***AN: And yet another story I jotted down because I got bored making lattes at work. The songs in here are 'Fever' By Peggy Lee, 'Burnin' For You' By the Blue Oyster Cult, and 'Cat Scratch Fever' by Ted Nugent.***

***Edited 3-5-2014 (thank SuperSteffy for the suggestions***

A deep coral swept across Bakura's nose and cheeks. Sweat gathered at his temples and his skin burned. Sinking deeper into his bed, Bakura sighed as a shiver trilled up and down his spine. A fever. His entire body ached.

His host slept in his soul room, having already taken aspirin to fight off their high temperature, but Bakura couldn't sleep. When he was alive a fever often meant death, and although he logically knew that was no longer the case, he still couldn't relax enough to close his eyes.

"Bakuuuuuuuura, where are you?" Marik shouted. A moment later he poked his head into Bakura's bedroom. "Bakura, it's seven p.m. Why are you already in bed?"

Bakura winced when he saw Marik. "Not now, Marik. I'm not in the mood."

Marik blinked at Bakura. "Not in the mood for what? I didn't come in here to do anything. I was just wondering where you'd gone to."

Bakura rubbed his hot temples. "Just go away."

Marik snickered, stepping fully into the room. "Why, so you can read yaoi all by yourself? Must be a good one. You look pretty flushed."

Bakura lifted his head away from his hand to glare at Marik. "That's because I'm running a temperature, you idiot."

"Oh." Marik stopped and stared at Bakura, making the Spirit fidget. Without warning Marik bounced into the room, jumping onto Bakura's bed and landing at the foot of the mattress on his knees. "I know what will make you feel better. A singy-song!" Marik pulled a dramatic breath into his lungs before singing out, "Fever in the Morning! Fever all through the night! Everybody's got the fever. That's something you all know. Fever isn't such a new thing. Fever started long ago."

"That's enough, Marik."

"Okay, okay, okay, not that one." Marik waved his hand as if to brush away the irritation in Bakura's voice. "But how about – I'm living for giving the devil his due, and I'm burning, I'm burning, I'm burning—"

"Marik."

"Cat scratch fever, na-na-na. Cat scratch fever, na-na-na-na. Fluffy scratch fever! Na-na-na!"

"Marik!" Bakura winced as his shout caused the aching in his joints to thrum throughout his entire body. "My head hurts enough without your screeching."

"Hey, I have a lovely singing voice."

"Yes, it's like a cat in heat scratching its claws against a chalk board." Bakura sighed. "Just . . . go play video games or something."

"Well, if not sing, what else can I do to make you feel better?" Marik grinned.

Bakura hated when Marik grinned – it lit up his face and made him twice as handsome. Marik's eyes glowed the bright color of thistle blossoms in sunlight. Bakura scowled to keep his heart still. "Be quiet and go away. That's all I want."

"Nonsense. Everyone wants company when they don't feel good. Don't worry, Bakura. I won't leave your side until your fever breaks."

"Yippee," Bakura said in monotone.

Marik bit his lower lip, eyes wandering around the room for inspiration. When an idea came to him, Bakura could almost see the cartoon light-bulb pop above Marik's head in a thought bubble. Bakura wished he could see it, then he could lean over and turn it off. Instead, Marik scooted forward, face wrinkled in a mischievous grin. "How 'bout a shoulder rub?"

Bakura knotted his lips, suspicious. A shoulder rub sounded miraculous on his sore body, but nothing ever went nice or easy with Marik. Ever. Bakura narrowed his eyes. "Just a shoulder rub? You're not planning on doing anything weird?"

"Weird!" Marik shouted. "I've told you a hundred times, Bakura. I'm not gay. I wouldn't try anything on you."

Bakura started at the statement. For once, his mind hadn't been in the gutter, (showing exactly how ill he felt). "I meant like using a rolling pin on my back or running me over with a steam-roller."

"Silly Bakura. We don't have either of those things in our hideout."

Their 'hideout' was just a regular flat, but Marik refused to call it such, and they did have a rolling pin, but Bakura decided not to tell Marik in case he tried to run into the kitchen and fetch it. Bakura didn't know if it was Marik or the fever, but he felt dizzy and couldn't think. Exhaling and closing his eyes, Bakura nodded, whispering, "a back rub does sound like a good idea."

