryou was actually in. It was highly probable that Bakura was watching an empty apartment. His host could have spent the night at a friend's house. Or he could have indeed been mugged on his way home; he could be laying somewhere, beaten and unconscious and-

Bakura's back snapped straight the moment that thought crossed his mind. He squinted at the dark windows, trying to pierce the curtains with his gaze.

Perhaps he should try ringing the doorbell and see whether Ryou would answer. Not that he gave a fuck whether his host was alright. He just wanted to make sure that he wasn't wasting his time.

He hesitated. Ringing the doorbell was tempting, and breaking in was even more tempting, but...

He huffed and grumbled a few more curses under his breath. He could not understand why ringing a doorbell seemed so intimidating.

The distant rumble of an engine caught his attention. It seemed to be approaching, so Bakura pulled his hood low and ducked behind a trashcan. Seconds later, a red motorbike with two riders came into view; the engine thundered down the street until the bike came to a halt in front of Ryou's apartment building. The noise died with a sigh.

Bakura immediately recognized the second person on the bike. He would recognize Ryou everywhere, even with a hood covering his trademark hair.

Well, then. The brat was neither beaten nor unconscious in some alley. That was something.

His attention turned to the bike's driver. His face was hidden by his helmet, but his figure seemed vaguely familiar. Bakura wondered if it was someone for the Pharaoh's cheerleading squad. It definitely wasn't the Pharaoh himself, nor the Mutou boy; the man before him was nowhere near short enough.

Ryou climbed off the bike and glanced up and down the street, as per habit. Once he seemed satisfied with his inspection, he said something to the person on the bike and turned to leave. He made for the entrance of the building, but stopped short a couple of steps away.

The person on the bike took off his helmet and an audible gasp escaped Bakura.

"Malik-fucking-Ishtar," he breathed.

Sure enough, there was the Tomb Keeper in all his glory, perched on top of his shiny red motorbike and looking as if not a day had passed: dusky skin, sandy hair gleaming down his back, hint of gold swinging under his ears. All that was missing was the black lines around his eyes and Bakura might believe he was somehow looking through a window to the past.

Malik seemed to be talking to Ryou, who approached the bike again. Bakura was too far away to make out their conversation, but his mind was currently preoccupied with more important matters.

How had the Tomb Keeper ended up in Domino? Last time Bakura had heard of him, he'd been in Egypt, along with the rest of the Ishtars.

He narrowed his eyes. Could it be that Malik was living in Domino these days? Or had he travelled here all the way from Egypt on account of the recent events?

Either way, he seemed to be friends with Ryou. Or at least friendly disposed towards him. As it were, Ryou was having an infinitely more civilized conversation with him than the one he'd had with Bakura the previous night. That was definitely unexpected.

He tried a bit harder to listen in, but it was impossible from that distance. He settled for scowling at the pair. At least, it seemed that this was indeed Malik and not his homicidal alter-ego, which was reassuring.

Ryou smiled to Malik and turned around. He unlocked the entrance to the building and walked inside, waving a hasty goodbye before closing the door.

Malik put his helmet back on and turned the key in the ignition. The engine roared back to life.

With considerable delay, Bakura realized that the Tomb Keeper was about to leave. A sudden panic shot through him.

His gaze flicked towards the door of Ryou's apartment building. His host was gone.

His host was gone, and Malik was there.

Malik: his old partner in crime, once despised almost as much as Bakura himself, and perhaps the only person in this world that could approximate his wavelength. Bakura had had no luck with others so far, but he and Malik had once seen eye to eye. If anyone would ever be able to sympathize with Bakura, it would be him.

He faltered.

...Was sympathy what he was looking for, then?

His mouth twisted. No—that was stupid. He just wanted answers.

So what should he do?

He stole a glance towards Ryou's window. There was a chance his host would see him, and he didn't want to be caught talking to one of his friends right outside his apartment. Then again, he shouldn't give a damn about Ryou in the first place.

His hesitation cost him his chance: Malik's bike revved and shot down the street.

"Shit!" Bakura hissed.

He jumped out of his hiding spot and ran behind Malik, all caution thrown to the wind, but it was too late. The Tomb Keeper and his bike had disappeared.

Bakura did not stop. He ran even faster, heading straight for the main street and inwardly praying that Malik would be held up in traffic.

He took a sharp turn, almost slipping on the wet pavement. Once he reached the main street, he staggered to a halt and scanned the road hastily. There were tens of cars zooming by, but no sign of a red bike with a Tomb Keeper on top.

He succumbed to the pain in his sides and doubled over, panting hard. The air felt rough in his throat. He tried to catch his breath with one eye still fixed on the street before him.

It was no use. He'd lost him, and who knew where Malik had been headed at.

Bakura groaned and stepped out of the way of the startled passers-by. He retreated to a side alley to lean against a wall and calm his breathing. It was possible that he'd just lost his only chance to talk to someone who might actually listen.

He rubbed a hand over his face. There was no need to get melodramatic. Surely there was something he could do to find out where Malik was.

First off, he could go back to Ryou's and wait for the Tomb Keeper to put in another appearance. He scrunched his nose and ruled out that option immediately; he was sick of standing around aimlessly. Plus, there was a chance that Malik and Ryou weren't friends. And, even if they were, it might take them a while to meet again, what with his recluse of a yadonushi.

He huffed and tried to calm down enough to think.

He guessed he could look for Malik in the phonebook. There weren't bound to be many Ishtars in there.

This would work in the instance that Malik was indeed living in Domino—or if he had been living there long enough to be registered. Still, it was better than nothing. Definitely a better plan than following Ryou around for no distinguishable reason.

He'd better go back to the Golden Egg. There should be a phonebook there somewhere.

He had just started walking again when another idea stroke him. He paused in his tracks.

This was it.

In the Golden Egg was something much more efficient than a phonebook: Ishido.

