Silent Fortress

Maka sometimes wondered whether he'd even noticed the gradual change. Whether he noticed that he touched her now with a casual ease and familiarity that had taken her months to cultivate. These days, Soul barely gave a thought to reaching for her hand before transforming for a fight, to slumping against her on the couch when they watched movies, or to wrapping an arm around her waist when they were both injured and needed each other's support to limp home. But it hadn't always been that way. In the earliest days of their partnership, Soul hadn't allowed anyone to touch him.

Within minutes of first meeting Soul, Maka had told him all about her background with her father, and had explained why she so desperately wanted a scythe-type weapon as her partner. Surpassing Death Scythe Spirit Albarn was his daughter's driving force, after all, and she made no secret of her intentions to anyone. In spite of her own issues trusting men and boys in general, Maka still fervently hoped that Soul would agree to a partnership with her, and she'd told him so outright. Her honesty and openness had intrigued him. And so Soul had played for her—cautiously at first, but slowly losing his inhibitions as the song went on.

Maka had learned more about him right then than she'd ever admitted to anyone. Her musical knowledge might have been pretty pathetic, but she'd recognized the darkness and the passion in the notes Soul hammered out on the piano. She'd always been good at reading people, anyway (which she'd later realize was partially due to her as-yet-uncultivated soul perception abilities). And so she'd been able to see the insecurity and fear of rejection underneath Soul's veneer of aloof 'coolness.' She'd practically felt his nerves fluttering beneath the relaxed facade, and she'd felt too the resolve with which he shoved his uncertainty down deep, and the determination he had within himself—the drive he'd had to push himself to make it here somehow; to become the best weapon that he possibly could be, no matter how difficult the journey.

By the time the last notes died away, he'd probably forgotten anyone was even in the room with him. When he'd realized she was still standing there, still listening, she'd seen the slight widening of his pretty crimson eyes. And she knew he'd been both shocked and relieved when she'd smiled sincerely at him and applauded. He'd clearly expected to scare Maka off like the other meisters he'd met that day (How many others? she'd wondered silently, and was infinitely grateful to them for passing him over). She'd eagerly extended a hand to him, asking him again if he was willing to be her partner, and he'd hesitated for one long beat before finally accepting it in a firm shake.

Intimate friendships blossomed quickly at the academy—that was due to the nature of their job. Partnerships had to be strong if you wanted to survive. Matched weapon-technician pairs were encouraged to live together if they could afford off-campus housing, and assigned dorms nearby if they could not. When sharing meals, bathrooms, classes, and (in some cases) the same sleeping quarters with the same people every day, one tended to get to know those people very well, and very fast. Also, you learned a lot about someone by how he or she behaved when faced with the kinds of situations DWMA students were thrown into on a daily basis.

Soul turned out to be a bit on the guarded side—not shy, just not the type to volunteer personal information. But he was laid-back and easy enough to get along with, so Maka had trusted that she'd learn more about him with time and patience. On the lookout for such personal details, naturally she'd picked up on Soul's aversion to touch in a matter of days.

Having spent her entire life in and around Death City, Maka made an excellent tour guide. (As her friend Black*Star would have done, had he been able to focus on something other than himself for more than two seconds). As soon as they'd found an apartment together and gotten their things settled in, Maka had enthusiastically showed Soul all around the city and the academy while chattering on incessantly about the various aspects of life in Shibusen and what he should expect. Soul had tried to hide it, but he'd been rather impressed by Maka's encyclopedic knowledge.

But when she'd excitedly reached for his hand to drag him to the top of the academy steps and show him the amazing view, Soul had quickly put his hands in his pockets and acted like he hadn't seen her reaching out. Chagrined, she'd awkwardly dropped her outstretched hand, wondering why he'd drawn back like that. Soul had seen the flash of hurt flicker across her face, and had tried to make up for it by asking her a question about something she'd been yammering on about moments before, but she'd answered him with only a fraction of her former enthusiasm.

It had set her thinking, and she realized—over the past several days, whenever she'd accidently brushed against Soul in passing, he'd been distinctly uncomfortable and had pulled away. It wasn't that he was socially awkward around girls or anything…he'd been perfectly normal just talking to her. It was just that he hadn't wanted to be touched by her. But why?

At first Maka had assumed it was due to his not knowing her very well. And, she'd reasoned with herself, not everyone expressed their feelings as vocally and physically as her father did (at which thought she'd shuddered violently). Some people just weren't the touchy-feely type. Just because he didn't want her dragging him halfway across the campus by the hand didn't mean that Soul didn't like her as a person, or that he was reconsidering their partnership. She'd clenched her fists, told herself to stop overreacting, and resolved to respect Soul's personal space.

But she'd had an epiphany of sorts during a disastrous training session a few days later.

Maka had still been rather clumsy in her handling of his weapon form, although her instructors assured her that she and Soul were doing quite well for such an early stage—they'd been partners for just over a week, after all. She'd miscalculated while trying a new move, and had managed to nick her own shin with the tip of Soul's long, curved blade. She'd been irritated at herself, but he'd been completely appalled. As he transformed back and stared in shock at the fat droplets of blood oozing from her leg, Maka had apologized for mucking up their training session. Soul had just hovered over her, his face slightly panicky, with shame and guilt pouring off him in waves.

