My entry for 2014's Resbang :) The next chapters will follow as I reformat/edit them for AO3 and FFN.

Links for the art should be up on the profile after I'm done updloading.

Enjoy!

06-01-2015 Edit - I ended up not having any art from my official artists, but some lovely people did art inspired on my fic :) The cover image is by the wonderful and amazing karachips/datkaraperson, link is on the profile!

The dark sky above Death City is strangely empty.

Logically, both Soul and Maka know that it isn't empty - it merely appears to be so. The moon is covered in a sphere of black blood, much like the kind that had coursed through the weapon's veins until mere hours ago. The absence of its forever-grinning surface in the velvety night leaves a disquieting throbbing in their souls; the moon has been there ever since the city itself had been created, yet now it's gone.

It isn't the only thing that has changed in their lives, however.

With a quiet sigh, Maka Albarn closes the blinds of the window after giving one last tired look outside in search of Blair and deducing that the cat would be spending the night out. Guilt churns in her stomach as her eyes drift again towards the empty sky; both Soul and her are broken, tired, beaten-up, and they left a friend behind.

Soul nudges her softly. "Let's get cleaned up," he says, and she follows.

The contents of their first-aid cabinet have grown and spilled over through the years, bandages and antiseptic and burn creams almost everywhere in the house. It pays to be careful; they discovered it pretty early on in their partnership. Neither of them are the kind to take that sort of chance.

Wordlessly, Maka hands the supplies to Soul, knowing that he won't allow her to take care of him first. It's part of a weapon's instinct, deeply ingrained into their subconscious that the weapon protects the meister, yet Soul manages to take it to whole new levels. He rips open the pack with the disinfected needle and medical thread, and settles everything else by the counter.

"Which ones are the worst?" he asks, but she's already unsuccessfully trying to pull off her shirt, wincing. The dry blood has glued together the fabric to the wounds, which means that scissors and hot water will have to come into play - not that she isn't used to it, but still. He frowns. "I thought the black blood had sealed that."

"It did, for the most part," she shrugs, and it's hard to keep her eyes open. She's so tired, her limbs feel weak, even her near-constant subconscious resonance with Soul is hard to maintain. "But it was concentrating only on the most important ones," she says, and his eyes drop to where she had a hand shoved through her middle earlier that day.

It looks nearly healed, and it will leave quite a scar, but for once he's glad he had been infected with the Black Blood - she wouldn't have survived, otherwise. "Plus there's the one on my shoulder."

He nods, kneeling in front of her sitting form, and gets to work. A companionable silence settles between the two as he cautiously peels the wettened shreds of clothing from her skin, wiping away the old blood before stitching the torn flesh carefully. His hands are steady even as she flinches, trying to muffle her whimpers of pain. They ran out of anesthetics days ago, too busy to remember to replace them; he doesn't like that he's causing her pain, but her body is already too close to shutting down and they really need to bandage her up before going to sleep. Badly treated injuries bring the kind of repercussions they can't deal with - not with things as they are.

He bandages her shoulder, the circle of damaged flesh over her ribcage, disinfects and covers the multiple scrapes on her arms with white gauze. Her legs are better off, but not by much. There's a still-bleeding cut on her left thigh, as long as his hand, and she sheepishly looks away when he gives her a scolding look for not saying anything about it sooner. How she had walked most of the way home with it is beyond him, but he knows her well enough to know that it's because she doesn't want to be a burden.

"Stupid," he mutters, and cleans that one up, too. She leans her forehead against his shoulder, and falls asleep.

Soul is very much glad that he doesn't suffer all that many injuries when in weapon form. Not to say that he comes out of battles in a perfect state - that would be an outright lie. His blood used to boil black under his skin, the pain from the blows his meister takes shared through the resonance link - but at least the general lack of physical injuries allows him to concentrate, first and foremost, on Maka. An overwhelming tiredness settles bone-deep in his body.

Maka, his meister. Maka, the human who makes up for her fragility with boundless courage and determination. Maka, whose skin is soft and whose bones are breakable and who looks so fragile, who can take down kishins without breaking a sweat. He swore to protect her, both out loud and to himself, but he finds that it's not that easy, not when she's as hard-headed as she is and not when the world seems bent on throwing the hardest of enemies their way.

