This is an old Scottish drinking song. I thought it very fitting for this chapter and couldn't resist sharing. :)

Well a Scotsman clad in kilt left a bar one evening fair
And one could tell by how he walked that he'd drunk more than his share
He fumbled round until he could no longer keep his feet
Then he stumbled off into the grass to sleep beside the street

About that time two young and lovely girls happened by
And one says to the other with a twinkle in her eye
See yon sleeping Scotsman so strong and handsome built
I wonder if it's true what they don't wear beneath the kilt

They crept up on that sleeping Scotsman quiet as could be
Lifted up his kilt about an inch so they could see
And there behold, for them to view, beneath his Scottish skirt
Was nothing more than God had graced him with upon his birth

They marveled for a moment, then one said we must be gone
Let's leave a present for our friend, before we move along
As a gift they left a blue silk ribbon, tied into a bow
Around the bonnie star, the Scots kilt did lift and show

Now the Scotsman woke to nature's call and stumbled toward the trees
Behind a bush, he lifts his kilt and gawks at what he sees
And in a startled voice he says to what's before his eyes.
O lad I don't know where you been but I see you won first prize

The moment they entered the hotel room, Maka's gaze went instantly to the double king beds. So had Souls. And the air instantly became thick with one of those awkwardly tense moments where people either jumped on each other, or got as far away from each other as they could. Maka did a little crab-scuttle sideways, nearly sidling right back out into the hall, her face flaming bright pink. Soul smiled faintly, mockingly, at her, then stepped past her and thoroughly scanned the entire room before positioning the mirror against the far wall, facing the entry door. Maka had not missed that it also faced the beds, but she refused to ponder it overlong. For a moment they stood there eyeing each other critically, neither knowing what to do or where to stand.
Maka stared at him, looking up and down. She definitely needed to get him some new clothes. For starters, he stood out too much, like he had fallen right out of some Scottish battle reenactment. Secondly, his clothing in question didn't leave much to the imagination; there was more skin showing than Maka felt comfortable with. He was lean and well built, being clad in nothing but a kilt was downright distracting! Plus the age old question, 'what did Scotsman really wear under their kilts?' That was a mystery that Maka, to her own shame, was far too intrigued with.
No, tomorrow she would find him the baggiest, least revealing clothes she could find, then, maybe she wouldn't feel the need to stare so much.

