A/N: Another ridiculously loud shout out goes to ilarual for betaing this. This chapter would suck major goat balls without her patience and fantastic input.

Maka awoke with a start to a wet cheek and bolted upright, her face bashing into Soul's, who had decided to use her head as a pillow.

"Ow!" he complained loudly, sitting up himself and rubbing his cheek as he eyed her ruefully.

"You drooled on me!" she accused with some mix of disgust and horror, scrubbing at her own cheek unhappily.

"Oh, uh, sorry—'bout that." Rueful morphed to sheepish and he tugged the cover to offer to her, reddening. She took it and scrubbed at her face, shaking her head but not bothering to respond otherwise. It wasn't the first time and it wouldn't be the last. They shared a bed sometimes, had for a long time now. On missions when they had no choice. When one of them had a nightmare. After a particularly grueling fight. It wasn't a nightly thing, but it wasn't unheard of either, so when Soul had mentioned the fact that they'd have to share a bed or it would look very suspicious to the help, something Wes had emphasized to him a few times in their exchanges, well, that wasn't so hard; this part of pretending to be married, at least, was par for the course. Didn't mean the expectation of others that they would be doing much more than just sleeping didn't give her goosebumps she'd rather not delve too deeply into. She knew what they meant, and she would much rather not think about it with her weapon still half naked next to her in bed, his sleep pants tugged too low and his toned tanned chest on glorious display. Tearing her thoughts away from where they most certainly did not need to be lingering, now or ever, she yawned and stretched before asking.

"What time is it?"

Soul raised his bare wrist to his eyes and squinted. "Freckle past a hair?"

"You are so lame sometimes, you know that?" the meister said, smacking him with a pillow.

"Nuh uh. I'm the coolest guy you know. Admit it," he grinned at her before leaning back and over towards the nightstand to grab his phone.

"Sometimes. When you aren't being a complete dork."

"Thought that was your job?" His grin widened as he sat back up.

Her only response was another pillow to the face.

"You wanna go, Albarn?" He grabbed the pillow and brandished it in mock menace before slamming it over her head.

"Oh, you are SO dead!" She grabbed a different pillow and went on the offensive, slamming him upside the head twice before scrambling away.

Total chaos ensued, and ten minutes later, giggling and out of breath, she was straddling him and tickling his sensitive sides while he flailed wildly underneath her before finally, breathily crying; "Uncle! Fuck, uncle!"

"That's what I thought." She grinned down at him and he just rolled his eyes.

"Yeah, big shock, the meister wins. What's new? Now, as nice at it is to have my little wifey on top of me," Soul waggled his eyebrows suggestively and Maka felt herself go scarlet, "we should probably get up and dressed. Was 6:30 when I checked and my parents get really cranky when people are late."

She scrambled off of him, embarrassed, and began to hunt through the wardrobe—their suitcases had already been unpacked for them when they arrived, much to her astonishment and mild annoyance that strangers were touching her unmentionables. After hunting for a few moments for something suitable to wear, she settled on a dark skirt and soft red sweater that Liz had assured her made her look sophisticated. Grabbing some of those said unmentionables as well, Maka hurried into the en suite bathroom to change, calling back to her weapon "you change in there, I won't come out 'till you say."

"'Cause married people change in separate rooms all the time." The scythe called back, his tone teasing.

"Shut it, dear."

His response was to chuckle, but she could hear the shuffling of clothes on the other side of the door and figured he was taking her seriously.

The red sweater fit like a glove, and the swishy knee length black skirt was pretty and girly. With her hair down and some intricate scrollwork silver barrettes holding up either side, she really did look—well—maybe not sophisticated, but not like herself, either. More like a little girl playing dress up. As Maka peered at her reflection in the full length mirror skeptically, she longed for the confidence that her Spartoi uniform would bring her, the sense of command, the sense of self, knowing that the outfit, so tantalizingly close in the wardrobe, would spell disaster for people like the Evanses. Part of her wanted to just say to hell with it and wear it anyway. They were bound to see her as not good enough for their son, weren't they? To look down on the mousy little meister who had stolen him away? She may as well give them reason and get it over with.

