A/N: Prompt number three of "26: Thiefshipping Style." It's a different sort of voice than I usually use when writing Malik, and way too fluffy for this pairing. I hope it works.

More writing therapy, because it's been raining all week.

Disclaimer: I don't own Yu-Gi-Oh! or its characters. And I don't own rain.

I'm walking in the rain.

Bakura's always telling me not to, since I can't help him murder his arch-nemesis (a sixteen-year-old kid, and hey, funny, that's how old I am, too; I wonder if he noticed) if I catch pneumonia and end up lying cold and dead in bed, but I go out anyway. I didn't get to see rain much when I was little, and it still seems weird to me that here it can pour every day for a week and nobody will do much more than complain.

Bakura and live in an apartment in the worst part of town, and we never lock the door because there's nothing there to steal. That's what Bakura says, anyway, and I know it's true because Bakura will steal anything.

At least it's above ground.

I still kind of hate the place, though, so I go out a lot. I take my bike or I take my feet, and I stay out for hours. I like to go down to the beach sometimes, or back to the boat to visit Odion, who's stuck there with the mind-slaves.

What? I need somewhere to keep them.

A little while ago, I left Bakura back at the apartment to do research on something or other that's apparently going to help him win his epic battle. The rain is dripping down my neck and soaking my boots and running straight through my soul, and for once I feel clean.

It helps wash some of the blood off my shirt, too, which has been getting me weird looks all day. Bonus.

Bakura ruins it, of course, with his cell phone, (who the hell taught him how to use that?) texting me and saying to get my ass back inside before I get hit by a bus or drown or otherwise manage to get myself horribly terribly irreparably dead.

Come out of the rain; you might get hypothermia or something, and you're not allowed to die until I say so.

My first thought is Ha fucking ha,except it's really not that funny. Since when the hell have you had any sort of control over me, asshole?

My second thought is Aw, Bakura, you do care.

... It's pathetic. I know.

Still, I flip open my phone (who cares if it's pouring rain and the battery fries, the thing's a piece of shit anyway) and tap back a response.

Do you want me to bring take-out?

Because, really, that's all I seem to do these days. Run errands and kill witnesses and pick up take-out.

And play card games, of course.

My life is so meaningful.

I wait for him to reply, tilting my head up to the sky and letting the drops fall past my lips. It's not raining so hard anymore, and I can almost see the sun creep out from behind the clouds.

Oh mister sun, sun, mister golden sun...

My phone buzzes in my pocket, but I leave it there; let Bakura wait for once. I study the trees around me and try to find the birds— I guess they don't mind the rain either, and can birds get sick? I don't know—I until I can't tilt my head back any further and I think my neck is going to snap.

Whatever. Save someone else the trouble.

Like the pharaoh. Bet he wouldn't even come to the funeral.

Asshole.

My phone jumps again, angry and demanding, until I fish it out of my pocket. The annoying little message box tells me that I have two new texts. They read:

I'm sitting here with no leads and three days left to put together a way to defeat an entire fucking blimp full of people, not to mention collect roughly half the remaining Items, and you're asking about bloody take-out?

And:

Get Chinese.

I start wandering down the street, absently pressing the buttons on my phone.

Your texts have really good grammar.

I wonder what kind of chicken Bakura likes. Probably something spicy.

You're so incredibly idiotic.

Fuck it. Sweet and sour it is.

You know you love me. Hey, do you like egg rolls?

The reply is prompt.

No. Yes.

Do we have beer?

It's twelve-thirty, Malik.

So?

So?

Bakura doesn't text back this time, so I assume he got fed up with my stupidity and went back to planning the end of the world. I duck inside the restaurant and fidget in line for a while and pretend that I can't see some of the health-code violations going on in the open kitchen. Seriously. If I had my Rod, bitches would be going down. I could save half the town from food poisoning.

Plus, I wouldn't have to wait in line.

Everyone wins.

Fifteen minutes later, I have my food. The rain's started up again, though, and I get hit with a face full of water as I shoulder open the door.

Thank Ra for plastic bags.

Soggy chicken is disgusting.

I trudge down the sidewalk, boots sloshing through puddles. I'm about a block away from home when I give up and duck under the nearest store awning.

I don't like the rain that much.

I hide there for twenty minutes until my phone buzzes weakly against my thigh, making me jump. I stare down at the glow of the screen through my soaked cargo pants and decide that when the world finally ends, I want to be my cell-phone. It's indestructible. I'm not even kidding.

I balance the bags carefully on my left arm and extract my electronic cockroach from its polyester prison.

The text is from Bakura. Of course.

Where

Are

You

You pathetic

Excuse

For a mortal.

God. He's so pissy.

Standing under an awning trying not to get the goddamn food wet.

Five minutes. I fidget with my bags. My phone hums.

Translate this.

There's a photo attached to the last text of some Egyptian hieroglyphs. I sigh.

You should get a dictionary.

Still, I skim through words, deem them useless, and tell Bakura so.

It's about some guy's dead grandma. Not going to do you much good. Unless you're into that.

Ha fucking ha. Get home. Now.

Why are you scared of rain?

He doesn't answer, so I assume I've pushed some sort of boundary. Not much of an accomplishment, since Bakura has a lot of boundaries, but I feel a grim sense of satisfaction. I step out from under the awning and start to head back, and when I reach our apartment I almost feel like I've won.

Except then my phone vibrates—it's going to die soon, I know it, because nothing can be this stubborn— and I read

Because it doesn't rain in prison.

I look at my phone resting gently in my palm and want to text back something stupid and mocking maybe even scathing, except I can't. I watch it until the rain slows to a trickle and the sun blushes red and creeps shyly back out from behind the clouds. Then I say,

Come outside.

Why?

Cause the rain stopped.

And?

And you should see the sun.

I don't really expect an answer, but I stand outside for five more minutes until I hear the door open behind me.

I don't see Bakura much anymore. He's always off dueling or fighting or tearing out some poor sap's liver with his teeth. That's how I picture him, anyway: with blood on his mouth and in his hair and in his eyes. (It's kind of pretty, except not, because what kind of fucked up person finds that beautiful?) He doesn't talk to me much, either, except to give an order or laugh at my incompetence. Honestly, I can't say I'm surprised.

I don't look at Bakura when he moves up next to me. We stand side-by-side and watch the clouds float away while the chicken gets cold and our bodies almost touch.

I glance to my left and see Bakura looking up, hands in his pockets.

You should come with me next time, I don't say, and I think he hears me because when the sun gives up and the clouds come back, he closes his eyes and lets the rain make patterns on his skin.

We don't kiss in the rain.

Maybe some day.