reverb 2.0! again, the biggest thanks to the mods for organizing the event and all of their hard work. i appreciate you all so much for all you've done! and of course, thank you to proma for betaing the beginning despite being tender when it comes to angst. lunar, too, for looking some of it over as well!
my artists - sojustifiable/justifiably and peregr1ne - also both threw in some beta comments too and are sooo wonderful. their stuff will be up on their respective tumblrs!
She's sixteen when the kishin are suddenly a problem.
Soul-eating humans are one thing. Soul-eating humans that have consumed so much that their very physiology has started to morph and change them into monsters are another. She learns early on that life is a careful, delicate balance, and that souls, much like people, cannot be sorted into easy, black-and-white lanes of morality. There is good, of course, and there is evil - but there are also good people who do bad things, and bad people who occasionally make good choices.
She's sixteen when her best friend's father devours his wife's soul. She's still sixteen when she witnesses a woman's chest get skewered by a bony, clawed appendage that she's forced to assume was once an arm.
Mama teaches her that the mind and body are important as well, that a soul is truly sound when the mind and body are also healthy. Because of it, Maka makes sure to finish her broccoli and clean her plate of her carrots. She keeps herself fit, does strength training with her now-orphaned best friend, reads and soaks up information like a sponge - anything, anything to keep her family out of harm's way, anything to keep a sense of normalcy in an otherwise broken system.
Maka is only a teenager when the world begins to spiral out of control. Old enough to be aware - hyper aware, at that - of her surroundings and the grimness of the situation, and young enough to feel powerless. With no means of fighting back and the fear quickly mounting, she can do nothing but cower, quietly furious at herself for being so helpless.
Then, when she's seventeen, Mama dies.
.
Maka will not go quietly.
By the time she's in her early twenties, she's knee deep in research. Mama didn't raise a fool; no, she raised a fighter. Sitting and waiting like a helpless doll for salvation has never sat well with her. And with her life turned completely upside down, when she's been personally victimized by the upcoming end of everything, how can she sit and twiddle her thumbs?
Her best friend, Black*Star, enlists in the military. She sees him off the same morning she does her father, kissing each of them on the cheek with a heavy, stony weight sinking deep in her stomach. There are parts of her that want to leave, too, to channel all of her frustration and anger into such a physical outlet - but then there are also rational parts of her that know that fighting essence-munching monsters with nothing more than flimsy steel won't end in victory. So she lets what's left of her family go, doesn't shatter the thin veneer of hope in her pseudo-brother's eyes, and locks herself in the library for months.
She wants to fight; she just knows that going in empty-handed is suicide. And Maka's not ready to die yet, not until the world's a little safer, not until Mama can rest in peace.
In the months following her twenty-second birthday, she lives up to her middle school nickname. Now a real and true bona fide bookworm, she can't even find the time to laugh at the reality of it, or how she's such a nerd now that she really doesn't have a social life. She has nothing but her research and the necessities - eating, sleeping, rinse and repeat.
But research can only go so far in a community library. Brilliance can only carry her so far when the content she's allotted is stagnant, well-loved books that she's torn through time and time again.
With a degree under her belt and the world crumbling at her feet, she is not a patient girl. Not that she's ever been, not that she's ever had an easy time sitting pretty while time winds on, but the stakes are different now. In another world, she might've followed in her mother's footsteps, gone to medical school, might've been able to walk beyond Shibusen's limits without fear of becoming prey to the things that go bump in the night. Maybe, maybe she wouldn't have a degree in weaponscraft, of all things, so brutal and cutthroat. The little voice in her head - the one that sounds so like her Mama - tells her to be brave, but bravery is so hard to gather in spades when she's left to reread the same discouraging passages over and over again.
She thinks of her Papa, fighting for a better world. He's not a brave man. He's never been a brave man. But he'd kissed her forehead so reverently, told her she was the brightest thing left in this world, told her that he'd do anything to keep her safe. And she thinks of Black*Star, the barely-maintained hope brewing in those dark green eyes of his, the determined set of his jaw.
She will do whatever she can to keep them safe, too. There are some things that're worth fighting for. Family. Friends. The sanctity of a heartbeat.
.
Her grant is approved two weeks later.
Finally, she has something to call her own. The lab isn't large by any means but it's hers, a place she can put to good use. Maka cracks open the shades on the one window she has to inspire her. Daylight, she thinks, is something worth remembering. After every sunset, there is always sunrise.
Plus sun exposure helps produce vitamin D, which, for a girl who has previously locked herself in her study for two days straight while cramming for an exam, is probably (definitely) a necessity.
She does not forget the sacrifices she made to get here. She does not forget swallowing her pride and begging for assistance, for funds, for a place to experiment, for books, for hope of salvation. She will never forget being degraded, the shame in wearing her surname (Albarn, a gift from her womanizing, bottle-tipping father) made blatant the longer she stood with her head respectfully bowed. She is not a girl who bows, but she is a girl who wants to make a change, and sometimes those two things clash. For Papa, for Black*Star, for Mama, the proud part of her stifles itself, lurking in the shadows of her temper, in her clenched fist - in her palm, with the half-moon scars from her nails imprinted in pink.
