A/N: Another one I wrote awhile back, again a "What if?" Unfortunately a LOT more depressing than others I've written, but the ending will be...somewhat happy.
Rated T for language.
And again, I don't own Soul Eater.
Fall and Fall Hard, Part 1
"So Soul, I guess you're wondering why I called you here," Spirit said casually, striding over to where Soul sat in the Death Scythe's apartment, glugging down a can of soda.
"Actually yeah I was," Soul answered, crushing the empty can in his fist before shooting it into the recycle bin next to the trash. "This wouldn't have anything to do with the ninety-ninth soul Maka and I got last night, does it?"
"You're one soul away from becoming a Death Scythe," Spirit said seriously. "Not only that, but you're the partner of my daughter. I feel obligated to tell you some things you might want to know in regards to becoming a weapon of Lord Death himself—assuming you don't screw up this time."
"Trust me, we won't," Soul said, watching Spirit turn his back to him and sigh deeply. What is up with this guy lately? He's seemed kinda gloomy for a while. Normally Spirit acted like he'd had fifteen shots of Espresso whenever he was conversing with Maka or her weapon, but these days it was just…strange. A few weeks ago in the hallway, he had randomly come up to Maka, hugged her tight for a couple minutes, then went on his way as if nothing had happened. Soul shrugged—maybe it was because he and Maka were making quick work of snapping up the one hundred Kishin Eggs, which would make them quite possibly the youngest pair to create a Death Scythe in the history of the Academy. Yeah, he's just proud of her…that's all it is.
"The Death Scythe is exclusively a weapon for the Grim Reaper to use," Spirit said, turning back to Soul with a strained smile. "Often the hardest part of moving up to this level is the separation of the weapon and the meister who helped him get there. Partners who don't prepare themselves for this often wind up growing distant from and ultimately hating eachother in the end, and I just—"
"Is that what happened with you and Mrs. Albarn?" Soul drawled in an almost challenging tone, and Spirit's shoulders stiffened, his lips pressed tightly together.
"I just want you and Maka to start thinking seriously about this. I don't tell this to every student who is about to become a Death Scythe—but you mean a lot to my daughter, and she really cares for you. And the last thing I want is to see her get any more hurt…than she already has." His voice broke on the last word, and he looked quickly away.
"Hey, dude," Soul said quietly, suddenly feeling very uncomfortable with a grown man about to start crying in front of him. "I have thought about this, a lot lately. And even though it seems like the most important thing in my life is becoming the ultimate weapon, that's not true. Maka comes first; she always has, ever since she asked me to be her weapon. She's pretty much all I've got and—I'm never gonna let her go."
Spirit looked back at him, then nodded after a few moments, "Thank you, Soul. That was what I was hoping you'd say." He held out his hand, and Soul shook it firmly.
"So…that's it?" Soul asked. Why the hell did I have to come all the way to his apartment? Couldn't he have told me this tomorrow at school?
"I guess so," Spirit said, shrugging unenthusiastically.
"Uh, alright then…Let me take a piss and then I'll get outta your hair." Soul made his way to the bathroom, and once he'd finished took a detour through Spirit's study. Lying on the desk was what looked to Soul like a picture of a grand landscape, then a closer look made him realize it was a postcard. A postcard that looked a lot like the ones Maka got from her mom from time to time. What? No way. Maka's mom is still in contact with her father? He picked it up and flipped it over to the written side. No…that wasn't it. That wasn't it at all.
Dear Maka,
I'm heading out on a long mission in the Danish Amish country within the week. That means no phones, no email, no means of contact whatsoever and I'm not at all sure when I'll be able to write to you again. I'm sorry it has to be this way sweetheart, but this opportunity is once in a lifetime. If you graduate before I can write again, or make Soul into a Death Scythe, or both, I just want you to know how proud I am of you and everything you've accomplished. Keep your father in line for me, and keep your partner close to you—I can't stress that enough. I love you so much, and I know you're going to go far, whatever you choose. I promise I'll write you again.
Love, Mama
Something wasn't right here; he knew it in the pit of his stomach. Soul's eyes traveled slowly away from the postcard down to a document Spirit had signed for Lord Death beneath it. He studied the handwriting of the signature, then studied the handwriting on the postcard…he was so livid that he nearly tore the postcard in two. Clutching it in his hand, he rounded the corner back into the living area where Spirit was waiting to show him out.
"What the fuck is this?" Soul didn't even care in the slightest that he had just swore in front of an adult—if this creature could even call himself so.
"A postcard from Maka's mother," Spirit said, his eyes widening at Soul's sudden outburst.
"Addressed to Maka? In your handwriting?" The young weapon didn't know how much longer he could remain cool in this situation, and Spirit's expression didn't help—it told him everything.
