Author Notes: Moving this one over from tumblr along with some one shots. This started as a prompt from the wonderful Makapedia, but has escalated into something that needs to be multichapter
Maka is furious about the concept of general education science classes, especially the blasphemy that is 'mixed sciences 101.' It doesn't even fall under a normal department like any respectable class should. She's already taken advanced placement chemistry in her high school – and has the transfer credit to prove it – so this freshmen lab requirement would be a joke. Of course, she'll still try her hardest to get an A, and there is no way her dopey eyed stoner kid of a lab partner is going to get in her way.
"So," he drawls. His voice is low, and that her all the more pissed off because it makes her bones vibrate. "Looks like we're going to be lab partners for the rest of the semester."
She snorts. "I can manage just fine on my own, find another table."
"There aren't any other tables." He gestures around the room. "Everyone gets a partner. I promise not to get in your way or anything; I don't care about this kind of thing anyway."
Okay, that is the last straw. "Listen here," she fumes, "you are going to pull your own weight in this class because I am not your mother."
"You certainly sound like her," he mutters under his breath, but she ignores him to examine the lab manual.
"We need to set up the burette," she announces, "go get the ring stand."
"The what?"
"The ring stand, weren't you paying attention to the safety tutorial and lab tour during lecture?"
"Uh."
"Or not, since you missed it with your idiot friend Black Star," she points over to the frat kid who she has already determined to be the class clown. He is currently trying to stretch lab goggles to go over his buttocks. Disgusting. This is college, people, the closest thing you can get to real life with your parents still paying for everything.
"I know what the damn ring stand is – contrary to your belief, I'm not actually brain dead," he grumbles and saunters over to the cupboard to get the stand while she hurries to get their assigned burette.
"Let's hustle, Evans," she practically shrieks, "we only have three hours to complete this manual."
"Life is a journey, not a race." He scowls and dumps the metal pieces on the lab bench with a clatter. "And please don't call me Evans, you know my name."
"I will stop calling you Evans," she spits, "when you start hustling."
They're already off to a terrible start. Soul 'Eater' Evans, as he is called jokingly by his friends, is a music major, and therefore just as dissatisfied as she is to be in a general science class. Unlike her, however, he is apparently not at all motivated by his GPA, and is content to drift aimlessly through lecture. It infuriates her, watching him scribble away doodles while Professor Stein was imparting them valuable information, that she of course already knew, but he should certainly be writing down, for heaven's sake! It had been causing her anxiety just sitting behind him looking at it, but college students are apparently finicky about their seats, despite the freedom to sit wherever, and she is stuck in hell watching him doodle stupid skulls forever.
"Woah, woah, woah." She shoulders him out of the way of their set up. "I leave you one task to complete while I mix the hydroxide solution, AND get our sample, and this is what you have for me?"
She gestures to the monstrosity that he has created.
She had left him to set up the burette while she measured and diluted their hydroxide – she did not trust that boy with a pipette – and told him to fill the burette while she measured their sample. They had been the simplest instructions, even diagrammed out in the lab manual, and yet somehow, he has failed.
"First of all," she huffs and readjusts her lab goggles, "you put the burette in the stand upside down. And secondly, you can't just pour the hydroxide in willy nilly, you need a funnel so you don't spill it all over the place; that stuff will irritate your skin, you know."
"I'm pretty sure it's fine at this low of a concentration."
"What?"
He flips through the lab manual. "You did dilute it at to 0.05 Molar concentration, right?"
"Yes."
"So it should be fine. Quit worrying, Albarn."
His smile makes her want to punch him in the face; it's lopsided, and jagged, and makes her face flush because he has stupid good looks that have probably been helping him skate through life, but not today!
"It's still all over the table," she hisses, "you put it in upside down so it all came out because you didn't close the stopcock."
"The what?"
"Stopcock."
"Say it one more time."
"Grow up, Evans," she screams while unrolling an unreasonable amount of paper towels to throw at his face.
