Hey everyone! Welcome to... whatever this is! :D As usual, this AU got stuck in my brain and refused to let go. I'm still working on the last chapter of IPS, but I had to get this out into the world. Hope u enjoy!
Maka Albarn has no boyfriend, and it's a problem.
It had never been a problem, previously. In fact, it hadn't been a problem until approximately thirty minutes ago.
"Maka, honey, I just think-" her father Spirit is saying, red hair flowing behind him Fabio-style as he chases her towards the front doors of her apartment building. He slides his foot across the threshold of the door before she slams it, letting out a strangled grunt when it hits his toes.
"There is no way I'm going to couple's counseling with someone you've never met, just because you don't like the idea of-"
"I'll pay for it," he says desperately, cutting her off. "I'll pay for the whole thing. I'll- I'll pay double the cost, and you keep the rest. I... just want you to be happy, sweetheart."
This gives Maka pause, as he had likely known it would. As much as she resents her Papa, as much as she blames him for most things, he still knows her very well.
"...You're trespassing," she says with a little sigh, which is her way of saying I'll think about it.
Her father lights up and immediately takes his cue. "Okay, yes! You're right! I'll leave you to it. I love you so much, sweetheart. I'll call you later and we can talk logistics!"
He clearly doesn't want to give her a chance to go back on her words. With one last enthusiastic wave, his foot disappears from the threshold of the door and it clicks shut, leaving her alone with her thoughts.
She doesn't even take off her bag once she gets upstairs - she just paces the floor of her apartment, thinking this through. Tsubaki's on a business trip until the end of the week, and Maka really wishes her roommate were here so she could vent.
She wouldn't be in this position if her Papa wasn't so pushy, so frustrating.
With a huge sigh, she falls onto the couch, staring at the ceiling. She should have seen this coming for the past six months, if she's honest. She can now see every white lie that has led her to this point, and the crystal clear vision of her hindsight is blinding.
He's been like this for as long as she can remember. He's such an oxymoron - emphasis on the moron - when it comes to Maka and men.
It had started in high school. Nobody's good enough for my Maka, he would announce - for absolutely no reason - when he picked her up from school. But then, when she had friends over: Why aren't you interested in my Maka?
If anything, it had gotten worse when she'd left for college. My Maka is so independent, she doesn't need a man! So proud of you, sweetie! he'd post on Facebook. Maka honey, why aren't you dating anyone? he'd then ask, whenever she came home on breaks.
They've probably had a hundred fights about it since she was sixteen. I'm not dating anyone because you're so overbearing that I can't possibly get close to anyone! she'd say, and he'd make his feeble attempts to smooth things over with but I love you so much! and nobody's good enough for you!
The worst part is that she doesn't even want a boyfriend - a lifetime of living with Spirit has poisoned her opinions of most men for-probably-ever - but it's the principle of the thing.
Regardless, the back-and-forth had continued, until finally, at age twenty-seven, when her father had somehow started dropping hints about grandbabies, she'd put her foot down. She'd gotten so sick of the thinly veiled questions and assumptions and meddling that, just to spite him, she'd simply made a boyfriend up.
Huffing another sigh, she gets up and grabs a glass from the cupboard, filling it with water and gulping it down. She stares out the window at the garden, watching the robins flit between the spring flowers.
It was a petty and dishonest thing to have done, but at least it brought some new variety into their arguments. Ten years of voicing his opinions had made Maka very aware of what sorts of qualities Spirit did not appreciate in potential suitors. She'd never actually mentioned this imaginary boyfriend's job - which she is now extremely grateful for - only that he's a musician in his spare time. She has casually dropped mentions of tattoos, and piercings, and complicated family dynamics.
Other than those tidbits, she'd kept things intentionally vague. Every time her father asked for more information, she'd shut him down, citing that this was the first and only time she'd ever had privacy when it came to her dating life.
Perhaps because she'd been so withholding, Papa had spent the past six months talking himself into the idea that this boyfriend was bad news, that Maka was incredibly unhappy, and had spent countless coffee dates trying to talk her out of her non-existent relationship. This had, in turn, made her dig her heels in deeper, insisting that this boyfriend was great and a total gentleman and didn't do Asshole Dad things like cheat on their wives.
After that last fight, things had been quiet. She thought she'd finally gotten him off her case - until today, during their Sunday morning coffee date, when he'd mentioned paying for couple's counselling.
