Author's Notes: Once again, SoMa Week was a total blast. There was an enormous amount of awesome artwork and fanfics by an enormous amount of talented people. I've already posted these drabbles to my tumblr (fabulousanima - feel free to come say hi!) but I wanted to collect them here as well. Enjoy!
Day 1: Roommates
"Absolutely not."
The purple cat ran a delicate paw across her tongue, then swiped it over an eye, looking for all the world a normal cat except for the large witches hat. Then, of course, she spoke, and ruined the whole thing.
"Yes. Blair has decided she no longer wants to live in that silly old pumpkin. She wants to live with you!"
Maka was tempted to slam her bedroom window shut on the cat, but she knew how persistent Blair was, so she only pursed her lips and glared. "You're not welcome."
"Why not?"
"We don't need a pet! That's too much responsibility."
Blair laughed, a gentle, tinkling purr. "Silly girl! Blair can take care of herself."
Blowing air out between her teeth to puff up her bangs, Maka set her elbows on the window sill. Blair smiled at her, fangs glinting in the early morning sunlight.
"What, are you gonna pay rent?"
"Yes!" the cat chirruped, and Maka raised her eyebrows. "Chupa Cabra's is always hiring."
"You're going to work there?" Maka asked with disgust.
"Do you want a lower rent?" Blair replied, twitching her tail back and forth. Maka sighed.
"Why do you want to live with us, anyway? We killed you!"
"And it was the most fun I've had in a long time. Besides, it's clear you kittens need Blair's guidance."
"Tch," Maka scoffed. She glanced away, casting her eyes down. "I suppose you're here to flirt with Soul more."
"Oh, kitten," said the cat, wrapping her tail around her paws. "You don't need to make that face. Blair could flirt with Scythe Boy all she likes, but it's clear he's loyal to you."
Maka felt her face heat up. She twisted her fingers together. "Fine," she grumbled. "Come in already, you're letting all the cold air out."
Day 2: Nosebleed
"Man, he really clocked you."
Maka tried to bring her hands to her face, but Soul swatted them away.
"Stop. I need to clean it."
She bounced her foot impatiently, clutching the edge of the toilet lid. They were jammed into their tiny bathroom, and Soul was gently dabbing at her bruised face with a damp washcloth. She winced and hissed through her teeth as Soul brushed against the sensitive bridge of her nose.
"That group resonance was really something, huh?"
Knowing he was trying to distract her, Maka pretended to think carefully. "Yeah," she said, turning her eyes to the ceiling. "It was pretty cool once we got it figured out."
"Still not totally convinced you needed to let Black Star punch your lights out."
"I think it was the right call." She saw Soul make a face out of the corner of her eye, but he didn't reply.
"Are you looking forward to trying again?"
He seemed to think there was no point arguing. Maka chewed her lip thoughtfully. "Yeah! It's hard work, but I think it's teaching us a lot about resonance." She looked at her partner. "Are you?"
"Sure," he said, but she frowned. "What?"
"You don't sound that enthusiastic."
"Well, I dunno, it is kinda weird." He drops the washcloth, now stained pink, into the sink. "I'm gonna put a small butterfly bandage on this," he said, wincing slightly as he looked at her nose.
"Fine," she said. "Why did you find it weird?"
"Oh, man, I dunno, it felt like everyone was in my head?"
"But that's the point!" she said. Soul put a hand on her jiggling leg.
"Stop that. And I know," he said, turning to their sagging medicine cabinet. He rifled through it and pulled out a tattered box of bandages. "It's just a weird sensation. I'm used to just you."
"Is that any different?"
"Well, yeah," he said, peeling the white paper off the adhesive. "It's you."
Maka felt the tips of her ears grow hot. "What?"
He looked at her, bandage held between them like a shield. "Hold still," Soul said gruffly. With deft fingers, he pressed the bandage over the bridge of her nose. "I mean. I dunno. You're my partner." Maka blew air out of her nose, and he continued. "I like it when you're around."
It was his turn to redden. He scratched at the back of his neck, turning away slightly.
"That's sweet."
"It's uncool."
"It's both," she said, finally bringing her hand up to her face. "I think it's— ow, fuck."
