He's still. There is a physical ache in her chest as she watches him lay there. She stares and stares, and can just barely make out the soft rise and fall as he breathes.
It's only been a day, but it feels like an eternity; the hospital ride took forever, the cold, clinical call to her father lasted for hours in the face of not knowing what was going on in the emergency room.
She can't stop her brain from drawing lines and parallels that match the scars on his torso and he's so still and there was so much blood.
"Mrs. Evans?"
She blinks at the name, and her shoulders tense, but she's proud of herself for not flinching. She hates the lie, hates the name because he hates it-but it was the only way that they'd let her in to see him and so she refuses to feel guilty.
"Yes?" Her voice is calm and level; she is steel, unbendable and unbreakable.
"We've got your husband stabilized, but there were some complications-he seems to have some kind of infection. We've never seen something set in this quickly. At the moment, we're keeping him sedated."
Really, she's only half listening, her senses are focused on the man lying on the hospital bed and the slow rise and fall of his chest, the IV in his arm, the faint pulse of his soul against hers. Except-
"An infection? What kind of infection?" Her green eyes lock onto the doctor's, and for a moment, he's caught by her direct stare.
"We-we're not sure just yet, but we're running some tests. We should know shortly."
She nods, and her attention goes immediately back to that bed, though her eyes remain focused on the doctor. "May I go see him?"
She can tell that she's making him uncomfortable, but she can't really bring herself to care. He 's taking too long to answer, and she blinks once. He clears his throat. "You, ah, can. But it can't be for long. He must be allowed to rest."
Maka wonders how much more rest he can get if he's drugged already, but instead of snapping like she wants to, she just nods once, calm and measured. "Of course."
She's through the door as soon as they let her, steps measured when all she wants to do is run and throw herself at her weapon. But she's not fourteen anymore, and she doesn't have the luxury because it's just them in a strange place and a strange hospital, and her father or whoever Lord Death decides to send out for them won't be here for another couple of hours at least. She's not even sure what they're going to do. Soul can't be moved, the doctor was clear about that. Maka hopes they send Stein or at least Nygus. She can't help the lingering feeling that the doctors here are missing something because they don't know how to deal with people who turn into soul-eating weapons.
And then there's the black blood. Something feels strange, but she can't pinpoint what it is, doesn't know if it's something to do with her soul perception, or if the muted touch of his soul against hers is because he's stuck in some kind of drug induced mini-coma. It feels wrong.
Up close at least she can see the evidence of his breathing without having to look for it. She thought that his hair would blend in with the hospital-white sheets, but it doesn't, not really. The strands are messy, darkened with sweat. She catches her hand inches from his forehead and wonders if she should touch him. He looks strange without his headband.
Her hand jerks a little, but she's the only one there to see the tremor that runs through it, and then she's brushing his hair back carefully. She wants to cry, can feel the helpless tightness behind her eyes, but now isn't the time. His hands are still, and it worries her. She never really thought about how much he moved all the time. Even when the rest of him was a lazy pile of boy, his fingers were almost constantly moving, tapping, drumming against any available surface.
Tentatively, she opens the link that rests between them, and prods gently at his soul. He doesn't respond, and the tightness squeezes at her temples. She sinks into the chair next to the bed, but leaves her hand touching his skin.
Maka can't tell if it's for his sake, or for hers.
From a great distance, he can hear her. It sounds like she's yelling at him through pudding, but he's pretty sure that that can't be right. He's not in the Black Room, which is strange because isn't that where he should be when he goes for jaunts in his soul? Except this doesn't really feel the same. It's darker, and it feels like he's been wrapped in a huge fuzzy wool blanket.
It should be comfortable, but instead he feels cocooned, trapped. Out of the corners of his eyes, he catches little lightning flashes of shadow, but he can't quite turn fast enough in his woolen prison to catch them. His chest heaves, but it doesn't really feel like breathing, just an anxious panting reflex that reminds him of the time he watched Maka fling herself out of a tree.
He doesn't like it anymore now than he did then. There's something about the lightning sparks that make him nervous too; if he could just see them, catch them with his eyes and understand what they are and what they mean-
He wants out of the blanket. If he can just get free, he can catch them-but his legs are caught up, his arms pinned to his sides. His lungs throb as he struggles, legs kicking out viciously, shoulders and chest shaking. His arms will shift and he will cut himself free. But the transformation never comes. The process is instinctive, a first-nature immediate reaction. Except, apparently, when it isn't, and he can't think.