But no-no. She was feeding off of Soul's newly rising nervousness in the other room, the renewed sense of turmoil in his wavelength, prejudging, prefearing. She was Maka Albarn. She would face this and she would win—she would protect her weapon from his whole damned family if that was what it took, but she was going to do it with her head held high. If wearing some designer clothes would smooth the path, well, she'd done sillier things. She could do this, too. Smoothing on some lightly colored lip gloss and taking a last glance at the mirror, Maka called out to her weapon "you ready yet?" and at his muffled "yeah," she opened the door. Unlike the t-shirt and jeans combo from last night, Soul had chosen slacks and a plain white button up.

His meister smiled at him. "You look good."

He looked her up and down. "Well, you look—like a dork—but that's inevitable."

She strode over and punched him in the arm. "Is that any way to talk to your wife?" she grumbled.

"Oh, shut it. You look beautiful and you know it. Not like you need me to stroke your ego, darling." He smiled at her, a bit too soft, a bit too fond for the words. She colored and grabbed his arm roughly, sweeping her new designer purse up from a chair in her other arm.

"Come on, we'll be late if we don't hurry."

"Yeah, yeah," he groaned but followed after her, mostly because she was tugging him along, leaving him with little choice. She could feel the nervousness he'd hidden beneath their banter resurface full force as they left the little cottage and began to walk down the path they had driven last night. His soul was a mess and Maka slid her hand down from his arm to grasp his, squeezing it comfortingly.

"It's going to be fine. I'm right here, okay?"

"Yeah," he said quietly. "I know. Thanks. For coming. And for whatever bullshit you're about to deal with."

"I'm sure it'll be fine, Soul." She smiled reassuringly, but he just shook his head.

"Tell me that after you meet them," he grumbled. They'd reached the fork in the path they'd taken last night and Soul steered them to the part they'd yet to travel, the walk pleasant in the late spring morning, cool without being cold, the trees spread above them giving them a feeling of close seclusion. They continued to walk the path in nervous silence, Maka not knowing what else to say, and Soul clearly inclined to stew in his own mounting trepidation. It was exponentially worse than last night, and the meister felt her own stomach drop as the path finally opened out into a large, circular drive and what looked more like a palace than a house rose before them like some sort of majestic beast wrought of stone and wood. The house was massive, old and beautiful and utterly intimidating. It made Gallow's Manor look like a McMansion, and Maka suddenly wanted to run as much as she could feel the urge rising within her weapon because how could she face people who thought of that as home? She wondered how Soul had ever thought of that as his home and squeezed his hand again, more for her own need for comfort than to soothe him, though the action seemed to do both.

When they arrived at the door, Soul rang the bell; Maka saw this as odd, seeing as it was his parent's house and they were staying on premises, but she figured he knew what he was doing. A moment later, a middle aged woman in a plain grey dress with her brown-grey hair put up into a tight, no nonsense bun appeared. She smiled warmly as she looked between the two, then opened the door wider.

"Young Master Evans!" she declared warmly, "your parents await your presence in the summer breakfast room. I will see you there at once."

With that declaration, she moved out of the way, and Soul pulled them both into the house. The woman led them back through the grand entrance hall and a smaller hallway through an open set of double doors. She motioned them inside, taking Maka's purse to hand to the young woman in grey standing just inside, before bustling off and away.

Inside was a light, bright room, lavishly decorated in some sort of highly detailed, pale pink wallpaper, with gilded furniture and mirrors, silk upholstered chairs, and a large, mirror bright table in the center. It was both light and airy at the same time it was absolutely sumptuous. The table was set with precision, elegant pastel china, sparkling crystal, and shiny silver. Standing off to the side, next to a large buffet table laden with covered dishes, was a young woman, also dressed in grey, her hair similarly up in a tight bun, while seated at the table were a middle aged couple. The man and woman, seeming impossibly elegant, immediately rose, the woman smiling warmly towards them where the man wore a neutral, almost bored expression that Maka recognized from years of partnership with his son. In fact, Soul looked much like a younger, oddly colored version of his father. They had the same tall, thin build, the same downturned shape to their eyes, the same aristocratic nose, but the older man's eyes were a pale, watery blue and his thin hair was fair like his older son's, just touched with grey at the temples. The scythe had gotten his sharp chin and, she suspected, luxuriant hair from his mother. The woman had auburn tresses coiffed into a loose, stylish bun, though the strands that hung strategically out were thick and wavy. There wasn't a spot of grey on her hair, and her eyes were the same mahogany that Maka had seen last night on Soul's older brother. While they did not radiate the warmth her son's had, they were nonetheless welcoming.