In this dog-eat-dog world, she's merely a kitten. And she best retract her claws when in the face of the top dog.
The Evanses are a lot of things. They fight for the greater good, she thinks, because otherwise, they wouldn't have given her a lab to work in and access to greater knowledge, right? But they're so damn pretentious! The sensible, practical part of her doesn't understand why one would need to implement and swear by a social hierarchy when the real focus should be on the men and women having their souls ripped from them daily, when families are torn apart by means of moral corruption, when young girls are left motherless and angry before they've even graduated high school.
And yet it continues. And yet here she is, finally, with the means to conduct research, to go into deeper readings of Eibon's work, of the late Arachne's experiments and demonsteel, witchcraft, only because she swallowed her dignity and asked for the help of a rich, hollow man.
It makes her sick. She cracks the window open and breathes in the fresh air instead of dwelling on it.
The air isn't as fresh anymore. Madness moves like thick smog, tainting every breath that little bit more, and it's only through Maka's sheer power of will (and the blessing of her Mama's grigori soul, passed down to her only child) that keeps her head screwed on straight. She, at least, doesn't have to worry about taking madness-suppression medication like the rest of society. She doesn't have to live in fear of looking at another human like a snack. No, she just has to worry about becoming someone's dessert, because the sweetness of an angelic soul is surely tempting.
Part of her thinks this is why she's given such a gracious grant, why she, an otherwise no-name girl who wears the face of her weak-willed father and the integrity of her dead mother, is given a place to try and merge power and steel into a weapon. Because while her marks are top-notch, while she graduated ahead of her class and totes an impressive degree, her soul speaks more clearly. In a world nearly devoid of witches, a grigori is something of an anomaly. Madness does not speak to her the way it does everyone else. It does not whisper in her ear at night, does not tempt her with power.
She's trustworthy. Reliable. Brilliant, yes. Determined.
Angry. She's angry, so very angry.
It takes her a good two days to dust the place out and situate it to her liking. Tables are moved, bookcases are rearranged, vials are placed carefully along shelves - it's reminiscent of spring cleaning, of helping her mother shake out the rugs in early May, Febreeze wafting in the afternoon air, and her drive returns in spades, burning her blood like liquid hellfire.
.
Sometimes Maka wishes she had been born a witch.
Not because they've nearly become extinct. Not because they're a rare species, now that the kishin have begun to hunt down their much-more powerful souls, but because of the inherent alchemy that would make enchanting weapons far less difficult. Sure, things like their mythed destructive nature and gray morality might've come as an obstacle, but in the long run, it would make things much easier on her.
She is not a witch, though, unfortunately, and would-have-could-have scenarios won't make her work complete itself.
Maka taps her pencil along the vial of black blood. It echoes in the lab.
"Eugh," a deep voice grunts.
Startled, she gasps, sits up straight and blinks owlishly at her open window.
A man stares back at her, just as surprised and only half as composed. He looks familiar but she certainly can't place a name to his face. No, Maka's quite sure she'd remember that mess of white hair, those dark, deep set eyes - and the question remains, who is he and why is he outside her window?
He collects himself quickly, but not without a quick flash of guilt in the process, and more than enough pink running up his neck to suit her just fine. "Uh," he grunts again, without a breath of articulation.
"What?"
Scratching his neck, he mumbles, "... Rhythm…"
"What?" she tries again.
"Your rhythm's, uh, really bad," he manages, finally, after clearing his throat. When she clenches her pencil in her hand, his posture slouches further and he takes a step towards her window. "Oh, there's gunk in there. Must be pretty dense to make a noise like that."
"Black blood," she says mindlessly.
His expression pinches. "Grody."
"It's thicker than human blood," she recites, like clockwork, "and has hardening capabilities. It was Medusa Gorgon's work."
"Fascinating."
"I didn't ask you," she says sharply.
He holds his hands up in surrender. This boy doesn't take a step closer until she crumbles back down, face first, onto her desk, defeated. Only then does he lean against the open windowsill, sunlight bleeding behind him like a violent halo, bleaching his pale hair further. Upon further inspection, she discovers his dark, dark eyes are actually a deep brown, not at all the near-red color she'd suspected at first.
"You look stressed," he notes.
She peeks up through her bangs and huffs. "I hit a block."
He taps his fingers along his cheek in quiet thought. Whoever he is, he's stupid pretty, long, light lashes and strong jaw, even with a thin, black headband holding his messy bangs back. There's a pink sunburn warming his forehead. "So take a break."
Her brows set. "I don't have time for that."
He shrugs. "Suit yourself."
And then he's gone.