Concerned by this reaction, she'd touched his arm gently, wanting him to look her in the eye when she told him again that the accident wasn't his fault, and that he shouldn't blame himself for her clumsiness. He'd leaped back as though burned by her fingertips, shoved his hands into his pockets again and mumbled something about fetching a bandage from the nurse, before bolting from the room. And suddenly she'd understood.

Soul was afraid. He was uncertain about what level of control he had over his weapon state. He was worried about losing it and hurting someone unintentionally. Especially someone close to him, someone he cared about. It was actually fairly common for a weapon for have these feelings, especially at this age, but how was Soul to know that?

From what little she'd gleaned about Soul's life before Shibusen, Maka knew that no one else in his immediate family had been a weapon-type, which meant that he was completely on his own in uncharted territory, with no one close to him who could offer advice or support. He'd have no idea how to go about developing the level of control necessary to live a normal life as a weapon. The one thing he was sure of was that he was supposed to protect his technician; that was drilled into all the weapons in the academy from day one. But now her blood was splashed across the ugly blue gym mat because of his blade. No wonder he was freaking out, she'd thought.

As his technician, Maka knew she was responsible for his well-being too, just as much as he was responsible for hers. So she'd vowed to find a way to help him—without being obvious about it. The male ego was a fragile thing, she knew, and she had to be careful not to embarrass Soul or trivialize his concerns—or their weapon-technician relationship would suffer.

So she'd started out small.

She'd made a point of asking weapon-related questions in class, about things she was sure Soul needed to know but didn't know how to ask. And she'd taken careful notes as her teachers answered, underlining key phrases about how training and discipline helped a weapon to build control, and how the level of trust and familiarity between a weapon and his or her wielder was extremely important as well. Meanwhile, she'd stolen glances at Soul from the corner of her eye. Although he'd stayed slouched back in his chair, she'd seen his muscles tense and his eyes narrow. She'd known that he'd been listening with every fiber of his being.

Next she'd initiated small, innocuous daily touches: laying a hand on Soul's arm or nudging his side with an elbow to get his attention rather than calling out to him. (The Maka –chops had come much later, when she had grown comfortable enough with him to express her displeasure physically without fear that he would leave her). Soul needed to know that mere physical contact was not dangerous unless he wanted it to be—that he was in control of when and where his scythe blades appeared on his person. Once Soul had stopped flinching at her touch, Maka moved on to the next phase of her plan.

As much as it had pained her, she'd made a point to "accidently" run into her father a time or two, to let Soul see the ease with which Spirit dragged her into a tearful hug (before she'd chopped him, of course). Even as Maka had made some pithy comment about what a womanizing bastard her papa was, she'd been thrilled to see Soul staring thoughtfully at the man's retreating figure. Being a fellow scythe, Soul couldn't help but draw parallels between himself and Spirit. If that idiot could do something—could learn to control his weapon state, could be completely at ease with close physical contact with someone so obviously precious to him—then so could Soul.

Then she'd started waking Soul in the mornings, gently shaking his shoulder while leaning over him and cheerfully announcing breakfast was ready. He'd been perturbed by this new morning routine at first, but once he'd caught the whiff of breakfast foods in the air, Soul had quickly stopped complaining and learned to look forward to waking up to Maka's bacon and eggs. She'd moved her marathon study sessions out to the living area, carefully spreading her books over more than half of the couch. If Soul wanted to watch TV, he was going to have to sit closer to her than he'd hitherto been comfortable with. She'd cheered inwardly when Soul had plopped down beside her on the couch one afternoon, and reached over her to grab the remote without even noticing that her thigh brushed against his.

But the real triumph had been that bike.

He'd come home one weekend afternoon, more excited than Maka had ever seen him, and told her to come quick so he could show her something. At the foot of the stairs, he'd asked her to close her eyes, and actually taken her hands in his without hesitation, of his own accord, on purpose, to lead her to the parking lot in back of their apartment complex. When he'd allowed her to open her eyes again, she hadn't known whether to laugh or cry. He'd been so proud of the stupid thing, the hideous orange motorcycle with its bright shiny chrome and black leather seats. She'd managed to ooh and ahh appropriately, but her heart had stuttered when he asked her if she wanted to go for a ride.

He'd clambered onto the bike and instructed her to hold on tight to his waist and to lean into the turns when he leaned. And when he'd peeled out of the parking lot, she'd squeaked and wrapped her arms around him in a vise-like grip, eyes squeezed closed and heart hammering. And she'd felt his back quivering with laughter, though she couldn't hear it over the roar of the engine. He'd turned to look at her over his shoulder as they rolled to a stop at a light, and the smile he'd flashed at her had been the brightest she'd ever seen. And she'd known then that she'd won.

She wondered now whether he knew how much effort she had put into inuring him to her presence, and to her touch. And she decided, as he brushed his lips against hers and ran a hand through her hair, that she didn't care.

A.N. Thanks for all the reviews, alerts and favorites, everyone! I tried something different with this one-no dialogue at all. Constructive Criticism is always appreciated. :D