Soul carries her from her perch on the closed toilet lid to the soft sheets in her bedroom. She's filthy, he's filthy, and the bed sheets are probably never going to recover from the mixture of muck, dirt, sweat, and two different types of blood, but he's beyond caring at this point. She'll probably scold him in the morning - or whenever they wake up, which he guesses won't be anytime soon - but if she were conscious, Maka herself probably wouldn't have gone to the lengths of taking a shower before crashing down on the nearest surface and going to sleep, anyway.

One of her pigtails is already coming undone, so he helps with the process. The elastic has certainly seen better days; he makes a mental note to get her new ones. Soul unties the other side, smoothing her dirty yet still soft hair over the pillow, then pulls the covers up to her chin before exiting the room.

It's nearly nightfall of the next day when he wakes up and finds her next to him.

Soul makes breakfast - or dinner, depending on the perspective - and the scent of nearly-burnt bacon and eggs fills the air. His meister sits on one of the kitchen's chairs, changing the bandages of the wounds on her leg, oblivious to the looks he keeps sending her way until she finally catches his eye.

"What?" she asks, and he shakes his head. It's one thing to find his meister cuddled up against him after a rough night, head nestled neatly against the side of his neck, and a whole other thing to confront her about it.

He likes the way they are, simple and wordless as they drift together time and time again. "Nothing," he says. "Just wondering if you need help with that."

She offers him one of her bright smiles, the kind that makes his brain melt for a second or two, and shakes her head. "I was just doing the legs," Maka says. "But after we eat, can you help me? I can't reach the rest without it hurting."

"Sure." He slides two-thirds of the food into her plate, and the rest into his. She's light and elegant, yet she always eats more than him, as she burns through the calories when training like it's nothing. She immediately starts eating, a good portion of the meal filling her mouth before he can even blink. "Slow down," he says. "You know you'll be hiccuping the rest of the night if you eat at that speed."

Maka grumbles, but ultimately complies. Soul then proceeds to shovel the food down his throat at the exact same speed his meister had been, grinning smugly at her between bites.

"You aren't even chewing it," she complains. He opens his mouth at her mockingly, showing the half-chewed food that fills the inside of it. "Ew! Gross - Soul, stop that!"

Maka flicks a piece of bread in his direction, and it lands right in the center of his still-opened mouth. He chokes, sending egg bits flying everywhere, and it's gross and terrible but funny, so he sends both a glare and another piece of bread in her direction as she laughs at him.

It's the aftermath of the hardest battle in their lives so far, but they can still laugh. It gives them hope.

Then, the phone rings.

It's an odd time for normal people to be calling, but Death City doesn't have a lot of those anyway. They have been given the next few days off, given that they are amongst the groups most in need of recuperation, so any official calls are pretty much ruled out, unless Kid decided to assign them some paperwork. Maka shrugs, making her way towards the ringing appliance and picking bits of food out of her hair as she goes.

"Albarn and Eater household, may I ask who's speaking?"

There is a rough, masculine voice on the other side of the line, and she doesn't recognize it though it sounds terribly familiar. "Hello, miss. Does Soul Evans live there?"

Maka takes a peek at her weapon's profile, watching as he cleans up the mess they had made. "Ah- Yes, he does. Who's asking?"

There is a shuffle on the other side of the line. "Is he alright?"

Soul chooses that moment to pay attention to her conversation. "Who's on the phone?"

"I don't know!" Maka says frustratedly. "They haven't said yet."

"Well, then ask them-"

"I'm trying," she shouts. "Hold on!"

"Uhh, miss-"

"No need to yell-"

"If this is a bad time-"

"No, it's perfectly fine but if you could wait one minute-"

"Who is it?"

"I'll just call later-"

"Wait, hold on-"

Click.

Silence.

Both Soul and Maka look at the silent phone, wondering what in Death's name had just happened.

"Soooo," Soul says, drawing out the word. "Did you find out who it was?"

