"Fucking fuck!" Soul curses, trying to shield himself as metal boxes and canisters rain down around his feet. So much for Starinsky and Bale securing the NSF storage containers for sea.
"You alright over there?" Mifune asks, while he attempts to shepherd strewn canisters back to their rightful locations.
Soul grunts acknowledgement and braces himself for the next wave that slams into the ship. He grits his teeth as he works the lock in hand. It finally springs open and he unhooks the lid to look inside-
Nothing- Fuck!
He's been at this for the better part of an hour with absolute shit to show for it. Soul hasn't come across any shred of evidence that will tie either lieutenant to the Black Blood.
Unfortunately, by the time he'd finished tossing the coveted second room, he was beyond pissed that he'd started there in the first place. Not that there'd been time to vent his frustration about it, so he'd moved back to the first office and started working on the canisters in the gray cabinets there.
Soul closes the box and reaches for another. It rankles, to no end, that Noah had been on the money about one thing- the second room was the most boring classified area he's ever searched. Given his occupation, he's had the privilege of searching many, and as far as he's concerned, Maka's job is a whole helluva lot more interesting. Pick. Spring. Open. Rinse. Repeat.
Goddamnit- still nothing!
He replaces the lock and reaches for another, while Mifune stuffs more canisters back on the shelf. "That was DCA," he says, continuing to stack containers. "She said Lieutenant Bale is on his way- we need to wrap this up."
Soul's hands are working as fast as he can, his pick catches and he twists the lock off in a fluid motion. Pops the lid open to, yet again, nothing. Wordless frustration shakes the black room. But- there's something off about this one. He isn't sure if it's the stress or the anxiety by this point, but on gut feel alone he reaches in and taps on the bottom of the container, elated at the hollow sound that finally indicates he's on to something. Carefully, Soul runs a finger along the inside the box until he locates it- a small metal tab. Heartbeat rushing in his ears, Soul lifts out the false bottom and there it is- Black Blood.
A mad grin splits his face. Christ- there has to be at least four units in there. And still uncut, by the molted look of light and black- hence the name.
"Son, we've got to go," Mifune says. "Now!"
He knows, but there's something he needs to do. "Another minute," Soul says, holding up his hand. "I just-"
-Game over.
An angry voice cuts through the bulkhead. "Are you fucking kidding me? I can't believe it. You asshats did it again!"
Bale.
Keeping his cool, Soul snaps the false bottom back in place, re-locks the box and slides it to the rear of the cabinet.
"I swear to god if I find one fucking drop of water on the deck when I come out, I'm going to dry it with your face!" There's no time to empathize with the poor sap on the receiving end of Bale's wrath; Soul has his own shit to deal with.
Mifune is two steps ahead of him, motioning under the desk when he turns around. It isn't easy to fold and tuck his six foot plus frame into that space, but he manages, only to have Mifune stuff a chair in after him. Soul hangs onto it with his left hand like it's a life preserver, all the while trying to reach his boot with his right.
The cipher lock buzzes and in walks a pair of scuffed black boots. "My office?! Gaw- damn- awwh c'mon, Chief! Fucking hell- can't you run a drill without trashing the place?" Lieutenant Bale complains loudly.
"Accidents happen, Lieutenant," Mifune responds, with a level of apathy that makes Soul feel like he's a kid hyped up on sugar. He'd wager the Chief's toothpick didn't dip once with any of the syllables he uttered.
There's a scoff from the other side of the desk. "Accident, my ass. DCA put you up to this, didn't she?" he accuses.
Mifune ignores him; Soul watches helplessly as his hand comes down to retrieve another handful of canisters.
There's more groaning from the vicinity of the desk. "Who the fuck's gear is on my desk?" Lieutenant Bale asks angrily.
Son of a- Soul resists the urge to face plant into the deck. Noah must be referring to the helmet and gloves he'd placed on the desk- his gear!
There's no way in hell Mifune will be able to pass it off as his own. For one thing, the Chief isn't in the bulky overalls that go with it- Soul is.