How does he transform? He knows he knows. He must know, but it isn't there-there is a great big hole where there should be an instinctive shifting of fingers and skin and bone and demon steel and there's nothing. He struggles harder, but his legs are glued together, his spine tenses and seizes, his arms are frozen, fingers left to scratch at the nothing-blanket. He grits his teeth against the rising fear and panic and flings himself against the force restraining him.
It shifts with him and he bites back a scream.
Soul shifts underneath her hand. The movement is subtle, but definite, and her eyes zero in on his face. Underneath thin eyelids she catches the frantic vibrating of his eyes, and her hand clenches.
"Soul-"
Another twitch, and she holds her breath. Next to her, the monitors are beginning to make alarming beeps, but all of her focus is on her partner. Carefully, she extends her soul perception once more, opening the link between them. His soul is more present now, but it's...pulsing, fluttering. She's never felt it like this before, not even during the aftermath of his blow from Chrona.
She latches onto his wavelength, and for one brief moment, he's there with her. She can feel his pain, the aches of his body and his mind, and she reaches out-
"Ma'am, we need to you move immediately." The nurse seamlessly slips between her and her weapon, and there is a jolt of his soul against hers, nails on a chalkboard, and then he's gone, and her head is pounding as the nurse slips a needle into the access port. Detached, she watches the transparent liquid drip into her partner, and feels the last of his soul's awareness dragged away from her.
At least she knows now that the muted quality of his soul is probably from the drugs. The knowledge isn't particularly reassuring.
Maka's head aches, and she slumps back down into the chair next to Soul's bed. Her eyes dare the nurse to try and make her vacate. The woman just scoffs lightly, checks Soul's vitals, and bustles away. Maka is absurdly grateful. She rubs her temples and watches her weapon and tries to sort through the strange chaos that permeates her brain. There's something she's missing.
If she attributes the muffled sense of his soul to the sedatives-but she can feel the lingering echo of exhausted terror in her soul, like nothing she's ever felt before. She closes her eyes and unanchors her mind because she's trying too hard and, like her grasp on his soul, she can feel important revelations slipping through her fingers.
Something...the black blood, the darkness, his panic. It tastes familiar.
It's some kind of infection.
...some kind of-
Maka's eyes snap open, her heart pounding, sinking deep into her chest. She keeps her movements even; only the force of her will keeps her from trembling and rushing. Careful, she must be-
She breathes deep and presses the little button next to the bed and tries not to hold her breath. The nurse must not have been very far away and Maka supposes that it's only fitting one thing goes right today.
"Is the doctor available? Has there been any word on his infection? I need to know-"
The woman gives her a sympathetic, but stern look. She looks a little like Marie with that expression, Maka thinks.
"Honey, the doctor will be in with something as soon as he gets the results back-"
"I know," she starts, and her brain races. "I'm just worried, and I wanted to know if there was anything you could tell me? What do they think the infection might be caused by?" She is at her most earnest, eyes wide and innocent, the picture of an anxious young bride. This, at least, is not a lie; her concern is genuine and she must know.
The nurse clucks softly. "They don't know much, honey. Doctor Garrison thinks it might be blood related, but he's not sure. There's always the possibility of a transfusion, but it's really just too early to tell."
It's not much, but it rings true to her theory and that's enough for her. Maka smiles wanly and nods. "Thank you," she says, and means it. The nurse gives her a little nod and another faint cluck, and sweeps out of the room again. Maka subsides, sinking deeper into the uncomfortable chair. Her spine remains stiff as she slides her eyes shut and exhales deeply, letting her perception expand once again.
She relaxes as much as she can, trying to fall into some sort of half-formed resonance. She hopes that just being near him is enough. There is Soul's dampened presence, and she skirts around it, resisting the urge to meld with him and sink into his soul-it's an ingrained response, second nature, seductive in its familiarity.
It takes a few tense moments of searching, her consciousness throbbing with the effort it takes to hold this strange half resonance, but finally she picks up on a secondary presence, at once both familiar and foreign. If she doesn't look at it head-on, she can just see the faint marks, blackened tendrils anchored into his soul, writhing and scraping and-
Her heart stops for a moment and she loses her grip on the half-resonance, slamming her consciousness back into her mind. Maka cries out, lurching forward, hands clutching her skull. She can hear her own pulse pounding, throbbing in time to the piercing ache in her head. No, no fuck, no.