Day 3: Insanity
"You're insane," she would scoff, because she was eleven and he was twelve, and they were acting their ages, her hands behind her back, his hands in his pockets. He would burp loudly over dinner and he would make fart jokes and he would chase after her with crumpled tissues of his own snot because he was a child, and she was a child, and she would roll her eyes and cross her arms and swat at him as he chased her, because boys were so gross. And crazy.
"You're insane!" she would cry as he ate half his body weight in pizza, or cheese doodles, or Doritos, or popcorn. He and Black Star would sit on the floor of their tiny apartment and play their movies on full volume, leaning against the couch with their stomachs protruding over their waistbands. They would share a fist pound even though they had almost eaten themselves into a coma, and Maka would primly walk into the kitchen with her book for something more nutritious. She, at least, took the idea of a "sound body" seriously. Soul would be crazy not to listen to her.
"You're insane," she would mumble as Soul freaked out in the record store, holding the dusty sleeve in front of him with a look of adoration on his face. He would try to stay cool and bored, but he couldn't help the excitement in a place like this, where his veneer would drop and he would wave the records around like they were made of gold. Maka glared half-heartedly at the sleeves, as foreign to her as some of the Japanese dishes she made sometimes were to Soul. He was crazy with his music, and she didn't understand it.
"You're insane," she would say, but not anymore, because now his eyes are hollow and shadowed, and there is a long jagged scar across his chest, puffy and puckered and red, and if she were to say it, he would turn his thin face to her, pale after being in the hospital for so long, and only stare wistfully at her, meeting her gaze as he would say, "I know."
Day 4: Loyalty
There is a hurt on her face that he's not sure he's ever seen before. Her eyes gone glassy, darkening into jade and tears gathering at the corners, and a crease growing between her eyebrowss. Her fingers clench tightly in front of her, and he suspects he will never be forgiven.
"Soul… that is the wrong brand."
It is already bad enough that he, Soul Eater, coolest weapon ever, was forced to run to a CVS in the boondocks of New Jersey at 11:30pm on a Saturday for a box of tampons, but now, apparently, he had made the mistake of buying the wrong ones. The look on Maka's face was more dejected and hopeless than he has ever seen before.
"Does it really matter?" he asks desperately. The cardboard box rests against his sweaty palms as he holds it out towards her, wanting nothing more than to throw it at her and run. But he is a good weapon partner, so he stays.
She is lying on the tiny motel sofa, a heating pad borrowed from the owners of the tiny establishment across her lap. The crooked coffee table bears a mug of tea and a bottle of Advil.
"Yes, it matters!" she cries shrilly, and he winces. Her voice is cracking under the weight of her despair. "Oh my god, let me see that." Soul practically runs to her to pass over the box. She inspects it. "Oh my god, Soul! These are the ones with the cardboard applicators!"
He feels faint.
"Maka," he says, holding his hands in front of him as if they might hold back the crazy that is wafting off of her. "That was all there is. Nothing else is open within walking distance."
She curls her legs towards her under the blanket, looking stricken. Turning back to the box in her hands, she rips it open. Soul makes a small noise of protest that dies at the contents are laid bare before him. He can see white plastic wrappings, sticking up like some horrible bouquet. She pulls one out and stands up. "I guess I'll be right back," she declares, as if she is announcing she is going off to war. Maka shuffles to the bathroom and shuts the door behind her.
Soul flops onto the couch and turns on the TV to drown out the sounds of whatever is happening in the bathroom. He finds a rerun of SNL and props his feet up on the coffee table. The green box in the corner of his eye is distracting, however, and he uses his sneaker to slide it as far away from him as possible.
The price he paid for living with Maka. They hadn't been living together for all that long yet, and he had discovered that Maka had absolutely no qualms about discussing her period with him. She seemed to think it was "natural" and "normal" and "shut up Soul you're being such a child". But he had to admit, if he'd been back at his old school in New York (which was currently closer, geographically, than he cared to say), his friends would have thought he was some sort of woman guru. The fact that he could (usually) say the words "tampon" and "cramps" without blushing already put him way ahead of the curve.
Still, it is definitely not how he would have chosen to spend this particular evening.