Twisting his body ever so slowly, Soul works himself down into a hybrid variation of dying-cat-in-child's pose, where his face is now lower than his knees. His left cheek grafted to the deck, leaving zero room for the Holy Spirit as Sister Sarah used to tell the kids at the chaperoned school dances his family forced him to attend. Neck and left shoulder are now screaming, but at least he isn't blind; he can barely see through the small slit under the desk, watching helplessly as Mifune grabs the helmet off the desk, stares at it, before he slams it down on the surface in a show of agitation.
"Hiro's. That boy- I swear it, when the good Lord handed out brains, I swear that kid thought he said trains and missed his," the Chief says. "I'll have a conversation with him- soon."
In a tone that reads what the fuck are you talking about old man? Bale says, "Just get rid of it, and while you're at it, make sure that shit in the passageway gets taken care of too."
Another wave hits the ship, and given Soul's level 20 Twister position, they aren't doing his stomach any favors. He tries to tamp down the renewed surge of nausea, because now would be the worst time to turn green.
The swell has a second, more sinister effect as the remaining canisters break loose. Every muscle in Soul's body tenses as one container keeps on rolling, ignorant of every fiber in his being willing it to stop. He ticks off the remaining distance- five feet, four feet, three- two-
Only a second before it goes under, Mifune's hand snatches it away.
Fuck this shit, Soul thinks as he lets out a painful breath. It's been years since he's felt so naked- so painfully exposed. He plays another round of Twister, jamming his right hand between his legs, fighting against the bulky material of the kevlar until he reaches into his boot, palming the familiar butt of his Glock and easing it out of the holster- now he's dressed.
Soul eases the pistol from his boot as Mifune walks the canister back to the cabinet, ambling every so slowly. Atta boy, if the Chief keeps this up maybe Bale will split.
"Awwh, for the love of- stop! Just stop- Stop! I'll clean this shit up. I'd like to see my rack before the Second Coming, fucking hell," he says angrily.
Well, this is it, thinks Soul.
However, Mifune's selective hearing has apparently kicked in, because he continues to pick up canisters like he doesn't have a care in the world. "Don't let me stop you, Lieutenant, I'll have this place cleaned up in a few minutes or so."
Only, it looks like the good Lieutenant doesn't have a minute. "I said out. That's an order," he barks.
The muscles in Soul's neck are starting to spasm from the abuse. Soul listens helplessly as Bale stuffs the gloves into the helmet and shoves the helmet into Mifune's chest, escorting the man to the door. There's the electronic click of the cipher locks followed by Bale forcing Mifune out roughly. Fuck. Fuck! Fuuuck!
With Mifune gone, Soul is done for. When the lock reengages he knows his options are nil. He's trapped and overheating- and between the desk and the Kevlar overalls- he's worse off than a half fucked fox in a forest fire. Sweat is beading up on his forehead and trickling between shoulder blades, pooling in every available crevice as his body attempts self water torture.
Soul grinds his teeth, and another canister succumbs to the swells. Back to square one where he's watching helplessly as the canister closes the distance. If he didn't know any better he'd swear the metal bastards are out to oust him.
He breathes a silent prayer of thanks as Noah snatches it before it can roll under, but then retracts it as Noah slams it on the desk above his head. The canister wobbles and then promptly flies off and hits the desk next to him. Soul watches transfixed with horror as it executes a mesmerizing rendition of spin the bottle coming to rest mere inches from his head like fingers pointed directly between his eyes.
Soul eases the gun into place, drawing a deep breath as he steadies his careful aim on the hand that follows the canister under the desk...
The instant the drill concludes, Maka slams her schematics shut, flicking the latch. She doesn't even bother cleaning them. "That's a wrap, Central! Restow your gear and hit your racks," she announces to the room as she makes a bee line to the water tight door.
"Ma'am, you alright?" Petty Officer Harvar asks, but Maka waves him off. No, no she is not alright.
