Burgeon [bur-juh n], verb. 1: To grow or develop quickly; flourish. 2: To begin to grow, as a bud.
"Come on, come on, wake up," was the first thing he heard, faraway frantic sobs, followed by, "You absolute moron!" Then someone slapped him across the face, which irritated him enough that he bothered to open his eyes.
"I was sleeping," he groused to Maka's furious face. It wasn't until he saw the pain on it, and the blood, that he came back to full awareness and complete recollection of what had just happened. "Fuck. Fuck. Fuck," he chanted dumbly as agony flooded freshly through his skull. It felt like he had at least a few cracked ribs, too, judging by the lightning in his side with every breath.
"Versatile word," she murmured wearily. "No, don't sit up. You hit your head." She held up scarlet hands with a half-hearted smile to illustrate her point.
"Mine?" he said in utter confusion, staring at the beautiful blasphemy staining her small hands. It felt like he'd been whacked on the cranium with a sledgehammer, and his vision still wasn't entirely clear. He would bet all he owned that he had one hell of a concussion, and hopefully nothing worse.
"Some of it. Black Star says head wounds bleed a lot. I was really- I was- it's not as bad as it seems."
"Are you all right, then?" he whispered.
She smiled more fully, watching him with a look in her eyes he didn't understand in the least. "Mostly."
Just then Black Star appeared over her shoulder. "Shit, Soul, you really got yourself hurt," he said interestedly, peering down at him.
Soul decided to ignore that comment, along with his injured pride. "Tsubaki?" he said instead.
"She's all right, for now, but we need to get her back to Stein," Black Star said worriedly, glancing over his shoulder. He was playing with one of his tiny throwing knives again, twirling it anxiously between two fingers.
"I'm fine, really, don't rush him," came Tsubaki's distant, wispy voice, always accomodating to the point of ridiculousness. Soul sighed and shut his eyes again. Everyone was alive. Maka hadn't died. She had fought that thing- at the thought, he sat bolt upright and promptly howled at the pain it brought, but it didn't stop him from grabbing her by the shoulder and shaking her.
"What the hell were you thinking, woman?" he shouted blearily, clutching his screaming ribs with his free hand. "What were you doing here?"
"Ow ow ow ow," she whimpered, scrabbling at his wrist. "Soul, don't, ouch!"
He took his hand away like she was on fire and squinted at her. There was a bright patch of scarlet seeping across her shoulder, over the cool mint green of her blouse. He bit his lip harshly at the wrongness of seeing her blood, at last, like this. The madness had told him that it would be spilled because of him, but he'd never imagined she'd lose it while defending him, never in a thousand years. "I didn't know. How bad is it?"
"I already checked her out. She'll be all right, but I think Stein's going to have to put some stitches in her," Black Star interjected. Maka looked terrified at the very thought.
"What happened?" he asked again, looking around and seeing nothing but humans in the circle of light shed by the battered little lamp.
"We need to get Tsubaki safe," Maka said, looking tired and confused and a bit frightened, though why she chose now to be scared instead of while fighting for her life was beyond him. "Come on." She helped him up slowly and he hated himself for being so weak even as his head spun wildly.
Black Star scooped Tsubaki up in his arms and she drooped against him, very pale, clutching her dark blade to her chest like a child would hold a doll. He adjusted her long hair carefully, so it wouldn't trail down and catch in the branches, took up the miraculously unbroken lantern in one hand, and they all started home, Soul and Maka leaning on each other because possibly neither would have been much use otherwise. Through the hammer blows falling on his head he thought that it was rather nice, feeling her arm around his waist, being allowed to drape his own over her shoulders. She was sweaty, shaky, and looked not unlike she had just before puking earlier in the day. He probably looked about the same. He tried his hardest not to jostle her shoulder, and she tried to support him without touching his white-hot ribs too much, and they hobbled onward at an agonizingly slow pace. The woods were dead silent, all nighttime life having wisely fled.
"I'm sorry," he said after a while, bending his wounded head down to her ear. The words were much easier to say than he'd thought they would be.
She glanced up at him strangely. "Why?"
"You got hurt," he said stupidly.
She pressed her lips together in a thin line, sternly, but her eyes were liquid and shining. "Worth it," she said, raising an eyebrow. He relished her warm softness against him, the perfect balm for a night gone wrong.
"You shouldn't have been out here," he told her, closing his eyes against all the pain and letting her guide him.
