The motel is kind of dingy. Soul suspected as much, of course, just from the mere prospect of renting a room in some asscrack town in Wyoming, but goddamn. The heater's busted. He's not sure if the bathroom door closes all of the way. There's not a single Starbucks for miles. Domino's doesn't deliver out here. There's one bed.

There's one bed.

He tries to not think too hard on that fact. There are three pillows, two sheets, one comforter and a single mattress to split between the two of them, and Soul's had a hard enough time coexisting with her through a paper-thin wall lately, never mind potentially bumping elbows while they sleep. It's a ridiculous thing to worry about; he's practically grown up beside her through thick and thin, and, more importantly, puberty without anything partnership-altering happening. So sure, Maka's a little (barely) taller now and sure, she's filled out since the age of thirteen, but so what. She's still Meister Maka. She's still Maka fucking Albarn, ball-crushing, kishin-slaying queen, and she's his best friend. His partner.

He's totally staring at her hands like a little creep as she unbuttons her coat. Soul's blood runs hot and he dumps himself onto the rickety mattress.

"I call first shower!" Maka says, and he can hear her boots creaking and squeaking as she kicks them off. One thump and then two. He rests his cheek on the blanket and watches her shoes hit the wall.

He snorts shortly. "Don't dent the room, Maka. We can't afford to pay extra."

"Ooh! I think Kid can spare the change," she says, so huffy, stomping around like an angry little thing. "What a useless mission. Anyone could have done this, but a death scythe? Why?"

"Punishment," he quips easily. "You just happen to be the lucky meister who picked the short straw."

Maka clicks her tongue. He peeks through his bangs to find her staring at him, hand resting on her popped hip. "You're not the short straw, Soul," she says, shaking her head, crooked pigtails bouncing faithfully as she turns on her heel. "You're my partner, I wouldn't let you go alone. We're in this together, remember? No matter what."

"Starbucks or not?" he calls distractedly. The banter is routine, but that sway of her hips has his tongue a little numb. Hips and long, long legs, strong thighs that he'd felt clenched around his shaft (metal, unfortunately) only minutes before on the trip back demand his attention like nothing else ever has. Maka hums in response, slipping through the bathroom door, and Soul flops back onto the bed.

Death.

When it boils down to it, there's almost nothing Soul Evans wouldn't give to be anyone else but Maka's sentient butter knife and overall guard dog.

Not, of course, that he doesn't love his job, because he really fucking loves his job. It's a good fit for him, he thinks. A face like his isn't built for the limelight like Wes'. No, with his mug, he's much better suited for the battlefield, fighting for his meister's life and baring his teeth and trading flesh and bone for demonsteel at the drop of a hat. It's his gift. It's in his blood, just as much as being an Evans is, only this gift is a choice.

A choice he knows he'd make time and time again, if it means smiling meisters with doll eyes and a threatening right hook. Soul lets out a breath and mashes a hand through his hair.

Sometimes, though, he wonders what it would be like to just be a normal guy. A normal guy into a normal girl, without worries of the monsters roaming the streets and the demon lurking in his head. He wouldn't have to feel so guilty about wanting her so badly. He could pursue her, maybe, if he wasn't so bound by responsibility. There are duties he must serve as a weapon, and one of those is keeping his meister safe. How, how, how can he keep her safe, though, if he's too busy sticking his tongue down her throat or dreaming about her hands in places they've never dared to stray?

His self-depreciating laugh fills the room like applause. Well. One of those is already an issue.

He is her right hand man. Her confidant. Her best friend, her roommate, her partner, and he wears his admiration and love and respect for her like a badge, torn down the center of his chest.

But her hands.

The sound of water hitting skin is louder than anything else in the dingy motel room. The only thing that rings louder is Maka's contented sigh, and then Soul's rolling onto his stomach again immediately.

.

Resonance just sort of happens sometimes.

They never mean it. A lot of the time, it's at night, while their guards are down and the lull of sleep beckons their vulnerable minds like a siren song. When Soul's in that delicious place right between sleep and awareness, he can feel Maka's soul, so close by, and in no time at all it becomes difficult to separate what is Soul and what is Maka. He feels her warmth, her insecurity, her courage, and knows, somehow, that she must feel the same from him. Resonance is a two way street. It's not something he can conjure up on his own - both parties have to be willing.

He doesn't care to dig deeper than that. Whatever lies beyond bone-deep loyalty and admiration for her is no man's land. It's the really private stuff, the warm feeling in his chest when she smiles at him in the early mornings, with her hair in her face - the ache he feels, low, low in his very soul, when she grips his weapon form that little bit tighter.

Sometimes, though, they don't fall asleep right away. And tonight is just one of those nights. Resonance buzzes through his fingertips like a maddeningly seductive song and he wants to play, needs to play, but there's not a piano in sight.

Soul hears Maka sigh deeply. "Mmmnn- Soul?"

"Whuh?"

She rolls over to face him, blinking groggily, parting her lips. "I can feel you," she slurs sleepily, green eyes half-lidded and molten, melted green evergreens mesmerizing him lazily. "It's like... "

"Resonance?" he asks, voice cracking.

"Mmm. We always do that."