From what Bakura had gathered, Ishido was the type of person that had the means to track down someone if needed. Surely it wouldn't be too much of an inconvenience if Bakura asked him a small favor. After all, Ishido had told him that he was there to support him in all his endeavors.

It was high time this acquaintance started to pay off.

He took out his phone and looked through his contacts. There was only one number registered, and he tapped the 'call' button without hesitation.

He need not wait for long; Ishido picked up on the second ring.

"Mister Bakura!" he chimed. "What a pleasant surprise!"

"Yes, hi," Bakura grumbled. "Listen, I need a favor."


Bakura's boots splashed through puddles as he hurried across dark streets. He reached a big block of a building that looked suspiciously like an old warehouse and halted before it. The wooden sign above the door was soaked to the point where the carved letters were almost unintelligible. With a bit of squinting he managed to make out the words The Crow and rock bar.

He stood at a spot fairly protected by the rain and took out the piece of paper that held all the information Ishido had gathered for him. He glanced from the address written on the paper to the building before him. After he double-checked he was in the right place, he tucked the piece of paper back inside his pocket. He squared his shoulders, pushed open the heavy, soundproof door and walked in.

For such a big place, the inside was unexpectedly warm. It was also loud.

Bakura paused on the threshold for a few seconds, relishing the change of temperature. He took his hood off and shook his hair as his gaze swept the place.

The lighting was low, so much that it felt like a caress on his eyes after the harsh, watery lights of the streets. In the soft shadows he made out several patrons spread across couches and benches. Most of their chatter was drowned by the music, but every now and then he could make out loud peals of laughter or excited shouts. Everything in there, from the furniture to the beams that crossed the ceiling, seemed aged. However, unlike the Golden Egg and its decrepit air, this place felt cozy, worn from use rather than neglect.

It wasn't half-bad. It was definitely better than the places Bakura used to frequent as of late.

It took him less than a couple of seconds to spot Malik.

The Tomb Keeper was behind the bar, busying himself with a few drinks. Even in this place, where there was no shortage of unusual appearances, Malik stood out just the way he always had. He was inexorably eye-catching, like a sunray in the half-light of dusk. Bakura couldn't help but wonder how on earth that guy had ever managed to keep a low profile.

Still, Bakura frowned at the sight of him.

Malik seemed so... in place. He was moving around swiftly, as if the narrow space behind the counter was his second home. He grabbed bottles without needing to glance at them, flashing smiles left and right while he made small talk. He seemed to flow with the music, earrings and sandy hair swaying in the rhythm.

Bakura buried his hands in his pockets and kept staring from a distance. The impression of the morning returned stronger: as far as appearances went, Malik seemed so unchanged it was almost baffling not to see a duel disk strapped on his forearm or the Millennium Rod sticking out of his back pocket. He wondered if his old partner would be the same in terms of behavior, too. Probably not. After all, nobody went from 'leader of an underground criminal organization' to 'fixing drinks' without undergoing some kind of major change.

Well. That made two of them, didn't it?

Bakura shook his head. He took a deep inhale to prepare himself, straightened his shoulders and made his way towards the bar; he wasn't sure if he wanted to look indifferent or threatening, so he settled for something between the two. He approached the counter and stood right in front of Malik, assuming his best bored-yet-imposing stance.

And waited.

Malik was way too busy to notice him; he was fiddling with a beer tap, filling one glass after the other and humming the lyrics of the song that was currently playing.

When he filled two glasses and spun around to place them on a tray, his gaze momentarily brushed over Bakura.

"Oh, hello Ryou!" Malik chirped, turning back to the beer tap. He grabbed another glass and placed it under the foaming stream of beer.

Bakura's mouth curled downwards.

He could still call this off. He had enough time. He could turn around and leave while Malik was still busy. Walk away as if he'd never been there and forget all about ex-Tomb-Keepers or ex-hosts. He could leave that smiling and cheerful Malik Ishtar in peace and find some other way to make sense out of his situation.

His muscles twitched, legs almost jerking towards the exit, but he forced himself to stay. He cleared his throat.

"I'm not Ryou."

Malik glanced up with a frown. His gaze flicked twice towards Bakura before his brain seemed to finally catch up with the sight.

Bakura saw the moment Malik recognized him because the smile slipped from his face. Every single one of Malik's muscles seemed to turn rigid; his fingers froze on on the beer tap. If his mind was racing, he didn't show it. His face was blank.

Bakura's mouth was drier than he would like to admit.

He waited for a reaction to figure out what his own attitude should be, but Malik simply stared. Foam started spilling out of the glass he was holding and onto the floor.

There was no telling if it was the beer soaking his hand that did the trick but, after several seconds of this, Malik finally snapped awake. His fingers slid away from the tap. He carefully placed the overflown glass down and took a measured, slow step towards the counter.

Bakura saw the lavender eyes approach him, wide and unblinking. Malik leaned against the counter to better look at him and, once he seemed to decide that Bakura was not an illusion of some sort, he opened his mouth.

"You bastard."

Bakura barely heard him over the loud music, but he read the word clearly enough on his lips.

"Hello to you too, Ishtar," he replied.

The sound of his voice seemed to startle Malik, if only for a second. Then he pressed his lips into a tight line and whirled around.

He grabbed the glass he'd left under the beer tap, wiped at the foam that had stuck at its sides as best as he could and slammed it on the tray, next to the others. He shot Bakura a warning look—which the yami translated as 'don't you dare move'—and beckoned to someone in the crowd.

A waitress approached. Malik pushed the tray towards her; the girl twisted her nose at the sight of the half-dissolved foam in the glasses, but she did not comment on it—probably because she'd noticed the barman's unusually stormy face.

Malik leaned forward and beckoned at her again. She took the hint and leaned in closer, too.

"Tell Reiji to take over for a while, okay?"

The waitress gave him a questioning look but nodded nonetheless. She picked up the tray and left.