"Had to," she said breathlessly. "I couldn't let you have all the fun."
He snorted and then groaned, because the movement made his ribs protest angrily. It took decades to get home, forever to work their slow weary way through the hushed, funereal countryside back to the train tracks. "So what happened?" he asked as they slipped and stumbled through the rocks towards the cars containing the animals, where Stein would no doubt be waiting, standing at guard.
"I suppose I killed it," she said, very quietly. "It escaped, but I don't think there's anyway it could have survived. It must have bled to death. We can go look tomorrow and make certain, there will be a blood trail. There just has to be."
Soul whistled softly. "Attagirl, bearcat. That's really something." Exhaustion and pain were loosening his tongue, and if he weren't careful he would say something stupid, but feeling her pressed against him wasn't a thing he could walk away from. Physically, he was probably fine to walk alone now, if still off-balance, but she'd begun to wobble herself a ways back. So he stayed and helped her, knowing she probably wouldn't allow him to support her unless she thought it was mutual.
"Why do you call me that?" she said, a little hoarsely.
"Um," he said in slightly embarassed consternation. "Fits. Anyway, we're here." He jerked his chin in the direction of a shadowy shape walking towards them parallel to the train cars, which transformed into Stein's lean, looming shape as he stepped into the pool of flickering lantern-light. His hair, gone gray early in what Soul suspected was karmic retribution for all the innocent animals he'd dissected, was standing up in all directions; he'd been yanking on it, probably while chain-smoking. Stein did hate to be left behind, but somebody was needed to guard the livestock.
"Well, well, a little bird took flight," the doctor said softly, a notable undertone of menace in his voice. Maybe Soul was Lord Death's errand boy, but Stein was both morally unburdened and devoted to their Lord in way that meant there wasn't a thing in the universe he wouldn't do, no matter how objectionable, and indeed he had. He peered at Maka in a way that put a snarl on Soul's face before he could stop it.
"Her and Tsubaki first," Soul rumbled, not bothering to hide his dislike. There was no need. Stein would help them regardless of how grateful or polite they were; he had to, if he wanted to remain with the Dire Circus. It was an arrangement that suited Soul just fine. He didn't have to fake friendship. Part of him almost wanted to, because he had a sneaking suspicion Stein might relate to the thing wrong inside his head, but the man was just too slimy.
"Chivalrous," Stein said with chilly sarcasm, but he waved a hand and ushered them up into the train car beside them, which was nearly empty, holding only several tightly-bound crates, a stool, a battered old toolbox, and a white sheet with mysterious and unsavory-looking stains laid out in the center. "Closest thing you'll get to a proper hospital," he told no one in particular, sitting down on the stool and popping open the toolbox reverently.
Soul sighed, took his arm off Maka's shoulders with no little regret, and slid slowly down the ice-cold metal wall until he was safely on the floor, watching as Black Star settled Tsubaki down on the sheet, so delicately and softly that she might as well have been made of spun glass. He took her hand and murmured something, too low for anyone but her to hear, and she smiled up at him weakly, tattoos motionless and a little blurry at the edges. Such gentleness was unexpected from the whizzing ball of energy that was Black Star, but then Tsubaki brought out that side of him in a way no one else had ever done. Soul finally noticed the unnatural angle of her left ankle and felt nauseous. The madness loved blood above all else, but broken bones tended to make him feel a little ill, mad or not.
He felt the back of his head again, gingerly, prodding the congealing blood spiking his hair and pulling at the back of his neck as it dried, and wished he'd been able to sleep earlier, because with a head injury like this, Stein wouldn't allow him to sleep a wink. "Damn it all," he muttered. It was Maka's fault. She'd shook him up so with that lemonade stunt that sleep had been impossible. He looked up at her and blinked. She was clutching the door to the car so desperately that her knuckles were white, and her eyes were huge, rimmed all around in white, fixed on the darkest corner with ferocious intensity. Soul reached over and prodded the dusty, scuffed toe of her boot. She started and looked down at him.
"What?" she said shortly. He just raised an eyebrow at her. He knew that look well. He'd seen it in the mirror often enough. It was the look a person got when they were remembering how sharp edges felt when they passed through another living being, how blades tended to stick horribly in the bones, the sick wrench it took to free them, how the blood pumped out in crimson fireworks, how hot it was when it hit skin. "I'm fine," she said sharply. He'd never seen her look so very young.