Maka doesn't see him again until a few days later, only this time, he's much less composed. The sunburn is peeling, and there's no pink embarrassment warming that slender length of his neck. No, this time, his expression is tight, brows taut, fists clenched, and he's seated right on top of her desk.
She makes sure to slam the door behind her to get his attention. The guy jumps a mile, hand over his heart, expression scandalized. "WHAT-"
"Your butt is on my notes," Maka says.
He blinks. Peers down to his lap. Cracks his thighs open and must realize, oh, I'm sitting on someone's hard work, because he hops down from his pedestal and stuffs his hands into his pockets broodily. "Sorry. You're usually gone by now, and there's nowhere else to hide-"
"You know my schedule?" she asks, brows raised beneath her bangs.
This strange boy only sulks more, guiltily. "The guards don't patrol around here as often. I like to go for walks. Uh. I can go-" he shuffles around nervously, but he's still got those distraught wrinkles along his forehead and she can't seem to look away.
Perhaps it's pity that inspires her to let him stay. Maybe it's the sad look in his eyes, like a kicked puppy, that convinces her to let this paper-wrinkling, desk-sitting potential stalker linger in her lab. Probably, though, it's the vibe she gets from him. Maka likes to think she's a pretty good judge of character, and while this boy may be tactless and a little mysterious, she doesn't read any ill intent.
"No," she says, and he pauses, shoulders hunched. "I mean, as long as you promise not to deface any more of my work, I guess you can hide out here. You're not a criminal, are you?"
He shrugs. "Bad to the bone," he mumbles, defeated. "Spoke out of place, you know, the usual."
Maka does, if only because she's got a mouth on her that doesn't take to silence well, so she gives him a friendly shove and plops herself down in her seat. "Don't get in the way," she says, already unpacking her bag and pulling out another one of her notebooks, and he nods, expression vacant, moving to the other side of the lab like a skittish cat.
.
His name is Soul, and the irony isn't lost on her.
At first she thinks he's kidding, but he doesn't laugh or tease her the way he had the first time they met, so she takes his word for it. She tells him her name is Maka Albarn and his expression doesn't change. She doesn't expect it to. She's not exactly a somebody, not really; and if he doesn't connect the dots and realize she's Spirit Albarn's little girl, well, all the better for her. Maka certainly doesn't drown herself in women and alcohol to get by, and she'd rather he not think so, either. Not if he's going to be spending an extended amount of time in her workspace.
Which he does, like a stray cat. He keeps coming back, and Maka extends the metaphorical saucer of milk every time. With each visit he grows more and more comfortable, even going as far as to crack a particularly stunning half-grin when she manages to translate another page of Eibon's work.
"You know," he says, standing by and watching keenly as she measures out ratios of blood and melted steel, "you're really kind of a nerd."
She shoots him a particularly impassioned glare over her shoulder. He bristles and goes to flip the bird at her, perhaps out of instinct, but stops himself and scratches his face instead. "What are you even doing here, anyway?"
Soul takes to rubbing his neck. "It's interesting," he admits slowly.
"Interesting," she repeats. "For a nerd."
"No - well, yeah, but - I mean- you work really hard," Soul says, fiddling with the string of his hoodie distractedly. "And… I don't know. I thought witchcraft died when Asura finally finished off Arachne, so it's sort of… interesting to see you working so hard to crack the code."
"I'm not evil," she says, without missing a beat.
He regards her with an air of forced flippancy. "Didn't say you were."
"You thought it."
Soul watches her stand up and scuttle around to the other side of her table. "Didn't," he insists, and there's an unusual warmth in his gaze, his dark eyes holding a silent sort of respect she's unaccustomed to. When she holds out her palm, half a breath later, he hands her the pencil she'd left behind and lingers by as she works.
When she glances up again, he's still watching her with those same gentle eyes. And for a brief, fleeting second, Maka's caught in his gaze, a hypnotic sort of lull, warmth tickling her face - and then the spell is broken as Soul scratches his neck and asks, "How long have you been at this?"
"Few hours," she says around her dry mouth. Steeling herself, Maka busies herself with her notes again, thinking not of pretty eyed boys and shy little smiles.
"I meant in the grand scheme of things," he says. "How long have you been trying to make witchcraft happen?"
Maka taps her eraser against her chin. "I've been studying since I was seventeen. I graduated high school early and then pushed through college."
She hears him shift his weight, hears him drop himself into her seat. Through her peripheral vision, she sees his elbows find a place on the lab table, sees him shift his weight and lean forward. Maka doesn't need to look to know he's got his face cradled in those stupid pretty hands of his (what reason does any boy living in a dying world have for pretty hands?) and probably the same dopey, sleepy look on his face he always does when he asks questions.
"Huh," he mumbles. "Wait, how old are you?"
"Twenty-two and a half."
Soul stifles a snort, barely. "You still count halves?"
"What's wrong with that?" she asks, bristling, and glances up just in time to catch him grinning at her. "What?"