Malik turned back to the beer tap. For a second he just stood and stared at the mess he'd made. Once he had sufficiently braced himself, he grabbed a wet cloth and set to clean the beer he'd spilled.

His movements were jerky; every now and then he glanced at Bakura with a tight-lipped expression. When he was done cleaning, he threw the cloth in a nearby sink and huffed loudly. His eyes found Bakura again.

He approached the counter, laid his palms flat on it and leaned a bit forward to stare at the yami square in the face.

Malik's gaze felt like steel, and Bakura wasn't sure if this was better than having a knife pointed at him. He pushed his fists deeper into his pockets and felt the leather of his jacket stretch against his back.

Malik spoke first.

"So. Did you walk in just to have a beer or did you somehow know you would find me here?"

Bakura's mouth twisted out of habit. "Does it make any difference?" he half-growled, half-shouted to be heard over the noise.

"As a matter of fact, it does," Malik replied with matching tenacity. "How did you find me?"

Bakura decided against mentioning Ishido; something told him that Malik wouldn't appreciate it. He shrugged instead, feeling a smirk tug at the corners of his lips.

"King of Thieves, remember?"

Malik looked wholly unimpressed. He arched an eyebrow in an expression that suggested that Bakura stop fooling around immediately.

"...Fine," the yami grumbled with a resigned huff. "I saw you outside Ryou's apartment and... followed you here."

"Whoa." Malik's eyes flashed in a way that sent all kinds of warnings hissing across Bakura's brain. "Let's rewind. Where did you see me?"

Bakura had to keep himself from making a snarky remark about how he'd spoken clearly enough the first time. Malik seemed pissed, and it was way too early to have this come down into an argument.

"Ryou's place," he repeated, louder. "This morning."

"What the hell were you doing outside Ryou's place?"

"What do you think?" Bakura snapped, leaning a bit closer to spare his throat the shouting. "I've been trying to figure out what the hell's been going on."

"And what does Ryou have to do with-?"

"I don't know! I thought he might have a clue!"

"So, you... what? You followed him?" Malik arched both eyebrows in disbelief.

"Well, I can't exactly walk up to him and chat, can I?" Bakura replied, thinking about last night's encounter. "I needed clues. Following him was the next best thing."

Outrage flickered across Malik's so far collected exterior. "In what universe is stalking considered the next best thing?" he said loudly, voice rising above the noise.

"I had no other options!" Bakura shouted back. He leaned over the counter and bared his fangs, ignoring the feeling that he was pushing his luck a little too far. "What would you have me do, anyway? What would you do in my place?"

Malik returned the dark look. Anger simmered in his eyes, but that stood for nothing; the Malik he knew was always angry.

Music came to fill the silence between them. They both stood still, like cats about pounce on each other, or like a storm about to break out.

Malik's eyes narrowed; irritation made his cheek twitch. "What do you want to drink?" he asked, jaw clenched so hard that his mouth barely moved.

Bakura, who was ready to receive either a rebuke or a slap in the face, blinked in bemusement. "What?"

"Do you drink?" Malik asked briskly, already reaching to the shelf full of bottles behind him.

"Err... Yeah, I guess, but-"

"Alright, then."

Malik slammed a short glass in front of Bakura. He poured him two inches of some amber-hued liquid and proceeded to fill a glass for himself.

Bakura frowned at the contents of his glass. This wasn't vodka. He wasn't sure what this was. He sniffed at it, but the scent did not enlighten him.

"For fuck's sake, just drink it," Malik grunted.

Bakura watched in suspicion as the Tomb Keeper brought his own glass to his lips and took a generous swig. Once his reaction convinced him that whatever was in the glass was drinkable, Bakura tried a small sip himself.

He felt the alcohol kick his throat hard. A warm, intense flavor spread from the back of his tongue all the way down to his chest. He wasn't sure he liked it.

"What is this?" he asked once the heat abated.

"It's whiskey."

"It sucks."

"Your taste sucks."

Bakura's nose instinctively twisted in a sneer, but he lifted his glass and tried another sip. He didn't like it any better the second time.

Malik emptied his own glass and went back to observing Bakura with a look that betrayed nothing more than annoyance.

"Sit down, will you?" he snapped after a while, indicating a stool.

The yami eyed the offered seat. Slowly, he climbed on it and perched at its edge, making sure to keep one foot in contact with the floor, just in case he needed to bolt.

Malik rolled his eyes. "You can sit like a normal person, you know. Take off your jacket and stuff."

Bakura did not move. He didn't get it: a moment ago, Malik was shouting at him and now he invited him to sit down and have a drink. He wondered if the Tomb Keeper was just as unhinged as ever.

When he saw that Bakura ignored him, Malik shrugged and murmured something that sounded like, "Suit yourself."

He poured himself another glass of whiskey and crossed his arms over his chest. His eyes never once left Bakura. He took small sips, eyeing the yami over the rim of his glass.

"Alright. Start talking," he said.

"About what?" Bakura asked with a scowl.

"What have you been up to? For how long have you been following Ryou? And what do you know exactly?"

Malik's voice was commanding, ringing loud and clear—probably a leftover skill from his days as leader of the Ghouls. A useful skill, Bakura had to admit.

Still, he did not comply that easily. "One question at a time, Ishtar."

"Fine." Malik's face hardened again. "Tell me about Ryou."

"What, you two are friends now or something?"

"Yes," Malik hissed in an almost challenging tone. "So I'm warning you. If you came here to drag me into some king of genius scheme, you are wasting your time."

Bakura let out a pointed laugh. "You are one to talk about 'genius schemes'."

Malik did not seem amused. He narrowed his eyes and the color of his irises deepened. "I'm serious. If you are planning something, I want nothing to do with it. So, if that is the case, you might as well walk away right now."

"Relax, Ishtar," Bakura said with a casual wave of his hand. "I am not planning anything. At least, not in the way you mean it."

"In what way, then?"