"Sure," he sighed dourly, damning Lord Death and her father heartily for ever putting her in the path of the Dire Circus. She didn't deserve to be sullied the way she had tonight. Even though it wouldn't put her light out, it was wrong. "Wish I had some lemonade."
Her lips twitched, then she smiled, then she pressed her hands over her mouth to stop her giggles as she settled down next to him. "Me too," she said finally. "Lemonade is a happy drink. It's cheerful."
"A drink can't be cheerful," he said, in the most contrary way he could muster. "It can make you cheerful."
"Drunkard," she said, smiling at him to show that she was joking.
He smiled back, entirely caught up in the way her grin created a tiny fan of wrinkles at the corners of her eyes. Now that was purely cheerful right there, undiluted happiness. She was so close to him, yet again, so wonderfully unafraid, and he could see every tiny freckle sugaring her skin. The wrinkles disappeared as she gaped at him and he clapped a hand to his mouth, ignoring the new pain the sudden movement brought. He never smiled with open lips, ever, but he had. The nausea came back full force.
"No- don't," she said furiously, wrapping her bloody hands around his wrist and tugging. "I thought you were dead so you had best stop this silliness. Being afraid to smile, of all things! I don't mind your teeth!" Black Star glanced over his shoulder at them interestedly, brows shooting up, but he was too intent on Tsubaki to say anything, thank god. Soul knew he'd have to answer to Black Star at some point, though, to answer a few questions about just what exactly he thought he was doing with the poor little amnesiac that Black Star had taken a shine to. The mere fact that he'd allowed her to touch him would be a clear enough signal to the blue-haired boy; the fact that he'd been caught smiling at her was even worse.
He shook her hand off his wrist roughly. "Stop it," he said, nearly shouting. How could she expect him to smile like she did, like sunshine and springtime? It wasn't in him. His teeth had never been anything but intimidating, a warning, a barrier and a weapon. They weren't made for mirth and it had been too long to change that. He couldn't turn himself inside out for her so easily. She wanted so much, and he wanted to give it to her, but he simply couldn't. He couldn't do it. He was who he was, and that wasn't a very good man; it was a damn miracle she hadn't decided to just admit that fact already and give up this attempt to be his friend. "People aren't all like you!" he added angrily, aware that he sounded childish but entirely unable to come up with anything more eloquent, and then he pulled himself upright, snatched a roll of gauze from the sheet, and did the best imitation of furious stomping he could manage in his current shaky condition as he headed back to his own trailer, alone in the night. The stars twinkled down at him gaily, and the contrast between the sparkling heavens and his own earthly hell made him want to light something on fire.
He wasn't alone for long. Not five minutes after he shut the door to his wagon, there she was, hammering on it like a madwoman. No one but her would have the guts to assault his door like that. He threw it open and nearly smacked her in the face with it as she pulled back her fist for another go. She glared at him so potently that he would have sworn the breath just rushed right out of his lungs in the face of her ire. "Idiot!" she shrieked.
"Keep your voice down," he said coldly. "People are sleeping."
"People who are alive because you went to go kill that- that thing! Which you still need to explain! But Soul, you're a hero," she snapped, yanking on both her disheveled pigtails and looking absolutely maddened. How could she still have the energy for a fight?
He slumped back a little, aching violently, woozy, wishing he could just slam the door in her face, but it would never work. He'd have to beat her senseless to get her to desist. "I'm the farthest thing from a hero you'll ever meet, and the sooner you figure that out the sooner this nonsense can all be over," he grunted, rubbing his forehead and leaning against his doorframe, because if he didn't have some kind of support he was definitely going to fall over. She didn't yell at him anymore, though. He followed her gaze to the bandages dangling from his fingers and groaned. "Oh, no, don't even think about it, you damn crazy-"
She stepped up and pushed him neatly inside his wagon without even bothering to pretend she was listening to his protests, taking the bandages as she shut the door behind them. He felt too terrible to do much more than snarl wordlessly at her as she knelt down and dipped a rag- he recognized it as one of Stein's- in his washbucket. She'd brought a bottle of disinfectant too, and another roll of bandaging. The girl didn't forget a thing, even enraged. "Come here," she said impatiently, giving him a really enthusiastic evil eye.
He crossed his arms, trying to ignore the way his stomach was somersaulting. "No."
"You can't see the back of your head."
"Says you," he growled.
