Furious Angels

Disclaimer: Yu-Gi-Oh! belongs to Kazuki Takahashi.

I have absolutely no idea how each member of the cast refers to Malik's scars, so I made terms up based on how I wanted to depict the characters. It's an alternate universe, remember?

A bento is a boxed lunch/meal, basically. And I read that oden is like Japanese comfort food. And "sayonara" translates to something like "goodbye forever." You don't say it if you're planning to see the person again in this lifetime.

Final chapter. Let's all pretend that DNA testing hasn't been introduced to Domino City!
~~~~~~~~~~~~


"There's only me
Waiting patient to the last
You wait and see . . .
You'll find when everyone departs, there's only me"

Bakura made rice balls for breakfast.

He was busy washing out the cooker when Malik walked into the kitchen. The darker teen yawned and scratched the back of his neck before picking up one of the rice balls from the plate. He glanced over at Bakura as he started to take a bite, and paused.

Bakura didn't look up from the sink as Malik walked over and pushed up the sleeve of his t-shirt to reveal the rest of the new bruise.

Malik frowned as he studied the discolored splotch. "This is too big -- they're going to start questioning you."

"I hit it on the cabinet edge when I was pulling this outBakuBakura replied.

"Liar," Malik said flatly. "It was on the counter." He carefully ran a finger over the bruise, and Bakura shifted on his feet, away from the touch. Malik let his hand drop and took a few steps back before leaning sullenly against the wall. "I don't like that you hurt yourself, Ryô," he said before biting into the rice ball.

"I--" Bakura stopped, then chuckled once before falling silent. He started to rinse out the rice cooker. "It goes well enough with that bruise on your face. They already think we're fighting, so why not look more the part?"

Malik's gaze narrowed, and he swallowed. "Ryô. . . ."

"Drop it, Malik-kun," Bakura interrupted. "You don't understand."

Glaring at the floor, Malik chewed violently on another mouthful of rice and pork chop. He made a face at the sharp taste of the ginger sauce before snarling under his breath, "How the hell can I understand anything if you won't tell me. . . ."

Bakura dit ret reply, and the silence in the kitchen was terse. The paler teen finished rinsing out the cooker and placed it on the drying rack, and Malik polished off the rest of his rice ball and wiped a few stray grains from the side of his mouth. "You're a weird kind of masochist," the blond muttered.

Both teenagers looked up when someone banged on the door.

Bakura dried his palms on his pants before heading towards the door. "Who's coming by this early. . . ." He trailed off as he glanced through the peephole. "Honda-kun?" He frowned for a second, then shrugged and said, "Oh, maybe he came to get his copy of Uzumaki back. Can you get it for me, Malik-kun? It's on the second shelf in my room."

Malik snorted, but headed towards the bedroom nonetheless. "What idiot comes by at seven to get manga?" he muttered as he disappeared through the doorway.

Bakura ignored him and opened the door. "Good morning, Honda-kun!" he said with a smile.

"Oi," Honda replied as he strode in, a folded newspaper tucked in the crook of his arm. He turned around sharply and asked, "Have you seen Malik?" while kicking off his shoes.

"Huh?" Bakura replied. "Why?"

"He killed someone."

"What?"

Honda tossed the paper at him. Bakura caught it and glanced at the front page before looking back up at the brunet. "What are you talking about, Honda-kun?"

"Read the tag on the bottom. The description of the prime suspect," Honda said. "Have you seen him?"

"No, not since yesterday," Bakura replied absently as he flipped the paper over and scanned the side column.

Some of the tension left Honda's posture with that, and he walked into the living room. He leaned against the back of the couch and ran a hand over his hair. "She's just another dead girl," he said, more quietly. "It probably wouldn't have even been on the front page, if there hadn't been some big mess with drugs, too. Geez. . . ."

Bakura had found the article summary and skimmed it as he half-listened to the other teenager. "'Adolescent male, light-haired, dark-skinned' -- this could be a lot of foreigners, Hon. . . ." He fell silent as he read a little farther along.

"'Visible marks of a circle at the top center of the back and lines resembling a wing on the upper left shoulder,'" Honda quoted. "That's the part that caught Jounouchi's attention." He snorted. "I thought he was smarter than to get spotted like that."

"Oh," Bakura said quietly. He stared at the paper for a little longer, before folding it back up.

Honda straightened up. "Do you know where he went yesterday?"

Bakura shook his head. "No. We didn't really talk much before he left."

