Bank Job

This is set post-canon, and assumes that Bakura gets his own body. It is something of a deconstruction thereof. It also contains surprisingly little about robbing banks. Written for Katie, because we both hate English exams, and also for Lifeinabox66, because it was her birthday. She asked for tendershipping fluff. In the words of the Doctor: 'I'm sorry. I am so sorry.'

At twenty seconds, thirty-three minutes past four on a Wednesday afternoon, Bakura decides that the world is meaningless. Lolling on his landlord's couch, hair trailing onto the pristine carpet (white on white), he muses that it has been a steady descent. Reality had previously floundered, lodged firmly between the categories of 'pointless' and 'excessively time consuming', and now, in one final, masochistic leap, it has – in the way of so many lemmings before it – splattered its internal organs firmly onto the amusingly solid ground of 'wasting air'.

If he gave a damn, he might even feel a smattering of sympathy, deep in the decaying expanse of a mind that has probably seen better days – it having been left useless and congealing for an interminable span of just over three weeks.

"You know," Ryou says, as though he still expects a response, "you should really try to do something productive with your time. Given you… well… have time, now."

Two awkward pauses in one sentence. Pathetic. Bakura counts, and Ryou's record is seven.

The blood is rushing to his head. It feels like one of his eyeballs might burst out from the pressure. Funny: that's something he has never tried on anyone, much less himself. Missed opportunities.

But he tires of forced psychotic tendencies; they are far less amusing when no one is around to hear them, and Ryou hardly counts. If life is a joyless husk, gutted and left to dry in the blazing sun of defeat, Bakura may as well abandon the fraying areas of his psyche associated with violence and bloodshed. Violence and bloodshed are wholly unsatisfying, and being reprimanded for them doubly so. The latter might give him something to hate, but as it turns out, hate is also reduced to petty insignificance, in the scheme of things.

Hate used to be the limitless power source of a super weapon fashioned from his own conscious, so it seems apt that it has now been rendered as useless as anything else.

"I hate to say it, but you're wallowing in self pity. You shouldn't wallow. You'll get depressed!"

Wallow, landlord? Bakura nearly asks, and he knows the precise quality of derision and amusement that he will inject into his tone. But the words crawl off to die somewhere, and the resultant smell of festering intent is so sickly that he can barely wrinkle his nose – never mind speak.

"If you won't talk to me, nothing will ever get better," chastises Ryou, and he brushes some tangled white strands of hair away to make room for himself on the couch. Bakura obligingly tips his head over the cushions, over the edge, so that it is in full contact with the floor. The result is that he is doing a bizarre, barely supported head stand for no reason other than to attempt to alleviate the half hearted, mildly futile despair that is clouding the corners of his eyesight.

Or perhaps not despair. Despair has power. Always has had, over him. Bakura has merely ceased to care. Yes – ceased to give a damn. That describes it. And nothing will ever change; everything will stagnate; maybe, if he is lucky, the earth will stop turning, and half the world can bake to death whilst their brethren freeze in their boots. Slowly, mind – everything is sluggish, but the screams that choke in their throats will be sweet enough that Bakura might be gifted one last, final laugh before he perishes with everyone else.

Mortality: those who cope with it quietly must be so despicably, piteously tedious.

He manages to snort at that, and Ryou peers down with mild alarm. "What," says Bakura, the words slurred and careless, "still searching for sanity?"

The landlord seems to have trouble puzzling out the meaning of the question – though, from his look of apprehension, he is obviously concerned with its implications, and probably embarrassingly hopeful that Bakura will continue to speak, if simply to break the three week silence that he has maintained since he returned.

"No," says Ryou, measured and confused, "I think I'm sane."

At this, Bakura does manage a laugh. A dry cackle, because water seemed pointless, a couple of days ago, and he has yet to change his mind. "You aren't. No one is. I saw the world for what it really was. Tried telling the truth a couple of times. And look at me." He coughs, hopes for blood – no such luck.