She needs him to wake up. He has to be awake; she's not sure if she'll be able to try the half-resonance again, and without his help, she doesn't know that she can release his soul. The fluctuations in his wavelength she had felt earlier suddenly made sense; he had been trying to fight the cancerous presence of the black blood, but with the sedative suppressing him- This doesn't make sense. Shouldn't her presence alone be enough to sear the black blood, to keep it at bay and under control?
Apparently not.
She has to wake him up, but she doesn't know how. Is the sedative still dripping into his arm? Maka doesn't know enough about medicine, doesn't know what taking the IV out of his arm might do, can't fathom if there's something else that's being pumped into him that's keeping him alive. She hadn't thought that the wounds he sustained were as bad as some of the other injuries he's had over the years, but here they are in this hospital, full of worried doctors and people who are giving her pitying looks, and there had been so much blood, and did she even look to see if any of it had been black? She can't remember anymore.
He's trapped; she can feel it, understand it. She can't suck in air fast enough, and her shoulders shake with the effort it takes to just breathe. In. Out. In. Out. In. She has to wake him up so he can fight.
Maka is out of her chair before she can talk herself out of it. Someone from Shibusen should be there soon, but she can't wait. The black blood stuff is sinking into his soul and she can't do anything to pry it away without him. She stretches out once more, but he's well and truly under; she can't sense any flicker of what makes Soul Soul. The IV rig doesn't look too complicated, and she stops thinking about complications and starts slipping out needles and tubes. She's as delicate as she can be; deft fingers making quick work of the IV. She hopes that that's enough to make sure that he starts to wake up soon.
He's still. Struggling only hurts and wraps the darkness around him further, and he's so tired. He thinks that he can hear her again and for a moment, the darkness seems a little less dark. But she's so far away, and maybe he isn't really hearing her at all. Maybe it's just a trick, a hallucination. It wouldn't be the first time, after all.
He just wants to close his eyes, but he thinks that maybe she doesn't want him to. Or maybe she is telling him to rest. Rest sounds good. He wants her to come walking through those curtains again, to step softly into his soul and dance with him. But there's no tile, no piano, no rocky jazz or black-clad her.
He thinks he can feel the other, his demon, but-it's hard to say; it's still his soul, but everything's different here and-it is still his soul, right?
There are no more black flashes at the corners of his vision; at least, he doesn't think there are. He can't even turn his head anymore, and everything seems to be composed of the same hazy darkness. He feels like he's melting except for that part where he can't really feel his body, can't feel his feet or his hands. He can't breathe lungs compressed screaming for air ribs cracking-
It's dark, and he thinks that he hears her voice, but it's so far away.
She thinks that his eyeballs are flickering again, but it might be wishful thinking on her part. So far no one has come by and noticed the fact that she's hovering over her partner's bed like a lunatic. More importantly, no one's noticed that he's no longer attached to the IV drip.
She hopes that the flickering eyeballs are a good sign, and not heralding some kind of embolism or seizure or-she stops herself and tries to breathe again. She can't worry about that when she knows that his soul is in immediate danger.
Maka exhales, and closes her eyes, and pushes back the incessant pounding in her skull and searches for that spark of Soul. It takes her longer this time. Her head is killing her, throbbing in time to her pulse, and she can hear the way her teeth grind together. She will do this, she must do this; failure isn't an option. It's there, though it's faint and distant, and Maka throws her whole being into calling out to her partner. She stretches, bends and twists after the faint echo of his essence, trying to avoid the thin tendrils of black blood that reach out for her. The echo is a little stronger, a little more Soul now, and she hopes that means that it's not too late, that he's coming out of the sedatives.
Under her fingers, in the small part of her that's still attached to her physical body, she feels Soul's pulse begin to speed up. It's faint, but there, and she clenches her jaw harder and hopes it's a good sign. She doesn't try to connect with his wavelength this time, just calls calls calls screams at him along her soul and hopes that it somehow reaches him.
Maka is anticipating the beeping of the monitors this time and blocks them out as best as she can. She has to reach him before they come in; if he's not conscious by the time they get in here, they'll try to sedate him again-she hasn't thought that far ahead, banking on the strength of their connection and luck and hope and please oh please oh please let this work-
"What on earth do you think you're doing!"
Maka sucks in a breath, but the connection is already severed, and she can only hope that it's enough.
"What is-what have you done? Did you take these out? He could die-ORDERLIES!"
There is a dull buzzing in her skull, and for a moment, all she can do is blink at the nurse, who alternates between looking at Maka like she's a ticking timebomb, and preparing another set of needles. She blinks once, slowly, and her eyes fall on the needles and she whirls on the nurse.
