At work for the rest of the day, MJ is finding it strangely hard to focus on her current job, an old machine that she is completely gutting and reworking from the bones up. When her boss, Eddie, received the old computer he was halfway out to throw it in the trash after one look. MJ had voiced for the old machine. She knew that she could fix it using its parts combined with the assortment of odds and ends available to her, but it would be more of a long-term project. Still, if she could do it MJ knew it would be worth good money, and she was convinced that she could. That was the beginning of her project, the one that is essentially her baby and her favorite to work on out of all of the others.

Working on Shelley (named after MJ's favorite historical badass, the queen of goth) normally calms her down immensely. MJ likes computers. She understands how they work, and there is a logic to them that there is not to people. If everything is in its proper place in a computer, then it will function, and if there is damage, all that MJ has to do is read the signs and locate the problem: switch out a wire, replace a few odds and ends, and then everything will operate perfectly again. People aren't like that; every single one is set up essentially the same on the inside, and yet somehow the same setup produces countless results. You have people like Alfred Nobel, Marie Curie, and Louis Pasteur with exactly the same mechanical setup as Donald Trump. The diversity of the single system is just too much for MJ sometimes, most times.

Today, however, the therapeutic aspect of working on her favorite project does nothing to help her whirring mind. It is because she told her soulmate that she does sketches, mostly with brush pens. She has told them, the person that she is determined not to share her heart with, about what she does and what she loves. To anyone else, this might not have seemed a big deal, but to MJ it is the most foolish decision she could ever make. MJ finds the easiest way to break habits is by not forming them in the first place, and this is the one thing she has always told herself that she will never do.

Still, somehow, MJ had found herself confiding in someone she does not even know, telling them something that most of the people who see her every day barely know. MJ brings her sketchbook and pens everywhere, but no one really cares enough to watch or question her about them. They know she draws, but not what or how. Now, someone somewhere in the world knows a part of her heart, and she is terrified that since the first piece is in their hands, the rest will come tumbling out before she can stop them.

MJ realizes that she has been attempting to replace the same cable onto the motherboard of the computer for the past three minutes. Letting out a frustrated groan, she snaps out of it and begins to work to attach the delicate cable. Then, of course, she nearly drops it when she feels the tingling on her arm. The sensation is becoming more and more familiar, to her annoyance. It starts out almost like breath on her skin, and then in the shape of the words, it heats up until it is just below burning. When it finishes, the cool air feels heavenly on her skin every time, but it also seems to tingle all over.

Irritation fills MJ as she sets down the cable she has been using, and then she turns to roll up her long sleeves. MJ has taken to wearing long-sleeved clothing, even though it is not quite turning cooler yet. If she does not, she is scared that someone might see ink pooing on her skin and want to know more. Even though MJ does not really do the whole 'friend' thing, even complete acquaintances tend to be nosy about soulmates. Celebrities are constantly scoured for ink, and there are complete fan sites dedicated to comparing ink and tattoos between celebrities and based on location. Since a tattoo on one's skin translated the same way as the basic ink does, lots of people follow the debate with interest. However, this also means that many people whose soulmates just thought the tattoo looked cool end up thinking their soulmate is a celebrity. It wouldn't be the same for her of course, but MJ does not feel like answering questions from anyone, especially the nosy girls who spend their time keeping track of Midtown's relationships.

MJ yanks up the sleeve of her long shirt, glancing down at the arm that she had felt the warmth from. It is written on her bicep, and the words cause her eyes to narrow.

Are we going to talk about this?

They are hopeful, gently prodding. They want to know more.

MJ picks up the pen she uses to record the steps she takes for the paperwork, sliding it between her fingers as she begins to write. She does not want to lead them on, and she really, really wants to get back to work. Or just life, without having to worry about this. That would be great.

No. I'm at work, and either way I would rather not.

Almost as soon as she sets down the pen, the words begin to appear again. MJ resolutely ignores them. She hooks the cable into place instead, relishing in the soft 'click' that she can hear as it fastens exactly where it is supposed to be. MJ likes to put things where they belong: words, wires, thoughts. The latter is the one she currently struggles with. MJ keeps herself from looking down at her arm for a good two minutes, but finally, the curiosity overwhelms her and she has to know.

I'm not saying you owe me anything. But we're soulmates, and whatever we choose involves me as much it does you. So I think I should know.

He has a point, and MJ runs a hand through her hair. It has long been let out of its kinky ponytail since she likes it better loose while she works, just so long as it does not get into her eyes. MJ chews her lip and traces the grip on the pen with her finger. Finally, she presses it to her skin by her wrist.

Fine. But I have work right now, and this is making it a bit difficult to get things done. We can talk later

There is a pause, and then the words start to outline themselves right beneath her own scrawl.

Okay. What do you do?

She raises an eyebrow at the words. Her soulmate is trying to get her talking, to know more until she cannot back away. She may have thrown them a freebie this morning, but she will not again. She does not want to share with them anymore, because she is not going to be with them. If she is not going to allow herself to encourage the relationship, then why should she give over pieces of herself?

I'm a killer for hire.

Her soulmate does not bother her for the rest of her shift at work.

Late that evening, MJ arrives home to the apartment. Their apartment is several stories up, so it is a long walk up the stairs to get there after being stuck in a chair for hours. By the time MJ brushes past a couple making out in the stairwell to open the door, her legs are screaming for relief. She really does need to work out more, she knows, but that would require motivation, and MJ is notoriously short on that where books aren't concerned.

