(A/N): This is my first thiefshipping fic. Since this is one of my favorite pairings in the fandom, PLEASE REVIEW AND TELL ME WHAT YOU THINK!

I looked up some of the moves executed in this fic from ehow . com. Enjoy the fic! I don't own Yu-Gi-Oh.

Dedicated to Aderyn Westenra. If you don't know who she is, then you obviously haven't been on my profile page XD.

The alleyway was chilling at night, and Marik drew his coat in tighter. Despite the fact that the moon was out and the streets were lit as if a floodlight was illuminating his way, Marik couldn't see a thing. How was it that, in the morning, the rustle and bustle of town and the welcoming faces in the windows suddenly transformed into this sinister place, where the windows were all shut and the apartment complexes looked like menacing fingers stretching out towards the moon, looking for salvation from the hell that they were in?

Not a soul was here.

Marik closed his eyes and tried not to think of his lonely house in the corner of Domino. He tried not to, but he couldn't help himself. Ishizu had told him that he would regret his decision to move back to Domino; that he would regret trying to chase after the feeling of triumph he'd had after he'd finally defeated his dark side and come to terms with himself. Marik had thought that Domino symbolized victory and peace, hope and joy, mercy and love. Now he knew that he'd been victim to wishful thinking.

Now he was stuck in a rundown apartment that screamed hopelessness. Even in the morning, the shabby exterior of his complex hid only a shabbier interior. His neighbors were hookers and drunkards who had absolutely no money, standing outside the apartment for "appointments" or a lucky break. Marik had gotten many offers for his appearance and physique, though he suspected that most of the attraction came from the fact that he was clean (his job allowed him to have a room with a shower, unlike the grimy street urchins' rooms).

He could almost see the building up ahead, one of the longest fingers of them all. Marik smirked, raising his own longest finger as well.

"That's right, fuck the world," he laughed, his voice sounding coarse from being silent for so long in his walk home from work. He couldn't afford to bring his motorcycle in these parts, where there were people practically lining up to steal every new piece of jewelry or technology. Marik wore a scarf to cover his neck heirlooms and his earrings. He was almost there; he could see the building in its entirety. He picked up his pace.

"Oi, hold up ya broad!" a thug cried. "I jus' wanna talk to ya!" Marik growled. He understood that his hair was long, but everyone kept calling him a girl for it.

"Back off!" he snapped. "I'm not even a broad, you sick fuck!" The man neared him so that Marik could see the stumble in his gait. With a smirk, he readied his stance. No problem, he thought, I can take this guy with my eyes closed. A toothless smile greeted him as the man lumbered closer, close enough for Marik to smell the alcohol reeking from him. Marik gave a quick right hook.

Right in the stomach. The man didn't have a chance.

Marik laughed at the groaning mess that constituted the thug. It was a one-hit KO, he thought, remembering all the fighting shows he'd watched. Too easy, mostly because the man was drunk in the first place. He kicked the man's shoulder and heard a satisfying squeal of pain before chuckling and turning around...

...into another man's chest.

"Where d'ya think yer goin', punk?" the second thug laughed. Marik noticed with dismay that he was about ten times bigger than him...and sober. He knew that if he was going to take this one down, it would be a serious feat. "Yer thinkin' of defeatin' me?" the man said immediately, assessing Marik's eyes. Marik cursed inwardly. If he showed his emotions like that, he would never win!

"We got him ssssurrounded, bossss," hissed a voice that sounded like a snake. All thoughts of winning flew from Marik's mind as his eyes darted right to left and noticed all the shadows that hadn't been there before. "Oh, he'ssss a pretty one. I wouldn't mind having a piecccce of that!"

"Save some fer me!" another voice laughed. Marik's heart dropped. They were everywhere! The leader leaned forward, grinning.

"Shame. We either recruit men like ya, or we take care of 'em," he chortled. Marik started breathing heavily. "Shhh...don't worry. I promise, it'll be nice and painle-"

"Let the poor bloke go, Weasel," came a voice that cackled throughout the premises. Weasel's face paled.