Bakura's appetite for jokes evaporated. He leaned forward, dead serious, and said, "I plan to find out what the hell happened, and then I plan to get out of here once and for all."

This revelation did not seem to have the impact Bakura expected. Malik just looked at him, deadpan. "Is that all?"

"Yeah. That's the plan."

Malik's brow scrunched in a doubtful frown. "No revenge? No killing people? No plunging the world in darkness?"

"No," Bakura growled. "I just want to get the fuck back into the afterlife and, preferably, not come back ever again."

"Huh." Malik contemplated him. "I find that a little hard to believe."

Bakura felt the need to punch the look of smug skepticism from his face.

"You find hard to believe that after more than three millennia of roaming this pile of shit you call world, I just want to rest?"

"Well... Last time, those three millennia had done nothing to diminish your thirst for revenge, so-"

"It's not the same!"

One of Malik's eyebrows arched. "What changed?"

For a second, Bakura wondered whether it would be worth it to try and explain. He had thought Malik would show some good will and an open mind, for old times' sake, but so far Malik's tone was cold and not at all encouraging. It reminded him of Ryou and his dismissal of any and all explanations he had tried to give.

He huffed and tried to remind himself that this was not Ryou, and that he would never make any progress if he didn't even at least try.

He decided to start from the basics.

"You know about Zorc Necrophades, right?"

Malik stared at him with one eyebrow still cocked and his arms folded across his chest. "You mean yourself?"

Bakura blinked, fazed. He hadn't expected that answer.

"Yeah, see, I know about that," Malik said, smirking a little at the yami's bafflement. "The guys told me all about it."

"Well, they didn't tell you all of it," Bakura replied, getting over his surprise pretty quickly. "There are things they don't know."

"Such as?"

Bakura huffed loudly and brushed his palm over his face, giving his eyes a few seconds of darkness. The music raged around him like a storm, full of electricity and restless energy. His head throbbed; his throat had started feeling strained and hoarse.

"Alright," he said. He had to find the best way to get this over with, to explain it once and make it understood. He cleared his throat and looked back into Malik's distrustful eyes. "So you know that the me you met all those years ago was Zorc."

Malik gave a curt nod.

"Good. That makes it easier." He huffed again, preparing for the crazy part of his explanation. "What changed is that... Τhis time around, Zorc is gone."

Malik stared at him blankly. Bakura wondered whether he had heard him, or understood him at all. He fiddled with his glass, then emptied it for the sake of getting some alcohol in his body.

"But you are here," he heard Malik say, as if that cancelled out everything that Bakura was saying.

"Yes, but I am no longer Zorc," Bakura slammed his empty glass down and raised his voice. "We used to be merged, but we no longer-"

"What do you mean, merged?"

"What do you make of it?" Bakura growled, masking his nervousness with impatience. "We were one. One mind, one will, one force—whatever you want to call it."

Malik leaned with his hip against the counter. He didn't seem to have understood exactly what Bakura meant, but his look was slowly darkening.

"The Pharaoh defeated Zorc," he said matter-of-factly.

"Exactly," the yami said. "He was banished. So now he's gone."

Malik's expression was as dark as a cloudy night. His brows knit together on top of his nose. "I don't understand," he said in an undertone that indicated that he understood enough.

"Zorc is gone," Bakura repeated. "I am just me. Just the way I was at first... Back in Egypt."

Malik looked at him for one very long, very still moment. Then he rubbed a hand over his eyes. Most of his face remained hidden behind it, but whatever was visible seemed as stiff as his shoulders.

"So you... what? You were possessed?" he asked, voice oddly pinched.

"Not possessed." The admittance left a bitter taste in Bakura's mouth, but he swallowed it down. "We were merged—I can't explain it any better. All my actions were mine, but... It wasn't exactly me. Not just me."

Malik dropped his hand and looked at him. His eyes seemed to be trying to hold back some kind of deep-seated ache, but it slipped out through the cracks anyway. "Is that why you came to see me?"

The question stumped Bakura.

The need to protect his pride surged through him like a wave, only to ebb before the pained look in Malik's eyes. It would be easy to give some kind of smug or sassy reply, but arrogance felt too damn inappropriate for a moment like this. He had come looking for honesty; it felt only fair to pay it back with nothing less than the truth.

He searched around for words that might not sound too desperate or pathetic.

"I came to you because I need answers," he said at last. "And I figured, if there was one person I could talk to without them freaking out or acting all high and mighty... it would be you."

Somewhere halfway through his sentence, his voice had lowered, but Malik seemed to have heard him. Bakura saw the lines around his mouth tighten.

The Tomb Keeper stayed silent, but his expression fluctuated. His face was in battle with itself: there was uncertainty there, and anger, and the hint of something tender like compassion—or perhaps fatigue. He bit the inside of his lip and a hundred more emotions that Bakura couldn't name flickered across his features.

In the end, Malik's face settled for something unreadable—something almost blank that made Bakura think that his hopes had been utterly unrealistic after all. He might as well see himself out. It might save his pride to do so.

Still, he made no move to leave. He clenched his sweating palm around his glass and waited.

Malik lowered his head and pinched the top of his nose with an inaudible but perfectly discernible sigh. He almost made Bakura jump when he straightened and shouted, "Hey! Reiji!"

The second barman, a tall, burly and heavily inked guy, made his way towards them.

"What is it, Ishtar?" He noticed Bakura and nodded in a casual greeting. "Hey, Ry-"

He paused mid sentence and squinted at the yami, taking a closer, better look.

"Oh. Sorry, pal. I thought you were somebody else," he said with an apologetic half-smile and turned back to Malik, missing Bakura's stunned look. "What's up?"

"I'm gonna step out for a while. Is that okay?"

"Yeah, man, don't worry. I've got your back," Reiji said and gave Malik a pat that shook his whole frame.

"Thanks," Malik said.