"Toddlers count halves. You're twenty-two."
"I'm halfway to twenty-three."
He shrugs, yawning. "Twenty-three isn't that great. Don't rush it."
"No offense," she starts, "but the world's plagued with madness. Everything's not so great right now. I don't think age has anything to do with it."
"Then why're you still counting halves?"
Maka pauses. Considers. Bites her lip and watches, still pondering, as Soul shrugs his sloping shoulders again and blankets his arms on the table like a pillow. He's resting in a moment, cheek pressed to his leather-clad forearms as he peers up at her inquisitively. There's something about his gaze that melts her iron-clad defenses, just a little; she thinks it might be the honesty, the quiet curiosity, maybe even just the genuine way he seems interested in her life.
It's been a long time since anyone has asked her questions about herself and not her work. It's been even longer that she's let anyone get close enough to try.
"... Old habits die hard, I guess," she manages, finally, fidgeting beneath his lazy stare.
Like a cat soaking up the sun, he yawns, daylight peeking in through the cracked window like a spotlight. "Guess so," he says quietly.
She waits for him to say more. He doesn't, so she asks, "How old are you?"
"Twenty three," Soul says. He quirks a little crooked grin, dimple and all. "And a quarter."
.
Much like a pet cat, Maka adopts him.
Sort of.
He comes by all the time. Most of the time he doesn't even knock anymore, and she's come to strangely look forward to his interruptions. Occasionally he brings her little snacks, the rare candy bar (but usually a crudely-wrapped muffin that she accepts just as heartily) and such, but mostly he just brings himself in varying states of mood. For someone as emotionally stunted, he's surprisingly easy to read once you know what to look for, and Maka's becoming somewhat of a pro.
It's more like she's become the accidental caretaker of a stray alley cat. With nice bone structure and a smart mouth. Maka mentally adds another pet to her list of creatures with whom she shares her space.
She doesn't slow her pace for him. He doesn't ask her to. Soul never really asks for anything at all, actually; most of the time he just shows up, hands her things that're just out of her reach and coexists, just for hour intervals at a time, before the stress sets back into his face and he heads back out her door.
On a particularly frustrating Thursday, he looks up from his nap when her stomach growls nosily.
"You gonna get that," he grunts, scrubbing the sleepies out of his eyes.
"Busy," she says mechanically.
Her stomach complains again. Soul raises his brows, peering at her with deceptively lazy eyes. There might be groggy darkness lingering there but he still doesn't miss a thing. "Sounds important."
"Soul."
"C'mon, just a half hour break. We can get lunch. On me."
If Maka were years younger, she might think she was being asked out on a date, of all things.. But she isn't. Her traitorous stomach vocalizes its agreement and Soul smiles, smiles, smiles, all too smugly. Maka presses her lips together and squints suspiciously at him.
"I can pay for myself," she says defensively.
"It's really not a problem," Soul admits, pushing a hand through his hair. "Really, don't sweat it. It's the least I can do for sitting on your work."
.
Her stray cat is no stray.
Maka nibbles the end of her straw and watches him slide his wallet back into his pocket, watches him flop back into the seat across the table from her. When he meets her eyes, he doesn't regard her any differently, still looks at her with the same semi-guarded, hazy sort of companionship she's grown accustomed to, and Maka offers a tentative smile back. Because really, she should've seen this coming - why else was Soul always just around? - and a last name can't change who a person is, not really. After all, she's living proof of that. Maka wears her father's surname with half-brewed reluctance.
He's not even a little bit a stray. No, he has a family - a wealthy, powerful family, the very same family that's funding her little experiments. She sits back and wonders, fleetingly, if that puts him in a position of power over her and how she feels about it. Sure, he's got social standing over her (and bountiful pocketfuls of cash) but thus far, Soul hasn't treated her anything like his father had. And that alone steels her resolve; he might be Soul Evans, but he hadn't introduced himself as such, and Maka knows better than anyone what it's like to feel estranged from her family.
She thinks of Papa's letters, Papa's emails, all the women he'd brought home, post Mama.
Soul curls his same nervous smile back at her. It's raw, so vulnerable, and warms something deep within her chest, something she hadn't been aware was dormant.
He cups a hand over his eyes, sun glaring down upon him, and says, "D'ya like the milkshake?"
She smiles around her straw. "I haven't had one since I was thirteen. Mama said they were too unhealthy."
"Milkshakes are like, work of the gods," Soul says, with such a no-nonsense tone that she has to bite back a grin. His free hand drums along the corner of the table, the face of his watch projecting a glare into her eyes and she leans back, out of instinct, still sipping the vanilla goodness. "See? It's good for the soul. Eat up. Or drink up, whatever."
Maka slips the straw from between her lips. "It'll go straight to my thighs."
"Eh," he shrugs, "you can spare the weight."
"Is that a compliment or an insult?"