"Of course it is," Marik insisted. "I only come up with the most brilliant of ideas."

Bakura ignored him and shifted onto his stomach. Now his mind did wander into the gutter, but only because Marik implanted the suggestion into his head. He thought of how the massage would be better if his shirt was off and he could feel Marik's hands caressing and kneading his bare body. His imagination thought up other things Marik could do; trail his wet tongue up Bakura's spine, bite the nape of Bakura's neck, plant kisses along each vertebrate, and when he was done teasing Bakura he could –

The beautiful fantasy shattered when Marik stood on Bakura's back, causing a broad, dense pain in Bakura's right kidney. Bakura grunted, craning his neck to stare at his partner. "What the bloody hell are you doing, Marik?"

"It's better this way." Marik insisted, trying to balance on Bakura's back. "It'll get all the deep aches in your muscles."

"Marik, get off."

"But Bakura," Marik whined. Before he could finish, Bakura shifted enough to have Marik crash down.

A bad idea. Marik's landing hurt more than his failed attempt of massaging and afterward their bodies lay heaped on top of each other.

"Aww, Bakura, you ruined my massage."

Bakura shoved his face into his pillow. Feverish tears pricked at his eyes and they infuriated him – he was Yami Fucking Bakura, The Spirit of The Millennium Ring and the ancient King of Thieves from Kul Elna, and he didn't cry, not from pain, not from sorrow, and not even from a fever over one hundred degrees.

"Now I have to get up and start all over again." Marik shifted, trying to stand on the mattress.

"No. No. That's quite all right." Bakura sat up and pulled Marik back down to the bed to stop him.

Marik landed with a loud huff of breath. Bakura had accidentally pulled Marik too close; their faces lingered only an inch away from each other.

Marik pouted, lips parting to complain, but then he stopped and looked at Bakura. He brought both tanned hands to Bakura's face and frowned. "You really are sick, aren't you?" he asked.

A weak, unbidden moan snuck past Bakura's lips as he leaned into Marik's hands. They felt cool and dry against his sweat-glazed, burning face and he couldn't help but relax into the soothing touch. Marik's fingers slid up Bakura's face and slipped into the fringe hair around his forehead. He circled his thumbs around Bakura's temples. Bakura kept his eyes closed. He didn't know what Marik was going to do to turn the moment into something belonging in a blooper reel, but he didn't want to see it coming when it happened. For a moment, Bakura forgot his fever as Marik's fingers stayed buried in his hair and his thumbs kept easing the pain in his head. He started trembling a little, couldn't help it with Marik sitting so close in his bed and touching him. Bakura made a mental note to cut back on the fanfiction because the moment reminded him of the beginning of a lemon scene.

"Do you have chills, too?" Marik asked.

"Yes," Bakura lied. Well, it wasn't a complete lie, but chills weren't the reason he shook. Dizziness swept over Bakura as Marik pushed him down into his pillows. Bakura gasped and opened his eyes. The last notions of Citrus - and Thiefshipping still lingered in his mind, so Bakura was glad that his face was already crimson so he didn't have to explain the blush to Marik.

"Just lie there. I'll be right back." Marik bounced off of the bed and left the room before Bakura could question him.

Bakura took a deep inhale and exhale. He felt calm after Marik rubbed his temples. Bakura dozed into a light sleep until the door banged open as Marik sang out, "myyy skills!" He held a tray with both hands, having kicked the door open with his 'skills'.

Bakura eyed the cup on the tray warily. "That's not your super-secret-cure-all-miracle-remedy, is it? Because I don't think I can handle vomiting." Once Bakura woke up hung-over, and Marik had given him a mixture of lemon juice, apple cider vinegar, ginger, Tabasco sauce, and several 'secret' ingredients, claiming it would cure him – spoiler alert, it didn't work.

Marik snorted, giving Bakura a look, as if to ask if Bakura thought he was stupid. "It's Earl Grey."

That sounded . . . normal, and like a good idea. It worried Bakura. He took the cup and sniffed it. "Just the tea or did you add something to it?"

The strange look on Marik's face deepened. "You mean like honey? A little bit."

Bakura drank a tentative sip of the tea. It was perfect – hot, but not too hot, strong with just a touch of honey to mellow the floral undertones. Messaging his temples, making tea (instead of some concoction fangirls would dare each other to drink during a slumber party), it was freaking Bakura the fuck out. He glared at Marik. "Okay, what in the name of buggery is wrong with you? Why are you being so competent?"