Honda nodded. "Okay. Well . . . if you see him, just . . . I don't know, lock him in the bathroom or something and call the cops."

Bakura chuckled at that, and he politely lifted a hand to cover his grin. Honda's gaze narrowed.

"Hey," he said, his tone dropping. "What happened to your arm?"

"Eh?" Bakura asked. He looked down. "Oh, I banged it last night getting the rice cooker out of the cabinet."

Honda made a face. "'Bludgeoned' would be a better word . . . you sure you got that from the cabinet?"

Bakura gave him a slightly amused look. "Pretty sure -- I was there the whole time."

"Huh," was all Honda said. He stood in the room for a moment, looking at the carpet, as Bakura subtly shifted on his feet. Then the brunet folded his arms and gave Bakura a hard stare. "When he shows up here again, call the cops, okay? Don't let him go. If he didn't reform like he said . . . Yuugi already gave him a second chance. He doesn't deserve another."

Bakura ignored the second part of that sentence, because it would have resulted in speculation of himself being on chance four or five by now, and only answered the first half. "'When'? I don't think he'll come back here. We really didn't part that well."

"Of course he'll come back here," Honda replied. "You're the only person in the city he trusts, aren't you?"

Bakura looked down and didn't answer. Honda paused another moment, but he finally unfolded his arms and slid his hands into his pockets. "I oughta go -- I'm supposed to be on my way to watch my sister's brat. Be careful, okay?"

"Yeah," Bakura replied. He held out the paper and Honda took it. "I will. Thank you for coming by."

Honda shrugged. "You needed to know."

Bakura saw him out, calling "I'll see you in school tomorrow!" as Honda made his way down the staircase. Then he shut the door and relocked it, before walking down the short hallway. He hesitated in front of the door to his room, and went inside more slowly.

Malik was sitting on the floor, slumped against the wall, with his legs slightly splayed out. He was staring blankly at something Bakura couldn't see. The paler teen started to speak, but then he noticed the opened switchblade that the blond was holding.

Bakura took a step forward before kneeling down carefully, making sure that he was in Malik's line of sight. He reached out for the knife, but as soon as he touched it Malik's fingers tightened around the hilt. Bakura paused, and then he laid his hand over the darker teen's and let it rest there.

He wanted to get the knife away before anything else. The other Yuugi and the other Bakura had been tied to their respective Sennen Items. The other Malik had no such restrictions.

The clock on his desk ticked away the seconds, and finally Bakura said soothingly, "He's gone. It's okay now. . . . I'm not going to call anyone."

Malik shuddered violently before jerking his hand away. Bakura picked up his switchblade and closed it, before returning it to his desk drawer.

Malik wrapped his arms across his chest and leaned forward slightly. "It's a lie. It's a lie!" he said, voice rising to a shout. "All I did was hit her! No one dies from that!"

"Shh!" Bakura hissed, dropping to his knees beside the blond again. "The neighbors!"

Malik fell silent again, and his fingers clenched the fabric of his sleeves tightly.

Bakura watched him for a few moments, his expression unreadable. Soon, he sat back and asked quietly, "What happened?"

Malik didn't answer for a long time. ". . . I robbed her." The corner of his mouth twisted up in a sneer. "I was hy. y. I needed the money." He glanced over at Bakura, but the paler teen just waited for him to continue. The sneer slid off of Malik's face, and he looked back down at the carpet. "She was walking right through the damn alley. And rooting in her purse while she did. What girl does that? . . . I just shoved her against one of those dumpsters," he said, more quietly. "She wasn't even bleeding much. It just knocked her unconscious. I didn't kill her!"

"You're pretty strong, Malik-kun," Bakura commented.

The Egyptian flinched.

Bakura was quiet for a moment, then added, "Maybe she was anemic. Or . . . Honda-kun said something about drugs, but I didn't read that far. Maybe someone else saw her and finished her off, figuring that you would take the blame. It doesn't matter. Did you leave fingerprints?"

"Huh?" Malik asked, looking up again.

"You were fingerprinted when you came through customs, weren't you?"

Malik shook his head. "They did it randomly -- I was skipped over."

"Oh, good," Bakura said with relief. "That fixes a lot." He stood. "You need to call your sister."

Malik let his arms fall to the sides. "Why?! I don't want her to know this!"

"You can't fly home on that ticket now, Malik-kun," Bakura said as he opened his closet door and began flipping through the clothes. "You'll need a new passport, and a ticket under a different name. The faster you can leave, the better."