Once Reiji walked away, he turned to Bakura and motioned to follow him. He walked to the far end of the bar, slipped under the counter and made his way towards a door with a 'Staff Only' sign. Bakura hurried to keep up.

"Where are we going?" he grumbled, eyeing the Tomb Keeper's somber profile with apprehension.

Malik pushed the door open and waited until Bakura joined him in a cramped room. He closed the door behind them, muffling the sound of music and voices; the sudden hush made Bakura's ears ring.

"You said you need answers," Malik said. He grabbed a jacket from a coat rack and beckoned to Bakura to follow him further in. "So we are going somewhere we can actually talk."

He pushed the handle bar of a heavy door. Beyond the threshold, Bakura saw what seemed like a bare backyard, full of huge trashcans and stacks of crates. He heard the soft pattering of rain on metal.

Malik gestured towards the small yard and walked outside first. The yami followed.

Squeezed between pallets and crates full of empty bottles stood a bench; nothing more than a long piece of wood pushed against the wall of the building, kept dry thanks to an overhanging roof. Under the bench was a tin box full of cigarette butts.

Malik sat on one side, leaving enough space for Bakura next to him. The yami followed his example and sat down, carefully positioning himself as far on the edge as possible.

He raised his gaze to the small roof that stood between them and the rain. Water cascaded down its edges in small streams that splashed and spattered around them. Behind the curtain of water glinted the lights of the surrounding buildings, faraway and ethereal like fairy-lights. It was quiet out there; nothing could be heard beyond the sound of the rain and the occasional rumble of thunder.

He found his fingers fidgeting, so he took out his tobacco bag and started rolling a cigarette.

When he glanced to his left, he noticed that Malik was watching him. He indicated Bakura's fiddling fingers and the half-ready cigarette between them. "You picked that from Ryou?" he asked, none too gently.

Bakura let out a condescending huff. "Do not associate me with the brat. I didn't even know he smoked."

"Sure," Malik said. "So you just happened to pick up smoking on your second week as a living person?"

"Actually, I think it was on my second day."

Malik shook his head. "You are unbelievable."

Bakura chuckled around his filter tip. He lit his cigarette and took a long drag; the roughness of smoke mingled with the leftover taste of whiskey. His body sighed.

"So," Malik said. "Start talking."

Bakura took his time to blow out some smoke before replying.

"I already explained it as best as I could."

"No, not that. About Ryou."

"What about him?"

"For how long have you been following him?"

"I thought I would be asking the questions."

"Answer mine first, and we'll see if I'll answer yours."

"You're not calling the shots, Tomb-Keeper."

"It's more like bar-keeper these days. And you are not calling the shots, either."

A long stream of smoke escaped Bakura's mouth. "You really are every bit as annoying as you used to, aren't you?"

"Same goes for you."

Malik's glare was unwavering. At that moment he looked so much like the head-strong, fiery and incredibly irksome person Bakura had come to know during Battle City, that he couldn't help but smirk.

"It's good to see that some things remain the same," he said with a soft chuckle.

"I wouldn't be so happy about it, if I were you."

Bakura shook his head. The edge of his cigarette glowed a furious red. "If you were me, you'd see how bat-shit crazy everything seems from where I'm standing."

"I don't get it. What did you expect?" Malik asked with an exasperated edge in his voice. Then the bite bled out of his tone, leaving him with a tired, muted sound. "It's been eleven years, Bakura."

The sound of his name felt heavy on his skin. He tried to ignore it and puffed out smoke with a loud huff.

"Not for me," he growled. "I woke up in this mess and I can't make heads nor tails of it." He resisted the impulse to flit his cigarette away and watch it get crushed under the weight of the rain. He knew he'd regret it.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Malik's expression soften.

"You really don't know anything, do you?"

"No, I don't." Something about the disbelief in Malik's voice made Bakura add, "Let me guess. The brat told you I'm lying."

The scowl returned to Malik's face. "His name is Ryou. And of course he did. But, just to make it clear, are you lying?"

"No!"

Malik acknowledged that with a satisfied nod. "Didn't think so."

"That's so gracious of you," the yami said acidly. "Why trust me all of a sudden?"

Malik let out a heavy exhale that filled the air around him with fog. "Well... The Pharaoh doesn't know a thing, either."

Bakura jumped straight, boots scuffing on the gravel. "So that son of a bitch is back?"

Malik grimaced. "Calm down. And I might regret telling you this, but... yeah."

Bakura glared at him, chest rising and falling rapidly. In his head he was already picturing his nemesis, ridiculous hair and smug grin and everything, alive, breathing the same freezing air.

They were both back. Apparently, he couldn't live nor die without that prick following him. He was probably with the Mutou boy, just as Bakura had suspected. His knuckles thirsted for violence.

Then the rest of Malik's sentence sank in, slowly soaking through his fury.

The Pharaoh doesn't know a thing, either.

It took a minute for Bakura to fully grasp at the implications of this. The realization left him numb.

If that was true, if the Pharaoh really didn't know anything... Then Bakura was back at point zero. After Ryou, the Pharaoh had been his next best bet at an explanation, and he'd just lost it.

He dropped heavily back down and against the wall.

His cigarette had went out. He had crushed it between his fingers without noticing. He flicked it away.

"There's an ashtray literally underneath you," Malik muttered.

Bakura didn't answer. His thoughts were raging.

"He has his own body? Like I do?" he asked.

"Yeah, but... Not his old body. He looks more like Yuugi. Same as you look more like Ryou-"

"You've seen him?"

"Of course."

Another thought pierced through the rest and came to the forefront of Bakura's mind.

"What about your... insane... second-self yami... thing?"

The corner of Malik's mouth curled upwards. "That was eloquently put," he remarked. Then he sighed and let his head rest back. His gaze got lost somewhere in the rain. "No sight of him."

"But is he back?"

"I don't know."

Bakura bristled in silence for a while. If that whack job was back, with a body of his own... It couldn't be good news.