"Stay away," she says. Her voice sounds hard and violent as as if it's coming from a great distance. It shouldn't be much longer, just a little while; if she can just hold them off until he comes out of his induced sleep then it won't matter.
"Ma'am, no, you have to leave-he's in critical condition-"
She feels their hands, warm and solid, wrap around her upper arms. The orderlies are strong, used to restraining patients several orders of magnitude larger than she is, but she is a meister, and strong isn't strong enough to keep her. She wrenches free with little effort, ignoring the way her skin pulls and her muscles aches with the motion.
"Get away from him! You're killing him!" The nurse tries to reinsert the IV and rational thought is a thing of the past. She lunges for the nurse.
"Get her out of here!"
"No, you don't understand, he has to wake up, you've got to let him wake up; you can't sedate him again-"
"Ma'am, if we don't sedate him, he will die. His body can't handle the stress of his injuries and of the infection."
"If you sedate him, he'll die. His soul is being devoured; he has to wake up!" She feels hands grabbing for her again, and she growls, lashing out. She doesn't register the cry of pain behind her; all of her energy is focused on her partner, the buzzing white noise in her head echoing with his presence. He's almost awake, almost...
"Jesus Christ, she broke my nose!"
"Can't you restrain her?"
"We're trying, goddammit. She's completely lost it-"
She thrashes and the noise of the room, of the orderlies and nurse fades away. She has to get to him. Fingers latch onto scrubs, and she's tearing the nurse away, ripping the needle she'd managed to insert from his arm. She sinks into him, one hand clutching his shoulder, the other fisting into damp, lank hair.
"Soul, please please Soul wakeupwakeup..." she speaks a litany across his skin, forehead pressed against his. His cheeks are wet.
She thinks he's getting closer, but shouldn't he be awake? She wishes that Marie were there. With her healing wavelength maybe this wouldn't be- She stops herself because it doesn't matter. Marie is not here, but Maka is. She will help her partner, she could save him if only she could stop this buzzing noise and concentrate.
Something grips her around the waist, and she lashes out with a leg. There is a crack that sounds like bone, but it's not important because Soul's consciousness begins to flicker around hers, fuzzy and tattered.
She feels the orderly behind her a split second before the needle sinks into her skin, and she's clinging to Soul's skin as her fingers lose feeling and her eyesight grows dark.
In the dark, she finds him.
It seems fitting, appropriate somehow that when she stops striving for him, there he is. He's cocooned, red eyes unblinking and vacant. She can't quite place this feeling of failure. After all, he's with her, how can that be failing?
She doesn't think they can ever fail when they're together. He keeps her steady, gives her his strength as she gives him hers. Together, there is no such thing as failure.
She doesn't quite float, doesn't quite fly; she sees him, and then she's there. He doesn't look at her, just stares into the cloying darkness that surrounds them.
"Soul? Soul!" He doesn't respond, and she fights back the burning in her throat. That feeling of failure is pervasive, sinking into her skin. "Please," a broken plea.
Here, in this blackened place, she slides a hand along his jaw, threading fingers into his hair. Everything is dull and muted as she presses herself against him and whispers, "Please." She marvels at the unbroken smoothness of his skin-clean and bare except for the scar that bisects his chest. That will always be there, forever a rift between them and a bond-reminder and warning. Her free hand skates along the ridged skin. "Please, Soul."
His muscles are tense, frozen under her fingers. If she tries, she can feel that ghost of primal fear surrounding him. She presses closer and shifts up, looking into empty red eyes. Gently, she rests her forehead against his, hand still anchored in his hair.
"Soul, you have to wake up, please." There is nothing, no acknowledgement. She growls a little, pulling back, frustration and panic seeping through. "You contrary bastard, wake up!" With a small, strangled cry, she knocks her forehead into his.
It's not much, but there's a subtle flicker, stained glass eyes shifting, some semblance of awareness sliding around.
"Soul, dammit-"
"M-maka?" His eyes meet hers, and she can see there what makes Soul Soul looking back. She wants to weep, but settles for tightening her grip on him, face buried against his neck. "Is this-" his voice is raw and cracked. "Is this real?"
She brushes a hand over his cheek, tucking stray hairs behind his ear. "We're stuck somewhere," she says. "I don't know where, but I need you to wake up."
He blinks at her blearily. "I can't. I'm stuck and you're not real."