Malik was staring at him, so Bakura clarified. "Honda-kun and Jounouchi-kun won't go to the police, and I'm not even sure Yuugi-kun would be willing to talk to them, but Anzu-chan's record is pretty clean. Once they have your name and description, getting back home will be almost impossible. You'll go to jail."

Malik clenched his fists. He pressed his forehead against his knees and covered his head with his arms, the tension in his muscles causing them to shake.

Bakura glanced at the desk that sat between them and wished that he'd put the switchblade in his pocket instead.

He turned back to the closet and found what he'd been looking for, and pulled the light blue jacket out before walking back to Malik. He bent down slightly and held it out. "Here, wear this to cover your hair. I can't do anything about your skin, but at least you won't stand out so much."

Malik held out a hand for the coat without lifting his head. Bakura gave it to him, and then left the room.

Malik stayed where he was as the clock ticked quietly. Finally, he lifted his head and stood shakily, holding one hand against the wall for support. He could hear Bakura rattling something in the outer rooms as he pulled the jacket on. He tugged the hood over his head and shoved his hair back awkwardly.

Bakura returned a moment later, with a handful of 100 yen coins. "This should be enough for the call. Do you still have that girl's purse?"

"Yeah," Malik said flatly.

"Okay," Bakura nodded. "Leave it here, and I'll get rid of it later. I don't want to throw it away so close to home."

"Fine."

Bakura could hear the restrained anger in Malik's tone, and fell silent. They didn't speak again until they had left the apartment and found a payphone several blocks away from the apartment. It was still too close for Bakura's comfort, but he was more worried about walking around for long with the darker teenager.

Bakura stood outside the booth, keeping a subtle eye on the people along the street, while inside Malik rooted through his pockets before finally finding out the slip of paper that Isis had written her phone numbers on. He put in one of the coins and began dialing the number to their apartment in Luxor.

"We're going to have to dye your hair black, so she'll need to get the passport picture touched up to match," Bakura said, leaning into the booth so that only Malik could hear him. ". . . And contacts. I'll get you some colored contacts, so people won't notice your eyes." Bakura frowned in thought. "Plain brown would probably be best. The less noticeable traits you have, the better."

Malik didn't reply. He finished dialing the number and fed the machine the amount of coins it asked for. There was a long pause while the line crackled, and then Malik heard it begin to ring.

The ringing went on several moments, and Malik wondered what time it was down there. He tried counting the numbers, but he couldn't remember if the difference was seven or eight hours. If it was day he should try Isis's workplace, but it might just be so late that she was sleeping through it. . . . Why hadn't Rishid picked up, at least?

Maybe Yuugi had already gone to the police, and they had already contacted his family . . . and they had decided. . . .

No, they wouldn't abandon him. There were only a few things in the world Malik was sure of, but that was one.

There was a click, and Isis's voice came across the line, a little more quiet and tinny than it had been when he'd called from Bakura's phone. "Hello, this is the Ishtar residence."

"Isis?"

"Malik!" Isis's voice was warm, but chiding. "Do you realize what time it is? I have work in a few hours."

When Malik didn't reply, Isis paused and her voice became more concerned. "Malik? What's wrong?"

Malik glanced over at Bakura, who had returned to watching the street, before leaning heavily against the wall of the booth. "Sister--" His voice cracked, and he had to swallow. "I'm in trouble."

Despite the fact that she had been woken up at one in the morning, Isis handled the news with the efficiency and calmness that Malik had always associated with her. He argued -- one-sidedly, vehemently -- that he couldn't have killed the girl, but when he had to put another coin in, he calmed down and focused on the important information.

He told her what Bakura had said about the passport, and in the background he could hear Rishid moving around. When Isis began giving the man a list of instructions to write down, Malik closed his eyes and clenched his free hand into a fist. That he had to come to them for help, again. . . .

Soon Isis asked to speak with Bakura. Malik called the paler teen into the booth and left, slouching against the side. He pulled the hood of the jacket further down and stuffed his hands into the pockets. He glared at the sidewalk as people walked past.

About two minutes later, Bakura leaned out of the booth. "Malik-kun, I need another coin."

"Huh? Oh." Malik shoved a hand into his jeans pocket and grabbed one, but before he could hold it out, Bakura gave the phone a look.

"Ah, it cut off already." He looked over at Malik. "Do you want to call back?"

"No," Malik said shortly. "Let's just get out of here."

"Okay." Bakura hung the receiver back on the hook. "It sounds like everything will be fine. She'll get you back home before the police find out."