"That doesn't make any sense at all," she said placidly. "And I know you don't like Stein, do you? Well, it's him or me that does this."
"Black Star can do it," he protested.
She guffawed. "He'd kill you. He's busy with Tsubaki anyhow."
Soul matched her glare. "No. Scram."
"I am so tired of you being rude to me," she said under her breath. "As soon as you're healthy I'm going to teach you a lesson."
"Is that so?" he growled, breath hitching as his ribs protested such vehement arguing.
"Yes it is!" she said loudly. "I'm- I'm challenging you!"
"Fine!"
"Fine!" They both exhaled at the same time, though he did it with a lot more pain. "Now," she continued, in a slightly less raging manner, "Come here." She patted the floor in front of her.
"Not moving," he said obnoxiously.
"You're a baby when you're hurt," she observed coolly. "If I clean you up on your bed, it's going to get all wet and bloody."
"Damn it," he cursed quietly. She was right. She had a sneaky way of forcing him into doing what she wanted with logic, it seemed, trapping him with common sense. "Fine." He put as much sourness into the syllable as he could.
"Fine," she shot back again. It took him a minute to figure out how to get onto the floor without passing out. He was so off-balance that when he did finally get his rump on the floor, he nearly toppled sideways. She settled behind him and started in on the blood caked on his neck first, scrubbing it away with little mercy.
"Go easy, I'm injured," he complained as a particularly firm scrub pulled at the wound on his head.
"So am I, idiot, from saving your stupid mean life," she spat venomously. That shut him up quite effectively. He pondered mournfully how exactly his life had gotten this confusing as she worked her way up into his hair. She was gentler now, as she cleaned the wound itself, and he was leaning back against her knees before he really knew what he was doing. She hadn't run yet, and he was starting to think that she didn't even know how to. She was so warm, it seemed she ran hot, which was fitting, and his trailer was basically an icebox now, so late at night. It was nice, and even though he was in more pain than he had felt in a while, her touch was relaxing. He was startled at that thought. Touch was anathema to him. It was nearly always a precursor to hurt, but not with her. Well, sometimes, but somehow he didn't mind all that much even when she abused him. Her hands were so small. What had she done, before coming to the circus? She would have been a good painter, he thought. She had that ability to throw her entire self into whatever she was doing, to absorb into the minute details that would drive him even more insane than he was already. She would paint pretty things, landscapes in full flower, or waterfalls. Peaceful places, like she was, with carnivorous plants hiding in the shadows...
"Soul. Soul. You can't go to sleep," she said softly. He twitched back from the warm gray seduction of sleep, blinking his heavy lids firmly.
"I'm awake."
"It's fine," she said absently. Then, after a moment,"This isn't as bad as I thought it would be. You bled so much. I really do think you should have Stein put a stitch or two in you, though."
"No," he said, getting awfully near to a whine. "It'll be fine."
"It's your scalp, not mine," she said with a sigh. "Rubbing alcohol."
"What- shit! Christ!"
"It stings, doesn't it?" she said distantly.
"Yes it stings!" he barked.
"I thought it might. It's one of those things I've only halfway forgotten. Like rainbows. I remember that they happen during rain and sunshine but I can't quite remember how they're shaped."
"An arch," he supplied. Her hidden satchel mocked him cruelly from underneath his bed.
"Oh. Really? That's- hmm. Not what I expected. Well, maybe I'll see one soon." She dabbed one more time at his wound, holding his head still with one hand on the side of his face, and he hoped she couldn't feel how hot his cheeks were getting. This was an awful lot of attention, a lot of- well, it couldn't be care, because people didn't care for him- but it was intense and he was as uncomfortable as an ant under a magnifying glass. It was solid and potent deja vu from the first time she'd cleaned blood from his hair, except it felt both heavier and lighter this time around. He couldn't figure out why. Maybe it was the image he held in his mind of her standing over him, guarding him, shearing a monster's limb away to keep him alive. She'd been splendid, demonic, the devil's daughter come up to guard him, and yet now she was as gentle as anything had ever been. He tried not to consider the idea that he might have died if she hadn't showed up, if Black Star had been too distracted to come to his aid. He'd considered his own death often enough as his spirit was eaten away by black fire, but coming face to face with it was unsettling to say the least.
"I don't think I'd be letting you do this any other time," he said. It felt like he had to say something, to fill the air with a thing other than his overactive imagination.
