A/N: Another prompt: "I am not 'whining.' I am complaining. Do you want to hear 'whining'?"
He looked at her and laughed, because it was outrageously hilarious at the same time that it wasn't funny at all because since when did Maka Albarn, three star ace meister, whine?
"You are definitely whining. And complaining. But also whining," he chuckled half-heartedly, because he hated this type of bullshit, after all. Normally, he would be the one whining.
"What type of a sadist makes a woman who is eight months pregnant wear heels?" She moaned again as they stood near the food table. Maka was constantly hungry of late and had been hovering near the hors d'oeuvres like they might disappear at any moment.
"One who scheduled the thing a year in advance and couldn't possibly know that the star speaker would go and get herself knocked up?" he grinned at her.
She punched his arm and it wasn't light. "You had something to do with it, as I recall."
"Yep," he said with a proud smirk, popping a shrimp in his mouth happily at the memory. Or rather, memories; there had been plenty of times his 'help' might have caused their current predicament during the month in question.
She punched him again in irritation and he managed a muffled "ow" through his bite of shrimp, though the smirk remained.
"Anyway, it's not like Kid forced you to wear heels," he pointed out after he swallowed.
"Whatever," she huffed. "All I know is, the so-called 'Last Death Scythe' had best be ready to be on full foot rub duty when this farce is over since it's the anniversary of your becoming a death scythe that we're celebrating, here."
"Hey," he shrugged. "You made me what I am."
"Full foot rub duty," she repeated with a glare.
"Yes, my meister," he said with a leer. Because foot rubs generally lead to other sorts of rubs, and she definitely wouldn't whine about that. Then again, neither would he.