Notes: Found this in my tags today. I'd totally forgotten about it; I wrote it way back in December, 2005.

The child's feet were dirty. His calves weren't clean either, but that was to be expected. The children of the streets played roughly, often coming home with small, new bruises and cuts and scratches to be examined later under the lamplight. The boy's eyes were large and violet; watching the thief watching the child, and his arms, despite their tan, were pink from the midday sun.

There wasn't anything spectacular about him at all. Nothing at all to make the thief emerge from the shadows and into the bright light; nothing except perhaps what the boy held in his hands.

It was hot, even in the shadows beside the buildings and stalls, and Bakura wiped the back of his forearm against his forehead, feeling the perspiration and the coarse sand that stuck to and chafed his skin. It was undeniably hot, and he had grown used to the cold of the night now, so his skin felt as though it was being pricked all over whenever he strayed into the light. It burned, like the taste in the back of his throat; dry and aching for something to wet his tongue.

Malik watched the man, undeniably curious. He assumed the stranger was a thief, but he could have been wrong. It was something in the way the man kept to the shadows and watched him with narrowed eyes that made Malik think he was someone who had become used to watching prey.

He wondered if the man had stopped to watch him, and he paused in his movements, his eyes easily meeting those of the man. And suddenly he realised – this wasn't just any thief. He was Bakura; the very same Bakura who was sought by the palace and the Pharaoh. There was a price on his head, and gave Malik a thrill, like electricity passing through his body, to know that he was possibly the only person in the whole of the country at this moment, to be staring into the Thief King's eyes.

Bakura watched as the child bit into his slice of watermelon. Red juice dribbled from the sides of his mouth and ran down the length of his forearms, splashing lightly onto the sand beneath; some of it dribbling down his chin to decorate the front of his linen tunic in splashes.

His throat felt tight; dry and constricted from just watching the child indulge in something so simple. It must have been hours since he'd drunk the last of his water, and he knew he had to fill his body's needs soon or he'd be suffering later during the night.

Malik saw the man moving long before his mind had registered that the Thief King was heading towards him. He took another bite of the watermelon, hearing the satisfying sounds of his teeth breaking through the flesh. He tasted the sweet liquid on his tongue and wished to savour the taste, but the juice ran straight to the back of his throat and he swallowed quickly in greedy gulps.

The thief moved closer, and Malik took another bite from his slice of melon.

"Hey, kid," Bakura murmured quietly, knowing fully well that the boy was listening to him.

Malik turned his head a little, looking up towards the man beside him. Now that they were standing closer, he could see scars on the man's face; blemishes where there should have been none. He knew he shouldn't be staring, but he'd heard so many rumours about the great Thief King Bakura; stories of the ways he'd outwit the palace guards and reap havoc with his Diabound, and he knew he should have been scared now, but he wasn't. Curiosity had overtaken any trepidation he felt, so he reached out to touch the man's arm.

"Oi," Bakura stepped away slightly, narrowing his eyes and reaching into his sack for a small golden cup. The kid wouldn't be able to resist, and he'd have it back before the kid knew what had hit him. "Want to trade?"

But Malik wasn't interested and ignored the cup, stepping closer to the man. "Where'd you get those scars?"

Bakura flinched as the smaller fingers touched him lightly on the arm. "The cup for the fruit."

Malik placed his teeth on the melon once again. "An answer for a question."

Bakura couldn't help but be a little surprised; his teeth showing slightly as his upper lip curled almost involuntarily. Who did this kid think he was?

He was a thief through and through; but in some things at least, he could still be honest…

"An accident," he volunteered.

Malik continued to stare up at his companion; his childish gaze somewhat unnerving to the thief.

Bakura wasn't used to children. Their innocence scared him and reminded him of his own immaturity still; the times he actually wished for company, or a pair of arms to embrace him against the cold desert nights, or the times he talked to himself just to hear something other than silence.

But those kinds of feelings were fleeting for him, and really he couldn't care for company. He didn't need things to hold him back; people and their stupid attachments just brought greater risk and greater challenges.

Not that he didn't mind a challenge…

And then when Bakura had given up trying to interest Malik in any worthwhile trade – though he would have stolen everything back anyway – the boy surprised him by handing him the remainder of his watermelon. Only a few bites of the red flesh remained, but Bakura was so thirsty that even the less juicy white flesh was consumed until he only had the rubbery skin left in his hands. The juice wetted his throat and his mouth and he greedily licked the pink colour from his hands as well, glaring when he caught the kid still staring at him.

"What're you staring at?"

"I'm not staring," Malik stated, his eyes never leaving Bakura's face.

Bakura snorted. So the kid was a liar too. Weren't they all?

The aftertaste of the melon still remained in his mouth, and he swallowed, relishing the natural sweetness of the fruit. He picked up his sack again, seeing that the sun had begun its descent already. He'd been standing here too long.

"Where are you going?"

"Away."

"Are you coming back?"

"A good thief never needs to rob the same tomb twice," Bakura answered, crossing the street back to the shadows. He took a few quick steps, knowing that he'd spent more time than he should have out in the open. People might be looking for him now; they were always looking for him, but by now the price on his head might be a few deben more than it had been yesterday. Heh; pity the fool who caught him. He'd be so rich; he wouldn't know what to do with himself.

He looked back over his shoulder and stopped suddenly.

Where he had just been standing, there was no boy. There was no one. The sand looked undisturbed; the rind he had dropped wasn't there.

Had he imagined it all?

And then he shook his head. The sweet taste of the melon still remained in his mouth, and he touched his fingers to his lips as though to remind himself of it.

So he hurried along the shadows, racing the sun to the horizon. One day in the future, he'd return the favour.