"I know," came her amused voice. "You're a regular tough guy, right? Real hard-boiled. Anyhow. Stein said you'll just have to take it easy, on the ribs, for a few days."
"How'd you know I hurt my ribs?" he said.
Her voice came from behind him, from an invisible source, like a divine visitation. Maybe she was really his long-lost conscience, sent from heaven in a godly prank. "Was I wrong? It seemed fairly obvious, you can hardly breathe," she said.
"No, you're right," he answered tiredly, leaning forward, with tender care for aforementioned injured ribs, to prop his chin in his hands. His eyelids were like lead weights; it was all he could do to stay conscious. "I can't believe you took that thing on all by yourself," he added sleepily. It seemed he was quite a loose-lipped chatterbox when pretty girls decided to play nurse, but he could write that particular weakness off as simply a symptom of his gender. Then he remembered, and craned around to peer at her. "Your shoulder."
She smiled sideways. "Um, it's okay, I can take care of it."
He went through the laborious process of turning around to fully face her without sending his ribs into a fit of agony. "Sure?"
"Mmhmm," she said, nodding. He caught the redness creeping up her cheeks and scoffed as much as he could with inadequate air in his lungs.
"I'm not trying to start any heavy petting," he told her dryly. "I've got better lines than offering to clean up a dame's bloody war wounds, and I'd rather I see your shoulder than that scumbag Stein, you'll come away from him with nightmares for days." His own softness took him aback. Was this truly him, was this Soul the murderer, the albino madman, the abandoned sideshow killer, talking so calmly and normally with a diminutive blonde, just as if he hadn't wanted to shred her the first time they met?
She gave him a funny look through her downcast lashes and gnawed on her lip for a while before nodding, just slightly. "I suppose." She said it sternly and tried valiantly to look dignified, as if that would somehow ward off any inappropriate advances he might make. He wrung out the towel she'd used to wipe his blood away, poured a splash of the rubbing alcohol on it, and waited. She didn't move a muscle. A statue was no more motionless.
"Anyone home?" he said, snapping his fingers in front of her face. She shot him an impressively mean look, but he didn't miss her quick, nervous swallow and the widening of her eyes. "Look," he said finally, unsure of how to soothe someone else, but deciding that he needed to try his damnedest after all this strange bookish girl had done for him tonight, "I didn't mean anything- it's just, you're hurt and you helped me, and- augh, lord, all right. I am failing at this. Uh. Everything will be all right?"
Her lower lip started to tremble and he watched in abject terror as her eyes grew watery, diamond tears polluting the emerald. "It's not-" she choked passionately out before burying her face in her knees.
"Oh, god," he said to the ceiling. "This is not happening. Please quit that. I already feel like I'm going to upchuck, seeing you upset isn't helping. Please?" He reached out to pat her or something, stopped halfway, and gave up. This wasn't anything he knew how to do.
"Sorry," she said in a sniffling way.
She was so pathetic and sad that he did reach out and put a hand on her head then. He couldn't help himself. "No, I promise, it will all be okay. You did good."
She breathed out shakily and raised one hand to clasp his forearm where it rested near her face. "It was awful," she said, still sounding teary.
He jumped on that. This was something he could help with. "I know, it's a nasty job, and it's bloody and foul, but you did it and-"
"Not that," she interjected, face still hidden. He ran a thumb tremulously over the curve of her skull, the silken fall of one pigtail, muted gold in the soft light. "It was you."
"Me?" he asked, entirely perplexed.
"I thought you and Tsubaki were dead. I told you, you just kept bleeding and bleeding like- well, I can't remember any good metaphors fpr things but it was a lot!"
"You were worried about me?" he said in astonishment. His stomach, already complaining with every move he made, was suddenly full of fluttering wings.
She lifted her head to glower at him. "Yes, you big mean dummy! Of course I was!"
He moved his hand down to cup the side of her face, bringing the other up to match, aware that they were trembling. His hands never shook. He'd killed with these hands, had brought crowds of a hundred people to a roaring, frenzied crescendo of applause night after night, but when he touched her like this, they shook. She blinked almost dizzily, watching him as if he was something she'd never seen before, and maybe he was. They were both falling further off the borders of the map with every moment they spent together. He held her face gently, like the precious thing it was, and searched her face carefully, holding her still until he was satisfied. "You were worried about me," he repeated, this time in sheer wonderment, reading the truth of it in her slightly bewildered face.