"Can't it just be an observation? he asks, and Maka crosses her legs, one over the other, like a lady should sit, beneath the table. She bumps her foot against his knee. "Hey. I'm just saying, you're awfully… y'know. Lean."
She stirs her milkshake. "What a nice way to say I'm skinny."
"Pffft," Soul scoffs, leaning back in his seat, lazily dipping a fry into his ocean of ketchup. "If that's how you want to take it."
"What other way is there?"
"You're a scientist who spends all of her free time reading and yet you still look like you could snap me in half?" he offers. There's not a single trace of malice in his tone, not even a hint of distaste - Soul's still watching her with those same warm eyes, watchful and curious, and Maka's tongue goes a little numb.
She chooses to blame it on the milkshake. Foreign milkshake, which isn't part of her routine - that's gotta be the thing throwing her off, for sure.
Feeling silly, and young, like he hasn't since she was fourteen, she swallows thickly and says, "Thanks? I, um, work out."
He snorts and swirls a fry in the air. "Yeah, I can tell. When do you find the time?"
Admitting the truth - she doesn't, not really, but moreso makes time, and has no real social life to speak of because of it - feels like defeat (and a moodkill), so she shrugs instead. There was a time and a place once for weakness, and that time has long since past. There are things he might not understand - the gaping hole in her mother's chest, where her soul had once been - that will haunt her forever, things that serve as a better motivation than sore muscles and rumbling stomachs.
Maka chews her lip, stares deeply into the pits of her drink, and feels the familiar burn behind her eyes. But she is a warrior, now, a grown woman, and the time to cry has passed, too. "I just do."
He doesn't say anything after that. Maybe he senses the dip in her mood. Maybe he catches her smudging the heat from her eyes with her sleeve and decides it's not worth it. Whatever the reason, he remains quiet, only moving to unwrap his burger and peel off the pickles. Soul doesn't speak up when she steals some of his fries. He doesn't have to. There's enough unspoken conversations in the depth of his dark eyes to answer her questions.
.
Soul stays late that day. Swirls a keychain around one interestingly long finger and says, "I'll drive you home."
She hadn't even known he had a car. It makes sense, in a weird way, now that the puzzle pieces have started merging together. Soul is privileged. Soul has the money to have a car, unlike her, who spends her mornings walking (or jogging) to her lab. Still, though, it feels weird to think about - days ago, he'd only been her oddly charming helper monkey.
Maka buttons up her coat and smiles, all for show. There's still an uneven rumble in the pit of her chest, the same crack that always leaks red-hot anger whenever she thinks about Mama. "I can walk fine, Soul."
"No, it's dark. I can give you a lift."
"You already bought me lunch."
He gives her a wide grin, dimples and all. His teeth are almost distracting, so white and straight, a perfect, unblemished smile. "You're gonna start feeling spoiled here pretty soon if I don't cut it out, right?"
.
His motorcycle purrs beneath them as it veers off onto an old, beaten path. Maka tightens her grasp around him as they diverge off of tar and onto pressed-down dirt, wind whipping against her cheeks, hair fluttering behind her like a golden trail. He's solid, stark-pale hair brilliant and tangled before her, stomach tight and leather cold beneath her fingers. A distant voice in the back of her head reprimands her ("The back of a motorcycle, Maka? Really? You know boys like that only want one thing!") but she's feeling particularly reckless, with the ferocious roar of the motor rumbling in her ears and the night sky lighting the way like twinkling Christmas lights.
It's a little like flying. She wants to stand, wants to spread her arms and fly and fling his helmet back at him, but just as the urge feels particularly seductive, the bike slows to a stop.
Maka blinks, rather dumbly, and slides her hands back onto her lap. "I don't live here," she blurts.
Soul laughs and slips his keys back into his pocket. "What, you're not a forest imp?"
He takes the punch to the arm like a champ. Even offers a hand out to her to help her off the bike like a gentleman, looking more and more like the boy born with the silver spoon in his mouth like she's come to discover he actually is.
It doesn't really change anything. It just sort of fills in between the lines.
"I really should go home, Soul, it's past my bedtime-"
"Cinderella, just because the ball's over doesn't mean you have to go back into hiding. Come on. Just for a little bit."
Well, she's certainly no princess in her smart pencil skirt and wind-mussed hair, but with his hand in hers, everything's a little harder to rationalize.
"Careful," he mumbles, and her fingers tingle as he cups her palm. "Watch your step, there's a bunch of branches."
"Did you just bring me to makeout point?"
Even in the lowlight of the night, she can still see him light up, dazzlingly pink, spreading as far as the tips of his ears. "Shut up," he hisses, adorably, and it gives Maka the courage to slide her fingers into the spaces between his. "It's the only place within Shibusen's protection that's really quiet at night, and I wanted-"
"What do you want, Soul?" she asks, giggling.
Soul grunts and pulls his helmet off of her. "To stargaze, you little pervert. Thought it might be a nice break for you."