"I am real, Soul-"
He shakes his head, and the movement looks like it pains him. "I kept hearing you, but I couldn't get to you and every time I tried to move-" he winces. "I can't move."
Her chest tightens at his words, and she feels that sense of looming failure pressing down on her. "I'm here now; I'm sorry, Soul." Reluctantly, she releases his hair and trails a shaking hand down to the inky blackness that coats him. It twists and smokes along her fingers and forearms, testing, pushing. She can feel tiny tendrils slowly drilling into her skin, and she wonders if this is how it started for Soul-little pinpricks of darkness. She shakes it off as best she can, steels her shoulders and glares at the inky blackness. Her fingers dig into it; it's resistant, but she is forever determined, gritting her teeth and clawing. The tips of her fingers tingle with black blood and it splinters under her fingernails.
She doesn't let go, but grabs fistsfuls of the stuff, tugging, pulling, ripping and biting back a frustrated scream when it doesn't work.
"Maka, stop."
She looks up at him, eyes strangely luminous in the greyish dark soulscape. "What?"
"It's not worth it. If you're real, just go. I don't want you to get stuck too."
There is a hollow, echoing ache in her chest. "What? No! I won't leave you." She stops trying to tear the black blood away, and instead sinks her fists further in; she can feel the subtle tug against her skin and she allows it to pull her. "I won't get stuck, Soul. Not with you here." Maka rests her forehead against his collarbone and exhales slowly.
Beneath her mouth, the blood shifts and hisses, and she knows that she is right. She must be. It's hard to wiggle her fingers, but she does and feels the thick slick substance run through her hands, and then, then, skin! She wraps bony fingers around flesh-she thinks she might have his forearms-and yanks.
It is physical, but like anything between them it seems, it is so much more as well. She pulls with her body, she pulls with her soul, wraps her essence around her partner and wrenches him from the blackness. It's not sticky, but it clings and doesn't want to give up its prize.
"Please, for me-I can't do this without you, Soul." It's out before she can stop herself, and she doesn't know if he does understand, can understand the implications. Her words sit heavy in the air, burdened by truth and implication and finality because she can't do this without him and knows it with her entire being.
She drags at him, panting in air that doesn't exist in this strange place-a force of habit. She refuses to accept this, this...passivity from him. He shifts a little, which is more movement out of him than she's seen so far, and she stifles the flare of hope that ignites.
"Soul, goddammit." She grits her teeth. "I am not leaving you, but I swear to god if you don't help me I am going to chop you into next week." She doesn't mean it. Not really. She is too tired, to heartsick to handle his unwavering, defeated gaze, too far gone to cope with the idea that after everything, after all that they had been through, he had given up-on life, on her, on them. Maybe she will chop him.
He moves again, just a little, and she thinks that she can feel muscles clench and unclench under her palms both familiar and alien.
"Maka-" She looks at him then, into lucid red eyes and a wry, pained smile. "Maka."
"Soul," she replies, and pretends there's not wetness gathering in her eyes at the familiar gravel of her name on his lips. "You moron, help me get you free."
"Yes ma'am." His eyes flicker shut and her heart stops for a moment before she feels the warm comfort of his soul twine with hers in familiarity. It's faint, but it's a furnace compared to what it has been, and for the first time since she watched her partner sliced to ribbons by shrapnel, Maka began to let herself hope.
"Soul-!" When she opens her eyes, everything is white. She tries to sit up, but she's being held down. She whimpers as she tugs and realizes her wrists and ankles are strapped down.
"Maka," his voice pierces the haze that surrounds her brain.
"Soul?" She can still turn her head, and she zeros in on the direction of his voice, rough and low. He sounds like shit, but he also sounds like home and his croak is the most beautiful sound she's ever heard.
Maka blinks, spots slowly disappearing from her eyes. Glittering red eyes meet hers, and Soul blinks at her slowly from his hospital bed.
"Hey there."
She can feel hot, prickling wet pain behind her eyes, and she smiles and ignores it as best she can. "Hey yourself." He looks like hell, but he's alive, and that's the only thing she cares about. She wishes that she could touch him, just to make sure that he's still real and this isn't some sort of sick fantasy that her exhausted brain is throwing at her. Maka shakes her bound wrist, but the cuff is thick, reinforced leather, and she scowls. She wants to extend her soul perception almost as much as she wants to extend her arm to make sure that he's all right, that the black blood no longer endangers his soul, but the pain in her skull proves too much and she can't get a good reading on him. "I can't-" she starts
Maka feels the faint brush of his fingertips against her wrist and her heart clenches viciously.