Maka contains the urge to chuck the phone at his head. "They were asking about you," she says after a minute, conceding to herself that he should at least know.

He raises an eyebrow. "Seriously? And it wasn't anyone we know?"

She huffs, putting down the phone on the table. "If it was, I would know. He sounded kind of familiar, though."

"He?"

"Well, yes," she says, perplexed. He almost sounds wary, the tiniest bit jealous, like when those few guys that manage to get past him try and ask her to be their meister - only the call had been for him, that dork. "Is there something I should be aware of?"

"Not that I know of," he sighs, rubbing a hand over tired eyes. "Who calls at this time of the night, anyway?"

"I trust you two are well?" Kid asks, the breeze swaying his hair - now with the three complete lines of Sanzu. Liz had told Maka under complete confidence that it's a relief - the change within the new Shinigami, coupled with the development of his character during the difficult past weeks, had made him somewhat emotionally unstable - but it had also helped him, somehow. The OCD was down to far more manageable levels, though it would never be completely gone, as shown when Kid scowls momentarily at the unsymmetrical and incredibly long thorns of the dark roses crawling their way up the nearest wall.

Maka smiles at him, the cut in her lower lip stinging as she does. "Hi Kid," she says. "How are the repairs going?"

"Quite well, I believe," he smiles back. "Though Tsubaki is the one overseeing those."

"When she's not busy trying to keep that blue-haired idiot in bed, that is," Liz snorts. "The guy can't seem to understand that a fucking broken spine is a reason to stay quiet and let it heal."

"He looks like a snake," Patti adds helpfully.

"Either way, I didn't call you about the repairs." Kid smoothes down his hair.

"Oh, no," Soul groans. "Please don't say it's paperwork."

Liz smirks. "Tough luck, shark boy. It's paperwork."

Maka looks elated, and Soul represses a groan. Figures his meister would like doing the boring stuff, if only to feel useful while unable to do any physical work. He can kind of understand that, given that all her frustration gets broadcasted over their link, but it doesn't change the fact that it's paperwork.

"Everything should be in the library," Kid says, casting an apologetic look at Soul's pained grimace. "Usually I'd take care of it myself, but I figured you'd rather stay in Shibusen instead of attending the meeting with the witches while Maka stayed here."

Soul sulks, but knows that the new Shinigami is right. Maka sends an inquisitive look his way. "Yeah, thanks for that. I really don't feel like dealing with that anytime soon."

That, of course, is the fact that a Death Scythe in the midst of witches is always a target for suspicious glares and curious prodes. He's received his fair share of propositions during the short time they had interacted after the battle, and isn't eager to repeat the experience anytime soon - especially not without his meister.

"Thanks, Kid," Maka chirps, and takes Soul's hand in hers. It's warm, soft, but also calloused, for once without the gloves. They won't be fighting anytime soon, so she figured it was time to let her hands breathe for a while before they took on missions again. He likes it. He likes the feel of her skin against his, likes connecting with her physically as much as as mentally; the ever-present resonance thrums in the background, enhanced by the contact. He wants to feel her palm against his on a daily basis, for as long as he can before they inevitably have to part. Soul wonders if she wants to hold his hand as much as he wants to hold hers, and she tightens her grip in response.

"Holy shit," he breathes out when they reach the library, the access to it restricted to everyone but Spartoi while classes are on hold due to the repairs. The amount of paperwork is huge, towering above them in unstable, menacing piles that promise papercuts and sore eyes. "How the fuck are we going to get through all that today?"

Maka drags him to the table where the files are, plopping down on the chair. "We won't. Kid said he'd give us the week, since it's a lot."

He lets out a sigh of relief. "At least there's that."

Soul sits on the chair opposite her, deducing that each of them would need some space as they filed those piles of bureaucratic bullshit, but also mourning the loss of the warmth of her hand. Instead, he slouches in his seat, sliding his foot against hers and watching for her reaction. She doesn't disappoint. Maka turns red and squeaks, glancing quickly at his carefully composed features before looking away, but she doesn't move. In fact, her own foot slides closer to his, and he can almost feel her heat radiating through their clothing.