That's what had sent her storming out of Starbucks, absolutely livid at her father's attempts to meddle yet again.
"Why is he like this?" she says to no one.
She really wishes Tsubaki were here. With no immediate outlet for her rage, it feels like there's no one to talk her out of the plan that's spinning itself together in her mind.
Because things had changed on the way home. Because now he's offering her double the cost of this counselling. Now, there's money involved.
And at this point, she feels like she deserves some financial reparations.
She heads to her bedroom where her laptop is, questioning herself the whole time. Is she really this petty? It's not like she has any male friends that she can ask to pretend to do this. Spirit already knows every boy that's been in her life since she was four.
If she's going to do this, she's going to have to bring in someone new.
Part of her feels guilty, feels like she should just come clean on the charade, so she can go back to being single in peace. But then she thinks of the past ten years, of the look of joy on her dad's face when he finds out that his precious daughter is still, and will likely always be, single, thanks to him.
The idea of him being so happy over her misery makes her crazy. And as a result, she does something crazy.
She pulls up Craigslist.
Soul Evans has no money, and it's a problem.
The worst part about it, of course, is that he could have money. Could be swimming in it, à la Scrooge McDuck, if he'd just do the one small task of, you know, compromising his entire sense of morality.
One day, he just decided he couldn't do it anymore. Couldn't continue to bend the knee to his parents' whims. He could no longer be the golden boy who accepts the silver spoon.
Luckily, as the second-born, his desire to leave home had ultimately meant minimal damage for his... progenitors. They've still got one golden son, and Soul had gotten to escape the suffocation of New York City life.
He thinks about his family as rarely as possible. It's been a year and six months since he moved to Albany, and in that time, he'd amassed a couple of jobs, several tattoos that he'd been wanting for years but had never been allowed to get, and a few friends, here and there.
But unfortunately, he has not managed to amass much at all in terms of funds. Most of his money goes into paying rent on his crappy apartment, fixing his bike, and saving up for more tattoos. Most of his friends know that he is terminally strapped for cash, and it is this knowledge that leads to the receipt of a very specific text message on a Sunday evening, during a slow shift at the bar.
[[ BRO. U WANNA MAKE SOME EZ CA$H ? ]]
Soul stares at his phone, contemplating the innumerable possible meanings behind this text. Blake Stanton is a never-ending fountain of get-rich-quick schemes, and Soul has developed quite the sense of self-preservation over the last eighteen months when it comes to jumping onto Blake's bandwagons.
Unfortunately, he has very few standards when it comes to making money, so none of his reservations actually stop him from typing out a reply.
[[ i'm listening. ]]
The next message he sends is a screenshot. Soul squints at it and recognizes it as a Craigslist ad.
Want $1000? Pretend to be my boyfriend
Pretend to be my boyfriend for 3 months for $1000 to help me piss off my dad. Must go to bi-weekly couple counselling sessions with me (already paid for).
Applicants must be:
25-30 y/o
Have a job my dad would hate (musician, bartender, tattoo artist, any type of "freelancer")
The more tattoos/piercings, the better
Actually single (I do not want to date you, I promise. If I wanted a boyfriend, I assure you I would not be looking for one on Craigslist. But - if you're taken and you try to manipulate me into any sort of 'other woman' scenario I will skin you alive. Do not try me.)
Unnatural hair color is welcomed, but not required.
Do NOT contact me if you're part of an MLM or something. I'm sure it's great "being your own boss," and I'm happy for you, but I'm not going to buy your kitchen knives. Also, my papa loves MLM people. He finds you all very charming, and the goal is to make a bad impression.
To be extremely clear: I am looking for a PRETEND boyfriend ONLY. Do not send me your unsolicited schlongs. I will show up at your house with a flamethrower. Again, do not try me.
He scrolls through the ad several more times, absolutely speechless.
This… this woman is terrifying. Is this really worth a little extra cash?
At the top of his screen, a text preview shows Blake saying: "IT'S U! UR TOTALLY GONNA DO IT RIGHT?"
Against his will, a grimace appears on his face. As if trying to convince himself, Soul minimizes the message, flips over to his banking app, and lets out a heavy sigh. A thousand bucks over three months would help him so much with rent.
Before he can overthink it, he opens a new text, types in the number in the ad, and sends a message.
The texts flood in, and it stresses Maka out.
