He really wishes Patti would keep her intel to herself.

"So now she's thinking about doing some internet sales to, ya know, supplement income, but Kiddo doesn't think it'll put a dent." She takes a heaping bite of pasta and chews, then looks pointedly towards Soul. "You should stop in, maybe give her some pointers."

It's the weekly family dinner sans his parents, who are off again to some exotic locale or another as they are at least half the time. He almost wishes they were here-Liz generally only has Patti come when they aren't around, and Patti is on her best behavior in their presence in any case. Soul still isn't sure how she wrangles her sister into compliance, but it's not like he's known either of them long enough to entirely grasp their odd little family dynamic.

"Yeah, sure she'd love my help," Soul says, scoffing openly. He scowls down at the overwrought china heaped high with shrimp scampi over noodles as if he could will away what's surely coming.

Liz snorts across the table, but Wes has a rather suspicious looking grin Soul pointedly ignores. Doesn't stop Wes from voicing the thought that promoted it, though.

"Oh, I don't know, little brother, you two were having a rather animated conversation over Thanksgiving dinner, and it is sort of your fault her shop is struggling. It wouldn't hurt you to be helpful."

This earns an eye roll to end all eyerolls. "You're just as much an Evans as I am. Feel free to stop in and help the competition."

"Ah, retail is your thing, and having the flagship in Death City was your baby. Don't put this one on me." His innocent look fools exactly no one. Soul is just tired of getting shit for doing his damn job.

"It's not on anyone. It's business, and she's not my problem." Soul brushes it aside, done with this crap, and the rest must read his mood because they drop it in favor of discussing the approaching holiday.

He will admit to exactly no one that his discomfort is at least 70% guilt, especially after his last conversation with Bookworm.

As dinner wraps up, he excuses himself and hides in the bathroom, eager to get back to said conversation. His brother et al are well enough used to his antisocial ways to leave him be, and he opens his phone to review the conversation as he seats himself on the closed toilet seat.

She'd been so short in her responses this morning, so economical, that he'd finally asked-

what's wrong?

Nothing. Everything. Ugh.

maybe i can help? im pretty good at advice

I don't think anyone can help. My mom maybe would have known what to do, but I have no idea.

try me

It's just my business is in trouble and I've done everything I can think of to fix it and it's still a mess. I don't know what to do and I always know what to do.

well ur in luck business is one thing i dont suck at. whats ur business?

No specifics, remember?

that makes it harder to give advice but not knowing what u do id say u need to go to the mattresses

I need to what? I don't understand. I don't own a mattress store!

no i mean like the godfather when things get bad u go to the mattresses business is war and if ur losing u fight harder. its not personal its business remind urself of that when ur worried about hurting feelings cause i know u worry but ur also the strongest person i know. u can do this so do this. fight. fight to the death

His eyes read that message and he wonders if he'd upset her because she hadn't responded just then and he'd added i gotta go will talk more l8r

There's a new message now, just below his last, time stamped ten minutes later:

Sorry, lost service. I'll go to the mattresses.

Relief floods him as he sees the response, though it can't wash away the guilt that clings like static. Soul may not be her enemy, her big bad problem, but he's certainly the one causing grief for plenty. He shoves the guilt away as he does so often, just happy to be able to help here and now when it matters and hoping he actually has.

Maka is about to press send when the little bell above the door chimes merrily, drawing her eyes. The store is decked out for Christmas, the cheer that invades her sight cloying against an otherwise empty store. Five days before Christmas at noon and this is only the 5th customer of the day.

Business is not good.

And it's not even a customer. She feels sick as Patti comes in, mailbag in hand that is surely full of bills she really can't afford to pay.

"Hey Pat." Maka forces cheer, unwilling to spread her dark mood beyond the confines of her own twisted worry.

She hears footsteps from the stockroom and Crona comes bustling out, eager to be helpful. Maka had set them to shelving the recently arrived new stock she really can't afford. While they still cower at the sight of a well dressed woman, they've come a long way in the weeks since leaving their mother's flower shop behind and, under the tutelage of so many who care so much and a well recommended therapist, they are thriving.