"W-we should get started on it, then," she says, cheeks still flushed, and he nods half-heartedly.

They decide not to divide the piles in two, because they're unstable enough as it is. It's better than to try and catch the flood of paper that will surely fill the library if they disturb them more than necessary, so they each take a few of the files from the top of the stack, watching warily as it wobbles dangerously, and get to work.

The library is silent, only the rustle of clothing and the scratching of the pens against the paper echoing in the empty halls. The quiet is eerie, almost oppressive, to the point that Soul wants to say something if only just to break it, but can't bring himself to do it. Instead, he tries to concentrate on the paperwork in front of him, and not on the way his meister's silky hair brushes against her clavicle, for once not covered by the neatly buttoned shirt-and-jacket combo. He fails, though, and finds himself stealing more glances at her than he should. Slowly, the skin of her neck turns the lightest shade of red.

"Just get to work," she mumbles, but he can see the beginnings of a smile in the corner of her lips.

"Well, what are you waiting for? Take it off," Soul says, doing his best to look busy as he gathers the medical supplies. "It's time to change the bandages."

Maka squirms in her seat. "Can't we delay it for a bit?"

He glances at her suspiciously. "Did you rip the stitches again?"

She blushes; it's the only answer he needs. Soul groans.

"I thought I told you to take it easy!"

"Well, I get bored!" she pouts. "I'm not used to just sitting around all day."

Soul snorts. "Yes, you are. It's all you ever do when we're not on missions, you bookworm."

"But I'm not forced to be still!" Maka complains, arms crossed. "It's no fun if I can't even scratch my back when I feel like it."

"It's not supposed to be fun at all," he points out, but I'll scratch it for you is what the link says in the background, affectionately pumping the message into her soul. I'll make you tea and cake and bring you the pain pills and adjust your pillow.

He really likes seeing her flush, even if he doesn't say the words out loud in fear of sounding needy and just plain uncool.

Maka's toes curl as she reaches up and starts unbuttoning her shirt.

"Fine," she says, and it's the tiniest, meekest voice he's ever heard her use. "Just hurry up."

They don't talk about how weird and improper it is that they've seen each other in such states of undress yet are not in a romantic relationship. They don't talk about the way his hands linger and how warm they feel against her skin, or how she shivers when his fingers caress her neck as he wraps a clean bandage around her shoulder. The only thing that matters is that the wounds are slowly healing; they'll get through it together, like they always do.

The funeral for the old Shinigami - or rather, the memorial, seeing as there wasn't anything to bury except for the mask, and that had been passed on to Kid - occurred not in a rainy, windy, sad day, as those things usually happened, but rather in a sunny one, though the somber expressions on every face present more than made up for the bright weather.

It seemed as if the entire population of Death City were there, crowding the streets with a moving mass of black garments and tears. Even the witches - honouring their treaty with the newest Shinigami - had come, paying their respects. Death Scythes from all over the planet took a momentary break from their jobs, from Tezca Tlipoca, in his mirror, to Djinn Galland and Dengu Dinga, alongside their meisters. Even tiny Enrique was present, his usual baseball cap replaced by a black one as he waved a very wet handkerchief in the wind.

Maka limps to her rightful place, beside the other Spartoi members, hand in hand with Soul. Kid insisted on them wearing the uniform; it's a way to show their respect as they are saying their goodbyes. Even Black*Star is there, slumped on a wheelchair - much to Tsubaki's distress, because that's no way for someone with a broken spine to be and he's going to make it a lot worse than it already is - but he insists on at least that, even though he would have preferred to be standing. Tsubaki looks very much like she'd like to tie him down, but she refrains from doing so out of respect for the mourning atmosphere and because the struggle would most likely cause her meister to injure himself further.

Jacqueline and Kim offer them a quiet greeting, shifting a bit in order to give them space. They're also hand in hand, leaning into each other for comfort, and Maka had her ever-present background resonance with Soul thrumming with the fond thought that their friends have also found someone they belong with. Harvar sends them a welcoming nod, as does Kilik, and the elemental twins hug Maka's legs for a brief moment before returning to their meister's side.