He looked at Malik. He certainly didn't seem frail; he could see, from the way his body shaped his clothes, that he was quite fit and well-built. That might come to his advantage, if he needed to defend himself, but he had no idea if it'd be enough to keep him safe from a psychopath such as his yami.

"Don't let you guard down," he growled.

Malik, surprisingly, laughed.

"That's exactly what Ryou keeps telling me."

"Yeah, well," Bakura snapped, "the brat's right about one thing, then."

"Stop calling him that."

"Since we are on the subject," Bakura said abruptly, turning around to face Malik, "what the fuck is wrong with him?"

Malik stared at him, nonplussed. "You mean Ryou?"

"Yeah," Bakura grunted. "Is he right? In the head?"

"Why are you asking that?"

"Because he certainly doesn't seem so," he replied. He hoped he'd sounded more derisive than disturbed.

A worried frown crumpled Malik's face. "Elaborate."

"Yesterday, when I went to ask him about-"

"When you did what?!" Malik exclaimed, sitting up so suddenly he sent his earrings in a mad swing.

Bakura blinked, a bit taken aback by Malik's reaction. Then he understood. "He didn't tell you?"

Malik didn't speak.

"I guess he didn't," Bakura murmured. "Yeah. We... kinda talked yesterday."

Suspicion returned to Malik's frown. "You said you followed him. You never said anything about speaking to him."

"I just followed him at first," Bakura clarified, "but yesterday I sort of... revealed myself."

"Why would you do that?"

"Well, I wasn't learning anything just by watching him, I decided to straight up go and ask him some things," Bakura said, a bit more defensively than he would like to.

Malik sighed and rubbed his fingertips over his eyes. "You really are a drama queen, aren't you?"

Bakura really didn't know what he was supposed to answer to that.

After another exhausted sigh, Malik went on. "Did he freak out?"

The scowl returned to Bakura's face. "He did. He went all... pissy and aggressive when he saw me-"

"Don't tell me you didn't expect that."

Bakura jumped back to the defensive. "All I wanted to do was ask him a few questions-"

"And I'm ready to bet you were very polite about it-"

"Anyway," Bakura cut across him with the air of a man that has something infinitely more important to say. He pierced Malik with a glare that left no room for nonsense. "He had a knife."

Malik did not seem as shocked as Bakura would've anticipated. He merely huffed and said, "I know. Did he take it on you?"

"No. He gave it to me," Bakura replied through gritted teeth, trying to communicate at least a small part of his unease. "He gave it up like he didn't care. He practically invited me to use it."

Malik's forehead creased. His eyes turned towards the rain. "Shit, Ryou."

"Yeah," Bakura said, sharing the sentiment, however unwillingly. "So what's wrong with him? He wasn't like this... before."

The look Malik gave him was both weary and exasperated. "Really? Are you really asking this question? You really don't know the answer?"

Bakura stared at him. It grated at his nerves that Malik kept looking at him as if he was missing something incredibly obvious. "Well, I wasn't around, in case you didn't notice."

"You are more dense than I thought, then," Malik stated and settled more comfortably on his side of the bench.

"How on earth am I supposed to know what happened to the brat when I was-"

"Bakura." The use of his name and the tone of Malik's voice made him close his mouth. Malik went on, looking very serious. "You. You happened."

He would sneer and taunt if it weren't for the sharpness in Malik's gaze. It pressed on him uncomfortably.

"It can't be. You said it yourself," the yami said after a while, his voice a low rumble. "It's been eleven years. He should be over it."

"Hello pot. This is kettle. You're black," Malik said simply.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means that you're not one to talk, considering."

"It's not the same!" Bakura all but roared. "I had an actual reason to keep a grudge! You can't really believe Ryou is so... oversensitive that he couldn't deal with-"

"I advise you to stop talking now," Malik said, "or I might take that ashtray and beat you with it."

Bakura's nostrils flared. He thought of challenging him to go through with his threat and then use whatever Malik did as an excuse for a fistfight. It'd certainly help him vent a bit. But then Malik might not be willing to answer any more of his questions, and Ryou would no doubt learn about it and get even more hostile. There was no way to win this.

He crossed his arms over his chest and refused to look at Malik as he said, "It's really weird having you two be friends."

"Why? He's a great guy."

"Really?" Bakura sneered, thinking about the sulky, hissing Ryou he'd talked to last night. "He didn't even tell you he saw me. Some friend he is."

"Well..." Malik gave him a smile that looked more like a grimace. "That's Ryou for you."

"You just said he's a great guy."

"Yeah, but... Whenever things get too bad, he just... closes in to himself." Malik shrugged, pained smile still on his face. "I'll talk to him later."

"Well, then, you'd better not tell him about this," Bakura muttered, pointing between them.

"I not gonna lie to him."

"It's not lying if you don't mention it."

"I'm not hiding things anymore. From anyone. That's behind me," Malik said in a resolute tone.

Bakura scoffed. "You're only making your life too hard for no reason."

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Malik shrug again. He guessed he wouldn't be adhering to his advise. Stubborn Tomb Keeper.

"Is that what you wanted to talk to me about? Ryou?" Malik said, sounding a little impatient.

Bakura sank in his seat. "Ryou. The pharaoh. Whatever the hell is going on." He raked a hand through his hair, trying to put his thoughts back in order. His long huffs painted the air white. "I have a fucking body," he murmured.

"Yeah. I noticed."

"Why?" He turned to look at Malik, feeling the need for an answer claw at his insides.

He guessed it showed in his face, because Malik's expression changed. His face smoothed by compassion, even as something nervous stirred in the depths of his eyes. He seemed to be contemplating something.

In the end Malik lowered his head with a sigh. His earrings peeked from between his hair and caught what little light made it through the curtain of water.

"Look," he said quietly. "I don't know why you are back, or if someone brought you back on purpose... But I have some news that might or might not be relevant."