He wants to reach out and comb her hair back. Her bangs hang in her eyes and she sighs slowly, so very full of sleepy wonder, that very feeling of enlightenment and worldliness that comes with exhaustion and resonance. Maka is always hardwired so tightly, built tall from her responsibilities and morals - stubborn, resilient, bookish Maka - and when she allows herself a moment of weakness, allows herself to let loose and unbutton her collar, it is always a delight. Right before sleep, when she's tucked into bed and smiling at him, slow and syrupy, Soul often wonders if she's looking at his soul. She always seems to see things that no one else ever does.

"We're partners," Soul reasons.

Snuggling her cheek further into their shared pillow, she says, "But I can always feel you," she mutters, almost delighted, and taps a finger to her chest. "Right here. You're always right here."

The moment is sweet, but he is still Soul, so he buries the squishy, vulnerable fluttering in his chest, cracks a grin and asks, "Your tit?"

"Idiot," Maka huffs, spreading her palm flat over his chest. Her skin is warm, strong fingers and subtle callouses dotting her fingertips from wielding him, he knows, and it does nothing to quell the burning in his blood. She looks at him, all parts meister and girl and Maka and his brain goes fuzzy for a moment. "In my soul. And my heart. You're so loud."

"Pfff. You're the loud one. Always jabbering and talking my ear off about homework and how stressed you are-"

"One of us has to," she says, pouting.

Her fingers catch at the ridge of his scar, puckered, stitched flesh. With her lip sucked beneath her teeth, she follows the jagged line down, tracing each raise and fault in his flesh as she passes his navel. Something jumps in his stomach, excited and forbidden, and Soul finds himself moving his hand to grab her wrist before anything happens.

"Where do you go, Soul, when you transform?"

"I don't go anywhere. I'm your scythe, remember? Did that pre-kishin drop you too hard or something?"

"No, like…" Maka purses her lips, fidgeting, wrist turning in his grasp. "What does it feel like to transform? How does it translate?"

It must be late. They've been partners for years, resonated literally hundreds of times, and yet now is the moment she decides to think too deeply. The schematics of his transformation have never been clear. He is boy and also weapon, equal parts human and kishin-slaying death, and that's always just been that.

Until now. Her brow dips sleepily and she squints at him through the lowlight of the hotel room. The blinking alarm clock casts devilish red shadows through the gold of her hair and that indescribable ache is back, looming low in his gut. Phantom pains shoot up his arms, through his fingers - and he can't help but wonder what it would be like to hold her, without the pretense of mere partnership, can't help but wonder what it would be like to be held by her and her strong, capable hands.

Soul barely bites back the urge to brush her bangs from her face. Instead, he tightens his grasp around her squirming wrist, something beneath the waistband of his pants moving in tandem. Pesky pesky.

"I don't know. It's like parting my hair a different way. It's just another part of me," he mumbles, watching the way she drinks in his wisdom greedily. "Your dad's a weapon too. You could've just asked him if you were so curious."

Maka gives a little shrug, dying down in his hands, melting like butter. She's so damn comfortable around him, and that's something that's going to haunt his dreams tonight - if he ever falls asleep, for fuck's sake. "I guess I never thought about it that way before," she says, voice low, as if she's afraid of rousing the quiet exchange they have going on. "But it's a little funny, you know? I can see you in your blade's reflection - and you're naked, Soul -" her brows crease, again, and she bites that pink lip of hers delicately. "You're naked, Soul. A-Are you like, actually, for real naked, or-?"

He drops her wrists because touching her skin and having this conversation is way too much stimulation for one boy. "Fuck."

She lights up pink. It's distressing how badly he wants to follow the blush blooming down her neck with his mouth. "It's not your fault if you're naked, I mean, I'm pretty sure it's a weapon thing- but it's just- it's weird, you're not naked when we're dancing in your soul space, and you don't lose your clothes when you become a scythe? They're still there when you transform back."

"Maybe my scythe is like a set of clothes. I mean, I'm naked under my clothes right now. You are too."

Maka purses her lips, then says, "I guess so."

But she's not convinced, that much is clear. His meister is curious almost to a fault, and Soul's afraid, with the resonance buzzing between them, she might uncover something she shouldn't within him.

When her fingers graze the rise of his scar again his blood pounds in his ear. There are places meister hands belong - in his, or clutching the handle of his weapon form - but grazing along his lower abdomen certainly is not one of them. Especially not while they're discussing his state of dress (or lack thereof) while he is acting as her tool of mass destruction. Especially especially not while there's murky resonance buzzing between them and he can't stop thinking about the callouses on her fingers and how he'd kind of like to kiss them.

(Or, of course, how he'd like to kiss several parts of her, in varying levels of appropriateness).

She blinks slowly, syrupy, and licks her lips. He stares, helplessly, as her nails catch his scar's stitching. Soul tells himself that the part that longs for her grip (and for her thighs pressing his hips down) comes from the weapon half of him - the part that would die for her, the instinctual something that washes over him like a protective, watch-dog haze. It does little to soothe the storm within him, though, and his edges fray just that little bit more the longer she looks at him with those half-lidded eyes, tiny green infernos thawing him to his core.

He's unravelling, helplessly, and it's only minutes later, when her palm lays flat against the center of his chest, does he realize that they're still resonating, and he's been broadcasting these secret, taboo feelings for his partner like a satellite.

"Soul," Maka says, blonde lashes looking ashy and mysterious as she crooks her head, leaning up onto her elbows to hover over him. "Transform."