"Oi!" Soul exclaimed, shaking Maka from her musings.
Soul's gaze had swept past her to the bathroom. "Christ, he exclaimed, 'tis a modern garderobe!"
"You mean a bathroom?" Maka asked, feeling a little perplexed at his enthusiasm. "Aye, lass, I couldn't see beyond the door to the one in Wes's study, though I've seen pictures. . . . He'd trailed off wonderingly. "Is that where he kept you . . . er, the mirror hung? In his study?" Maka asked softly. How strange his existence must have been living inside a mirror! She couldn't begin to fathom it. "Aye. Though I've seen most modern inventions in books and the like in his study, I've not had the opportunity to examine the real things up close." He turned to Maka, red globes silently asking. "Come on, Maka sighs, I'll show you how it works." Maka walked into the bathroom, Soul following, hovering unsure in the door way. Maka turned a handle on the sink, letting the cold water rush out. Soul's eyes lit up as he watched.
Maka had expected that she'd have to give a quick bathroom demo, but once again Soul took charge.
He plunged right into things, just as he had in the car, taking command, twisting handles and turning knobs, squirting little bottles of shampoo and conditioner until the room resembled a steam sauna, scented with perfumed toiletries. "Does this lodgings contain a kitchen and serving wenches, lass?" Soul queried, pausing long enough in his explorations to ask. Maka nodded, feeling suddenly too tired to speak. "Command us a feast, lass. I'm famished. Meat. Much meat. And some ale." Maka's stomach growled in response. "I'll order us up some room service."
Soul nodded, desperately hoping that this "room service" was edible. Maka should have gotten the hint when Soul turned on the shower and began unfastening his wrist cuffs, but it had been a long day and Maka was running on empty. Without further ado, Soul turned his back on her and dropped his kilt. He stood there, utterly unself-conscious, wearing nothing but a leather sheath strapped to one lightly muscled thigh, holding a heavy emerald-encrusted knife. Maka squawked and back pedaled, slamming the door tightly behind her. Maka slid down the door, her fingers scrubbing at her eyes. She could hear him chuckling softly on the other side. The damn Highlander had no shame!
She'd not been prepared for it, she hadn't expected for him to get butt-naked in front of her.
Wow, and what a butt it had been..
Geez, I guess that answers the age old question. Maka thought shakily as she uncrumpled herself from the floor. Unsteady legs propelled Maka from the bathroom door to the bed where she sank wearily. Maka's brain felt somewhat overloaded. "Don't forget the feast, woman!" Soul sang out from the bathroom, his voice muffled by the running water. "I heard you the first time!" Maka snapped crabbily. Maybe food would do them both some good though.
Gulping a few steadying breaths, she grabbed the phone and ordered room service, putting it also on her credit card. "Why not?" she muttered to her reflection in the mirror that stood next to the bed. "I may as well charge with impunity." The way things were going, she probably wouldn't live long enough to have to pay it off anyway. Maka ordered steaks, with green beans and baked potatoes. Surely the stripping Highlander wouldn't object to her food choice.
The reflection of the glowing red clock on the bedside table suddenly drew Maka's attention, blinking as the hour rolled over. 4:00 A.M. She stared at it in the mirror, aghast, realizing that in three hours and twenty minutes, classes would begin for the day. On Thursdays, she taught four one-hundred-level anthropology courses. Or she'd used to. She certainly wouldn't be teaching any today. She considered calling in sick, but decided it was wiser not to. When this was over, she'd figure out what kind of story to tell. She might be able to get away with claiming to have been forcibly abducted and fully exonerate herself. Which meant if she called in sick now, it would make her look like a liar later. I know it's odd for a kidnapper to let his kidnappee call in sick, but he was an odd kidnapper. Right. That would go over like a ton of bricks. Exhaling gustily, she turned her attention to her laptop that was perched on the bed and plugged it into the hotel line. Maka decided to check her E-mail while he was showering, partly in a no-doubt-pointless bid for the comfort of routine, but also to keep her mind off sex, which, with him around, was like trying not to think about chocolate while sitting in a person-sized fondue pot of the dark, creamy stuff, surrounded by flowering cacao trees. Pointless. Her inbox was filled with the usual: newsletters to which she subscribed to stay apprised of significant developments in her field; E-mails from students in the undergrad classes she T.A.'d, filled with impressively creative excuses as to why they should be the exception to the rule, forgiven their: a) absenteeism; b) failure to appear for an exam; c) late paper. The entertaining and inventive pleas for leniency were followed by spam spam and more spam.
All mail sorted, Maka was about to log off when a new E-mail popped in. She scanned the sender's ID. Myrddin . She didn't know a Myrddin and had a phobia about viruses. If something happened to her laptop, a new one wasn't in the budget. There was no topic in the subject line, which meant, according to her stringent guidelines, there was no place for it but the Trash folder. As she slid the pointer over it, she got an instant bone-deep chill. She whisked her fingers over the mouse pad, jerking the pointer away. Slid it back again. An immediate, painful, bitter chill licked up her hand. She shivered, jerked the pointer off.
Oh, that was just too weird. She frowned, thinking about the way it had arrived. Had an E-mail ever just popped into her inbox when she'd been sitting idle on the inbox page? Not that she could remember. Sometimes when she was refreshing a page, or reentering the inbox, new ones showed up, but one had never popped in like that when she was just sitting static on the page. Gingerly, she slid the pointer back over the topic line: NO SUBJECT. Grimacing at the immediate sensation that her hand had been plunged, dripping wet, into a Subzero freezer.
Beyond the bathroom door, the shower still ran, and Soul still splashed. "Stop being silly," Maka scolded herself quietly. "It's just an email."
Feeling brave, she clicked on it hard and fast and yanked her fingers from the mouse pad. She pressed her palm shakily to her cheek. It was as cold as ice. Wide-eyed, she stared at the screen. The E-mail contained three short lines.

Return the mirror immediately.
Contact Myrddin for instructions.
You have twenty-four hours.