"Bakura!" he snarled, clenching his fist and making the veins bulge. Marik started. Bakura? The thief that had died in the last battle against the pharaoh? His Bakura? A figure suddenly leapt down from the roof and straight behind Marik so that they were back to back.

"They may see you as a fresh piece of meat, but you've got potential," drawled the familiar British voice. "Now, ready your stance!" Marik immediately gathered his wits and stood at ready, mimicking what he saw on television. "Look, we're trying to kill, not maim. Arch your middle finger so that your knuckle acts as a dagger, then swiftly punch the most vulnerable parts of the body." Marik nodded immediately, arching the middle finger in both of his hands. "Good, now, you attack Weasel. Despite all his big talk, he's the weakest of the bunch." And suddenly, the pressure on his back was off, and surprised shouts of pain sounded from behind him. Marik gulped, but kept a level head.

If this Weasel guy was weaker than the thug currently writhing on the floor, then he could take him. He could SO take him.

First, he threw a sucker punch and managed to land a good one on the man's stomach by surprise. He was a beer belly sort of man, so it wasn't any surprise when he grunted in pain. What was a surprise was when he grabbed the very arm Marik had punched with and brought him into a headlock.

Self-defense! Self-defense! Marik chanted in his head, turning so that his face was buried into the man's side. In a flexible maneuver, he managed to grab hold of the man's ear with one hand and thumb with another, prying his head free without losing too much breath. But, of course, he couldn't stop there.

"AAAH!" Marik cried as he lunged at the man, who was holding his ear. He managed to get behind the man and pull all his weight back, flipping the man over and bringing him to the ground in a large crash. It was over before Marik even landed the final blow to back of the man's neck. When he stood up, breathing heavily from adrenaline and stress, he heard a cheery whistle come from behind him. He turned and saw, much to his surprise, that every one of Weasel's henchmen (from what he could see) was gasping in pain and writhing on the floor. Bakura currently had one in a strong headlock that was much more potent than the clumsy one Weasel had formed. Marik was somewhat relieved that Bakura, out of all people, was on his side.

"So much for killing them," he remarked casually. Bakura smirked and tightened his grip on the man he was holding. The man wasn't moving, but his face slowly turned purple. Marik looked at him with surprise, but didn't move to help when the man finally fell limp in Bakura's arms. Bakura let him fall, relishing the way the incapitated Weasel looked at him with fear in his eyes.

"At least I managed to kill a man," Bakura said suavely. Marik rolled his eyes. Bakura hadn't changed a bit.

"That's great. Do you expect some reward?" he asked sarcastically.

"Indeed I do," Bakura said incredulously. "I just saved you! The least you could do is invite me for a cup of tea." Marik raised a blond eyebrow. He couldn't tell if Bakura was teasing him as he had in the days when they were partners or whether he was merely exchanging quips with what he believed was a stranger.

"So that's what this is about. You want me to feed you," he said, chuckling dryly. "It seems like all beggars are the same. One fight and you think I'd invite you inside my apartment." Marik wrapped the scarf tighter around his neck to hide his heirlooms. "Try again."

"Hmmm," Bakura said, grinning wildly. He suddenly rushed at Marik. Marik, in turn, brought his hands to his face in an act of defense, but when he dropped them, the thief wasn't there.

"Try again," came a whisper from his right. He turned, but didn't see anything. "Again." The voice sounded from his left this time, and he growled as he whipped his body around for an attack on his other flank. "Again…" the voice whispered against the back of his neck. Marik didn't move, and the mouth stayed there, suddenly kissing him through the scarf. With a flinch, Marik tried again and punched the air that was right behind him.

"Mocking my own words," he hissed. "Very clever."

"Isn't it?" Bakura chuckled from above him, sitting on a windowsill as if he owned the entire world. "I pay attention to your words, though you don't pay attention to mine. Such a shame; I thought you had potential." Marik clenched his teeth, upset at the man's cryptic manner that was terrifyingly belittling and infuriatingly familiar at the same time.

"Please, elaborate," he groaned.