"I'm not the one that chose a makeout spot," Maka reminds him, and Soul only burns brighter, hooking the helmet on the handlebars of his bike and attempting to scowl at her. With their fingers tied, she's tethered to him, and follows after him faithfully, lead by the warm (and confusing) comfort of his hand and the length of his strides.
He (huffily) escorts her to, what Maka assumes, is a rock countless teenagers have gotten to second base on, but she's not mean enough to bring it up and further embarrass him. Maka seats herself and leaves enough room for him. He slides into the spot beside her, gradually, ears still warm, and props their clasped hands on his jean-clad knee.
And for a long while, they're quiet. Soul doesn't make any smart comments and she doesn't ruin the calm with the storm brewing within her. Instead, she tips her head back and watches the stars glitter, lets herself take comfort in the heat of his hand, and his leg, pressed so gently against hers. For as much teasing he throws her way, he's never expectant, never pushing her boundaries - he's almost nervous, in a way, and shy about touching her, which she finds entirely too endearing.
"It's really calm up here," he says, finally, minutes later, with a careful, controlled tone. "I come up here a lot to think. Or to just get away from it all."
"You come up to makeout point-"
"Alone," he cuts in, and his cheeks are so red. "Alone, Maka. To think."
But now she's here. Alone. With him. The rock suddenly feels that much more sacred, and Maka presses her knees together and swallows thickly at Soul's heavy look. He could move mountains with those eyes, could bring wars to a startling close - and they're doing a number on her immovable heart, judging by the way it shudders in her chest.
But she will not go quietly. Maka squeezes his hand in return. "I don't have time to sit around and stare at the sky all the time, Soul. The world's ending. I can't just sit and wait for it to be over."
"But you're just one girl," he reasons. "And you're human, Maka. It's not all on your shoulders. Don't try to make it that way."
She takes a deep, cleansing breath and breaks their stare to instead watch his thumb brush along the back of her hand. "I have to," Maka hears herself say, with fire in her veins and responsibility weighing her bones like concrete. "It's what Mama would have wanted. It's what Mama would've done."
Soul doesn't push. Not right away. He flickers his glance upward, watching the night sky, so falsely gentle, amidst the lurking red-haze of madness that plagues them so. It's like they're tangled up in a fog, a crackling mist that whispers of overpowering hunger and desecration. This is the world they live in now, though, overturned by delusion, with humans turning into soul-thirsty kishins overnight and paranoia lurking around every corner.
And boys with pretty smiles, apparently, and warm hands and homely hearts. Such a hopeless place to find companionship, Maka thinks, as Soul purses his lips.
"Tell me about her?" he asks, hushed. "She sounds important to you."
"She is." Was. "She was going to save the world."
"And now?"
"... And now I'm going to do it in her place. For her. Because the world took her before she even had a chance to try."
He whistles low, reaching his free hand to rub his creaking neck. "Sounds like a big job, Maka. The world's an awfully big place," he says, and kindly ignores the way she sniffles and holds his hand tighter, tighter, still. "Sounds like a lot just for one girl to do alone."
She laughs, damply, despite nothing being funny, and rubs just beneath her nose. "I graduated early."
"Braniac."
"She died when I was seventeen," Maka admits suddenly, and Soul's gaze steels, three parts empathy and two parts remorse.
He's unmovable, sturdy against her, and claps his free hand on top of their clasped pair only after her extended silence. "I'm sorry," he mumbles, almost lost beneath the singing of the crickets and hum of Death City after hours. "That must've been hard."
"To a kishin."
"Maka, it's okay. You don't have to keep going. You can stop, if you want. I understand."
But she wants to. Overcome with the ghosts of her past, she blinks back the tears that shouldn't fall and continues, whispering, "I was seventeen. I hadn't even graduated high school yet, and then she was gone, and- and I don't want anyone to ever have to feel like that, to lose someone they love. I don't want any other little girls living without mothers, or fathers, or for a family to be torn apart by tragedy-"
By now she's shaking, trembling, unsure if it's her bottled-up rage or neglect that's fueling the storm within her. Soul holds tight, tremendously silent, stars reflected in his sad, sad eyes as he nods. Go, he seems to say without words, and Maka feels the tangle begin to unwind.
"I can do something," she says massively, voice cracking, and his brows crease beneath the weight of her resolve. "So I'm going to try. I have to try."
.
She cries for the first time in three years that night. Soul tucks an arm around her and mutters, "You're only human," into her hair, rocking her through the quaking sobs that come later.
And when he drops her off, two hours later, he ruffles her hair with a secret, shy little smile and walks her to her door.
.
Sometimes, when Soul visits, he's quiet.