The ad has only been up for three hours, and she's gotten 20 texts. Most of them have made her want to throw her phone against the wall - she had assumed that at least some of the people lurking Craigslist would have a basic level of reading comprehension, but, not for the first time, she realizes that she has far overestimated the male population of Albany. Most of these people still seem to think that she wants a real boyfriend, but at least her threats have kept her from receiving any unsolicited photos. Either way, she's grateful that she'd purchased a throwaway phone for this.
One text, thankfully, does stick out from the crowd: [[ hey. are you the person with the fake boyfriend ad? ]]
Since she's had such slim pickings until now, she chooses to respond to this one:
[[ Yes. Are you interested? Do you meet the criteria? ]]
[[ ...i think so?]]
She doesn't have time to mess around, so she presses call.
Soul's phone starts to buzz, making the glasses on the bar ping together like a windchime. When he sees the number, he tries to set aside the mild panic taking root in his gut.
"…Hello?"
"How old are you?" says the person on the other side of the call, without preamble.
"Uh… 28? Who is this?" he says, self-preservation instincts on the fritz. Through the phone, he hears what sounds like tapping on a keyboard.
"The person with the fake boyfriend ad," she deadpans, repeating the wording of his text back to him. "Just answer these questions," she finally says, "and then I'll explain."
This placates him slightly, and he allows himself to be grilled as he tries to keep up with her, questions firing in rapid succession:
"What's your job? Musician, bartender?"
"Uh. Well. Both of those, actually?" he says, feeling a bit sheepish.
She makes an approving little hum, followed by more typing. He tries not to be offended by the fact that she has found favour with him because he has two of the 'worst possible jobs.'
"Single?"
"Yup."
If possible, she becomes even more serious. "I'm not kidding about this one. No other people I should know about? No old flames that are gonna come back in the picture and try to fight me?"
"Nope." Any of his 'old flames' in question are back in the city, and all of those had been family set-ups, anyway. Business transactions. "My brother would be annoying about it if he found out, but otherwise, no."
"Good. I don't have time to beat anyone up. Hair color?"
"Really, really light blonde. Like basically white."
"Fancy," she says, satisfied, and for some reason, a weird burst of pride shoots through him at that. Why is he proud of his natural hair color because some girl he doesn't even know - who hasn't even seen him - likes the idea of it?
He won't dig too deeply into that one. It doesn't really matter. This is ultimately another business transaction, but at least he's choosing this one for himself.
"Any tattoos/piercings?"
"Five tattoos. No piercings yet, but honestly, I could get some. If you like, paid for it, or whatever."
He feels weird saying that.
God. This is weird, right? What the hell is he doing?
"That won't be necessary," she says diplomatically. It's a business transaction for her as well, after all. "But thanks for letting me know." Her tone is so neutral, like he's just offered her a dessert menu at a restaurant and she doesn't want any.
Okay, well, if she's not going to make it weird, neither will he. Maybe this will be the easiest thousand bucks of his life.
"All right, almost done here. Is there anything else you think I should know?" she asks, once her typing has ceased again.
"Uh... would your dad hate that I drive a motorcycle?" he asks.
There's a long silence on the other end of the line, and when she responds, he can hear a grin in her voice.
"Yes, he absolutely would. You're hired."
They arrange to meet at a small coffee shop in the heart of downtown.
Soul sits at a table in the back corner, tapping his fingers and trying to shake the strangeness of the situation from his mind as he awaits the appearance of his pretend girlfriend. They've texted a bit more since the initial phone conversation - apparently the other questions she's had to ask him were less pressing - but it's been hard to get a read on what kind of person she really is. Everything has been all business, all the time.
When she enters, she enters the room in a literal whirlwind, the March cherry blossoms twirling around behind her as she shuts the door. She spots him in a second, making her way to the table with a huge binder in her hand. Without so much as a greeting - again, all business - she flips the binder open to a giant photo of her face.
The giant smile in the photo serves as a stark contrast to the intense expression on her real face.
"This is for you," she says, spinning the binder around. He stares down at it, picking up a handful of laminated pages and letting them fall. It gives him a cursory glance at its contents - factoids about her, photos of different people with arrows drawn between them.
"The hell is this?" he says, looking up at her.
"It's me," she says simply. "It's for you to study before our first appointment."
He thumbs through the pages again, cringing internally at the word study.
"You're expecting me to memorize this."
It isn't really a question, but she answers it with a scoff. "It's only 20 pages," she says, as if that makes this a perfectly reasonable request.