Shame. The red would look nice against the carpet. Very symbolic, and he has always hated symbols and double meanings with an amiable passion.

"You're just awkward. You aren't mad, or – or special. You're just being an idiot!"

Bakura lowers an eyebrow, something rarely possible, when he is not stood on his head. "And you," he replies, "are an ignorant, uncooperative little shit." As an afterthought, he manages: "it goes both ways."

Ryou looks hurt, which is a damned sight better than concerned, though not by much. Bakura thinks he might like to tell him the truth – that the world is one meaningless, oxymoronic fallacy – just to see the expression on his face. And then the denial, because anyone who truly believes in something, or has any amount of devotion to it, can only reinforce their previous values in light of evidence to the contrary. "Nothing ever changes," he says instead, and then, because he himself would never believe in anything so wholeheartedly as to defend it, he adds, "except everything."

It surprises him then, when – with the barest flash of a smile – Ryou joins him. Now they are both aligned backwards, toes pointed towards the ceiling, and the imagery is excruciatingly accurate, so Bakura pulls himself up through sheer force of will. Sat properly on the couch, legs neatly crossed, he stares down at his landlord. "You look ridiculous."

"You're bad at insults," retorts Ryou, red in the face, though, whether from embarrassment at the rejection of his figurative olive branch, or from the effects of gravity on the blood stream, Bakura cannot be bothered to consider.

The sight, however, is entertaining enough that he laughs again. Ryou looks at him indignantly, before collapsing in a pile on the floor. "Bakura," he says, "you did this just to get me to make a fool of myself."

In the face of what Ryou believes to be incontrovertible truth, Bakura has never had the time or inclination to argue. Instead, he extends a hand, and wonders idly what reaction this will produce.

Ryou clasps it, pulls himself up onto the couch, and grins, seemingly seized by a overwhelmingly wonderful idea. "Let's rob a bank," he breathes.

In an instant, Bakura realises that, behind the suggestion, there are myriad intricate meanings and tentatively voiced questions. He is hardly subtle about his motivations (or lack thereof), and Ryou has extrapolated. Unfortunately, although two and two most certainly add to four, Bakura is sure that Ryou has then proceeded to double the result, and found sixty-seven. "No," he replies.

"I'm just trying to think of something to do. There has to be something to do!"

"No."

Ryou deflates. "Oh," he says, as the gravity of the situation descends. "Even so, you should at least try to drink something, or eat something, or… something."

And thus, any connections formed – disintegrate. Human nature rears its ugly head, and Ryou's mind simply does not compute that someone might wish to give up on their own existence.

Bakura had always tolerated weakness, because it was a good mask, and strength, mental or physical, had been a wholly unnecessary quality for his host to possess. However, he cannot stomach naivety. "No."

"Why not?" Ryou murmurs, and it is a heartfelt plea to a dying man.

"I was holding three week's silent vigil, in honour of the death of my cause. Now I'm on hunger strike." There is no small amount of irony in his tone, but that is mostly habitual – Bakura is deadly serious.

"Against what?"

"Ignorance," says Bakura, and for twenty-two minutes and sixteen seconds, neither of them speak.

At two seconds, thirteen minutes past five, Ryou mumbles that he wants Bakura to live, and, when he receives no reply, two scrawny arms throw themselves around Bakura's neck. Bakura guffaws at the damned arrogance of it all, to presume that Ryou's pity might be enough to replace bonds forged of honour, death and justice. Ryou says that he does not care, but if Bakura does not drink something soon, then they are going to die on the couch together, in exactly the position they are currently sat.

The next day, he pours himself a glass of lukewarm tap water, but only because he will have to be in good health if they want to nick the diamonds from the display cases in the jewellery store five blocks away.

A/N: This was supposed to be written for an English exam, but the paper was decidedly boring, and decided not to include the question 'Describe life'. In other news, I won't be posting much more for ages, because I am currently writing 2k a week for a joint project with Lifeinabox66, and she gave me the sisterly puppy dog eyes until I said that she could post it on her account.