"Just shut up," Malik hissed, yanking the hood further over his face and taking off down the sidewalk. Bakura caught up and followed him. They walked quietly to the end of the block before Malik added, in a snarl, "I didn't ki-- do it. I know I didn't hit her hard enough to do it. I jusntednted her wallet." His fists clenched inside his pockets. "This is your damn fault, Ryô. I wouldn't be in this fucking mess if you hadn't thrown me out."

"I told you to stop," Bakura said in a voice without inflection.

Malik's shoulders tensed beneath the jacket. Soon, though, he unclenched his hands and stared down at the concrete.

They walked back to the apartment in silence.

They'd no sooner returned than Bakura left again, this time on his way to a convenience store to get the hair dye and contacts. When twenty minutes passed and he hadn't returned, Malik began pacing across the living room.

Almost an hour had gone by before there was the sound of a key in the lock. Malik immediately stopped pacing and threw himself on the couch. He winced at the movement, and shifted so that his legs were stretched out before picking up the book he had been half-heartedly reading when Bakura first left.

When the paler teen stepped into the living room, Malik glanced at him casually over the book. "That's not much a convenience store if it took you that long," he commented.

"I went across town," Bakura explained. "That way no one would recognize me. And I had to get the ingredients for lunch, too." He pulled out a box of dye and handed it to Malik before heading toward the kitchen. "Here, you should put that in as soon as possible."

Malik gave the box an annoyed look. "How does this stuff work?"

Bakura glanced over his shoulder, surprised. "It shouldn't be any different from when you bleached your hair -- though it ought to sting less."

Malik turned the annoyed look on him. "This is my natural hair color."

Bakura blinked and turned fully around. "Really? . . . Ah, yeah, it is," he said, reflecting. "I guess with a shallow gene pool. . . ." He shrugged. "Still, that's weird. How . . . eh." Bakura trailed off, having decided that the question wasn't that important, and turned around again.

He was putting the ingredients that required refrigerating away when he heard Malik's voice come in from behind the couch.

"I don't know how it happened," the blond said tightly. "I just got the color from my father."

Bakura hesitated for a moment, holding the package of fish-paste cakes halfway to the fridge. He closed his eyes briefly, then opened them again and put it inside.

He heard the back of the couch creak as Malik used it to shove himself up, though the sound covered the darker teen's hiss. Malik called, "Hey, what does this character -- never mind, I'll use the dictionary."

Bakura set the bag on the counter and walked back into the living room. "I'll help you," he said. "I did a pretty good job the last time I used that stuff."

Malik looked at him. "Your hair's not dyed."

"Not anymore," Bakura said, taking the box from him, "but it was when I first moved here. It was a fad at my old school."

"I didn't know that," Malik said quietly as he walked toward the bathroom.

"Mm, yeah," Bakura replied absently, reading the instructions. "I think the last of the violet had washed out by the time you came here. You should take off your shirt," he added a moment later, as he followed Malik into the bathroom. "This stuff can really stain."

It hadn't been easy using the sink to put the dye in, and it had been even harder because Bakura had made a conscious effort not to brush against the scars on Malik's back. Finally he determined that there wasn't a trace of blond left, and after fifteen minutes he moved Malik to the shower to rinse. Bakura scrubbed his hands and the sink as clean as he could without any actual cleaners nearby.

Malik got out of the shower while Bakura was still working, and the darker teen dried off his legs before pulling on his jeans. He glanced up when he realized that Bakura had stopped and was staring at him.

"What?"

Bakura tilted his head. "I never noticed . . . you and Isis-san really resemble each other."

Malik blinked and started to say something, but then closed his mouth. He snorted and bent his head, ostensibly drying off his arms, but Bakura could see a t smt smile on his lips.

Bakura made oden for lunch.

Later he inspected the clothes Malik had been wearing yesterday, and found a small bloodstain on the leg of the jeans. The shoes and t-shirt were fine, though. Bakura washed the shirt, and carefully folded the jeans before packing them in his schoolcase.

That night after Bakura got out of the bath, he wandered into the living room, still rubbing his hair dry with a towel. "The bath's yours, Malik-kun," he told the darker teen stretched out on the couch.

"I'm sleeping here," Malik replied non sequiturly.

Bakura blinked. "Okay," he said. ". . . Are you sure you don't want the bed, instead? You are my guest."

". . . Don't be so polite," Malik snapped. "It looks false on you."

Bakura didn't reply to that, and only left. He hung the towel to dry before going to his bedroom and shutting the door behind him.