He just shrugs with criminal nonchalance and starts mopping up the mess.
They are not off to a good start at all.
They get the mess cleaned up and get their first sample prepared to titrate. Maka meticulously writes down all the numbers from the balance because she will not be a slave to significant figures.
"I swear we have used up half this burette already," Soul grumbles, "and I haven't seen the faintest hint of pink."
"It must just be a really strong concentration of acetic acid," Maka mutters. She's trying to restrain herself from telling him to lay off the stopcock – it wouldn't do to overdo the titration – but she knows what kind of reaction that word elicits from his underdeveloped, neanderthal mind. They empty the whole 50 milliliter burette and she knows something is wrong. "Professor Stein, I think something is wrong with our solution, but I know I measured everything correctly."
The professor wheels across the lab in blatant disregard for safety regulations and picks up their beaker to examine it. "You did put the phenolphthalein in, didn't you?"
"Soul?" She turns to him, exasperatedly.
"Don't look at me, you were supposed to prepare the sample."
It dawns on her; it was her mistake, she had forgotten the indicator dye.
"I forgot the phenolphthalein," she says dejectedly, her head drooping down to face the floor.
"Don't worry." Professor Stein chews on the end of a pen. "You have plenty of time to run more trials."
Soul experimentally drips a single drop of the indicator dye into the beaker and it turns the hottest of pinks, several shades darker than the color she's sure her face must be now.
"You forgot the phenolphthalein." His pronunciation is flawless.
"Ugh, I know already." Maka grabs the beaker and makes her way to the waste hood. "Just, refill the dumb burette so we can start the next trial."
They get the trial set up perfectly, with an extra drop of phenolphthalein just to be sure.
"You should do this one." Soul sighs and leans against the wall, as if standing is just too much effort.
"I suppose you did the last one," Maka agrees and sets herself to doing the most delicate and meticulous titration that can possibly be imagined. Soul whines and gripes as she crouches in front of the burette, adding the hydroxide drop by drop until the faintest pink tinge can be seen in the solution, only made possibly by the white paper she has placed under the beaker.
"Now that is what an equivalence point looks like." Professor Stein rolls back over and grabs their beaker with a maniacal grin. "Take note everybody!" He yells, rolling himself around the lab like a mad man.
Maka is determined to get a perfect score.
She sends Soul to get the next sample, because there is no way she is going to let him slack off for this class and today is where she sets that precedent, but she has to go remass it because he only thought to write down the first two digits, like an imbecile.
He starts the titration and Maka cringes at how lax he is, letting the basic solution flow freely for seconds at a time.
"Based on the last trial, you should start slowing down when you get to nine milliliters," she says, pointing out the figures in her lab notebook.
"It'll be fine."
"Woah, go easy on the stopcock!"
He snorts. "Pretty sure I know how to handle that one."
"Soul! Pay attention! It's already gone past the equivalence point!"
He holds up the beaker and squints at the pink color. "It's not that dark, can't we just write this down?"
"No, we can not." Maka huffs and crosses her arms.
"Or just estimate." Soul examines the burette. "Maybe subtract 0.2 milliliters or something?"
"You can't estimate titrations, Soul, it'll throw the whole thing off."
"Why?"
"Don't you know what the pH curve looks like?" Maka starts drawing a graph furiously. "This part of the curve is totally vertical."
"Your curves are totally vertical."
"What the fuck is that supposed to mean?"
Soul just holds up his hands and moves them up and down in a straight motion. Maka squeaks; she knows exactly what he means. She is flat as a board.
"I swear to God, if glassware were not so expensive, I would break this burette over your head," she hisses, her face flushing. "Anyway, because the slope is so steep, if we're not precise, it'll throw off the math. We have to run another trial"
"Whatever you say, Professor." Soul scowls, stomps his way over to the waste sink, and retrieves another sample.
It has not been an ideal way to start the semester.