A/N: Not quite sure what this is. Wrote it in thirty minutes, did a quick edit, posted it. I guess you can kinda tell, since it's super sloppy. Hope ya enjoyed anyway.
His eyes were like burning embers, flickering along his faint scent of gasoline and autumn leaves. He didn't hesitate to pick her up off of the ground, dirty nails digging into her skin with worry. Murmurs escape his bleeding lips as he kisses her forehead.
She resists, all emerald eyes and butterscotch hair, but not for long. Her body is oh so tired and her partner is just so warm and comforting. She can feel the warmth of blood and strength echoing through the ripped shreds of what used to be his shirt. Concern threatens to take over, but his tight grip tells her to wait until later.
"Reckless," he says, "You're so reckless."
She lifts a shaky hand and touches the scar she knows so well. Nights of soft cries and letting her fingers memorize the jagged shape and texture of it have caused her to know such an important part of him as if it were a part of her too. "As if you're the one to talk,"
"A weapon is nothing without his meister," His voice is deep, smooth and quiet. He speaks with an air of confidence, never hinting at the fear that lingers underneath. If one looked close, they would be able to see his tense, broad shoulders and the way his jaw would clench with each new pierce of fear.
"It's my job to protect my city and my friends," she retorts, "You should share the burden of being such a protective partner."
His smile is kind, but leaves as soon as it appears. "Maybe one day we can settle on the schedule."
She grins up at him, thankful for the distraction away from the pain that drums loudly in her side—a long gash standing bright red against her pale skin. Briefly, she apologizes to her white-haired boy for getting her maroon blood on his nice dress shirt. He snorts and tells her it matches his fucking eyes.
(Bittersweet apathy laces his words.)
She knows her partner more than anyone else in the world and can feel that he's frustrated with her. She lets her head fall against his chest as he hums lightly, the sound calming her frightened nerves. Their battle roars painfully in her ears with a hurricane of littered images—his cries of her name, the way she hit the ground, the blackness that swarmed her vision instantly.
The way he ran with her in his arms like the devil was nipping at his heels.
She glances back up at him and raises her hand, pressing her fingertips to his forehead. "You're bleeding," she says plainly.
He shrugs, continuing to run. His breathing never falters.
(and she knows he's in pain by the small grunts he makes in an effort to disguise his small whines of hurt.)
"You're bleeding, too. I'll survive,"
She decides not to argue with him. "You can at least slow down. You're tired,"
"I'm fine." he insists.
"I'm okay," she says, "Just a few stitches."
His pace never slows, even as the cramp in his side grows to the side of a crater. Blood drips down his pant leg from an ignored slice of his tan skin. He ignores the red, murky liquid that drips from a cut on his head and into his eye with a burning sting. He merely lifts her onto the hospital bed, singing dark eyes falling shut with exhaustion. He fights back the urge of sleep for he needs to make sure that she is okay.
Because Maka was all Soul had.