Maka emerges from the bathroom, the blanket still draped around her shoulders. He turns to glance her over, trying to see what kind of trauma she may have endured.
"Okay, that wasn't actually that bad," she mumbles, walking over the couch with her blanket dragging behind her like a royal cape. "But I still feel awful."
Soul just pats the cushion next to him, and she collapses onto it. Maka puts the heating pad back in her lap and rests her shoulder against his. They settle into the sofa. Just as the Weekend Update music begins to play, Maka lets her head fall onto Soul's shoulder and he lets himself lean into her.
Day 5: Wounds (AU)
Every traitorous beat of her heart is a reminder that she shouldn't be alive.
Her pulse thrums through her veins, loud and insistent, but her hands are cold and clammy, shaking in her lap, covered in his blood.
She was walking briskly through the crisp autumn air, hearing the clack of her smart heels against the pavement. Maka breathed deeply, enjoying what was finally some smog-free air in her neighborhood. New York was a beautiful city in some parts, but there were grungy parts too, parts that festered and smelled and that people in small evening dresses rarely wandered through. But Maka knew where these parts were and she avoided them, like any sensible New Yorker did.
She clutched the strap of her purse with freshly manicured nails, feeling jaunty and pretty after a night out with Kid and his new girlfriend. She hadn't quite caught the girl's name, but she had a strong laugh and liked to be doted on, which suited Kid well. They had seen a play tonight, something off Broadway, something she could discuss later with a martini in one polished hand and a man who read Faulkner eating out of the other.
Maka felt energized, felt like she finally had a mastery of this city, finally was not the Girl From Nevada, that she was—
Something shifted in the shadows, a place where, for all the city's lights, the street was dark. Two furtive figures slunk out to stand in front of her, and Maka stopped short.
The tall man was broad and raven-haired, with a strange 'x' scar across his face. He shifted his weight from foot to foot, wiping the back of his mouth as if he were hungry. The smaller figure was tiny and twitchy, but the bags under their eyes and the trackmarks up their arms were clear signs of a tweaker.
Maka shifted her knees, balancing her weight.
"Out late?" asked the taller man, licking his lips.
"No," Maka said firmly. "It's only 12:30. Not late at all." She hoped the threat translated.
The smaller one wrapped their arms around their slight figure. "I don't know how to deal with this," came a faint whisper.
"I do," sneered the taller man.
"How we doin' tonight, folks?" came a loud voice.
Maka pivoted without moving her feet. Another man approached them from the opposite side of the street. His eyes looked almost red in the darkness, but he had none of the swaying, nervousness of the drug addict, so she guessed it was a trick of the light.
"Just fine," growled the first man. He reached backwards slightly, hand near his back pocket.
The new stranger stepped up to Maka, glancing briefly into her face before turning to the two others. He had white hair, but seemed to be rather young. "Glad to hear it. Don't want any trouble tonight."
"No, no, no, no, no, no," chanted the smaller figure, curling onto their knees and rocking back and forth. The taller man kicked him.
"Get up," he snapped.
"Hey man," the newcomer said, angling his body between Maka and the two druggies. "Looks like your friend is in bad shape. You might wanna—"
Without warning, the smaller person flung themselves onto the ground, writhing and screaming, hands closing and opening like claws. The bigger man raised a Timberland-clad boot and kicked the body on the ground with a sickening thud.
"No—!" cried Maka, lunging forward, feeling dizzy with dread at the sound of a boot meeting flesh. But the larger man turned suddenly, and slashed his arm down, and the other man was between them, and there was a ripping sound—
The knife glinted in the scant streetlights, and Maka watched a single, nauseating drop of blood slide down the end of it. Before the junkie could raise it again, the heel of her hand shot upwards and connected squarely with the man's nose. She felt the cartilage shatter under her hand.
"Ow, you fucking bitch—!"
The man stumbled, eyes wild, then turned and pounded away into the darkness. The smaller figure, as if acutely honed in on the other's movements, suddenly stopped sobbing and scrabbled up like a wounded animal, scurrying off in the taller one's wake. Maka fell to her knees at the wounded man's side, nostrils assaulted with the coppery scent of his blood.