That was all it said. There was nothing else on the screen, but for a line of nonsensical symbols and shapes at the very bottom. As she scanned them, a sudden shadow seemed to fall over the hotel room. The bedside clock dimmed, the overhead light in the little entrance foyer hummed, and the ivory walls took on a sickly yellowish hue. And as clearly as if a man were standing in the room with her, she hears a man's deep, cultured baritone say: "You will die, Maka Albarn." Whipping around, Maka scanned the room. There was no one there. Maka's heart slammed into her throat, pounding in her ears with a deafening roar. A cold sweat clung to her as her body began to shake uncontrollably. Why am I shaking? Maka wondered as she willed her body to stop. But it wasn't Maka's body that was shaking, no, it was something else holing on to her. Invisible arms that crept out of her laptop held tightly to her, shaking and thrashing her about. Maka tried to scream, but the invisible hands wrapped around her throat, cutting it off. Maka clawed desperately at her neck, tears running down her face. It was no use. Black spots began to swim behind her eyes. This is it, this is how I'm going to die. Maka thought hazily as her vision began to fade completely. Then, suddenly, the bathroom door flew open. Soul came crashing out of the steam filled room, a white towel thrown hastily around his lean hips. His eyes burning liquid fire as he snarled deeply, his teeth flashing a savage smile. While in the shower Soul had felt the presence enter the room, something was very wrong. Maka was in danger, he knew that it was Wes's magic. He could practically taste the vile stench of his brother's magic as it clung in the air. Soul's gaze quickly found Maka in the darkened room, she had fallen off the bed in her struggle and now lay thrashing on the floor. Soul growled and leapt for Maka, all the while chanting incantations. Maka felt strong arms wrap around her, and the strangling sensation left instantly. Soul held her tight, shielding her body with his as he continued to chant. Maka could feel the invisible arms hammering down on Soul's back as they clung to each other.
"Halda vápni kyrru!" Soul shouted, his voice rumbling deep in his chest, his words causing the floor beneath them to tremble. Then, as suddenly as it had appeared, the invisible force left; leaving the room stifling in the sudden silence. Maka held her breath, straining her ears, waiting and listening for any abnormalities.
Only the sound of Soul panting heavily against her neck and her thundering heart could be heard.
"What was that?" Maka whispered rather hesitantly, afraid her voice would incite something sinister. "Dark magic." Soul mumbled heavily into her neck where his head now rested.
"Dark magic?" "Aye, tis fine." "How in the hell is that fine?" "Tis long gone now, it won't be bothering you again."
"Are you sure it's safe?" "Aye."
"Maybe you should get off me then?!" Maka half shouts, embarrassed to be underneath him, their bodies pressed Intimately together.
She begins to desperately wiggle out from underneath him.
"Don't you dare move lass." Soul practically growls in her ear, causing Maka to stop her squirming.
"Let's just stay like this for a moment."
"Is there something else in the room?" Maka asks with a shiver, her eyes darting across the room for eerie shadows.
Maka feels him smile sharply into her neck.
"No lass, I just like the feel of you." Soul chuckles roughly as he nuzzles deeper into her.
"Get off"! Maka yells, smacking him smartly on his chest... his bare, very wet chest at that. Soul snickers and props himself up on his elbows, revealing that his hastily thrown on towel is riding dangerously low on his hips. Maka stares. She can't help it.
He's looking down at her, but his damp hair hangs low and dripping, leaving his eyes in shadow.
His skin is smooth and warm, despite the water still clinging to it. Maka can feel it soaking through her T-shirt.
Soul smiles at her lazily, making no attempt to move off of her.
"Um, look, I've been thinking, what's your plan, anyway?" Maka chirps, try hard not to get lost in that smile.
"To bed you."
"No, I mean, your plan that might actually work." She snorts, baring her teeth in a cool masquerade of a smile. "Ah, that plan. That would be to lean in now and kiss you senseless"
"No, that's not the one I meant, either," Maka chokes hastily, her breath hitching slightly at the thought. He stares down at her with smoldering intensity. Soul lowers his mouth slowly, lazily, never breaking eye contact with her. Up close, he's beyond gorgeous. Those crimson eyes shimmering, framed by long snowy lashes. His skin is tawny-velvet, lightly stubbled. His lips sensual, pink and firm, and curved in the hint of a smile.
"Tell me not to kiss you, Maka. Tell me right now. And best you make me believe you mean it," he warns softly, a breath away from her lips.
"Don't kiss me." Maka wets her lips, unintentionally. "Try again," he says flatly. "Don't kiss me." She's blushing like an idiot. "Try again," he hisses quietly, as if in pain. "And beware, woman, 'tis your last chance." Maka takes a deep breath. "Don't." Another deep breath. "Kiss me?" Soul laughs, a cocky, rich purr of a sound.
Crimeny, Maka thought dismally, as he lowered his sexy dark head toward hers, even she'd heard the wrong punctuation there.