A/N: Prompt by fabulousanima: "What's that on your shirt?"

Rated T for language

He could tell the exact moment she spotted it, and that was when his morning started to go downhill. Although to be honest, it'd been pretty much fucked ever since Black*Star spiked Maka's punch the night before.

It wasn't that he knew this from experience, but he believed a hungover meister wasn't going to be a happy one, so to hopefully head off any unpleasantness, he'd dragged himself out of bed to make her a very large, very black pot of coffee. It wasn't until she stumbled into the room, makeup looking more like bruises and hair ruffled that he fully remembered why giving Maka alcohol was such a bad idea. And why it was an even worse idea to still be wearing his clothes from the night before.

Please don't ask, please don't ask, please don't-

"What's that on your shirt?"

Fuck.

"Nothing," he muttered, turning away to hide the stain near his shirt collar. "Probably just spilled something on it."

Goddammit, even hungover she was stubborn. He could hear her feet padding across the kitchen in uneven steps until they stopped right behind him. "Doesn't look like alcohol," she said dubiously, leaning closer to inspect it.

Her warm breath washed across his throat, and even though she had a truly terrible case of alcohol-laced morning breath, it brought back such a flood of memories from the night before that Soul physically flinched away. Thankfully, Maka was too hungover to notice.

She was not too hungover to miss the other, more damning mark, because that would have been too easy. "What's that on your neck?" She sounded suspicious, and Soul began to check the kitchen for any hardbacks she might have left lying around.

"Uh, nothing," he said hurriedly, sidling away.

She squinted and poked at it. The bruise ached at her touch, and Soul hissed in mild discomfort. She took notice, and her eyes widened. "Is that…?" She trailed off and stepped back to meet his gaze.

And while Soul had mastered the art of the poker face, there was still one person who could see right through it, even when hungover. Maka's hand flew to her mouth, eyes darting back and forth between the glaring hickey on his neck and what she finally recognized as the lipstick Liz had coerced her into the night before.

Soul was frozen, unable to do anything but watch the gears in her head crank so loudly that he could almost see the steam pouring from her ears. "I didn't—that wasn't—did I?" she asked, stuttering and blushing and altogether refusing to look him in the eye.

"Apparently you get a little handsy when you're drunk," Soul answered, and fuck he could have worded that a whole lot better. But Maka's face flushed a brilliant red at his words, so maybe it'd been worth it.

"Oh my god, I'm so sorry, I didn't mean-"

Her face was priceless, and suddenly Soul was tempted to push her a little farther. "I didn't mind," he said, giving her a half-smirk as he turned to lean against the kitchen counter.

Maka was stunned into silence, her mouth opening and closing stupidly as she searched for a rebuttal. It was rare to render his meister be speechless, so Soul took it as a win.

"MAKA CHOP!"

Unless, of course, she happened to have a book nearby (who the hell kept Anna Karenina in the kitchen, anyway?). Then the victory was all hers.

Well, Soul still had a hickey and her lipstick on his shirt, so maybe not all.

Posted June 22 2014