Bakura grasped at Malik's words as desperately as a starving predator jumping on prey. "What news? What do you know?"

"Well..." Malik seemed not to know how to phrase his thoughts or where to begin. His hands clasped the edge of the bench. "There's been a discovery recently."

Bakura waited, holding his breath.

"The Millennium Spellbook," Malik said in an almost apologetic tone.

He was met with silence. Bakura stared, immobile.

"The Spellbook," he repeated at length.

"...You know what it is, right?" Malik asked.

"Of course I know what it is!" Bakura hissed, his voice rough like the rolling thunders. He felt his teeth grind against each other. "Who found it? Where?"

"Archaeologists," Malik offered unhelpfully. "Near Thebes."

"Where is it now?"

"In Egypt. It's being studied."

"Studied?"

"Yes. And translated, as far as we know."

Rage and disquiet slithered under Bakura's skin. "Are they fucking crazy? Don't they know how dangerous that thing is?"

"Apparently, not," Malik replied, impossibly calm. "Or they do, and that's why they are studying it."

"Who is?" Bakura demanded, by all means ready to crack a few skulls. He almost pounced upon Malik when he saw him hesitate. "Speak, Tomb Keeper!"

The commanding tone in his voice made Malik grow stern again: his expression hardened and all desire to share what he knew seemed to fade.

Bakura cursed inwardly. He rubbed his palms on his face, felt his cheeks hot against them. He tried to keep his temper in check.

"Malik," he said, somewhat more gently. He saw him lift an expectant eyebrow. He considered saying please, but the word got stuck somewhere in his throat and couldn't get out.

Malik huffed. "You are an asshole, you know that?"

Bakura grimaced. He guessed he deserved that.

Malik did not look appeased, but he spoke nonetheless. "Thomas Blackwood. Rich guy, collector of antiquities, philanthropist and the like. He funded the excavation, he's funding the translation. That's what we know so far."

"Where is he?"

"Egypt. Overseeing the work on the Spellbook."

"Does he plan to use it?"

"How should we know?"

Bakura pressed his fingers on his thighs, felt his nails sink into fabric.

He remembered Kul Elna. He didn't want to, but it invaded his mind of its own accord. It always loomed at the edges of his thoughts, and Bakura kept pushing it back, but now he couldn't help but remember the village, and the ritual, and those goddamned instructions written on that goddamn book. And someone was translating it, bringing all that shit back to light.

He was so angry he felt like choking.

"We are trying to get our hands on it," he heard Malik say.

"How?"

"Ishizu tried, with no luck. So now... We just recruited Kaiba."

"We?" Bakura repeated, his tone scathing.

"Me. Ryou. Yuugi. Atem. Jounouchi. Ishizu. All of us."

Bakura's mouth curled downwards. All of us.

The group. The holy gang.

Even if the matter did not immediately concern all of them, they were on the inside—already planning something, by the sound of it. All while Bakura was left to grope in the dark. He was plucked from death, thrown in this city and left to rot in the rain, at a loss, alone. Because he had no place in that us. That us was reserved specifically for the Pharaoh and his fanboys. Not for someone like him.

His thoughts went back to Ryou. He knew, he realized. Last night, when Bakura had confronted him, Ryou had known about all of this. And yet, he'd preferred to risk his life than help him. They'd all die before helping him.

...Except Malik.

Bakura had no idea why he'd done something so risky, but Malik had just spilled the beans to everyone's worst enemy. He wondered what that would make him in their eyes.

He stole a sideways glance at him and found Malik observing him, lost in his own thoughts. His eyes carried way too much kindness.

Bakura shied away from it, tried to pretend he hadn't seen it. He looked at the rain instead. Thin streams of water unfurled from the edges of the roof like sparkling ribbons. Droplets exploded in puddles, multiplying the fairy-lights.

Malik seemed to have followed a train of thoughts similar to his. His voice reached Bakura, quiet and soft. "Where have you been these last few weeks?"

"What do you care?" he hissed. His put-on fierceness sounded hollow.

"Do you have somewhere to stay?" Malik went on.

Bakura turned his head to glower at him. "Save your pity," he spat.

"And you save your anger for those who deserve it. I am answering your questions, in case you didn't notice," Malik replied, so composed that it made Bakura wonder if he'd inherited something of his sister's patience.

It left Bakura more humbled than he'd expected. He turned back towards the rain and started fiddling with the edge of his jacket. "I don't think your friends will appreciate that, by the way."

"I don't care," Malik said without hesitation. "You deserve to know. This concerns you as much as it concerns us."

Bakura shook his head.

He thought of calling Malik a fool. Thought of telling him again not to make his life hard for no reason. He thought of telling him not to trust him. Then he thought of thanking him for trusting him.

He wondered if Malik had ever really trusted him before. He knew he hadn't had too much faith on Malik during Battle City. Their partnership had been a joke. They'd used each other, thinking the other wouldn't notice. And they'd failed. Naturally.

At least, Bakura had failed. He wasn't so sure about Malik. Looking at him now, he wasn't so sure.

There were laugh lines between his cheeks and his mouth. They were faint and shallow, but they were there. And he was helping him, for no other reason than that Bakura needed his help.

"...You seem changed," the yami said after a long silence.

Malik chuckled. "I might be taking a wild stab in the dark here, but... You, too."

Bakura scowled. "Not everybody believes that." He thought of Ryou again.

"Well... You need to be willing to give a chance first. And not everybody is willing to."

Bakura crossed his arms over his chest and directed his scowl at his feet. He watched the raindrops bounce off the gravel to cling on his boots. He tried to focus on that. He didn't want to think about Ryou again; one sleepless night was enough.

Malik's voice broke the monotone of the rain.

"There's something I want to ask you."

"Then ask away."

After a moment of indecision, Malik went on. "You really went to the afterlife?"

"Yeah," Bakura replied, bored.