"P-Patti!" They exclaim happily, footsteps quickening as they see who has come in. As they approach the mail carrier, their steps falter. They want a hug, but asking is difficult. Thriving is relative, and years of abuse, manipulation, and gaslighting at the hands of their mother can't be completely overcome. Physical affection is something they both crave and fear.

"Bring it in!" Pat grins, opening her arms wide. Crona goes in for a cautious side hug but Patti wraps her arms around her friend and roommate in a bear hug. "I forgot ya work today! Did Kid bring ya?"

"N-no, walked myself!"

Their hug ended, Patti exclaims, "Crona, that's great!" and pats her friend on the arm as both approach the counter. Maka's eyes are assaulted as they do. Pat wears her normal mail carrier uniform, though she's added a strictly non regulation Santa hat over her own blue uniform cap-but Crona-Crona is decked out in candy cane striped leggings, the hideous Kittens in Space Christmas sweater Patti had recently gifted them, and a tree hat complete with blinking lights that clashes badly with their lavender hair dye, a gift from Blake. Her brain feels practically violated by so much visual cheer when her mood is so dark, but she smiles anyway.

"You've got mail!" Patti announces happily. Maka thanks her half heartedly as she places the ominously large pile on the counter. Part of the girth is a large envelope from the company that handles her payroll she can ill afford. Kid has broached the subject of letting him handle it and she's decided to agree when she sees him next tomorrow.

Grabbing up the thick payroll envelope, she hands Crona their fourth ever paycheck and their eyes light up. "Oh! Thank you so much!" Maka has had to cut back hours all around recently, so the amount is a pittance and she feels like a heel. Still, for a person who had worked for their mother for free all their life, it must seem like a small fortune. Crona had run the flower shop on their own, the work horse of Medusa Gorgon's wedding planning business. In actuality, the fact Maka's own shop is so well decked out for the holidays is all due to her latest employee-Crona has a well honed eye for visual aesthetics. Her blood boils anew at what their own mother has done to them, but that's in the past. She and Patti and Kid and the rest have all made sure it's behind them, and it does no good to show her rage.

Anyway, such rage is best channeled into her current project.

"Watcha doin'?" Pat thumbs at the laptop as Maka takes it back up, mail handled.

"Going to the mattresses," she says with more vigor than she can actually muster.

"Oh! I didn't realize ya like The Godfather!"

"Um-not exactly? It was advice from a friend."

Pat leans over the counter so far she might fall over the other side, neck twisted oddly to sneak a peek. Maka turns it towards her so she can resume a more natural position. Not only does she want to keep her friend whole, but she really can't afford the insurance liability.

"Your friend's cagey, this is great." Patti looks impressed and Maka can't help her light blush.

"Thanks, I wrote it." At the puzzled look, she adds, "He just told me I should fight. Go to the mattresses."

"Oh-ho! A guy friend!" And she knows Pat knows, then and there, it's someone new, because if it were Blake or Kid or even Mifune or Stein, she would have just named them. She curses herself for the slip-she's kept this secret so well for so long. Before she can respond, Pat waggles her eyebrows. "You and Soul finally speaking?"

"Soul Evans? Gods no, why would he help me fight his own business?"

The second eyebrow waggle is completely uncalled for and she scowls.

"Just no." Without patience left to stammer out a lie, Maka adds, "It's just a guy I talk to online, no big deal-stop looking at me that way, it's not like that."

"But you want it to be."

It's not a question, and Maka colors violently as Patti squeals and Crona makes an odd noise of surprise.

"Maybe, shut up." She mutters the last part and shakes her head. "Anyway, I don't even know him so it doesn't matter."

Crona nods assent, clearly unhappy, though why Maka can't say. Perhaps it's too much to wrap their head around, the idea of a virtual friend when flesh and blood friends are still something they're learning to navigate. Whatever the case, Maka doesn't want to cause them distress, never mind she has zero desire to discuss her relationship with PMan now or ever.

"We should talk about something else." Maka shifts her eyes to Crona meaningfully, who is currently picking at their ugly sweater with far too much attention, half a step from muttering to themselves.