"Tired is all. See you in a few hours," she says, giving him an apologetic smile, because she wants to leave Central behind as fast as possible. As soon as she rounds the corner, she takes off at a jog for the repair locker.
She's not going to panic- she is not. Even though it's only been fifteen minutes since she'd lost contact with Chief Mifune it feels more like a lifetime now. Her chief best have a good explanation when she does find him since she's lost a year off her life due to the stress or he might not live to tell the tale.
Maka turns the corner and runs straight into her Senior Petty Officer. "Hiro, where's Chief Mifune?" she asks, voice colored by anxiety and surprise.
The young man's baby blue eyes widen. "I don't know- I thought he was with you, ma'am. I had to debrief the guys on station and had them restore their gear because Chief never showed. I tried him on the radio- I got nothing."
If Mifune is missing? Then where's Soul? Maka thinks, looking over the locker where most of the gear is already in place. What happened?
Soul was supposed to have blown into Central at the last minute looking disheveled and apologetic for missing the entire drill- not that Hiro can know. It's not like she can ask for Hollywood's whereabouts because no one is supposed to know where Soul's been. This makes him extremely late- he hadn't shown at all.
Her heart is beating sporadically with the stress but Maka forces a smile anyway. "Maybe I missed him. If you run into him, tell him I need to speak with him, alright?"
"Yes, ma'am," he responds.
Maka closes the door to the locker, dodging a stack of helmets, and the rack of firefighter uniforms to grab the phone. Panic pushes at the door of her mental closet after the fourth call- they're not in the chief's lounge, Mifune's office, nor the Chief's stateroom, or Soul's...
Her teeth worry at her thumbnail- Where the hell are they? It's not like she can sit around waiting. Her mind is already spinning with possibilities- her stateroom! Of course, with the drill over it's probably the best place to regroup. In her mind, they're already on their way there.
This line of logic helps stave off the edge of panic, and she repeats the line of reasoning like a mantra for her sanity as she makes her way through the ship. Only, she'd moved too quickly to let her eyes adjust properly so by the time Maka reaches the officer's country above the main deck she's reduced to feeling her way along the passageway. The retina scarring brightness of the locker room has destroyed her night vision but she makes it to the dimly lit passageway only to find it empty. Her hope further dashed as the new wave of panic crashes against the mental closet.
There isn't even a friendly telltale strip of light under Soul's door when she stops there- she'd hoped, but there's nothing.
Her shoulders sag. Maka doesn't want to return to her stateroom and makes an uncharacteristic last second decision to wait out their return in Soul's room. Maybe being surrounded by a space inhabited by him will help quell the rising terror she doesn't want to over analyze. Even if it means she'll have to resort to lying when he inevitably finds her there. Because there's no way she's going to tell him she feels more safe in his room than in her own.
In her chest her heart is fluttering madly, but the door is locked when she softly jiggles the handle. Shit- not that she had expected it to be open. Three breaths later, she unhooks her keys from her waist as she fingers the brass until she locates the DCA master key and inserts it into the lock, her blood rushing in her ears. Maka hasn't needed anything in her life as much as she needs to know that he's okay- and she hopes he doesn't see this as a violation of his privacy, but she's completely out of options. Quietly, she opens the door enough to slip inside.
The moment she's through, a rough hand clamps down over her mouth- her instincts scream, It's a trap. But, there's zero time to berate her stupidity as she's yanked back hard and almost loses her balance. Fight trumps flight, and Maka rights herself enough to pivot, bringing her knee up with her.
Her attacker anticipates the move, and shoves her knee down between their legs, clamping strong thighs around it. Still night blind, Maka can't see shit, but lack of sight doesn't stop her from trying to claw at the face. She curses non-existent night vision, because she still can't make out her assailant.
Not that it matters if she doesn't know who the hell she's fighting- whoever they are, they aren't getting the best of her. She still has cards to play.