Bakura woke up later that night. He rubbed the sleep out of his eyes before twisting around and picked up the clock from his desk. He didn't have any lights on, so he had to squint and hold it close to his face, but it looked like it was around ten.

Bakura set the clock back on the desk and sighed quietly as he realized he was going to be dragging through another day of school with too little sleep. Then he pushed the blanket to the side and stood, stretching once before opening the door and leaving the room.

His eyes adjusted quickly to the dark -- they always had. Besides, it was a small apartment, and he'd been living in it for nearly a year. It wasn't hard to make out the un-normal shape of Malik sitting up on the couch.

"Malik-kun?" Bakura called softly as he walked into the room. "You're still up?"

Malik jerked his head towards him at the sound of Bakura's voice, and then immediately jerked it to the opposite side. Bakura stopped where he was and stretched again, yawning as well so that he could pretend to not selik lik rubbing at his face. He also rolled his shoulders, buying the darker teen a few more moments. Finally he padded across the carpet and sat down on the opposite side of the couch. He didn't say anything else.

The room was quiet for a long time, and eventually Bakura closed his eyes. He sat up straight in order to keep from dozing off.

He was startled when Malik finally spoke. "I know I didn't kill her," the darker teen said quietly. "I keep thinking about it. I shoved her head into the side of the dumpster, not the corner. And there was blood, but it wasn't spurting or anything, and head wounds bleed a lot. Right?"

"Yeah," Bakura agreed.

"I know I didn't kill her," Malik murmured.

Bakura wanted to close his eyes again, but the Egyptian could see well in the dark too. "It's okay," Bakura replied. "I believe you."

"Really," Malik said, half-sarcastic and half-hopeful.

"Yes," Bakura lied.

Malik didn't say anything to that, and eventually Bakura stretched again. "I need to go back to sleep -- I have school tomo. . . ."

He trailed off when Malik reached out and caught his hand, slipping his fingers between the paler teen's. Bakura looked at him.

Malik only stared back, and Bakura gave him credit for not pulling as he studied at the expression in those eyes for several long seconds. Then he curled his fingers around Malik's and shifted so that he could crawl over the other teenager's body. Bakura stretched out on top of Malik, pushing him back against the cushions before leaning down and pressing a kiss his lips.

Malik hesitated for a heartbeat before wrapping his free arm across Bakura's back and pulling the paler teenager closer. Bakura let him.

Even later that night, Bakura was still awake. He'd folded his arms underneath head for a makeshift pillow -- he'd put the second one away e dae days ago, and Malik currently had the remaining one -- and was staring up at his bedroom ceiling. He had to hold still to keep from elbowing Malik in the face, but that wasn't too hard. He didn't feel like fidgeting, anyway.

It was funny; sex never really made him tired. Sometimes he would be kind of worn out and not have the energy to move, but he never got sleepy. Malik was the one who tended to pass out, even if it was only for a fifteen-minute nap. Bakura thought it was nice to be able to count on some kind of respite.

The ceiling was boring and Bakura's thoughts were running along a certain path anyway, so he tilted his head to the left and looked over at Malik. The darker teen was sleeping on his stomach, with his face almost completely hidden by his arm and hair. The scars on his back were visible, though. Bakura knew he ought to feel honored by that, or something similar -- even after they first started having sex it had taken a long time for Malik to be comfortable falling asleep in a position where Bakura could see the scars.

Bakura blinked once, slowly, as he studied them, carefully refolding his arms and settling his head more comfortably.

That was one of the things that Bakura had always appreciated about Honda -- he called the scars what they were. Bakura did the same thing.

Yuugi, however, and by association Anzu and Jounouchi, always referred to them as tattoos. Bakura considered that cheating, using words as a way to decrease the harshness of the reality. The hieroglyphs and drawings on Malik's back hadn't been done with needles and ink -- someone had taken a knife and gouged out chunks of his flesh. Someone had gouged deeply enough that the scars wouldn't fade, even as Malik grew from a child to a teenager to a man. It wasn't fair to soften that fact by calling them "tattoos."

So he called the depiction of the pharaoh's secret "scars." Malik, the few times he referred to them, only called them marks. He had another term too, which involved the word pharaoh and a lot of cursing, but Bakura had only heard that one twice.

Isis, like her brother, called them marks. Rishid called them scars.