"Well, speaking of Soul, he bought a new set of wheels-"

Pinching the bridge of her nose, Maka sighs. She'd rather go back to the awkward subject of PMan than this. Why Patti continually feels the need to update her about Soul bloody Evans she can't say, something about him getting her an Uber having stuck with Pat, but whatever the case, Maka wishes she would stop already because the last person whose new anything she wants to hear about is her corporate nemesis.

"I'm sure he can afford whatever wheels strike his fancy." She recalls that PMan had been excited to tell her about his new motorcycle last week. The irony that her best friend and worst enemy have both purchased some variety of motor vehicle recently isn't lost on her, but she really has no desire to compare the two, so she doesn't. "Any changes you'd make to the letter?"

Patti shrugs. "Looks good to me. Bet it'll knock 'em dead. You should ask Kiddo anyway, fancy words are more his deal." She starts walking backward, but not before taking a mint from the complimentary candy dish near the register and popping it in her mouth. "Anyways, I've gotta go. Kim gets cranky when I'm late with the mail. Later!"

With that she's out the door, and Maka is left with her letter. Without further thought she presses send-she's tired of looking at it, and it's past time she took action, come what may.

His eyes scan the last paragraph, bile welling in his throat.

The Letter to the Editor heard round the city is nothing short of a scathing indictment and Soul doesn't know if he should feel angry or contrite.

I've been honored to watch your children grow, honored to be a part of your lives as my mother was before me, but Pocket Full of Posies is falling to the cold cash cow of Evans Books like so many before us. There is no soul within such a Goliath, not like in the small places and spaces, but it's not too late to make sure we never lose the heart of our city.

He reads the last bit aloud, disgust overwhelming.

"We all can boycott Evans, we all can support the local shops in Death City, and maybe, just maybe, by saving small businesses like mine-"

"-you can save not only the soul of this city but your own soul as well." A dry voice finishes for him, Harvar having quietly entered the room at some point during his read aloud. Soul scowls at his assistant who offers an unapologetic little shrug.

"You have to admit she has a way with words," he offers, and Soul's scowl deepens as he shifts his gaze to his office window and the protest below. News trucks are gathering, the circus only expanding. They really don't need this three fucking days before Christmas.

The faint chant of "Boycott Evans, save your soul!" reaches his ears and he sighs.

"The news stations are asking for an interview," Harv says from behind him. "Ox is stalling, but this only gets worse if you don't say something. She's already given an interview, by the way."

Soul pinches the bridge of his nose, hard, because there's nothing he hates more than the spotlight. His phone vibrates, and hope it might be from Bookworm is instantly quashed. It's a two word text from his mom and he feels like as big a fuck up as ever lived.

Fix it, it reads.

As if he can.

"Fine." He lets out a long breath. "Have Ox get the conference room ready, I'll give the damn vultures what they want."

Even if, as Maka Albarn has so eloquently put it, it costs him his soul.

He's pretty sure he lost that years ago, so he tries and fails not to let it bother him.

He takes a swig of beer so warm and cheap it tastes like piss as he frowns up at the television. Soul let Killik talk him into going out, and when they saw the crowd at the little jazz club he's been wanting to try, he had steered them into a nearby bar instead. Mistake, that. It's dark, dingy, and more than mildly disgusting.

Still, he's in no mood for a crowd and this place is such a dive it's nearly empty, so he's fine with the trade off just now. Unfortunately, the guilt of Harv and Killik wasting prime babysitter time away from the twins makes him feel like the complete jackass he so clearly is, and he silently vows to take the kids as penance or maybe solace sometime soon.

"Turn it up," he says suddenly, because Maka Albarn's face currently fills the cheap flatscreen, but her words elude him. The bartender, dirty looking guy with a nose bar and an attitude, chucks him the remote with a grunt, and Soul has to do some hard button mashing on the cheap, aging piece of junk to get the volume up enough to hear.

"...I once heard him compare books to vats of olive oil at the Costco-is that really the type of establishment we want in our city?" Her green eyes stare his way accusingly before the shot returns to the news desk.

Killik throws him a look. "You never mentioned she was hot." When Soul doesn't respond, he adds, thinking better of it. "Probably just a trick of the camera."

Soul shrugs. "Nah, she's hot. A pain in the ass, but yeah."