"It's all right," he rasps, and she can feel their souls sparking and twining together-soothing and familiar, and her headache eases slightly as she tries to wiggle her hand so that she can greedily touch more of his skin.
"Well, well. Look who's awake."
Maka flinches, startled at the familiar voice. Soul maintains contact between their beds as they both turn to stare at Stein. He's a breath of terrifying familiarity, clipboard in one hand. The other delicately twists the screw piercing his skull. He hems and haws and jots down a few notes before giving them an incomprehensible stare.
Worry wars with irritation, and Maka choses irritation as the safest route. "Are you going to untie me any time soon?"
Stein adjusts his glasses. "Well, that depends on if you're planning on breaking anymore kneecaps. Are you?" He asks the question lightly, but she feels the burden of her actions none the less and wonders how she's going to make reparations. Soul tightens his fingers against her skin reassuringly.
"I think I'm...ok, now," she says, and hopes that it's true. She knows she completely lost control, but, as bad as she feels, she can't quite bring herself to regret her actions. For Soul-she would glad plunge into the depths of madness. Their souls are still wrapped around each other, and his fingers dig into her wrist as he scowls at her thought. Maka refuses to be sorry for the truth.
As soon as she's free, she swings her legs off the rumpled hospital bed, and stumbles immediately to Soul's bed, his fingers twining with hers as she moves closer. Maka thinks her hand might be bruised tomorrow, but then, she suspects that his might be as well.
She stands there awkwardly, wanting to brush his bangs back from his forehead again, wanting to touch every inch of him to reassure herself of his continued existence. In a way, she doesn't dare. If it isn't real, she doesn't want to know.
"Did...did it work?" She asks the question of Stein, but her eyes dart between the way her weapon's chest continues to rise and fall, and the way their hands look stuck together.
"You mean, is Soul's...soul still intact?"
Maka hears the faint clicking on the screw. She nods.
"He should be fine. I can't find any traces of the black blood lingering around, or any permanent damage. You, however, have overtaxed yourself. You shouldn't have tried to force your perception that much or tried to resonate with someone in an unconscious state. If something had happened to Soul while you were doing so, there's no telling what might have happened."
"I didn't have a choice," she murmurs, and Soul's disapproving glare informs her that they will be discussing this particular act of recklessness later, and at great length.
Stein's response falls somewhere between a noncommittal grunt and a hum of acquiescence. "Soul, you should be good to move tomorrow, and we can take you home. I'm going to go update Lord Death and your father on the status of things around here." He adjusts his glasses again, and Maka feels as though she is being scrutinized more thoroughly. Stein's mouth quirks up a little. "I'll be close by in you need me. In the meanwhile, you really should rest, Mrs. Evans."
She flushes brightly, neck hot and mortified. Stein just smiles that half smile and gives them a cheerful little wave as he exits.
Maka is expecting a diatribe from her partner, at least some comment. She understands just how ill he still is when all she gets is a partner as red as she is and a quiet but firm,
"You're shaking." Is she? She hadn't noticed, but her arms and shoulders are trembling. "Sit," he says, and she looks for a chair. Soul has other ideas, and tugs on her hand. "Here," he offers, and she can't fathom refusing. They spend several awkward moments arranging themselves on the too narrow hospital bed. Sometime while she was out, someone had hooked Soul back up to an IV-judging from the angle and the strange do-it-yourself quality, Maka figured it must have been Stein.
Maka finds herself snug against her weapon's side-or is he snug against hers? She's not sure that it matters because the added contact is soothing to them both.
"You shouldn't have put yourself in danger just to come after me." Had she not been nestled against him, Maka isn't sure that she would have heard him at all. She tenses, but before she can lay into him, he adds, "But I'm really glad you did."
And really, that's enough. Tomorrow they will go home, and he'll bitch at her for being reckless, and she'll bitch at him for getting hurt, and there will be some sort of normalcy. But for now, she listens to the steady thump thump of Soul's heart and pulse and life underneath her ear. She brushes back his bangs because it's been driving him crazy, and it's been driving her crazy, and his hands are occupied-one still clasping hers, the other wrapped snugly around her waist.
He tightens his fingers, digging lightly into skin, and leans his head into her touch, and meets green eyes with red as he brushes his lips across hers. He's alive and whole, and she is alive and whole and they are together, souls mingling and merging so close as to be indistinguishable.
They fall asleep like that, sharing space and air and spirit and life. And that's enough.