"And... Was there a ritual? The weighing of hearts, and all that?"

Bakura pondered this for a while. He remembered being in a huge chamber, surrounded by tall figures that could or could not have been the gods he'd heard about in his childhood. But everything was so blurry.

"I think so. I'm not sure."

"Okay, but..." Malik huffed. "Okay, this might sound a little insensitive, but-"

"Just say it."

"Well... If there was a ritual... how on earth did you manage to pass it? How did you not end up in Ammit's stomach?"

Bakura let his head loll sideways and smiled cockily at him. "Guess."

Malik frowned. "I got nothing. Just tell me."

"You disappoint me, Tomb Keeper," Bakura sighed. He probably shouldn't be acting so cocky, since he barely remembered what he was talking about, but the look of bewilderment on Malik's face was worth it.

After another sigh, Bakura said, "Have you heard of the Book of the Dead?"

"Going Forth By Day," Malik replied at once. "Yes."

"Do you remember what's it about?"

"A soul's journey to the afterlife."

Bakura nodded slowly. "So, you might remember that there are... instructions. Well, sort of. Things to say to the judges and stuff."

"The Negative Confession," Malik said, still frowning. "But I still don't see-"

"Yeah, well, that's the loophole."

Malik was left staring. He still didn't get it.

"What do you mean?"

Bakura let out an exaggerated sigh. "You see, there was a sort of... spell. It was quite known between us thieves and all sorts of scoundrels." He smiled. "You could pass the test, if you knew what to say."

Malik's eyes went wide in understanding. "You cheated your way in?" he breathed.

Bakura's face split into a satisfied grin.

"Of course I did. I am the Thief King."

"But... There's no record of such a spell!"

The look of incredulity on his face made Bakura smile wider.

"Think, Tomb Keeper. Of course there are no records. You weren't allowed to write down such a thing. It passed down from generation to generation, from mouth to mouth."

Malik gaped, his expression turning to one of near disappointment. "That was... unexpected."

Bakura gave him a patronizing look. "I was a thief who planned to go against the Pharaoh. I had memorized all the instructions and the spells ever since I was ten. I knew what I was getting into and, trust me, it wasn't unexpected."

"So you used that spell?"

Now, that was the real question. Bakura had to think about it again.

Everything about the afterlife was unclear and vague. He could not really remember if he had used the spell of if something else had went down. But he remembered that this had been his plan.

"I think so."

Malik let out a small laugh and the shape of his lips took a playful edge. "You know what? I think this might have been your most successful plan so far."

"Nah," Bakura shook his head. "I wouldn't be here it it were."

All signs of impish delight disappeared from Malik's face; the look that Bakura could now expertly identify as 'troubled' returned. "So you really want to... go back?"

His lips had almost said the word die. Bakura couldn't understand why the Tomb Keeper had felt the need to rephrase. Either way, the answer was one.

"Yes."

He couldn't understand why Malik looked so concerned, either.

"But," he started to argue, uselessly, "now that you are here and you have your own own body, don't you want to take advantage of it and just... live?"

Bakura looked at the rain. The dregs of his soul stirred and sighed.

"I've lived long enough, Tomb Keeper. This world holds nothing for me. Not even revenge."

He expected Malik to make another argument; to present him an array of reasons why drawing breath was worth it, to defend the joys of life in an attempt to sway him.

All Malik did was nod quietly.

Bakura felt the need to avoid his eyes. He didn't want to accidentally read in them more than he wished to.

What he really wanted to was leave before Malik's questions had a chance to prob deeper. He needed to be alone with the silence in his head. And perhaps a cigarette.

He got to his feet, straightened his jacket.

"I'd better get going," he said. He didn't expect the roughness in his voice.

"Okay," Malik replied. He stretched and blinked, as if he was waking up. He looked at Bakura and a faint smile settled on his lips. It wasn't exactly happy. "Do you want me to keep you informed about the Spellbook?"

As much as Bakura considered it his right to know about the issue, the generosity of Malik's proposition took him aback. "Yeah," he said, a little uncertainly. And, "Thanks."

Malik's lips curved some more, finding something of their previous playfulness. "No problem. But I'm gonna have to able to reach you somehow. You are gonna have to tell me how to find you."

"Don't worry about it. I will find you when I need to."

Malik rolled his eyes in an overly dramatic display of exasperation. "Could you stop being so cryptic? It's so ten years ago."

Bakura laughed under his breath, sharp and subtly like a wolf. Malik's chuckles joined in. For a few seconds their laughter mingled with the sound of the rain, pattering all around them, making everything solid and loud and real.

When Malik's laughter died out, it left behind a warm smile, disarming in its honesty.

"It's good to see you."

Bakura stared for a few seconds, stunned into stillness. His skin tingled, warm against the cold air.

He replied with a grin full of confidence and mischievous glee.

"See you around, Tomb Keeper."

He left the Crow's small, rainy backyard and pushed open the door that would lead him through the bar and out to the street. Before the door closed behind him, he heard Malik shout, "Call me!"

Bakura chuckled to himself and let the door swing shut behind him.

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Author's note:

Heeeey hello I'm back~

And Bakura *finally* got to talk to Malik. I didn't mean for the chapter to be so long, but once they started talking, they just wouldn't stop. I'm not really into Thiefshipping myself (I'm a shameless Tendershipper) but I can totally see the chemistry between those two. Writing them together was so enjoyable :)

Plus according to the new, fixed timeline, Bakura's scheduled fight is not on the last Thursday of December, but on the second to last, which happens to be on the 23rd. I really hadn't planned this to happen on the same day as Malik's birthday, it just happened, and it works out so well :D

It might be a while until the next chapter, but I will probably post some fic-related art in the meantime, sooo
if you are interested, come by my Tumblr to check it out, or to simply say hi! :D
You can find me on tenderwulf*tumblr*com

Thank you all for the support and the wonderful comments! :D
Until next time, take care~