"Soul!" The woman exclaimed, her warm, rich voice conveying her enthusiasm. "It's so good to see you!"

"Mom. Dad." Soul responded with a slight nod in their direction, his tone flat. For a moment, the four of them stood there in a loaded silence that was becoming increasingly awkward for Maka, before his father cleared his throat.

"Perhaps you would be so kind as to introduce us," the older man said, his deep, elegant voice tinged with annoyance. It was Soul's tone without his cadence, and Maka found it odd and unsettling.

"Uh, yeah, of course. Sorry. Maka, this is Sophia and Alastair Evans, my parents. Mom, Dad, this is Maka, my mei—wife." The recovery was not smooth, but it was made, and Maka felt anxiety and relief almost equally.

"It's a pleasure to finally meet you, Maka," Soul's father said with a practiced smile that did not reach his eyes.

"It's—very nice to meet you both as well," Maka managed, trying to keep her voice from shaking. Why were these people making her so nervous? Perhaps it was that bull in a china shop feeling that had washed over her the instant she saw the house, only increasing when she'd stepped inside.

"Please, do sit," the man motioned to a few chairs close to where they'd been seated before. "We can discuss matters further over breakfast."

The idea that they might have "matters" to discuss was odd and made the meister uneasy. If the spike within his troubled soul was any indication, her weapon felt this as keenly as she did, but nonetheless, he squeezed her hand softly, still intertwined with his, then pulled her to their seats. He surprised her by pulling out her chair and making sure she was settled before sitting himself, an action that both annoyed and endeared her.

For the next several minutes, they were served, offered choices of eggs (benedict, omelets, there were several options,) meats, pastries, and fruits from the covered dishes on the table by the two grey clad young women. It was odd and uncomfortable for Maka, to have a family breakfast attended by servants. Even Kid, the current Shinigami, only employed a cook, as well as a maid who came in three times a week, and then, only because he was too busy to see to such things and he feared to have his house burned down if he allowed his weapons to see to them for him. It seemed ludicrous to her, the idea that two people were dedicated to the task of serving four people breakfast. And why were there only four, for that matter? Shouldn't Wes and Aria be here too? That might have made this a little less… strange, awkward, formal, and absolutely strained.

After opting for eggs benedict and a variety of fruit, Maka began to eat. Two bites in, her musings were interrupted by the rich voice of Sophia Evans.

"So, Soul," the meister looked up and noticed her smile was back in place. "I was wondering if you'd mind telling us what you've been up to. It's been—well—we've clearly missed a lot. Congratulations, by the way, your wife is lovely. Welcome to the family, Maka."

Maka offered a faint smile. "Thank you, Mrs. Evans."

"Oh, please, do call me Sophia," she waved a hand dismissively. "No need to be so formal among family!"

"Um, thank you then, S—Sophia." The name felt strange on her tongue.

"Of course, dear. I'll admit, we were surprised to hear that our little Soul was married—your two are so young—but I can see why he would have acted so hastily where you're concerned. Which reminds me—" the older woman swept her gaze over Maka's visible half "—you simply must let me loan you my stylist. Jean Luc is positively fabulous, and I know how dreadfully difficult it must be to keep up out in Death City with all the latest out of New York and Paris. He'll have you looking like a high fashionista in one sitting, I promise! And, of course, anything he wishes to acquire will be our treat. It seems only right to pamper our new daughter, after all."

"Um, thanks?" Maka forced a smile. Did she look so terrible? She hazarded a glance down at her sweater self consciously. She'd thought she looked passable this morning, and Liz had helped her so carefully, but maybe—

"Maka's fine as she is, Mom," Soul kept his voice level, but she could feel the annoyance beneath.

"Of course, sweetie, but no girl doesn't want a makeover with a world renowned stylist! I'll send him over later this afternoon, when—"

"I said—" Soul sounded angry. His meister put a hand on his thigh under the table and squeezed a bit hard, causing him to flinch slightly, before moving that same hand to touch his upper arm in show.

"It's fine, sweetie," she smiled at him with light amusement at echoing his mother's use of the pet name, then at his mother. "That's very kind of you, Sophia, thank you. I look forward to it." Maka didn't sense any ill intent in his mother's wavelength, and this wasn't worth a blow up over breakfast when Soul hadn't seen his family in so long. She could handle some silly make over for him; she had handled far more before.