It was everywhere. "No," she whispered, putting her hands over the mangled chest of the man. "No, no, no." She knew she sounded like the smaller drug addict, but she didn't care, she didn't care, because the man was hemorrhaging all over the street and he was staring into her eyes—
"Help!" she shrieked into the darkness. "Help, someone!"
But all she could hear was her own ragged breathing and the gurgling of the man below her as he struggled for air. Maka clutched at her purse and dug through it, pulling out her cell phone. The man's blood stained her phone case and she had to wipe her hands on her skirt before the touch screen would register her touch. She didn't bother unlocking it, just slid onto the emergency page and dialed 911.
After what seemed like ages, a voice connected. "911, what is your emergency?"
"He's—"
She didn't know how to begin to explain, so she screamed the address at the woman on the phone, over and over and over until she was sobbing it, and she could barely hear the woman's voice telling her "ma'am, you need to calm down, ma'am, help is on the way, ma'am please—" and Maka heard sirens in the distance and still she yelled the name of the street into her cell phone.
Large, thick hands covered hers, and a gruff voice next to her ear said, "Ma'am, you need to step back, we need to get in," and she fell over on her heels, backside landing hard on the pavement as the paramedics shoved their hands unceremoniously into the man's chest, and he disappeared into a forest of their limbs. The last paramedic quickly collapsed the stretcher next to his limp figure, and the three of them hoisted him on.
"C'mon," said one of them. "Gonna ride with us?"
Maka nodded mutely, and they scrambled into the back of the ambulance.
"Stay there," one of the EMTs demanded, pointing to the corner of the ambulance. He pounded a fist on the divider of the vehicle. "Mount Sinai, let's go!"
Maka watched in a daze and the siren screeched overhead, thinking dully that her father once told her they only turned the siren on when it was really serious because normally they didn't want to worry the patients, they only used it when the patient was actually dying—
The waiting room smells like hand sanitizer and magazines. No one has spoken to Maka since they rushed the man into surgery, and she sits with her hands resting over her knees, dangling into space, caked in the slowly browning blood of the man behind the doors with his chest cracked open.
She hears soft padded footsteps, and looks up to see a scrubbed up man with large spectacles walking towards her. She stands slowly, as if moving through molasses.
"Were you with the young man?" he asks, wiping away the last of the hand sanitizer. Maka nods. The man extends a hand. It's strangely soft. "Dr. Stein, cardiothoracic surgeon. Are you his wife?"
"No," she says in a hoarse voice.
"Girlfriend? Sister?"
"No," she repeats. "I don't know him."
Dr. Stein narrows his eyes and pulls down his mask to frown at Maka. "You don't know him at all?"
"No. I… was being assaulted, and he stepped in to stop it."
The surgeon rubs his jaw slowly. "Guess that's the reward for being a hero," he says darkly. His hand twitches towards his pocket, but he pauses. "I must admit that's a problem," says Stein. "The man was apparently outside without his wallet; there's no ID on him at all."
"…is he—?"
"Touch and go," says the doctor tersely. He heaves a sigh. "Very well. You'll need to make a police report, I assume. I'll put them on task to find his next of kin."
Something in his words sends ice down her spine.
Stein glances at her. "If you leave me your contact information, I can inform you of any developments."
"But HIPAA—"
He holds up a hand. "I'm not telling you his name or info, just what happens to him." There is a voice that calls over the speakers asking for Dr. Franken Stein to report to OR 5. "I need to get going." Maka fumbles through her bag to produce a small piece of paper and a pen. She clutches the pen with her bloodied hands, and Stein studies her closely as she scribbles her number down. He pockets it, then marches down the hall, booties swishing gently against the pristine tiles.
And Maka sits down again with the blood of a man whose name she doesn't even know all over her hands.
Day 6: Bandages (AU)
Maka wraps her hands with the thin white bandages, glaring at the punching bag dangling ahead of her with a sharp focus.
One week. It had been almost one week since she had been accosted in a dark alley, and the man who put his body between hers and a knife was still lying in the hospital with no name.
Her hands fully protected, Maka swings at the bag and connects, the satisfying fwump reverberating in the air. She steps back, readjusts, and swings again.