"I was," she said, a tiny crack in her voice as her eyes flickered sideways to his hands. "Is that so unusual for you, for a friend to worry?"
"I don't have friends."
"You have Black Star and Tsubaki."
"It's not the same."
"That doesn't mean they weren't worried about you," she protested.
He let his hands fall, but kept his gaze on her face. "I suppose," he said, because he wasn't sure how to respond. It was his own fault he wasn't closer with Black Star and Tsubaki, or anyone else. He slapped them away anytime they got within arm's reach of his vulnerable heart. "Got a deal for you. I'll turn away, let you take care of your shoulder."
"How is that a deal?" she said suspiciously.
Very deliberately, with full awareness, he smiled at her, toothily, every pointed edge in his mouth exposed. It was not unlike stripping naked; in fact, he would almost have preferred the latter, given how awkwardly terrified smiling so baldly made him feel. Her face lit up, blazed at him like a bonfire, and satisfaction smothered his fear. "I'm going to read to you," he told her. The fire leaped higher. She pressed her fingertips to her lips, a gesture so evocative of her longing that his own heart stung for her in sympathy. Offering her words was not unlike saving her life.
"You are?" she hushed around her fingers, cheeks flushed, eyes very bright.
"I am indeed." He crawled, a tad dizzily, over to the bed and slithered up onto it, fishing her copy of Jane Eyre out of his sheets, the copy she had no idea had been hers a lifetime ago, before she knew about monsters and the smell of blood. After he arranged himself in a position where most of his injured bits were reasonably comfortable, or at least not being outright aggravated, he flipped to the first page. She was crosslegged on the floor, watching him with starry eyes and that delicate hand still on her mouth. "You gonna get to work cleaning yourself up? Thought we had a deal," he said wryly.
"But- book," she cried unhappily, but then she puffed out an irritated breath and wriggled around, presenting him with her back. "Don't peek, " she added over her shoulder.
"Won't. Is it going to need stitches like Black Star said?"
"Hmm- ouch. Ah, I don't think so," she said. Her voice was strained as she fiddled with her blouse. It was undoubtedly crusted to the wound by now, but he heard a drop of water hit the floor and knew she was using the damp cloth to loosen the blood.
He watched sideways from under lowered lashes as part of her shirt fell away, slipping down to her elbow, one smooth rounded shoulder glowing warmly peach in the lamp light, gleaming like the promised land, and then he bit his lip and dragged his eyes away, clawing the sheets with one hand. His other hand, more obedient, held her book steady, and his voice held only a shade of unusual depth as he began. "There was no possibility of taking a walk that day," he started, and she sighed with such fervent, genuine ecstasy that his pulse thrummed in tight harmony. "We had been wandering, indeed, in the leafless shrubbery," he went on, reading with only half a mind, fighting the growl in his voice, fighting the part of him that was listening with keen attention to the little sounds of her, the shift of fabric and the hiss of her breath. He kept going like a runaway train, anchoring himself to the words, and after a while he was far enough in them to barely notice when she swiveled back to face him, shirt returned to its proper place. The water in the bucket was a deeper pink this time around, mingling traces of both their blood together, and as the lamplight grew lower so did her eyelids. By the time little Jane Eyre had met her ghost, Maka was curled asleep on the floor, one hand flung out towards him in a gesture that did something funny and aching to his insides. He let the words trail off and stood up, though it made the entire trailer spin, and for a moment he was afraid he'd have to dash past her to empty his stomach. The world settled, though, and he'd draped a blanket over her shoulders and slipped out the door in a moment. He aimed his steps straight at Lord Death's black windowless trailer, at the furthest end of the line of cars. They had some talking to do.
The pale early morning was still cold, though the sky was cloudless, and her warmer borrowed clothes were still in Tsubaki's wagon, so she kept his blanket around her shoulders as she searched for him, hoping he wouldn't mind. He was nowhere to be found, not in the mess tent or the horrible makeshift hospital car where Stein had treated them last night, not anywhere. Eventually she gave up and wandered home to Tsubaki's, holding the blanket tight even as her shoulder prickled caution at the pressure. It was old and well worn, but warm, and it smelled like his trailer did, lonely and metallic. She resolved absently to bring him hot food at some point and fill it with good smells. She'd have to ask Tsubaki for some foods that smelled good, though. She couldn't really remember any, except the fresh smell of lemonade, and she didn't really think he'd appreciate that.