Bakura had no problem with Isis or Malik's definition -- he figured that they needed to soften the words a little, to justify the action that was a part of their heritage, and that was their choice -- but he personally preferred Rishid and Honda's honesty. Bad things had happened to a lot of people in order for King Atemu to first gain his Puzzle and then to rest in peace. Bakura thought it was only fair that Yuugi and the others acknowledge it.

That was why he'd agreed to build the Memory World game, after all. When the thief had finally convinced him that what had occurred at Kuru Eruna was real, he couldn't say no.

Bakura hadn't believed him at first, but after an extended argument the thief had finally pulled him into his own soul room. Bakura had barely had a chance to blink at seeing the warped version of himself for the first time, and he hadn't seen any of the room at all, because he was no sooner inside than the thief pushed him into his memories.

In hindsight, it had been strange seeing things from the height of a child again. Bakura hadn't noticed at the time, though, because he'd been too busy staring in horror at the slaughter and watching as the blood soaked into the sand. But there was so much blood that eventually the sand couldn't absorb any more, and the hooves of the horses and the feet of the soldiers and victims made squelching noises as they ran across it. He could hear that sound even under the screams of the dying.

Bakura didn't know how the thief had escaped. He'd covered his ears and started screaming as well before the memory got that far.

Later, when he'd begun to notice his surroundings again, he'd realized that he was lying on the couch. He had sat up carefully and stared around the room, making sure it was real and that no one was dead anywhere. Then, as soon as he'd stopped shaking, he'd collected all the spare money he had at the time and left to start buying supplies for the game.

He hadn't put his friends in danger -- he knew the other Yuugi would win. The other Yuugi always won. Even if logic or justice demanded that he lose. He just wanted them to see Kuru Eruna, and to know what had happened to make the Items, and to acknowledge it. That was all.

He never told them that, of course. Malik was the only one who knew that he had built the Memory World willingly.

Malik was the only one who told him he did the right thing.

But it seemed like it had been pointless anyway, because his friends had forgotten about the events almost as soon as the game was over. Bakura guessed that they had passed everything off as a lie -- they were good people, and he couldn't imagine that they would forget if they had believed it was true. They might have convinced themselves that it was a lie, but there was nothing that could be done about that, so he let it go. If they wanted to be blind, he couldn't stop them; and he didn't owe the dead thief anything that would make him try to show the truth again.

Malik shifted in his sleep, and more of his darkened hair slid down to cover his face. Bakura automatically reached out to brush it away. He had just pushed the strands back behind Malik's ear when he caught himself, and he jerked his hand away.

Bakura stared wide-eyed at the Egyptian and swallowed, before clenching his hand into a fist. A moment later he shifted onto his side, facing away from Malik, and tucked an arm back under his head.

By the time he unclenched his fist, his nails had bitten so deeply into his palm that it bled.

Malik noticed the next morning and made him put a bandage over the worst two. Bakura tore it off as soon as he left the apartment.

He burned the jeans in the school incinerator.

Because Malik was only visiting, he wasn't allowed on school grounds. He'd snuck on once anyway, at the beginning of his stay, to have lunch with Bakura; but after having to sit with Yuugi and the others he decided it wasn't worth it and didn't show up again. Bakura had been a little relieved -- eating with Malik was fine, but not eating with Malik and his friends. He hadn't wanted them to start questioning what sort of relationship they had or how it had begun.

Even though Malik hadn't hung around Domino High during the day, he hadn't spent it in the apartment, either. The Egyptian had never gotten over his childhood urge to see everything in the world, and he'd never really had a chance to explore until now. Before, he had spent all his time locked up underground, and afterwards he had been too busy hunting down the Sennen Items and the pharaoh's vessel to stop in small shops or go running across crosswalks when the 'don't walk' sign began to blink. He had spent the bulk of the day wandering the city, returning to the apartment only when it was time for Bakura to be getting out of school.

Being forced to stay inside again, and especially in a small, falsely-lit apartment -- the few windows had to be kept covered so that the neighbors wouldn't see him -- made Malik very irritable. And very bored.

When Bakura returned from school the first afternoon after the call to Isis, he found that Malik had finished the book he'd been working on, had gone through half his manga collection, and had decided that Ito Junji was a sick, disturbing man and that Bakura needed therapy for reading him. Bakura managed not to laugh.

Bakura had forgotten to prepare anything that morning, since he was used to the Egyptian buying lunch outside, so he made dinner earlier than usual. Malik hadn\een een able to figure out what was edible already and what needed to be cooked, and hadn't been willing to risk food poisoning, so he hadn't eaten since breakfast.

