I know that I should probably prioritize continuing Not-Valentine's over posting another oneshot, but I'm having a major writer's block right now. And then I found this lying around somewhere under a pile of papers and thought, with some rewriting … and well, here you have it. Have fun with it and let me be jealous of all of you who don't have writer's block.

She hated it when Soul was in the hospital.

She hated everything, the white of the bandages that always covered him, the equally white bedsheets that were meshing with his hair, the red stains of blood she always saw when they changed a bandage, the smell of metal and medicine that made her want to vomit every time she inhaled it, but most of all she hated how he always got there, bloodied and hurt.

She hated how it was her fault every single time, blamed herself over and over and over again. If she had been just a little faster, if she had noticed just a little sooner, if he wasn't so damn protective of her, then this wouldn't have happened, he wouldn't have shielded her, he would have let her take the hit for once. And every single time it was like the scar on his chest all over again, her fault, all her fault that he was hit instead of her again.

She hated the looks people would always throw them, curious, frowning, disgusted, arrogant, livid, pitiful, when she carried him to the nearest hospital, shouts of "Oh my!", "Get away from me!", "Don't let him drop his blood on my parking space!" and whispers of "What happened?", "How sickening" and "Shibusen freaks" accumulating along the way. They never bothered to lower their voices, instead speaking loud enough for her to hear and it irked her, angered her, made her furious that they were calling the person she trusted most a freak. Yes, he had white hair, read eyes, sharp teeth, he was a weapon and he was hurt, hurt because of her, but if there was one thing he wasn't, it was a freak.

She hated the worries and sorrows that came with his injuries, hated how she broke down every time something like it happened, unable to do anything as he lay there, still and unmoving, sent to sleep with a different sedative every time by the doctors. When she watched him like that, it was almost as if he was dead, the one thing she wanted to hold off for as long as possible. He had to be okay, he had to smirk at her again, he had to be there again.

It was that thought that always kept her awake until her body snapped and fell into a rocky sleep-state in an uncomfortable position on the chair at his bedside, but she wouldn't, couldn't move, not even when nurses came in and told her she should get a good rest. She needed to be near him, to be near his soul. It was the only thing that would soothe her hyperventilating nerves.

She would always initiate a loose resonance, because it was proof that he was still there, because she would feel his presence, because in the Black Room she could see him. He always assured her that it was okay, it was alright, she didn't need to worry that much or that stupidly big brain of hers would melt. But even through his assurances, even through his warm words and embraces there would still be traces of uncertainty left, twinges of concern and anxiety that only went away once he woke up, once he gave her solid proof of what he was always saying to calm her.

Only when he woke up would she be able to smile again. Only then would she be at rest finally. He would be there again, he would be okay again, he would be out of immediate danger again. Him waking up was like the sun coming back after days of rain. She would always fling her arms around him and bury her face in his chest. The first thing he would see would never be her tears, she made sure of that. He would hug back, inhale her scent as if he didn't know it already by heart and whisper apologies in her ear. She hated it when he did that. It was her fault, everything was her fault, he shouldn't be the one apologizing.

He always did so though, especially in the much rarer cases that she was the one that was stuck to the hospital bed and sleep faked by narcosis. It was still him apologizing every single time, sorry he hadn't been fast enough, sorry he didn't notice sooner, sorry he couldn't protect her. It was something that was just not right. She could hold her ground even when injured and he didn't have to recklessly shield her from every little scratch. Not when he already had so much scars from protecting her, not when the evidence of just how far he'd go was etched into his chest like a neon sign of her biggest failure.

It wasn't that meisters never got hurt. It was pretty much in the job description, really. And still, every time that she was the one that lay in the hospital sheets, she could see the guilt washing over him and none of her attempts to erase it from him would prevail. He'd just smile softly and take her hand in his, and she would know that despite her words, he still thought he was the one at fault. Every. Single. Time. And even though it felt nice when he was so attentive, she knew guilt and didn't want him to feel it. Sure, he was her weapon and nearly desperately holding onto the motto of the weapon protecting the meister, but he was also not supposed to die on her just like that. It wasn't his fault, not a single time had it been his fault. She had never blamed him for her injuries on the battlefield. Not a single one had been his fault and if he ever said the apologies one more time, she would maim him

Over time, neither of them had to hog the hospital sheets particularly often, because with the treaty there were no really powerful opponents, not often at least. But she saw the guilt all the more and it irked her that he still felt that way even though she had told him countless times that he shouldn't.

As time passed on and the hospital visits occurred less and less and most of time for reasons other than harsh battle wounds, she could finally see a change in him. Even if she knew that he still felt guilt at the scars that freckled her body, it had mostly changed into the resolve to keep her alive and the wounds to a minimum. After a threat from her that if he got himself killed, she'd follow him, he also started to take better care of himself on the battlefield, enough so to get away without fatal wounds like the scar. He once told her that if it was a scar, then it meant it was over and that they had managed to live for another day. That he had kept her safe. She had smiled at that and leaned up to kiss him then. It seemed that he never quite understood why.

They had come a long way, she realized. And yet, even though she knew every rule had its exceptions, just this time she was surprised a little at her thoughts about his share of fault right now. This was probably the only time she was selfish enough to blame him for the fact that she had ended up in the hospital sheets in a lot more pain than she had expected to be in.

"I hate you!"

The words were hissed, she couldn't manage anything else. Soul just rolled his eyes, obviously not feeling at all responsible for the mess beside him.

"No, you don't."

Right. The one time she actually wanted to blame him and he didn't let her. Typical Soul behaviour. Just like the light grin he was shooting her. It didn't have an ounce of smugness in it and yet it infuriated her to no end.

"This is all your fault!"

"I'm pretty sure it's just as much yours. And also, you're crushing my hand."

"Serves you right."

He chuckled and stroked her hair with his unoccupied hand. The one she wasn't crushing at the moment.

"Maka, what has it been? Three years? It was bound to happen sometime."

She ground her teeth and clutched the bedsheets and Soul's hand harder. He was right, she knew. It wasn't his fault, hell, it wasn't anyone's fault, this wasn't something she would ever regret. It just hurt.

"Why-"

She was cut off by a wave of pain before she could finish her sentence. Soul squeezed the hand that was holding his in a way that was probably meant to be reassuring. It wasn't broken yet, huh? Good. She needed his fingers. They were necessary for normal life and she wouldn't cook for the rest of eternity because she ripped his fingers apart. Also, they had other merits that she quite liked. She wouldn't give those up either. Still, she wanted to break his hand just a little to show him at least one tiny bit of the pain she was in now.

"Why did you have to get me pregnant?"

This time he full-out laughed, even if he had first tried to play it cool and just snort. The laughter soon turned into strange fits of coughing though, after one murderous death-glare from his pained wife in labour.

"Say what you want, I'm positive you enjoyed it back then."

She muffled an inaudible "shut up" before another wave hit her, rendering her speechless. Her last thought before she gave birth was that Soul owed her some seriously good sex when she was back in action.

In the end, nothing had really changed. She had always hated it to see Soul in the hospital. It was just that this time, she had a slightly different reason for feeling that way.