Black Star opened the roundish door to her knock, looking none the worse for wear, though his hair was somewhat flatter than was usual. "Bearcat," he said in greeting, giving an irreverent salute, greenish gaze flicking keenly to her shoulder. "How are you?"
"I'm on the mend, I suppose," she said, a little uncomfortably. That sharp gaze hadn't missed the blanket she was wearing either. For a buffoon, he was remarkably observant.
"Soul help you with that?" he said, leering at her. She fisted one hand warningly, narrowed her eyes, and he stepped back, lifting his arms in mock surrender. "Easy! It's too early for you to knock me out. Although, if I'm unconscious I can get out of chores..." His face took on an entirely evil gleam as he rubbed his hands together.
"If you wanted to be injured you had plenty of opportunity to do so last night while Soul was getting his head smashed in," she said, razor sharp, and then proceeded to lift her nose in the air and slide past him inside as he gaped at her. She put her blanketed back to him very firmly as she rummaged in the bag she'd been stashing her meagre collection of personal items in for fresh clothes, and eventually he slunk away, muttering things about bearcats and uppity and damn it all.
"You're protective of him," came Tsubaki's gentle tones, the gravel of sleep still in them. Maka turned her head to smile at her friend where she lay prone in her bed, a small smiling face among the lavishly excessive pillows. They were brightly colored, rich violets and cobalt silks interspersed with forest-green paisley, which only emphasized how still and white she was. Black Star had tucked Tsubaki in up to her nose under the quilt. Only her foot was sticking out, the fresh white plaster of the cast on it looking empty and bare. Maka resolved to draw a decoration of some sort on it at the soonest opportunity. Maybe a butterfly. Would whatever sorcery Tsubaki used to animate her tattoos extend to the cast?
"I am no such thing. That's your job," Maka said with a small laugh, trying to straighten out the millions of questions in her brain into some sort of order, so she could get to proper asking. Getting her shirt off was proving to be tricky, though, and required some thinking. It had been easy enough to slide one side of it off her shoulder last night, especially given the soporific anesthesia of Soul's narration, but right now trying to peel the thing over her head was positively agonizing. She tried not to look at the bandage on her shoulder, or to think of the four parallel slashes running from the end of her collarbone to the outer curve of her bicep. They were ugly things, made by an ugly thing, and suddenly she wanted her scythe very much. She'd have to collect it from the forest before the circus left; there'd been no way to carry it home, not with a severely concussed Soul draped over her like a wet blanket.
"Not Black Star," Tsubaki said, eyes crinkling in a way that told Maka she was smiling, though her mouth was hidden under the blankets. "Soul."
Maka felt heat rising up her cheeks and looked away, taken aback by her body's reaction to such an inane and unfounded accusation. Then she remembered and said, a little snippily, "We're friends now. Friends take care of each other."
"Of course," Tsubaki murmured, closing her eyes for a moment. "How is he?"
"I don't know, I can't find him. It's good he didn't sleep, though," Maka grumbled, finally getting her ruined shirt off her head and beginning to wriggle out of her trousers, toeing her boots off deftly at the same time.
"Oh, Maka, your poor shoulder!" Tsubaki said as Maka stripped, sounding positively aghast.
Maka paused and looked down at the sloppily wrapped bandage. She thought about the hitching screams of the charred, winged woman-thing as it stumbled away, about the moment when she'd been sure Soul was dead, as she'd cradled him, then slapped him across the face with a hand slick from his own blood. "Tsubaki, what was that thing?" She turned to her friend as she spoke, trying to hide how desperately afraid she was at the mere memory. Her body had moved almost of its own accord last night, as if it was somehow used to fighting, but her brain had been nothing but buzzing, roaring, animalistic terror.
Tsubaki shifted a little, sitting halfway up and pushing the coverlet down around her waist. She was rather pale, which made the misty deep blue of her eyes look darker than normal, more piercing. The tiger tattoo had clambered to his favored spot on her shoulder and was sitting prettily with his striped tail wrapped around his forepaws, almost like a housecat. Only the occasional restless twitch of that tail gave away his true nature. "That was a person who had been overtaken by evil. Black Star's gone to check that it's dead, but I think you were successful," Tsubaki said slowly. Her accent grew a little stronger as she spoke, and she twisted her sheets between pearly nails, clearly nervous. "I suppose there's no point lying to you, anymore, is there? Whatever Lord Death may say. The cat's out of the bag now. I am sorry, Maka, I didn't wish to deceive you, but what we do is dangerous. I didn't want you to be hurt, and I didn't think you'd believe." The tiger on her shoulder gave a cavernous yawn, displaying his fangs as if to warn off any such vagabond cats that might come sniffing around his mistress.