Sometimes, though, he's chattier than ever, and it feels like he's smiling more and more every day. Which is a gift, because he has the kind of smile she has to earn, and every time he flashes a grin - a real grin, with his eyes and teeth and all - Maka feels so complete, like she's accomplished a great feat, and it pleases the workaholic in her immensely. It makes the days with more grueling work that much more bearable, to have him muttering cheesy jokes in her ear and slurping a popsicle messily, grape-flavored sticky sweetness staining his lips.
"Would you cut that out?" she squeaks, shoving his shoulder, and Soul laughs before swiping the pencil tucked behind her ear. "I'm trying to read here!"
"Maaaakaaaaaa."
She sighs and glances up from the book of witchcraft she'd been studying, only thirty seconds ago. "Fine, Soul. Just one."
"Yes!" He laughs boyishly, grinning ear to ear. "Okay. Okay. Are you ready, bookworm?"
"As I'll ever be."
He clears his throat, holds up the popsicle stick as if it's a sacred, religious tome and asks, "What kind of horse likes to be ridden at night?"
Maka reaches out for her pencil expectantly. There's still a few chapters left for her to take notes on and doing so without a writing utensil is impossible. "What."
"Nope. Guess," Soul says, wiggling her pencil in the air like a conductor might. There's a certain grace in his hands, strong wrists and diligent fingers and finesse. They're pretty, not unlike him, but startlingly so; Soul has the kind of hands people admire, and those hands have held hers - hands stippled with callouses and work - without so much as even blinking at the juxtaposition between them.
She's staring. Soul wiggles the pencil a little more and switches to balancing it between his knuckles, twirling it every so often. "I don't know, Soul. A sleepy horse."
"A nightmare."
His laughter drowns out the sound of her groaning.
.
"What exactly are you researching, anyway?" Soul asks one evening, leaning a hip against her open doorway. "I know it's like, witchcraft and stuff, but - what's the actual plan? And what's with the weaponry? Where'd you even find this stuff?"
It's a fair question. Maka's managed to collect a considerable arsenal of weapons, ranging from swords to spears to even a particularly imposing looking scythe, and to the blind eye it might look a little threatening. Tiny Maka, with her hair tied up in pigtails, poking at the impressive curve of a blade with a critical eye and enough backstock to arm a small army. If anything, she only wonders why it took him so long to ask. The live steel has been collecting dust in her lab for the better half of a month.
She tucks the pencil behind her ear and hugs her notes to her chest. "Do you want the long answer or the short one?"
Soul makes a grand show of pulling up his sleeve and checking his wrist. He's not even wearing a watch. "Ehhhh. How much time we talking here? I've got a hair appointment at nine, and then I'm meeting up with Anya and the girls for drinks at ten-"
"Soul."
He smiles a little more gently and says, "I've got nothing but time, Maka."
"Take a seat."
"Yes, professor," he says cheekily, plopping himself down onto her desk again. When he leans forward and rests his elbows on her knees, Maka bites back comments on his posture and merely shakes her head instead.
Maka offers her notebook to him after a moment's pause, heart rumbling in her throat. "Here, you can read," she says carefully, and Soul's eyebrows shoot up at the implications - that she's letting him in, letting him read what she pours herself over so tediously, night and day. "It is witchcraft. Namely I'm reading up on the Gorgon's work, mostly Medusa's - but Arachne's, too. They were onto something."
Soul snorts and flips (carefully) through her notebook. "You mean before Medusa awoke Asura."
"I never said she was a good person."
These are dangerous shoes she's stepping into. The message isn't lost on Soul, who shoots her another carefully measured look, eyes watchful and even expression. Watchful. But never accusatory.
"It's dark stuff," Maka admits, after a pause. "But there's a hierarchy of souls. When a human starts devouring good souls - innocent human souls - their own soul begins to change. It's not immediate, but they do start to rewrite themselves. Each human soul that's consumed is a little more power - but when they consume a more powerful soul-"
"Like a witch's soul," Soul says, nodding, understanding.
"Like a witch's soul, yes - or a grigori - it's more of a power boost. The kishin figured that out pretty quickly, which is why we have such an overabundance of hyper-powerful ones. Asura ate Arachne's soul. Arachne was an old, old witch. A powerful witch," Maka stresses. Soul seems to slouch beneath the weight of her admittance, much less grinning, teasing boy and more-so aged, stressed man. "Who knew a thing or two about binding souls. Demon souls."
He snorts. "What, demons now, too? Aren't kishin enough, Maka?"
"We need something more powerful than a kishin to fight back, don't we? You can't take down a soul-eating monster with a normal gun. That's how you take down a human. That's now how the rules work anymore."
"So…" Soul trails off, flipping through her notebook, eyes glued to the lined paper. Her notes fill each line dutifully, scribbled so quickly and darkly that in some places it's hard to differentiate letters from numbers. "So, what, you're going to draw a summoning circle in your lab and try talking to a demon?"
When she doesn't offer an answer, Soul stares at her. Those warm eyes go hard. "Maka. No."
"Human means of fighting back aren't working!" she snaps defensively.