"As you recall, I stated that the 'least' you could do is offer me a cup of tea, which, for the record, isn't much to ask for at all," Bakura drawled, enjoying Marik's discomfort as Weasel and the rest of his gang began to recover from their injuries.

"Could we talk about this sometime else?" he muttered. "They're waking up."

"Ah, but you're not listening to me again!" Bakura frowned, glaring down at Marik. "I will not allow you to leave if you do not even give me the decency to speak." Marik stared at him for a full fifteen seconds, then turned to the right and sprinted to his house. He only heard Bakura chuckle darkly before he felt a sharp blow to his legs and a jab at his solar plexus that knocked the breath out of him. Falling backwards, he cursed his body's inability to react quickly.

He hit the dirt with a groan and Bakura's cruel chuckles. When he managed to look up, Bakura's face was shadowed and he was stroking Marik's cheek as if Marik was a child who had been crying due to a punishment that Bakura had no choice but to give.

"The most you could do…is give me a place to stay," Bakura said in a patronizing voice. "It's obvious that you have no idea what you've gotten yourself into, and I seem to be the only one who can protect you in this city."

"I'm not going to invite you into my house," Marik snapped. Bakura's gentle strokes suddenly became painful as he grasped Marik's ear and began to twist it.

"Unfortunately, your refusal of hospitality will, more or less, be the last act you ever perform," he laughed, as if the entire situation was a joke to him. Marik tried to break away from his hold, but Bakura had one elbow between his shoulder blades. Any attempts to dislodge him promised pain and a missing ear, both of which he didn't want Ishizu to hear about. "Oh, what have we here?" Bakura suddenly said, releasing the ear and focusing on the dangling object. He examined the earring on Marik's ear with acute interest, seeing how it sparkled in the moonlight.

"And the thief king shows his true colors," Marik murmured. Bakura froze, staring at the blond beneath him with trepidation.

"Where did you hear that term?" he asked forcefully. Marik raised both eyebrows and furrowed them straight after. So he didn't remember anything that happened. The old Bakura would have certainly remembered what he'd told Marik from their pillow talks, unless he didn't think that Marik was a good lay. Marik made a face at that. How did Bakura manage to insult him even when he suffered amnesia?

"I can't exactly have a civil conversation with you when I'm like this, can I?" he murmured. Bakura cursed at him and got off, knowing that Marik had the advantage. Marik smirked and decided to answer his question with the truth. "Just an old friend," he stated, forcing a smile on his face. Bakura glared at him, as if it was his fault that he was currently living in the slums. He could see Bakura's inquisitive stare piercing his own smug one. Now they were at an impasse. Marik had a house to go to and information about Bakura that even Bakura had no idea about, while Bakura wouldn't allow him to go to said house until he got whatever he wanted.

"You know more than you let on," Bakura murmured appreciatively. "Perhaps you're the person I'm looking for." Marik narrowed his eyes and gave a smirk.

"I don't know, Bakura," he drawled. "Maybe the Pharaoh's minions would be a better bet. I've reformed." At the mention of the Pharaoh, Bakura's grin grew wider and he darted forward, grabbing Marik's arm and hooking his leg around Marik's left, causing Marik to topple. "What are you doing?" Marik shouted as he returned to the same vulnerable position.

"Crippling you," Bakura said lightly. "A human's nerves runs down his spinal cord. If I manage to sever it, like I did before-" he gave a nod to the recovering men behind them. "I could easily paralyze you. Then, you're all mine to play with." Marik felt a light touch of a finger moving down his clothed spine.

"You really haven't changed," he taunted. "I feel as if I would get the lower end of this bargain if I accept your proposal." Bakura hissed.

"Your life isn't worth that much to you?" he snarled. Marik only grinned wider.

"You wouldn't kill me."

"Really? Care to test that theory?"

"Yes. Do it. Sever my spine and paralyze me. Not only will I keep silent about where I live, I'll refuse to tell you what you want to know," Marik said coolly. He'd had his dealings with Bakura before, and he knew what and what not to say. Bakura, however, didn't know how to act around Marik and he didn't know the intentions behind his forgotten once-lover. Marik couldn't hold back a chuckle.