"Soul, you have to understand—"
"You're the shittiest liar in history, and your poker face sucks," Soul snapped, shoving the postcard in Spirit's face. "How long has Maka's mother stopped writing to her?"
"A year," Spirit answered, sinking weak-kneed into the sofa like a child about to be grounded for life. "Since the divorce was finalized. When I got full custody, she took off and nobody could figure out where she was." Soul did recall a brief period where Maka's mother hadn't written to her for months and his meister had been really worried about her. But once the postcards started coming again, Maka had been her bright cheerful self once again, slipping the cards into her scrapbook. Now Soul knew exactly how they had started coming again.
"How could you?" Soul shook his head at the pathetic man before him. "How could you do this to your only daughter?" Spirit was sobbing now, his face in his hands, but Soul didn't care—he wanted to slice him open with his scythe arm blade.
"I couldn't tell her," Spirit choked out. "I couldn't tell Maka that her mother wanted nothing to do with either of us, so I sent the postcards in her place. And now after last month, I just can't tell my little girl that—"
"What?" Soul asked as Spirit stopped short. "What can't you tell her?"
"It's noth—"
"Don't you dare tell me this is 'nothing'!" Soul seized the front of Spirit's shirt and dragged him up to his eye level. "What happened last month? What the hell does this postcard mean?"
"Kami…my sweet Kami…"
Soul let go of the front of the broken man's shirt and backed up a bit, "You better not be about to say what I think you're going to say." Spirit took out a handkerchief from his back pocket and swiped at his face. "Spirit…Maka's mother isn't…"
"She was killed in the Arctic…over four weeks ago. She was fatally injured and her current weapon nursed her back to health. But she died of pneumonia the next day—on Maka's fifteenth birthday. She's worshiped the ground her mother walks on her entire life. How could I possibly tell her?"
"You son of a bitch," Soul growled like a wolf on the prowl.
"I just wanted to protect her—"
"By lying to her?" Soul shouted, crushing the postcard into a ball in his fist. "You're not protecting her, you're taking the knife that's already in her back and twisting it!" He had to get out of there; he couldn't look at him any longer without wanting to kill him right then and there. "What the hell did Maka do to deserve a father like you?" Leaving Spirit sniveling on the couch, Soul strode out the door and into the night air, climbing aboard his motorbike and taking off back to the apartment he and Maka shared.
Fuck…now how am I gonna tell her?
SLAM!
"Soul, what is wrong with you?" Maka cried, nearly jumping out of her skin as Soul banged the apartment door open so hard the walls shook. Letting the book slip from her hands, she got up from the couch and approached her seething weapon, who kicked over the coffee table forcefully on his way inside.
"You can't trust anyone, Maka," Soul said in a quiet, trembling voice. "I've known it my whole life, and now you know it too."
"What happened, why are you saying stuff like that?" Maka asked gently, reaching out to touch his hand still balled into a tight fist. She looked closer, "What are you holding?"
Soul looked at her for the first time since he got home, his crimson eyes dull and sad. "I went and saw your dad. He wanted to talk to me about becoming a Death Scythe, and I found this when I was about to leave."
He uncurled his fingers to reveal the wadded up postcard, and Maka took it from him and unwrinkled it. "It's a postcard from Mama. But why did he have it?"
"Because he wrote it." Best to be straight with her, no beating around the bush. This had been kept from her long enough.
"What are you talking ab—?"
"Compare the handwriting on a postcard before the divorce was finalized to one from after." Maka looked at Soul like he was crazy, her brow furrowed. "Just do it." Maka went over to the bookshelf to grab her scrapbook, then flipped through to an earlier page. Soul could do nothing but watch her as she took out two cards and studied them carefully, knowing that in about two minutes, he was going to break her heart—no, more like break her soul.
"I don't believe this," Maka whispered angrily, both hands holding the postcards shaking. "How—how could I have never noticed it before? I didn't think anything of it when Mama stopped writing for awhile—but it all makes sense now." The cards fell from her hands and fluttered down on top of the scrapbook page. She shook her head, "No…no, it doesn't make sense at all. Why would Papa lie to me about something like this? How low can he possibly stoop?" Soul sighed deeply, and Maka looked up at him as he ran a hand through his snow white hair. He gazed down at her, and her pleading tear-filled gaze tore him apart, "Soul, why?"
"He said he didn't want you to get hurt, so he lied for a year," Soul replied. "You're mother's been missing all this time, no one knew where she was…" He trailed off and deliberately avoided her eyes.
"There's something else," Maka said, watching him intently—she could read him like one of her books.