When Bakura returned from shopping that evening, he brought back two more books and a pre-made bento for the darker teen to eat tomorrow.

When he returned from school the second afternoon since the phone call, he found that Malik had finished one of the books, the remainder of his manga, and was a third of the way through the second one. Bakura took one look at the pile of printed material that had accumulated on the living room floor, left again, and returned half an hour later after buying Malik a copy of The Tale of Genji.

Malik was on chapter 51, with a list of historical and cultural questions that the paler teenager had explained and a new set to ask about, when Bakura returned from school the fourth day after the call.

"I'm home, Malik-kun," Bakura said as he tried to take off his shoes without dropping the newspaper he had under one arm.

"Welcome home, Ryô," Malik replied from the floor beside the couch.

"You're dead," Bakura added.

Malik blinked once before scrambling onto his feet. "What the hell?!"

Bakura held out the newspaper to him. Malik half-glared, half-stared at him, but Bakura shook the paper slightly until Malik took it.

"On page three. They found your corpse in the harbor," Bakura explained. "Blond hair, dark skin, matching marks on the center of the back and upper shoulders, and he had your passport in his jeans. It looks like his fingerprints were cut off and his eyes were destroyed, so between that and the fish there isn't much evidence. That guy's teeth were smashed out too, so the police couldn't use dental records. The passport is what they were probably hanging everything on."

Malik was staring at the paper in a sort of shock, reading the article, so it took him a little while to digest Bakura's words. "What is . . . how. . . . Wait, 'they'? They who? The police?"

Bakura looked at him, startled. "You don't know?" he asked.

Malik frowned. "Why should I?"

Bakura stared at him for another moment, and Malik couldn't understand the expression on his face.

Then the expression closed off, and Bakura turned and began walking down the hall, unbuttoning the jacket of his uniform as he did. "I guess it was the person who killed the girl. He probably decided that if he didn't get a body to pin it on soon, the police would start looking for other suspects. Did you drop your passport there or something?"

"I. . . ." Malik glanced down at the paper again. "I didn't think so. I haven't seen it the last couple of days, but I didn't need it for anything. . . ." He followed Bakura into the bedroom, unable to look away from the paper. "This is insane."

"This is Domino," Bakura replied, pulling on a pair of jeans and folding his uniform. "Maybe you're lucky that the killer found your passport instead of the police. Jounouchi-kun and Honda-kun were hounding the police enough as it was -- they would have been over here all the time if they'd had proof it was you."

Malik made a noise in the back of his throat as he sat down on the bed. "The poor bastard. . . ."

Bakura continued changing his clothes and didn't reply.

An hour later, Malik was back on the living room floor. He was staring at his book, but he wasn't really reading it. He hadn't bothered to ask Bakura the rest of his questions, either.

Bakura was doing his homework, but for once he was sitting in his room rather than working at the kitchen table. He'd been staring at the equations in the textbook for the last twenty minutes, but he'd only completed one problem. And he was pretty sure he'd done it wrong.

Bakura tapped his pencil against the textbook a few more times, before setting it down on top of the page. He pulled open his top desk drawer, then reached underneath a sheet of paper and pulled out Malik's passport.

He'd found it in the darker teenager's jeans when he was inspecting them. Bakura set the passport on his desk, holding it open to the pages with the photo and relevant information. He couldn't read the parts in Arabic, except for Malik's name, but he could figure out some of it from the numbers.

Bakura hadn't thought black market passports could be made so quickly -- especially considering the seven hours that would have been lost in flying to Japan from Egypt. He wondered if Isis had used her government connections to get them.

He wonderedch och of them had thought of getting a second one in Malik's name.

He wasn't surprised that Malik didn't understand what had happened. Malik had been spoiled all his life, surrounded by a brother and sister who loved him with an attitude Bakura could only call unconditional. The darker teen jus just didn't realize that most siblings would not go to such lengths as Isis and Rishid did. And especially not for such a temperamental, troubled little brother like Malik was. He couldn't see what was so obvious.

Bakura could see, though, so he had realized what was happening as soon as he read about the fingerprints and teeth.

And besides, he knew that it was hard to not love Malik, even when the darker teenager required such extreme measures. It was very, very hard.

Bakura hoped that the boy had been dead, not just unconscious, when the necessary pictures had been cut into his back. He also hoped that Malik made it out before anyone realized that the marks weren't scars, but fresh wounds.

He stared at the passport for another minute, before closing it again and sliding it into his back pocket. Bakura took another look at his Algebra textbook, another look at the single problem he'd solved, and gave up.