Not for the first time, her attitude makes him prickly. "And what are you gonna be studying to get to know me, huh?"
It's like she'd been waiting for him to ask. Out of her bag comes a second binder, smaller than the first but still filled to the brim, little pieces of paper sticking out of the sides.
In silence, he flips the binder around and opens it up to the first page to reveal a giant color photo of himself.
"Ah," he says, slowly closing it. "So you're insane - got it."
"I am not!" she insists, reaching out to flip through the pages. "I'm thorough. If we want this to work, we need to know about each other. Our first appointment is in three days! Look, I didn't even write that much."
She flips to one of the back pages, which has photos of his family scattered about that she'd gotten from who knows where, but with no actual notes. "I need you to help me fill in the gaps."
She's looking at him expectantly, and he wills himself to think only of his bank account as he says, dryly, "You know if you get murdered and someone finds this binder in my house, they're gonna think I did it."
Her face morphs into a triumphant grin. "As if anyone would be able to kill me."
He surveys her for another moment, and his face breaks into a grin as well. "Alright, crazy lady. I'll help you," he says. "But I want twelve hundred dollars."
"Eleven hundred," she shoots back immediately, amusement dancing behind her eyes.
He knows it's the best he's going to get, and he extends a hand for her to shake. Her grip is strong and warm, and it sets something competitive alight in his stomach.
"Okay then," he says, flipping back to the last page of the All-About-Soul binder and leaning back in his chair, hands behind his head. "Let me tell you all about my shitty family."
It's the day of their first appointment, and Maka is ready.
Ask her anything about Soul Evans, the tattooed and disgruntled second son of the Evans family, second in line to inherit a real estate firm that he doesn't want, who has escaped the big city for a... medium-sized city. Soul Evans, her brand new fake boyfriend, who somehow ended up (probably) not being a psycho, who is perfectly poised to be the Clyde to her Bonnie when it comes to fooling therapists.
Soul Evans, who's about to be eleven hundred dollars richer, as long as he's been studying that binder.
It's always been hard for Maka to put trust in anyone else, but especially when it's someone that she's only seen in person for one hour over a matcha latte. To make matters worse, they'd both been busy this whole week. Even though they'd intended to get together again to talk additional strategy, there had been minimal time to do so between Maka's day shifts at the clinic and Soul's night shifts at the bar. They've still been able to text a bit, as she's determined to get as many random anecdotes about him stuffed into her head as possible.
One very concrete thing she's learned is that Soul's attitude drives her crazy. He's just annoying enough to push her buttons, but not enough for her to kick him to the curb. He's cooperative, but he complains. As nervous as he'd sounded on that first phone call, he's since revealed himself to be ridiculously smart-mouthed. He knows how to dish it, and she's only just getting the hang of dishing it back. He asks her just as many questions as he asks him, and it seems like he genuinely wants to know the answer, but then responds to half of her long-winded answers with a simple "that's cool."
He doesn't seem to talk any more than he needs to, and she's not used to it. Most of the men in her life won't shut up, and so a lack of response feels like disinterest. She pushes this thought to the side, though. He's doing a job that she hired him for, right? She can't fault him for that.
With T minus ten minutes to go, they find themselves whispering to each other in the waiting room of the therapist's office.
"Remember, whatever she asks about, just make it sound as negative as possible," Maka murmurs. "Then we'll make sure to get our three months' worth."
"Complain about everything you do? What a challenge," he mutters back. When she whacks at his shoulder, he adds, "Geez, stop being so nice to me. You're making it really hard to get into character."
She rolls her eyes just as the door opens, revealing a smiling woman with golden blonde hair and a black eye patch.
"Maka, Soul? I'm Marie," she says, holding the door open for them. "Come on in."
The office feels somewhat typical for a therapist - soothing photos of the ocean line the walls, with a cozy gray couch for the two of them to sit on that sits opposite Marie's burgundy armchair.
Marie is kind, but also seems a bit no-nonsense, Maka surmises, as Marie pulls out a notebook and glances at the clock.
"As you know," Marie says, "This is a thirty-minute 'get to know you' appointment, just to see if the two of you think you'd be a good fit for the type of counselling that I do."
Both of them nod at her, sitting up straight on the couch. Even Soul, with his normal backward slouch, seems a bit more alert than usual.
"Okay! Let's get started then."