Maka sat down heavily on one of the plump cushions that lay scattered across the small floor, rummaging in her bag more for something to do than out of any real need. "How can I not believe, when your tattoos can look back at me?" she said with a small, mirthless laugh. "I don't remember much but I do remember that things like that don't exist. They don' just don't. How can things like what I saw last night roam the world, and yet no one knows? It should be all over the papers, at least, it should be-"
"People do know. Do you remember fairy tales, or legends? Werewolves, vampires, ghouls, the dead walking?" Tsubaki said carefully, keeping her eyes downcast. Her hair was loose, a black shroud around her white face, and she looked haunted in more ways than one just then.
"Yes," Maka said immediately. "I remember them well. The stories. But Tsubaki, the things I remember best are the things that aren't real!"
"They're real. Things like the one you killed get mistaken for more common legends by those who see them. Evil is a physical thing, it's a condition the same as the plague or polio, I think. It affects the body. Those who embrace it become it, eventually, sometimes. We don't know why only some bad people do, or how exactly, but it happens. We fight it." Tsubaki said it all very quickly, one long rush of impossible things, and then looked up waveringly, beautiful eyes pleading. "Maka, are you going to leave now? I'm afraid for you. And I'll miss you if you go."
The final, shyly spoken words went straight to Maka's slightly shredded heart. "I won't," she said, finally remembering that she was nearly nude and pulling on her fresh clothes as well as she could one-armed. "I won't. I'm building ties here, I suppose, whether I wanted to at the start or not." She thought of Soul's scarlet gaze just then, for some reason, the way his whole face changed when he truly smiled. "But Tsubaki, if I hadn't seen that thing myself, I would think you'd gone raving mad." She didn't add that even now, she was halfway wondering if it was all some sick prank they were playing on her, taking advantage of her amnesia. But then, all she had to do was think of the sick cackle of the thing she'd cut down and she knew it was no prank. It had all been far too real. The tiger regarded her slyly from one lambent orange eye.
"Speaking of madness," Tsubaki said slowly to the ceiling, hands still working at the blanket on her lap, "How has Soul been treating you? He hasn't hurt you at all?"
"Of course not!" Maka said firmly, maneuvering one arm through a clean blouse. It was one of Blair's, and the woman liked her things tight enough that it would be only a little loose on Maka's much smaller frame. "Fine. Well, he's a bit of an- a rude arrogant boy, he can be mean, but I don't think he means it. He's like a stray dog. He growls but he's only afraid. Anyway, why do you ask?" Maka was trapped inside her half-on shirt when Tsubaki answered, and she was grateful she couldn't see her friend's face, because Tsubaki's next words put solid unforgiving ice in Maka's veins.
"No reason. I'm glad he's getting on so well with you. Anyway, do you think you're ready to perform tonight?"
FOOTNOTES
1: 'Attagirl' meant the same then as it does today, basically 'good job'.
2: 'Hardboiled' means tough, stoic or strong.
3: 'Scram' meant, again, the same thing then as it does now- leave!
4: A 'heavy petting session' would be making out. ;)
5: A 'dame' is a female, usually a rather attractive one.
6: 'Upchuck' was often used when someone vomited due to drinking too much, but could also be for vomiting from other reasons.
7: Rubbing alcohol is basically peroxide. It's disinfectant, and was indeed in use medically in the '20s.
Author says: Here we go! Hope you all like it. Bit of a cliffy, sorry. Anyway, if Maka's 'battle skills' seem too outrageous, remember that her mother taught her to box and the like from a young age, and she's rough-and-tumble naturally. She's not the typical girl of her time, at all, and she was armed whereas the beastie wasn't. She got lucky, essentially, because her scythe was nice and sharp!
Reallyreally hope it's not too unrealistic. I tried to make her attitude about it all seem reasonable- let me know what you think. Thanks again for all the wonderful reviews and favorites/follows! I appreciate it so much! :)
Oh, and I don't own in any way the book Jane Eyre, though I do love it.