Because instead of working on other stories...or homework...this is what I do. This was inspired by MoonlitSoulWolf's drawing 'Bakura- There's Blood'. And I apologize in advance, because I have absolutely no idea how it went from her awesome picture to this...whatever this is.

Tendershipping if you squint. In any case, I'm off to write some deathship.

Warning/Disclaimer: A tiny bit of swearing and gore. YGO franchise belongs to whoever it is that owns it, but the plot is mine. Also, Malik=hikari, Marik=yami.

Through months of rigorous experimentation, Ryou discovered that his biggest pet peeve was people knocking on the door of his apartment at three in the morning.

Actually, no. His biggest pet peeve was people knocking on the door of his apartment at three in the morning and saying, "Does this belong to you? I found him at insert-bizarre-location-here."

Ryou often thought that if he wasn't such a nice guy, he would really get into the habit of slamming doors in people's faces.

This time, however, it was closer to two. And no one knocked. Ryou was jolted awake by the jarring sound of his phone vibrating against the wooden nightstand where he put it. The screen read Private Number, but Ryou knew there was only one person who would call him this late—or early, depending on how he looked at it, but Ryou was too groggy to be clever. "Mrmph. Bakura?"

"How did you know it was me?"

"It's—" he checked his alarm clock, "—two-fifteen. Who else would it be?"


Ryou frowned and rubbed his hand across his face. "Don't be smart. I'll hang up on you."

Bakura sounded affronted. "Well, someone's got his panties in a bunch. Come get me."

Of course. "Where are you?"

"I have no idea."

The boy clapped, wincing as the lights in his room snapped on. On the phone, Bakura's voice was smug. "I told you that you would like that ridiculous contraption." Ryou scowled, refusing to grace that with a response, instead stumbling into a pair of khaki's and a shirt.

His shoes were a pain to put on while only thirty percent conscious. "How can you not know where you are? What do you see?"

The spirit of the Ring hummed into the phone—Ryou heard the scuff of cloth on concrete as his yami stood up. "I see a—wait, never mind, that's clearlya hallucination—there's a street sign that says Dockmarket Lane." He snorted. "That's ironic."

Ryou grabbed his keys as he walked out the door, phone balanced between his cheek and shoulder. "Why is that ironic?"

"I don't know. Must you nitpick everything? I swear, you're so fucking British."

All through the ride through downtown Domino, Ryou kept his phone on speaker, listening to Bakura ramble about whatever struck his fancy. The clock on the dash glowed green, reminding him that his chances of getting anymore sleep before he had to wake up and trudge to school were dwindling to nil. He didn't ask Bakura why he was on Dockmarket Lane—or why he had no idea why he was there. It was just...Bakura. On impulse, Ryou spoke, cutting off Bakura's monologue about the virtues of beheading fish. "For a spirit who's hell-bent on avenging his village, you're such a ditzsometimes."

There was a long silence on the other end of the line. "If you were my ride home, I wouldn't dismember you for saying that."

Ryou rolled his eyes. "I amyour ride home."

Bakura mulled over the logistics of this. "Oh. Never mind then. I suppose you can keep your limbs. I might poke out an eye, but your limbs are safe." There was some more grumbling on the other end, and then the call dropped.

Ryou wondered what the qualifications were for sainthood.

Dockmarket Lane finally pulled into view, revealing a long line of warehouses, and no Bakura. Ryou rolled to a stop in the middle of an empty lot and got out of the car. He strolled away from it, wondering what his yami would find so amusing about a bunch of warehouses, before deciding that the creepy atmosphere, lack of streetlights—except for the one he parked under; Ryou trusted Bakura but he wasn't stupid enough to park in complete darkness—and general disrepair was definitely Bakura's style.

Hands closed around his neck from behind, cold and wet. Ryou jumped and spun around, greeted by Bakura's oddly luminescent eyes—they glowed like a cat's. He once asked Bakura why that was and he was told, "Crack is whack. Oh, and don't mix it with tequila—on that note, don't ever drink anything Marik hands you."

Below his eyes, Bakura's mouth split into a toothy grin. "Boo. Did I scare you?"

"Why I put up with you, I'll never know." Ryou squinted at the man in front of him—there was barely enough light to make out his face. "Why are you wet, anyway?"

Cloth shifted as Bakura shrugged. "No idea. I suppose it was raining."

"You fell in the ocean, more likely." The hikari headed back to his car, looking over his shoulder to say, "Come on, then. I have towels in the trunk." Footsteps scuffed after him, and they hurried back to the car. Ryou turned as they were safely under the streetlight, about to ask Bakura if he was drunk, but his words twisted into a yelp, horrified. "You're covered in blood!"

Now properly illuminated, Bakura glanced down at himself. "Huh. So it appears I am. Probably has something to do with this." A knife fell from his back pocket and clattered onto the ground. He grinned at Ryou and held out his arms. "Can I have a kiss?"

"What the hell, Bakura?"

He scowled. "Fine then. I'll get Malik to kiss me." Another look at the state of his clothes and Bakura stripped them off, kicking them into a pile before leaning down to pull a lighter out of his boots.

Ryou was frozen for a moment, taking in the absurdity of a three thousand year old spirit in bright orange boxers and combats boots about to torch his bloody clothes before he blurted, "What are you doing?"

Bakura looked at him like he was slow. "Fire burns evidence, Ryou," he said, matter-of-factly.

Ryou decided that his pet peeve was, in fact, Bakura.

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