Each echo across the small gym sounds like a promise, and she can feel her spine stiffen. Maka allows her breathing to grow more labored as she punches harder, wants to hear the effort. Left, right, right, left, again and again she assaults the bag. A small bead of sweat trails down between her eyes and she blinks rapidly to keep it from stinging in her cornea. Thump, fwump, thump, thwack, smack—
His pale white hair against the oily pavement is haunting her dreams.
Smack, smack, thwap, fwump—
Her clothes still smell like his blood and her fingernails never seem to be clean of it.
Smack, thwack, crack, thwump—
There is a knife and there is her, but there is something in between.
Crack, thwam, smack, CRACK—
"Maka!"
With a frustrated scream, she crashes her fist against the bag and it swings dangerously by its hinges, but its movement is arrested by someone standing behind it. Gloved hands wrap around the bag, and blue head of hair appeared from around the other side.
"Maka, what the hell? You're overdoing it and you know it. Are you really gonna make me kick you out of my gym?"
"Fuck off," she pants, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. Her knuckles sting in protest. Good, she thinks savagely.
Black Star's eyes narrow. "What is your problem?"
Maka stumbles backwards, feeling suddenly like vomiting. She leans over, hands on her knees, panting between her legs. Black Star comes to stand over her.
"I don't—"
"Don't pull this shit on me, Maka."
She straightens and points an accusatory finger into his face. "I pay you a few hundred dollars and for what?"
He goes a little cross-eyed as he stares at the point of her finger. "Excuse me?"
"All those self-defense classes! I pay all this money for them, and then they're worth jack shit when it really matters!"
"What happened?" asks the gym owner sharply.
"Walking home a week ago some fucking junkies try to mug me," Maka says in a rush, a little surprised by her own words, "and I was ready for them, I could have handled it, but some asshole comes out of the shadows trying to be a hero and he gets himself sliced up and it's all my fault!"
She slaps a hand to her mouth, feeling the bile rise in her throat. She turns away from Black Star, but he asks, "What happened next?"
"I broke the druggie's nose, but that's not the point, the point is that this idiot almost gets himself killed over me!"
Black Star cocks his head thoughtfully. "I don't think he's an idiot," he says softly. Maka whirls on him. He doesn't flinch, just continues. "Guy wanted to make sure you were all right. He didn't know you could've handled it; probably saw your height and wanted to help."
"I could've—!"
"People are allowed to help you," he says, voice steady. Maka's chest heaves as she stares him down, her eyes wild to his calm. They hold each other's gaze for a moment until Black Star turns away. "Go get cleaned up. I'll see you next week for class." He walks away and Maka stares at his retreating figure.
—-
She has only one text message when she returns to the locker room almost half an hour later: He's awake.
—-
She rides the subway sweaty and disheveled, but figures it's not really all that different than many other passengers, so she ignores the sideways looks she receives. She gets off at Lexington and East 96th Street and starts to walk briskly towards the hospital.
But it's when she arrives at the front entrance that she falters. Maka has no idea how to ask to see a man she doesn't even know the name of; would she just ask for "stab wounds" or "chest damage" or "haunting red eyes"? But her problem is solved when she steps through the sliding doors and is immediately greeted by Dr. Stein, this time clad in a white lab coat that looks oddly patched together.
"So glad you're here to see your fiancee," he says merrily, taking her by the elbow and guiding her towards the elevator.
"Wh—"
"Play along," he commands out of the corner of his mouth. Maka shuts hers as the smooth chrome doors close behind them.
Stein releases her and reaches into his pocket to pull out a pack of cigarettes. "A doctor who smokes?" she can't help but ask.
"Hard to kick the habit," he says with a grimace. "I'll sneak out the service elevator once I see you to his room." The doors chime at the fourth floor and Maka follows in his footsteps as he leads her down the hallway. "Here we are," he says at room 42. He gently pushes Maka into the open door.
She is very suddenly and very acutely aware of her hair: it's greasy and dull, pulled back into the twin ponytails she sports when exercising. But the man on the bed looks even more forlorn, and she steps closer.
"Hey," he croaks, voice dry from disuse. "Uh, hi."