"What?"

"Every time you have a plan or try to do something it backfires in some grand display of Murphey's Law. Nothing seems to be wrong. What's up?"

Marik's laughter interrupted Bakura's speech. "Bakura, are you delirious? My plans never backfire. I have skills, you know. Didn't you see me open the door? Hands free! I just, bam, door open, didn't even spill the tea. I bet you've never seen anyone open a door like such a bad-ass before!"

That sounded like typical Marik. Bakura admitted to himself that perhaps he was delirious and reading too much into the situation. Surely even Marik could manage boiling a kettle of water. "You're right," Bakura muttered, taking a long swallow of tea.

"Of course I'm right – and sexy. Don't forget that part. It's important. There will be a quiz about my abs after the assignment."

"If you insist." Bakura finished his tea and set the cup down on the tray.

Marik took a wash cloth in his hand. He pushed Bakura down again and used the cloth to bathe Bakura's forehead. Bakura hissed. The towel felt freezing, but Marik had his hand on Bakura's chest so he couldn't get away from the cold of the cloth.

"Want a bed time story?" Marik smiled.

"No," Bakura said.

Marik scowled. "Too effing bad, you're getting one. Once upon a time there was—"

"A bloke named Malik Blishtar?" Bakura interrupted, smirking. It's how Marik's stories usually began.

"No." Marik blew a frustrated breath out of his mouth. "That's not what I was going to say at all. There was a . . . um – a thief. A very sexy thief. Well, I mean, he wasn't as sexy as me, of course. That would be ridiculous, but still, he was pretty damn sexy, and he wore a long, white robe."

"Do you mean red?" Bakura raised an eyebrow.

"Silence, I'm telling a tale more epic than Beowulf and Gilgamesh combined. It was a white, frigg'n robe. One day, the thief stole into the Pharaoh's palace to prove to everyone that he was sexier than the Pharaoh and should therefore rule in the Pharaoh's place. I mean, the Pharaoh was a 7 out of 10 at best, but the Thief was at least a 9, so he deserved to rule Egypt much more than the smelly Pharaoh. At least until I'm born because I'm a 10 of 10 and would totally usurp the thief's throne from him."

Marik laughed at some thought while Bakura frowned at the story. Marik seemed to remember his audience and continued. "So the Thief took his knife – he really liked knives – and he . . ." Marik paused, trying to think.

"Skinned the Pharaoh alive," Bakura offered.

Marik made a face. "Too Melvin. The thief just hacked the Pharaoh into bits with his knife, and his machete, and his sword-chucks, yo. Wait, no, not sword-chucks because he liked knives, so he had knife-chucks and he whirled them around like a blender and liquified the Pharaoh. OMG, it was awesome! And messy! So messy that blood soaked through every inch of the Thief's white robe, but the thief never really cared about fashion. I mean, just look at what you let your host wear Bakur—ahhh, I mean," Marik cleared his throat, "and that is how the thief got his scarlet robe. Most. Epic. Story. Ever. Am I right, Bakura?"

He had to be delirious with fever, because Bakura felt himself smiling at Marik. "Yeah," he whispered, afraid to say anything else least he snap out of his delirium and awake to find Marik cutting a hole in the ceiling to give Bakura some fresh air or something equally disastrous. He wasn't sure when he fell asleep, but at some point he woke up to the feeling of Marik's hand holding his cheek.

Marik's hand felt warm, and that meant that Bakura's fever had finally broke. Bakura's eyes stayed closed; he was only half lucid, perhaps still dreaming. He had to be dreaming because he felt Marik lean over and feather his lips across Bakura's mouth, so light and soft that it could be nothing but hallucination. Before Bakura could properly respond or open his eyes, he felt Marik's weight shift off of the mattress. The only sound was the soft click of the cup against the tray as Marik lifted it to take it away.

As Marik left, Bakura heard him singing in a soft, quiet voice as he walked down the hallway, "Never know how much I love you. Never know how much I care. When you put your arms around me. I get a fever that's so hard to bear. You give me fever . . ."

***AN: "Sword chucks, yo" because back in my day, we didn't have LK posting parody abridged anime shows – we had Brian Clevinger posting parody, online comic strips - yay, 8-bit Theater! ***