"It gets worse," Soul nodded. He knelt in front of where she sat on the couch and took both her hands in his, "Your…your mom…"
"Don't be my father, Soul," Maka said a bit harshly, her damp olive green eyes meeting his blood red ones as he struggled to speak. "Don't lie to me."
"She was killed," Soul said in a constricted voice. "In the Arctic…on your birthday." Maka said nothing, not one word, but it didn't matter because Soul could see it plainly on her face—shock, denial, pain, betrayal, sadness, anger, and a thousand other emotions he could not identify. "Maka…"
"No…"
"Maka," he repeated, taking her by the shoulders, trying to force her to see the love and concern in his gaze.
"No!" Maka shouted, jumping up from the couch, Soul following suit as he still held her shoulders firmly.
"Maka, listen—" And then her hand came out of nowhere and slapped him across the face.
"I said DON'T LIE TO ME!" Soul's stinging cheek from her slap was nothing compared to the ache in his heart when she screamed those anguished words. He let go and Maka wrenched herself away from him, "She's not dead!"
"Yes, she is," Soul said quite calmly. He didn't care if she stabbed him with a kitchen knife next—he was never going to lie to her.
"You're wrong!" Maka tore from the room and slammed her bedroom door so hard the door frame cracked, leaving Soul alone. As he slumped onto the couch, there was a long loud wail as he heard Maka throwing things against the wall, then finally a crushing of bed springs as his meister flung herself on her bed, screaming a string of tearful profanities into her pillow—cursing her father, cursing her partner and best friend. Soul did nothing but sat with his head in his hands, listening to her, never feeling so helpless in his life. No, this was something he couldn't protect her from.
It was well into the evening before Maka's bedroom door finally creaked open. All the lights in the apartment were out except for the light from Soul's laptop screen in the living room. A soft melancholy piano piece emitted from the speakers, the same one he had played for her when they first met. Soul lay on the couch, staring up at the ceiling as he heard footsteps approaching him.
"Soul…?"
He didn't want to get up; he didn't want to look at her. He could tell by her voice exactly what he would see if he looked and he didn't think he could take it.
"I…I fell asleep." He figured that, since the screaming had stopped a few hours ago. "Soul…please look at me."
Slowly, he swung his legs over the side and stood up to face her. Oh God… Even in the dim light from the monitor, he could see how wretched she looked. He had never seen Maka look so much like a lost and vulnerable little girl—it reminded him of Crona.
"I had a nightmare…where you came home and told me Mama was…" She stepped closer to him tentatively, then slowly she reached up and brushed her fingertips against his cheek where she'd hit him, still red and sore. She gasped softly and her eyes brimmed with tears, her lower lip trembling as she stared from his reddened cheek to his eyes, deep and assuring as they had always been. "It wasn't a dream, was it?"
"Maka, I am so sorry," Soul breathed out in his low, gentle voice, grasping her firmly and pulling her into his arms at the same time Maka flung herself forward, burying herself in his chest. He sat her down on the couch with him and gathered her into his lap, kissing the side of her head as Maka wept quietly, hanging onto her weapon for dear life.
"No, Soul…don't apologize…you did the right thing."
Soul shook his head silently, holding her even closer and stroking her silky blonde hair. "I'm so sorry…that this happened to you." He furiously tried to blink away his own tears and failed, "You're the most beautiful person I know, and you don't deserve this."
"She's gone…Mama's really gone," Maka whimpered, clutching Soul harder—What am I going to do?
Yes, Soul had told her to stay home from the Academy today and be by herself. Yes, she had done a lot of thinking while alone in the apartment, and that was why—yes, she was at the Academy anyway. Walking almost blindly through the empty hallway, Maka slowly trudged up to the Death Room as if headed for her execution. She had made her decision, and it was for the best for everyone involved.
"Come in!" came a cheerful, foolish voice after Maka had knocked on the door. Slowly she pushed it open and Lord Death looked up from his morning tea. "Hey hey, Maka Albarn! Wassup, wassup?"
"Good morning, Lord Death."
"Now come on, why the gloomy face?" the Reaper asked, waving his enormous hands at her. "If my records aren't mistaken, you're only one soul away from making Soul Eater into a Death Scythe!"
"That's what I wanted to see you about," Maka said softly, staring down at her feet. "I know what happened to my mother."
"Oh dear," Lord Death actually looked a bit shocked. "You were certain to find out sooner or later—I'm terribly sorry for your loss. Kami was a magnificent woman."
"She was my greatest inspiration," Maka replied. "But now that she's gone…" I have nothing left to live up to, she finished silently to herself. Taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly, she looked up at the Grim Reaper with her most resigned and determined expression.
"Lord Death…I'm dropping out of the DWMA. I resign from being a meister."
A/N: Part 2 being revised and coming soon! Reviews are cool, so leave one please!