Tightening her hand around the keys she miraculously didn't drop, Maka splays them wide on the ring and uses them as impromptu brass knuckles and thrusts the keys into the general vicinity of her attackers waist. She drives them in hard, and twists them sharply, to great effect, eliciting a hoarse grunt. This is followed by a raw hiss when Maka rips them up diagonally across their abdomen from hip to shoulder. They still aren't relenting but she isn't done yet- now that their mind is elsewhere, it's time to end this.
The one thing Papa had taught her was go for the nuts, but only after distracting. And she intends to leave this asshole gelded. However, they become aware of her objective- hand abandoning mouth to turn to steel clamped on her wrist a split second before she can make contact. So she sucks in a deep breath, intending to wake the dead-
"Fuck- Maka!" The voice vibrates in her chest. "It's me."
The harsh whisper cuts through the silence and leaves her frozen, her hand and keys only millimeters away from the source of his future children. "Soul!?"
"The one and only," he wheezes. "Can you please move those keys?"
Maka's heartbeat is throbbing angrily in her ears but she manages to jerk her hand open and the keys fall to the deck clattering.
"Fuck." The whoosh of the breath he's holding caresses her cheeks. "Thanks," he says, slumping with relief, loosening his grip on her wrist and knee.
With all the adrenaline coursing through her body, her eyes have finally adjusted to the gloom enough to take in the tall frame and ethereal glow of his near white hair- Soul!
Alive- not locked up somewhere in the bowels of the ship being beaten or worse gutted and tossed overboard. Soul, here alive and well. Maka chokes on an unbidden sob of emotion, as overwhelming relief floods her body mixing with the pure adrenaline of a fight she wasn't going to lose. He's okay and that's all that matters, because all she cares about in this moment is him.
Chest heaving she throws herself at him, wrapping her arms around his neck, pressing herself as close to him as possible, gripping him with all her strength as her chest heaves another broken sob of relief. She buries her face in his neck as hot tears sting her face. He's safe!
The gutteral noise he makes, before his arms come up encasing her in his vice tight grip, makes her throw out all logic for once. And she finds herself where she's only fantasized about being for the past two weeks- in Soul's arms. Maka buries her hands into his hair kissing his neck before she even thinks through what she's doing.
But for once, her anxieties about who she is, the boundaries she's carefully hidden herself behind, and the ideas of a future she won't allow herself to have simply melt away. For once, she is fully present in this moment. The only thing on her mind now is feeling everything she can feel. And she wants him to feel it, too.
He groans, burying his face into her neck, breath ragged and hoarse. Her knees buckle when he lavs at her neck but it still isn't enough for either of them. One of his hands is splayed on her back, and the other has cemented her ass to his hips.
Even through her uniform she can feel every inch of his frame.
The way he moves his face against her cheek, is indicative of asking for her permission. Maka doesn't have anything she wants to withhold from him, so she turns her face so she can claim his lips herself.
Her blood is fire, and so is his. There's no need for words, no explanation of how they've spent their night. In his kiss she tastes the torment of his fear, the rush of adrenaline, the sweet relief of his safety, and a hunger- his hunger for her- that elates her beyond anything she's experienced before. It matches her own need and Maka razes his bottom lip with her teeth. Even the tear of his stubble on her skin incites her. She's blinded by sheer want.
The sounds he's making sear her with an ache she's never felt. It has her clutching at him, pressing herself to him, feeding off of their white hot heat. She wants everything he's giving, and even the sharpness of his teeth at her neck isn't enough.
Maka sinks her hands under his sweatshirt- she needs more.
Her hands palm at the muscles right above his hip. It still isn't enough, her hands slide over his glistening back, she digs the pads into the stress tightened muscles making Soul moan. The sweatshirt is a hindrance and she shoves it up higher and higher until it's gone, flung out of her way. She palms his shoulders, kneading into his chest, and taut stomach. Her lips close over a hard nipple, which she teases with her teeth and tongue, while her hands memorize the hard muscles of his arms, his back, his hips almost all at once. Only now that she's tasted him, she wants to taste all of him.