Spirit is speaking at a podium set up just for this occasion, surrounded by the thorny, twisting dark roses that seem to be blooming everywhere nowadays; it's the most serious the bulk of them have ever seen the Death Scythe be. His words blur together in Soul's mind, a reverent and mourning mixture of how this is the end of an era, the rebirth of their world into something even greater, and how the loss of such a leader will affect them all deeply. Soul can't help but feel a twinge of something - pity, sympathy, perhaps? - because just the very thought of losing his meister, especially after working together for as many years as Spirit and Lord Death had, is just too painful to bear.

Kid takes the Death Scythe's place eventually, hands reverently holding his father's mask. Liz and Patti are standing by his side, solemn and proud, true Death's Weapons even if not made so officially by the consumption of a witch's soul.

Both Maka and Soul know that the new Shinigami is nervous. He had been stressing about what to say, if it would be enough, if it would be too much, if he should just skip the speech at all, since his Honorable Father had a tendency to cut any kind of speeches short. Kid had it all planned, pages of a practised monologue neatly organized.

His golden eyes scan the crowd, taking in the faces and expressions of all those who had come, from the little kids to the DWMA students to the inescrutable witches that had accepted the invitation out of respect for the new truce.

And then, instead of speaking, he gestures towards himself, palms forward, then facing one another, and then stretches his arms towards the crowd.

It's the last time he'll call his Father, but this time no one will answer.

Blair comes back on the third day after the battle, arms hanging with bags full of pastries, lingerie, and the medical supplies they keep forgetting to buy. "Soul-kun, Maka-chan~ Bu-tan brought food!"

There is a rustle from the sofa, and two heads pop out from behind it.

"Blair!" Maka greets, immediately standing up and wincing. "Where have you been? We've been worried."

The cat tsks, putting down the bags and walking over to them. She flicks Maka playfully on the nose. "Now, now, my kittens should know by now that Bu-tan can take care of herself, nyah~"

Maka rubs her nose as Soul scowls. "That doesn't change anything, you could have been hurt-"

They're both shoved against gigantic-sized breasts as Blair hugs them. Soul sputters for a few seconds more before noticing that Maka is just hugging her back instead of complaining, and so proceeds to do the same. She smells of cream and sun and sweat and home, and he doesn't want to admit it but he's missed her. Blair is a part of their little rag-tag family, the kind you put together with glue and care and that lasts for a lifetime, so he just sinks into the softness and lets the cat's maternal affection wash over him.

"Blair missed her kittens, too," she whispers, and holds them for a few more moments before she lets go. "Anyway," she perks up. "Bu-tan brought her kittens' favourite foods. Let's curl up and watch a movie while we eat~"

"I don't want any crumbles on the sofa," Maka grumbles, but not five minutes later they're all curled up together, eating cakes overflowing with honey and whipped cream and sugar that smears everywhere, the glow from the screen reflecting in their eyes.

It's comfortable; it's family; it's home; it's the taste of sugary treats on their tongues, and body heat to keep the chill away. None of them want the moment to be over, but there's a foreboding feeling in the air that tells them that things aren't going to continue like this.

Finally, as if to confirm their earlier suspicions, Blair sighs. "Kittens," she says. "Blair is leaving."

The reaction is immediate. The meister leaps off the couch, followed by the weapon, questions and denial flying out of their lips; the cat just looks at them regretfully before shushing them.

"It's only for a while," she explains, even as their wide eyes make guilt twinge in her heart; she knows it's the right thing to do. "The battle made Blair realize that there are a few things she needs to do, and to do them she needs to leave for a while. But Blair will come back, nyah~"

She doesn't answer any of their questions, merely pleads with them to come back to the couch and snuggle for a little while longer. They remain silent for the rest of the evening, listening to the heartbeat of the cat, and if the she notices slightly puffier eyes and the dribble of wet tears onto her skin, she doesn't say anything. She just holds them close, and prays to whatever gods had granted her her kittens with that she'll be able to come back soon.

When morning comes and Blair's not there, they don't say a word. But they keep their fridge stocked with sardines and milk, just in case.