"Pretty sure she's earned the right to be a pain in the ass seeing as you're destroying her livelihood and tried to buy her silence with a muffin," Harv deadpans.

Killik looks about to say something when the screen then flashes to Soul in a clip from his press conference earlier in the day.

"Yeah, I sell cheap books, sue me," he hears himself say, and then the screen flashes back to the news desk and Soul practically growls.

"What the actual fuck?"

"You said that?" Killik is raising a skeptical eyebrow his way.

"Well, yeah? But I also said we're awesome and help more people afford books and have great selection and-"

"Maybe you should have offered free muffins," Harv cuts in. Killik snorts, Soul glares, and Harv looks at unapologetic as ever.

"Did you really bribe her with a muffin?"

"No," Soul says at the same time Harv says, "Yes."

"And coffee," Harv adds helpfully.

"And coffee," Soul admits with a sigh.

"Dude, no wonder she hates you."

His only answer is to take another swig of warm beer, the thought that all the hatred she can muster is unlikely to save her shop little consolation.

Her latest message surprises him.

Do you remember when you asked me about being on the wrong path? I think I might be. Nothing is going according to plan anymore.

Soul frowns at his phone, willing away whatever has her so tied in knots. Bookworm deserves to be happy, and if one thing has become clear to him in recent weeks, it's that whatever is going on with her professional life has her in a tailspin.

plans r overrated u should do wut feels right

Not that he ever has.

He feels a bit like a fraud as he presses send from the luxury of his trust fund provided penthouse, his feet kicked up on the overpriced Italian leather ottoman/coffee table in the middle of his TV room. There's some old flick up on the oversized flatscreen that takes up one wall about Tom Hanks and Meg Ryan finding love via internet. It suits his mood or maybe his wishes better than the news just now, though he would never tell a soul of his secret soft spot for cheesy romcoms on pain of death, which seems preferable to the mass quantities of shit he'd get from all and sundry were that tidbit to ever come out. He has an image to maintain, or at minimum, bullshit to avoid.

I don't know what that is anymore. How did you know?

The truth is he doesn't, and he thinks he's probably walking the wrong path most days. Sometimes, he even thinks about stepping off of it, more often lately than ever. He'd never wanted to ruin lives, and yet the realization he does, he has, hits hard. Green eyes haunt him.

Soul Evans is a goddamn fraud, but Pianoman doesn't have to be.

i don't. never have. maybe were both on the wrong path

Her response takes a moment.

So what do we do about it?

i wish i knew

And he does, because he has no answers. Still, Killik keeps nudging him towards a weekly gig at a local dive, and he's starting to wonder if he shouldn't just go for it.

but maybe we can figure it out together

He adds it on a whim because he's tired of being a fraud.

Her simple maybe is reason enough to try.

Christmas Eve has been quiet, eerily so, and they've just set the closed sign, their hours limited for the holiday.

Kid is tallying receipts, working his ledger like a pro. She hopes his frown is one of concentration.

They're all there-Crona, Blake, even her papa. He's back from a long modeling stint in Madrid, back for the holidays, and has insisted on helping with the shop.

Maka would rather he'd stayed away-the eyesearing red of his hair and stench of his expensive cologne turn her stomach, and she's in no mood to deal with the man who had only seen fit to enter her life after her mother was gone, not today, this week, month, year-but she hadn't had the energy or heart for a scene, so here he is.

"Well?" She can't help her impatience. She'd gone to the mattresses, so surely, surely-

"No difference," Kid sighs out, looking as worn as she feels.

"How is that even possible? Days of protests, all those people-"

"They bought signs, not books," Kid says gently. She briefly notes Blake is uncharacteristically silent, hand squeezing Kid's shoulder in some show of moral support. It feels like she's being coddled and she hates it, hates this.

Maka swallows the lump in her throat and nods, barely noticing that her papa is squeezing her own shoulder soothingly.

"Okay, well, we'll figure it out later. Marie is expecting us in an hour. Lets go."

It feels like giving up and maybe it is, but she'll be damned if she won't celebrate her mama's favorite holiday with all she's got.

The shop will keep for a few days until then.