Marie explains a bit about the types of clients she generally sees, her philosophy, and other tidbits about her practice, which Maka listens to raptly, taking notes the whole time. Once her schpiel is complete, she turns the spotlight onto Maka, and then Soul, asking them quite a bit about their individual family experiences with relationships. Nothing that Soul says is a surprise to Maka, but she is grateful for the chance to mentally test herself.
It's then that Marie gets into their relationship dynamics.
"How did you two meet?" she begins.
They're well-prepared for this question, so she lets Soul take it. "She came into the bar one night after work," he says.
But that's all he says, and Maka feels compelled to elaborate. "He was working, and we just started talking, and hit it off." He shoots her a glance that is a little annoyed, and she shoots him an equally annoyed one back. If he's going to sell it, he's got to give details.
They go through a bit of a summary of their non-existent relationship for the past six months - meeting up at the bar, then coffee, other small dates that they'd never actually been on. This summary takes them through a big portion of the meeting, especially with Marie asking clarification questions left and right. Maka continues to write, keeping careful track of their stories and timelines. With only a couple of minutes left, Marie smiles at them.
"This is all great information, thank you so much. I like to end sessions on as positive a note as possible, so I have one more question for each of you."
Out of the corner of Maka's eye, Soul nods a little warily. He has been advised against positivity, and so he is nervous.
"What was the thing that drew you to the other person on this couch? What did you see in them that initially made you want to be with them?"
They... have not rehearsed this question, and Maka finds herself mentally scrambling, trying to come up with something-
"Her eyes," Soul says easily, and then, perhaps realizes he's said too much, his face darkening out of the corner of Maka's eye. There is a long pause. "Uh. Also. Her confidence," he adds, chancing a glance up at Maka. "She knows what she wants and she goes for it."
Maka averts her eyes, a wave of heat rising to light her cheeks. She's trying to tamp down on whatever this feeling is that's making her so rattled when Marie looks at her expectantly. She immediately regrets abandoning her mental scrambling, because now she has to say whatever comes to mind first.
"He... goes with the flow," she says, determinedly not looking at Soul at all. "He's game for anything, even some of my... crazier ideas." The next part of her sentence is entirely mumbled: "Also, I liked his tattoos or whatever."
There is an aura of self-satisfaction emanating from him that makes her want to clobber him. Marie is also looking satisfied, though in a much less gloaty way, and she closes her notebook with a smile.
"Thank you both so much for coming in! If you'd like a follow-up appointment, you can schedule it at the front."
They end up making a second appointment, even though Maka looks like she'd rather never set foot in that office again.
Based on her expression as they leave, she is probably also regretting making him drive to the appointment in her car.
"That was way too positive," she says grumpily as they reach her car, wrenching the door open. Soul gets in the car in silence, content to let her tirade her way through half the car ride.
"I mean, I think she'll be fine," Maka finally says, after 10 minutes of her talking herself down. "She'll be a good therapist. We'll just have to deal with the... with the positivity thing."
"Sure," he says, because it feels like she seems unsure. "We totally fooled her today, I think. Next time we'll do even better."
They turn the corner into his neighborhood, passing by townhouses. Maka falls quiet for a moment, processing his words.
"Yeah," she says absently. Her fingers tap on the steering wheel. "Yeah," she says again, her voice stronger this time as they pull up in front of his driveway. "You were pretty um… convincing at the end, there. Good job."
Well, he wasn't going to bring it up, but now that she's given him such a nice opportunity, he can't help himself.
"So," he says, grinning at her as she puts the car in park. "Which tattoo-"
"Finish that sentence and I will gut you like a fish," Maka says, staring straight ahead.
He chuckles a little, holding up his hands. "Hey, I was just cur-"
"Go ahead," Maka says, too casually. "Keep going, and then enjoy explaining to the people at the ER why you're wearing your small intestine as a hat."
He laughs aloud this time, opening the passenger door. "Oh my god. Okay. I don't have health insurance, so. Have a great night, and I appreciate the ride, and thanks in advance for leaving my intestines alone."
The smile she gives him back manages to be both amused and a little threatening as she throws the car back into drive. They both wave as she leaves, the car disappearing down the lane and into the night.
She's absolutely terrifying, there's no doubt about it.
But for some reason, against all of his better judgements, he finds that he kind of likes it.
Thanks so much for reading! If you're keen, let me know what you thought! I had so much fun with this one. Stay cool out there, babes.