"Name your price," Bakura snarled. "I'll decide whether or not I want to kill you after I hear what you think you should reward me with."

"Those men…how did you defeat them?" Marik asked, genuinely interested. Bakura had never fought when he was roaming around as the Spirit of the Ring, but relied on cards and odd lasers to fight for him. From what he could tell, Ryou didn't fight either. How had he wound up in this crowd? "Are you a part of a gang?"

"I work alone," Bakura answered curtly. "Those men are part of the organization where I learned all my techniques. Well, most of them. Within a month I far surpassed all of them, and now I try to improve my strength and force by fighting the lot of thugs." Marik gave him an incredulous look (with some effort, as his head and shoulders were still somewhat planted in the gravel).

"You think fighting the way you fight will improve your strength?" he laughed. "You cheat! You use tactics instead of strength, so you have no hope of improving!" Bakura scowled.

"Then tell me, how do I manage to keep you pinned?" he snapped.

"Because you're using your elbow to dig into my shoulder blades," Marik sighed. "That's not strength. It's a tactic."

"I don't need to use tactics!" Bakura shouted. He rearranged his position over Marik so that he was forcing him down with his strength and body weight, holding Marik's arms down and sitting on his lower back. Marik rolled his eyes, planted his head on the ground, and raised his back to the balls of his feet, easily dislodging Bakura's grip by moving his wrist to the junction where Bakura's thumb and forefingers met. He ignored Bakura's cry of outrage as he threw him off his back and tossed him a good few feet. Marik smirked, turning and running with all the force he could muster, but he'd underestimated Bakura's own speed. A pale arm wrapped around his neck and brought him down under Bakura's left shoulder, where Bakura locked his hands together to keep him there and used his strength to try to force Marik back.

"Nice try," Bakura huffed. "But I-" Marik rearranged the position, then rammed his head into Bakura's diaphragm with incredible power, forcing the rest of Bakura's sentence to come out as a garbled squawk as he began to race home once more. This time, Bakura didn't even try to prove himself. He began relying on tactics once more. He grabbed Marik's arm and forced him towards his own body, then pushed his left arm underneath Marik's outstretched one. Letting go of Marik's arm, he slapped his right arm over Marik's shoulders and grabbed his right bicep with his left hand, keeping a grip on Marik's shoulder with his right hand. He then walked towards him, forcing Marik to stumble backwards.

Marik had to concede. Though Bakura was horrible at force, he could keep his grip. He tried to struggle, but Bakura kept up with his grip and didn't allow Marik any room.

"Fine!" Marik shouted from underneath Bakura. "Fine! I admit, you have some skill!" Bakura smirked. "But this is another tactic that isn't forceful." Bakura leaned into the nape of Marik's neck.

"What would you define as 'forceful'?" he asked in a low voice that sent shivers down Marik's spine. "If you bring me to your house, we can do all sorts of moves. I can show you what 'force' I have." He emphasized his words with a bite to Marik's neck.

Marik smirked. Finally. Bakura knew what Marik wanted in this bargain.

"Let's make sure that the terms are clear," Marik said silkily. "You teach me some of your techniques-"

"Martial arts," Bakura corrected.

"-and I teach you some of my wrestling moves. Is it a deal?"

"I don't want to learn your damn wrestling moves!" Bakura snapped. "I just want some information!"

"Oh, but where's the fun in that?" Marik complained. "Wrestling is far more hands on, and you already said that I would get to see your 'force'."

"That's not what I meant, and you know it," Bakura hissed. "Is there anything in that pretty blond head of yours?"

"Fine, so I will trade you my knowledge of your past history in this world for your knowledge in martial arts," Marik agreed. "But what will I get for inviting you into my home?" Bakura smirked and nipped at his ear in response. Marik leaned closer, grinning slightly. "So would you consider your…service an exchange for my room and board?" he asked. "You can stay as long as you like."

"As long as you offer tea every morning. Then the cards will fall right into place."