Soul shrugged slightly and continued to eat his breakfast, his table manners suddenly impeccable. She was so used to him shoveling his food in like a starving animal she almost wanted to stare at him as he ate in wonder, but of course, that would have been downright rude and definitely strange, so she just took another bite of her food as Sophia spoke again.

"Perfect. You're going to love Jean Luc. Now, Soul? I was wondering if you might share more about what you do. Maka is your—oh what did Wes call it? Master?"

"Meister," Alastair Evans offered. He had been quiet until then, watching in silence as he carefully ate his breakfast, the aura of bored disapproval surrounding him mounting with every moment that passed.

"Ah, yes, meister, thank you dear. Wes has told us things about what you've been up to, of course he has, and I try to help him with his little book by having the staff on the lookout for relevant material, but I'd love to hear it from you. It all sounds so," she waved her hand in a gesture that appeared at once emphatic and dismissive, "exciting."

Soul just shook his head. "It's been seven years, Mom. I need you to be a little more specific." Maka almost kicked him under the table, but decided against it. His soul was clearly in chaos. Should she speak for them? She just didn't know what was okay, what was expected.

"Your mother is trying to talk to you. I can see you haven't learned any better manners in your time away, son. Perhaps you might start with that battle that was all over the news—I believe that's what your mother was hinting at. The DWMA was characteristically close lipped, but the rumors suggest you were there. Were you?"

"Yeah, Dad, we were there." Soul answered quietly.

"And?"

"And what? We fought the fucking—"

"Soul! Such language!" his mother interrupted.

"Sorry, Mom. Freaking. That better?"

"Not really," his mother shook her head unhappily.

"Whatever. We fought the Kishin. He almost killed us and all our friends. The only reason we're still around is because a good friend sacrificed for us, for everyone—Crona's the only reason you can still live this perfect little life. Crona, and everyone at the DWMA, including me and Maka."

"Yes, well, Shibusen serves its purpose, I'm sure, but I've also heard that the accounts of the battle on the moon were highly—exaggerated—to allow the new Shinigami to consolidate his power over the nations of the world," Alastair Evans' tone was still decidedly bored, but his words belied the tone.

Suddenly, Maka wanted to scream at him. People had been hurt, people had died, they had all almost died—and Crona—and this—this—

He felt Soul grab her thigh and squeeze comfortingly, felt his wavelength reach out to hers, to console her, soothe her, even as he spoke quietly.

"Bullshit."

"I don't know what type of manners they tolerate at the DWMA, but while in our home, you will act as the gentleman you were bred to be. Which brings us to the real point. You will be graduating soon, yes?"

"Yeah, so?" Soul's irritation with Alastair continued to mount, but his face never wavered, his disinterested mask of boredom very much like the one sported by his father.

"I think it's high time we discussed your post-graduation plans." Alastair's gaze on Soul was suddenly less bored, more focused.

"Maka and I are planning to continue at Shibusen, enroll in some post grad classes, continue to take high level missions. Eventually, I'll probably take a death scythe post, not that it's really any of your damned business."

"I hardly think Shibusen an appropriate career choice for an Evans. Surely you must realize that. No, the President of Juilliard is an old friend and I've already spoken with him. We'll arrange placement for you-I'm sure with some intensive practice, you'll be able to meet their standards; your skills couldn't have slipped that far. And, of course, we'll see to Maka's placement as well. After all, she is an Evans now, too."

Soul snorted. "You're fuc-freaking delusional. Maka doesn't play an instrument, and after seven years without so much as a how the hell are you, I'm pretty damned sure you don't get a say in my 'post-graduation plans.' I don't wanna be a musician, don't need to be a damned musician because, in case you missed the memo, I'm the Last Fucking Death Scythe."

Soul's father, his face stern, waved a dismissive hand. "That's entirely irrelevant. Juilliard has always been your goal, and you will attain it."

"Like hell I will."

"Of course you will. I've already set up an audition for you next month. It's a formality, of course, but a good showing is still important. I've arranged for the best Piano tutor on the west coast to spend some time in Death City-"

Soul was gritting his teeth by this point and looked ready to pounce, his soul torn between a fight or flight response. Sophia must have seen it, too, because she cut off her husband, who appeared nothing short of shocked at the interruption.