It's New Years Eve and she realizes she has to do something soon, but answers elude her.

Still, life must go on. Maka just can't believe that living currently involves sharing air space with one Solomon Evans yet again.

This year, they are celebrating New Year's Eve with Marie, who has invited the Evans brothers because Liz is family and she wants her there, so that makes them family too in her mind.

The fact Tsubaki and Mifune are off in Japan for their nuptials and honeymoon probably doesn't help things. Sure, they intend to hold a vow renewal and reception for their American friends on their first anniversary, but in the here and now, they are missed.

And so, the Evans brothers had come.

Maka wants to ask her godmother if family put each other out of business, but manages to restrain the unkind impulse-Marie is still operating under the delusion the protests helped and Maka doesn't have the heart to tell her otherwise, not just now.

She'd spent much of the evening minding baby Shelly, giving her godmom a much needed break while avoiding a certain white haired shark who seemed just as content to be avoided. Then, 15 minutes ago, Shelly had started screaming bloody murder-she was hungry which meant she needed Marie-so Maka has absconded off to the small balcony patio to avoid any possibility of having to talk to either Evans. Liz's fiancé might not be head of retail, might not have deceived her like his brother had, might even seem fairly charming, but he is just as much an Evans as his little brother, and therefore, just as culpable when it comes down to it. And anyway, after labor gate cut Thanksgiving short, no one seems to recall that they haven't officially been introduced so he was easy enough to avoid.

Truth be told, she's not much in a frame of mind to interact with anyone, let alone the men who have been responsible for destroying her life.

The balcony is blissfully empty in the chill of the desert winter night, and Maka has taken the opportunity to come out and hopefully message her favorite person, the only person she cares to talk to just now.

The loneliness of the night is cutting. She'd noticed Kid and Star holding hands earlier, sees how happy Stein and Marie are with Shelly, hell, even sees the joy writ large on Wes Evans' face as his fiancé leans in to whisper something in his ear, Maka she wonders what she's given up for the shop that's about to fail. But she's never felt that way, never wanted that with anyone, not really, so maybe all she's given up is nothing and she's about to lose everything she ever held dear. The shop is her spouse/baby/lover and she doesn't know who she is without it.

And then there's PMan. And maybe she does feel that way after all, and maybe with her life crashing down around her ears all this anonymity is silly. She knows he wants to meet her, wants to help her.

Maybe it's time to let him.

Her fingers tremble as she types the message. Then again, maybe this is a mistake. Maka is gambling the one thing she has left to lose and she knows it, but she's also desperate. She needs what he offers, his support, unconditional, needs it desperately, so she lets shaky fingers type the words.

Do you still want to meet?

Moments pass or a lifetime, the city lights spread out below like a reminder of how much life is around her, and yet, how alone she remains amidst it all.

She clutches the phone tightly in one hand, waiting waiting waiting as her other hand tangles in the fabric of the burgundy dress she wears, a Christmas gift from Liz and Patti.

The world yet moves but her heart is still. She can't breathe, feels like she might suffocate as she sits in this dark corner, sits and waits for one not-stranger to decide.

The door to the balcony opens and shuts. Dark suit, white hair, he reaches the edge and looks out at the city. He doesn't notice her and she's grateful for that much, too occupied with the city below or the phone in his hand or the countdown coming from the other room.

His phone casts his features in an eerie light. Soul Evans is almost preternaturally good looking, standing there as he turns his back to the cityscape to type something into his phone. Looks and money, but for a man named Soul, he seems to have lost his somewhere along the way.

Probably she's being unfair-his legacy is Evans, Inc., and he's only followed that as she has- but irritation that of all people he's the one to invade her solitude has her fuming in her fear. Maka wishes she could take back the message, is about to type that she's kidding when she feels her phone vibrate in her hand. She clutches it tightly, waits an instant, then lets herself read what is surely his response.

All at once, Soul Evans takes in a sharp breath, noticing her presence as her phone bathes her face in light, the countdown reaches 1, and she sees PMan's message:

yes when where?

Giddy, she ignores the fact that she's just inadvertently rung in the New Year with her worst enemy because, soon enough, she'll finally get to meet her best friend.