"Hey," she replies, taking another few steps farther into the room. "How… how are you feeling?"
"Like shit," he says. "Uh, but that's okay. I'm glad it was worth it."
"Worth it?"
"You don't look hurt."
Maka leans over the man, meeting his gaze. He is lying on his back, his bare chest almost entirely wrapped in thick white bandages. The man smiles at her, and she is a little surprised by the sharpness of his teeth.
"How long will you be here?" Maka asks.
"Uh," he says, looking out the window. "Not sure. Just woke up a little while ago. I can't believe I've been out for a week."
"Have they gotten in touch with your family, finally?"
He chuckles, and if it weren't so wheezy, it would sound dark. "Probably not yet. I, uh, don't talk to my folks that much. They probably haven't even noticed anything is wrong."
"I'm sorry," she says softly.
He meets her gaze again, looking a little awkward. "No, don't be, it's a long—"
"No." Maka shakes her head. "For this. For getting hurt. I'm sorry I was foolish enough to get surprised by those two assholes and I'm sorry you were hurt."
"Oh." The man shifts slightly under her wet gaze. "Don't apologize for that. I… didn't want to see you get hurt. I don't mind."
His cheeks are flushed, especially in comparison to the stark white of his bandages.
"I'm Maka," she blurts out.
He turns to her. "What?"
"My name. Is Maka."
"Oh," he says, grinning slowly. "Nice to officially meet you, Maka. I'm glad I'm conscious this time."
She snorts lightly, running a hand along the plastic railing of his hospital bed. "What's your name?"
"Soul."
"Like the sun?"
"No, like a soulmate," he says, gaze held steady with her own.
Day 7: First "I Love You"
Their apartment was dark save for the low glow of the TV. Bathed in its pale blue light, Maka and Soul snuggled close on the couch, lying on their sides as they gazed passively at the screen.
"This movie's pretty terrible," Maka murmured.
Soul grunted in agreement. He was lying behind her, arm slung over her side and curled up against her chest. She rested her head on his other arm, watching the movie between his curled fingers.
He was warm, and it was making her sleepy, so Maka felt no real motivation to do anything about the bad movie. Instead she snuggled almost imperceptibly closer, reveling in the heat of his chest against her back. She sighed.
Soul lazily moved his hand to slide her hair between his fingers, drawing it back. "Your hair's in my way," he said softly.
"Good," she said. "This movie is awful."
"Yeah, but it smells nice."
"The movie?"
"No, you dorkus, your hair."
"Well I did just shower."
"Mmm," he said, burrowing his head into the crook of her neck. Soul breathed deeply against her.
"Now you're not even watching the movie with me. You're leaving me to suffer alone."
"I'm watching."
"No, you're cuddling."
"I can do both."
Maka moved her free hand back to thread in his soft, silvery hair. Having just showered as well, it was especially smooth, and for the first half of the movie, he had put his head in her lap so she could play with his hair.
"We really should just turn it off and go to bed."
"Nnrgh."
She chuckled. "Yeah, I know."
Soul turned his head so that he could speak into the open air. "I mean, I'm here and you're here and I'm tired and I think those are three pretty good reasons not to move."
Maka hummed in assent. She let her hand fall and slid her fingers into his. He squeezed. She squeezed back.
She felt warm and safe and at peace, except for one small thing buzzing in the back of her head. For a few moments, Maka thought it was because the acting in the movie was so abysmal, but that wasn't it. She closed her eyes and she knew.
Shuffling to flip over onto her other side, she gazed up into Soul's face, illuminated by the screen.
"Soul?"
"Mmm?"
"I love you."
His face was unreadable, but then he leaned down to lightly place his lips over hers. She closed her eyes, and felt the contours of his kiss. He repeated it, over and over and over, so many light, slow pecks that Maka lost count, the only sound the slight crackle of their lips together and the movie in the background.
After a while, she pulled back slightly. "Don't you have anything to say to me?" she whispered.
"Yeah. You're a nerd with horrible taste in movies and I'm picking the next one."
She pinched him with a mock scoff. Soul squirmed, then wrapped his arms tightly around her.
"And I love you too."