"Alastair," she put one hand on his arm. "Soul has only just come home. If this is a topic that upsets him, perhaps we might choose another and save this discussion for later?" She sounded almost pleading, and Alastair sighed.

"Of course. We'll speak of this another time, then." The pointed look he offered his son held an edge of promise. "If you won't entertain the thought of your future, perhaps you would at least be willing to speak of how your music is coming along?" The man's gaze was flat again, but Maka could feel the disappointment in his soul.

"Oh, yes!" Sophia brightened. "I saw the article about the coronation of the new Shinigami! There was a picture of you playing—well—piano, I suppose, right on the front page."

"Oh, he did play," Maka responded just as brightly, attempting to ease the tension because she was feeling more and more like she might Maka chop Soul's dad, and that couldn't lead to anything good. "He was brilliant, but then, Soul's always played so beautifully! His music is really important to what we do, too. Without it, we would have been killed many times over by now."

She was trying to show Soul's dad how important music still was to his son, but she realized, too late, what a sobering thought she had introduced, and Sophia looked a bit stunned for a moment before recovering to steer the conversation in a more genial direction.

"That piano you were playing at the coronation was really something, though," Sophia's enthusiasm was forced, but she sallied forth nonetheless. "Is it—did it really come out of your leg?"

"It's part of what I can do as a death scythe," Soul shrugged. His voice was casual again, almost bored, but she could feel the small kernel of pride, tiny beneath all the turmoil; still, it made her want to smile at how far he had come.

"But that's fantastic!" Sophia clapped her hands together in her enthusiasm. "You must show us later, dear. I'm sure we would all—"

"I'm sure that our son sprouting a lethal weapon in the house would be unseemly, dear," Alastair said quietly before she could finish.

"Oh—I suppose," she looked unhappy.

"But perhaps he would be willing to play for us on a more conventional instrument. I'm sure we'd all like to see how his music skills have—progressed—in his time away."

Soul's fist clenched under the table, anger at his father's dogged pursuit of the topic mounting again, and Maka grabbed his hand with her own, radiating comfort, seeking his soul and soothing it as he had done for her earlier. The man was unrelenting. The scythe calmed at his meister's efforts, and before more could be said, the doors opened and Aria and Wes appeared, Aria laughing, and both of them looking rather flushed.

Wes strode over to take a seat, Aria in tow, pulling a chair out for her and sitting down himself.

"Sorry we're so late—we had a bit of an—issue—to handle. We haven't missed anything important, I hope?"

Sophia tilted her head. "I do hope everything's alright?"

"Oh, fine mother, fine." Wes waved away her concern.

Alastair looked annoyed as he leveled his gaze on his eldest son, but said nothing.

The rest of breakfast was filled with idle chatter, mostly among Aria, Wes, and Sophia, with occasional input from Maka when a question came her way, and even more infrequent participation from Soul. By the end of the meal, the mood in the room was considerably lighter, and Maka found her genuine like for the bride and groom to be growing exponentially.

As everyone rose from breakfast, Alastair left claiming business to be handled, while Maka and Soul were cornered by the remaining members of the group.

"So, I hope you two lovebirds don't mind, but we're going to need to separate you for the time being," Wes said with a wide smile.

"Why?" Soul's utterance of the word was laced with heavy suspicion.

"Well, you, little brother, will be coming along with myself and the other groomsmen for a fitting, and Aria and I thought it might do better for Maka to accompany the ladies for their own final fitting, give her a chance to bond with her new sister and mother, that sort of thing," he waved his hand emphatically, his smile suspiciously wide. "If, that is, it's fine with your wife." He turned to her expectantly, ignoring Soul's glare.

"I—I mean—I guess I could, that is—" Maka stammered, feeling like a fish about to be pulled from the water and left to suffocate on the shore.

"Perfect!" Aria said happily, taking her hand. "I've been dying for some alone time with my new sister. Are you still meeting us later, Sophia?"

The older woman nodded. "I need to run a few errands first, but I should be at the salon on time."

"Wonderful! We'll see you then!" And with that, Maka found herself being dragged to the other woman's car and whisked away, Soul left mouth gaping in her wake, feeling like the other shoe was just about to drop.