He made dinner early that night. Then he found the bento box that Malik's lunch had been in, washed it, packed it, and set it in the refrigerator for later.

The night had just gotten a suitable shade of dark for thieves and fugitives when there was a knock at the door. Bakura asked Malik to answer it, then went into the kitchen and pulled out the bento.

"Rishid!" Malik yelled exuberantly. The door slammed. Bakura hoped no one had overheard the name.

When Bakura stepped into the living room, he could see that Rishid had the hood of his coat pulled down low to cover the scars on his face, and that Malik had a real smile for the first time in days.

"Do you have your things, Malik?" the man asked. "We need to hurry to make it to the airport."

"Yeah," Malik said. "Let me get them."

When he turned around, Bakura said, "I packed most of your clothes in your bag, but I didn't move any of the books or your stuff in the bathroom. And don't forget about the contacts."

Malik nodded and strode past him.

When the darker teenager had disappeared into the bedroom, Rishid bowed once to Bakura. "Thank you for taking care of him, Bakura-san."

Bakura nodded back. "You're welcome. Here, I made this in case you didn't have a chance to eat today." He held out the bento box, and Rishid took it with another 'Thank you.'

Then Bakura reached into his back pocket and pulled out Malik's original passport. "You should destroy this before you get to the airport. Or, I can burn it in the school incinerator if you don't have the time."

Rishid was quiet for a second, and then he nodded. "If it would not be too much trouble, please do."

"Okay," Bakura said, tucking the passport back into his pocket.

Rishid bowed low once more. "Thank you again, Bakura-san. We are at your mercy."

Bakura shook his head. "No, you think too highly of me. I'm doing this for selfish reasons."

Rishid might have said more, but then his eyes shifted over Bakura's shoulder. Bakura turned around to see Malik coming out of the bathroom, rubbing irritably at his eyes with one hand while trying to stuff a toothbrush into his opened duffel with the other. He was wearing the blue jacket Bakura had given him earlier. The darker teen crossed into the living room and picked up the books and Arabic/Japanese dictionary before trying to cram them into his bag as well. Bakura smiled slightly in amusement as Malik started cursing the duffel, but it faded when the other teenager looked up and Bakura saw the expression on hice. ce.

Malik looked down again when he saw Bakura watching at him, and he wrenched the zipper closed over the now-lumpy bag as he walked toward the door. Malik stopped when he was next to Bakura and shifted the strap further up his shoulder, before kicking off his slippers and pulling on his boots. Finally, when he'd tied the laces and had run out of things to distract himself with, he looked at the paler teen.

"Good luck, Malik-kun," Bakura said with a smile. "I hope you get home safely."

Malik bent his head and growled something under his breath, but neither Bakura nor Rishid could make it out. He stood, and the look he gave Bakura was almost pained. "Stop calling me that," Malik said quietly. "I'm sorry."

"I know."

Malik shifted on his feet. ". . . Come see me again. Tell your dad you want to look at some old excavation sites or something."

Bakura gave him ano smi smile, this one a little softer, but he didn't reply.

After a moment, Malik snorted. The corner of his mouth twisted up into a sneer, even as the same frustrated, saddened look stayed in his eyes. "Heh. Do you pity me now, Ryô?"

Bakura studied at him. "Which answer will make it easier?" he asked.

Malik stood still for a moment. Then he shook his head, violently, before reaching out and pulling Bakura into a kiss. The other teenager was a little disturbed by the fact that Rishid was still standing less than two feet away, but he let Malik kiss him.

Soon, Malik let go and took a step back. "There isn't . . . never mind. It's a stupid question. It's all so damn stupid. . . ." He turned abruptly and pulled the door open, yanking his hood over his head as he did. "Let's go, Rishid."

Rishid, who at some point had shifted his gaze to the floor, exchanged another formal goodbye with Bakura while Malik slouched impatiently against the wall. The weather had gotten colder while he'd been cooped up inside, and he belatedly wished he'd worn a long-sleeved shirt under the jacket.

"Sayonara, Malik-kun, Rishid-san," Bakura said from the doorway as the man and the teenager headed down the outside hallway. "I hope your trip goes safely, and take care of yourselves."

"Thank you, Bakura-san," Rishid replied, glancing over his shoulder to nod once. Malik jammed his hands in his pockets and hunched over more. He bit his lip, but refused to rub at his eyes. The contacts were irritating enough as it was.

Malik looked back once when they reached the stairs, but Bakura had already shut the door.


~