Her fingers toy with the edge of the low slung sweatpants until she slips her hands beneath the fabric. A small gasp of wonder escapes her, he's not wearing underwear, and now she knows exactly why his uniform looks so good. She squeezes his ass and her own hips buck just below his, making her moan. Maka feels him straining and pulsing, she bites her lip. All she wants to do is run her tongue along his length- something she'd never thought she'd want but finds a burning curiosity to do so.
Drawing herself up on tiptoes she kisses his collar bones and hooks her thumbs over the waistband, feeling his heat between her hip bones pressed deliciously into her belly. She intends to push his sweats out of the way on her way down but his hands clamp over her wrists for the second time this evening.
Soul pushes her arms up behind her and holds both wrists in one hand, she's never realized how long his fingers are. And the thought of feeling those dip into the same places her fingers have gone have her feeling breathless and light headed. His right hand at the base of her neck brings her back to the surface, he's pulling the pins that secure her braid off all while kissing her neck.
Maka's keenly aware of his tongue and suddenly the thought of his fingers flies out of her mind and she wonders just how good it will feel to have him... "Eater!" she gasps. Legs quake at the mere thought. His growl of victory further wrecks her senses, but then he's pulled the elastic from her hair and his hand is dexterously undoing her braid and then she feels him shudder.
/
Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck!
His heart and soul are warring with his inability to process just what the hell he's doing. He can't- Maka's reduced him to madness.
The physical distance presented by her uniform is unacceptable. Soul deftly undoes a number of the buttons to her top before he rips the fabric from her waistband, Maka lifts her arms to aid him. Even so, a few buttons fly, not that he can bring himself to care.
Soul's never wanted anything the way he wants her, hates that he's reduced to touch, taste, smell, and sound, because he wants to see her. He needs to see what's happening in the depths of her soul and because he can't, his other senses are on sensory overload.
His hands tear at the white tee, the one that teases him daily as it peeks out behind the vee of her khaki uniform. One moment it's in the way and the next it's gone.
The way her ragged breathing fills his head, the taste of the silky skin of her neck, she feels like heaven in his hands- the braid is free and he brings it over her shoulder inhaling deep. He's so far gone, he's not coming back from this ever. For the first time in his life it feels like he's home. Her fragrance irrevocably branded into his consciousness- a siren song to forever drive him mad.
Desire. Need. Possession- if he gives in he's a dead man. He's a dead man if he doesn't.
Does he deserve to feel this good? Fuck no. He's not even sure how he got here because he sure as shit doesn't deserve Maka. He wants, goddamnit, does he want.
If Maka's offering tonight- he'll torture himself with thoughts of forever tomorrow, because for him there is no going back. Forget back- he has no back. And he doesn't want a tomorrow that isn't hers. And yet, he shoves his existential crisis into the black room, he's taking tonight. For as long as it lasts.
With thumb and forefinger he gives the back clasp of her bra a twist and is rewarded by a gasping breath. He wishes he could see- but since he can't, he uses the senses available to him, intent on remembering every detail of tonight.
Soul palms her pert breasts, provoking a moan from Maka that goes through him like an electric shock. Remembers her mouth on his nipple and covers hers with his own, flicking at the puckered nub while his other hand teases the other nipple until it's hard and Maka is breathless.
He's lost in her sounds, oblivious of the world around him until her thumbs finish the job she'd started out to do earlier, yanking his sweats down. The air from his lungs goes with them as he springs free, rigid and hot against the coolness of her belly. Soul forgets how to breathe when her fingers wrap around him and she exhales raggedly.
There's something he needs to process, but her hand is squeezing and gliding over the stiff satin and Soul's voice breaks, "Maka, I-"
The booming knocks on her stateroom next door cut him off. "DCA! Open up!" shouts Lieutenant Bale.
a/n: Posting a day early because I'm remodeling a kitchen and it'll drive me nuts all day waiting. Hope you enjoy! Thank you so much for those of you who take a few minutes to leave a comment, they mean so much to me. My betas rock!