"What are you planning on doing? Asking nicely and hoping mister demon decides to play nice? It doesn't work that way! What happens when the demon in your lab decides your soul looks tasty, huh?" He shuts her notebook with a start. The sound echoes through the room like a gunshot, and suddenly Soul's standing, expression grim. "You're trying to force a miracle. It won't work."
"Is it better to do nothing at all?"
"Maka," he says.
"No, listen!" she insists, hands balled into tight little fists at her sides. "I'm not just going to go into it blind, okay? Arachne wasn't just summoning demon souls for the sake of it - she was binding them to weapons. To make the weapons stronger."
His brows crease. "Maka, you're not a witch. You can read her books all you want but you're not a witch. You can't- can you even bind a soul to a weapon without magic? I thought you were a scientist."
She takes a deep breath. Exhales. "Which is why I need a proxy. Something to help it stick."
"Like?"
"Black blood."
Soul's expression pinches. "Grody."
But he doesn't shoot her down. There might be concern written in every defeated sigh he emits (and boy, has he been doing that a lot) but he doesn't write her off. He hands her the notebook back, shaking his head, and turns his attention to the beakers of dark fluid that line her walls.
And all at once, Maka worries she's lost him.
"I'm not evil," she says quietly. "I don't like it anymore than you do. But we can't just do nothing. They're getting stronger and we're sitting here, twiddling our thumbs-"
Soul flicks his middle finger against the lip of a beaker and listens to it ting. "I know," he admits, glancing at her gradually, all worry and no blame. "I know that. I just don't think… the world's lost a lot already. Can't really afford to lose your big brain, too."
.
She thinks about him a lot these days.
It's short instances that bring him up. Sometimes when she's folding her laundry at night, she catches herself smiling at specific blouses, because she wears them like days of the week and Soul always knows. When she's mixing her morning protein shake, she's reminded of milkshakes and Soul's grinning face, of brain freeze and rare sunshine and then she's smiling, too, hugging her pillow to her chest as she nestles beneath her blankets. He comes up in memories and Maka always ends up grinning to herself, like she's thirteen with a crush, standing on the perimeter of a middle school dance and waiting for her boy to ask her for a dance.
Companionship is rare these days. Especially for her, who otherwise has only letters from Black*Star and her papa to look forward to these days. And Soul, however brooding he may be, fills her life with crooked little smiles and stolen glances, fills the empty spaces between her fingers with his own.
The world is dying. But with him, it's a little more full.
.
For a while, everything goes right.
Experiments come up successful. Translating the works of Eibon - a talented, wise sorcerer - become easier and easier when her head is less muddled with consuming thoughts of revenge. With a well-rested mind, everything comes easier. She'll never admit that Soul's slacker ways merit results, but she'll certainly laugh at the thought - because it's ridiculous, wasting precious time on things like late-night drives on his motorcycle and begrudging dance lessons in the middle of her lab, but for the first time in a long time her soul feels alive. There's a bounce in her step, one that hasn't been around since her Mama's passing, and part of Maka wonders if Soul even realizes all the good he's done for her himself.
Because she notices. She notices all the time, catches herself smiling at his terrible puns and wonders what it would be like to kiss the back of his palm.
And everything goes right. Her research flourishes. Maka feels on top of the world, like her actions finally matter for once, and finally has someone to share her excitement with.
When he sneaks his way in that night she's finally (finally) managed to anchor a demon's soul, Maka practically launches herself into his arms. Vaguely, she realizes this is the first time she's hugged him - and the first time she's hugged anyone, really, in years - but the excitement is abound and containment is futile. He gasps, caught off guard, and grasps her waist as her arms link around his neck, narrowly collecting his balance before she has the chance to actually knock him off of his feet.
"I did it!" she gasps, a smiling, warm cheek pressed against his. "It's not impossible! I did it!"
"You-?" he yelps, "you did what?"
"I- the scythe!" Maka backs off, just enough to catch a glimpse of his blushing face, cheekbones burnt with a rosy pink. The excitement buzzes through her all the more and then she's practically vibrating in his arms, unable to keep the smile off of her face. "There's a demon in my scythe."
His hands hover over her cautiously. A warm palm ghosts over her hip and Maka shivers, entirely involuntarily, as she squirms her way further into his grasp. When he finally settles on setting his hands on her waist (probably, she things, to soothe her jitters and babbling) Maka sets her own hands on his shoulders. "Oh," he blurts, still glowing that interesting, shy pink, lips pursing. "That's good?"
"That's great! It means it can be done! It means- it means we don't have to live in fear forever, Soul! Don't you get it?"
Soul blinks slowly. He watches her, finally cracking a crooked little smile, as he lifts a hand to brush her hair from her face. "Knew there was a reason I kept your big brain around."
"Soul!"
He laughs and his smile softens, slow and syrupy, and his eyes have never been quite that warm before. "Kidding. Proud of you, bookworm."