It takes her a moment to fumble for the key in the pockets of her jacket, and she finally finds it in the last one she tries. Her Ravenclaw keychain rattles as she turned the key in the lock and steps into the dingy apartment. MJ slips off her shoes and steps onto the carpet in only her socks, straightening them on a mat that has clearly seen better days. She takes back her keys and closes the door behind her, looking down the extremely narrow hallway of their apartment. MJ hesitantly hangs her jacket on a hook on their door, peering into the nearest doorway that leads to the living room.

"Mom?" she calls hesitantly.

"Oh, lower the voice, hon'," is her mother's reply, though it isn't unkind. MJ steps into the plainly furnished room, which is empty of everything but a sofa and a side table. Her mother is stretched out on the sofa with her IV by her head. An old knit blanket is haphazardly thrown over her lap, and there is a book in her lap that is closed.

"Sorry," MJ hums, stepping into the room and walking to close the blinds behind the sofa. They don't make the room much darker since they don't have much exposure to sunlight, but it gives MJ something to do. "Migraines again?"

"Don't you know it," sighs her mother, and when MJ turns, she is sure to take in every line on her mother's tired face. Her eyes have smile lines around them, but these days the frown lines on her brow seem more pronounced than the crow's feet ever were. Her mother's head is wrapped in a scarf, and her dark skin looks sunken to MJ. "Couldn't even get through it." She gestures to the volume in her lap, and MJ shrugs.

"That's okay. I couldn't get through it, and I don't have stage IV cancer," she offers, giving her mom a slight smile.

"Oh, don't make jokes, honey," her mother protests, but a couple quiet chuckles escape anything. "Don't you mock my reading tastes, child. I'll read what I like."

"I would agree with you if it was anything but Eclipse," MJ responds. Their tiny kitchen is joined to the living room, and MJ steps into it to glance into their empty pantry. "What do you feel like tonight? Rice or toast?"

"Oh, honey, I don't think I can eat today," her mother sighs. "My stomach's been all upset, you know."

"You need to eat, Mom," MJ says seriously. "I know it's hard... But you need the nutrients, and rice and carrots will help keep the nutrients in your body longer."

"Are you referring to my bowel movements, child?"

"Someone has to, especially since the Twilight Saga is probably worsening the nausea."

MJ's mom let out a snort. "Fine, girl. We can have rice. You go upstairs and change, though, take a bath or somethin'. You look dead on your feet."

MJ hesitates, but the idea of resting for a moment does sound nice. "Fine," she concedes. "But don't you think I'll forget." She turns and walks up the stairway at the end of the hallway, entering her attic room. There, she tosses her backpack onto the floor and turns to flop on her mattress. It is only when she sees the bag of fineliners on the floor that MJ remembers, and she lets out a soft sigh. Half of her doesn't want to contact him, but if she waits until much later he might be sleeping. MJ may not want a soulmate, but she's still honorable, and she doesn't want to go back on her word.

Picking up a black fineliner, MJ rolls up the sleeve of the arm she hasn't used yet. She's ambidextrous, something that makes art much easier. Coincidentally, it also means that she can hold her book with whatever hand she needs to so she can read while doing homework. MJ begins to write, taking a deep breath.

So, what exactly is there to talk about?

She doesn't want to make any assumptions here. All MJ wants is to figure this out, and to be done. Only a couple seconds later, the warmth starts to bubble underneath her skin.

You're my soulmate. Are we ever going to meet, or talk about who we are? What exactly do you want?

That question causes her breath to catch in her throat. They are not imposing a list of demands onto MJ, the way that she has come to expect. Lots of soulmates do that first thing as if it is their job to make sure their partner checks off every item on their list of desired qualities. But they aren't doing that, they want to know her expectations. Well, whatever they are, her soulmate has been their complete opposite thus far.

Slowly, MJ pens out the next statement with a finality that shows in the dark strokes of the ink.

I don't want a soulmate.

For a moment, there is no reply, and MJ assumes they are processing what she just said. Finally, warm letters pop up on the skin of her forearm.

But you've got one, and there isn't really anything that either of us can do to change that. So what does that mean for us?

Us? MJ bites her lip, shaking her head.

There isn't an us. We aren't a thing, and we won't ever be.

There is a pause.

Is it because you don't believe in soulmates? Because if that's your reason, then boy do I have proof for you.

MJ scoffs. A surprising amount of people don't believe in the phenomena, even those who have a soulmate. There are many crazy conspiracy theorists with a million of ideas what it is, trying to explain soulmates away. MJ sort of sympathizes there. Sometimes, it seems like it would be so much easier if she could just explain it all away.

I believe in them. I just don't want one.

Why?

MJ stares down at the words. It is a valid question... One that has no answer and too many, all at once. Slowly, MJ begins to write.

I don't like the idea of letting the universe pick for me when I trust my own judgment better.

That's good enough, for now... Maybe.

But what if your judgment and the universe happen to agree?

MJ blinks and stares at the words, and she feels her breathing quicken. Her soulmate has every right to ask these questions, but they are harder to answer than they should be.

When I allow my judgment to be tainted by the decision of something else, it isn't mine anymore.

You seem awfully convinced.

I am.

The words are moving quickly now, one after the other, and the pace is not difficult to maintain for MJ. If it's possible, she's actually enjoying the quick nature of their discussion.

And what if we didn't do the whole romance thing, if you don't want it?

What?

I get it that you don't want a soulmate, and it makes sense. But what if we just write to each other? Explore this, without the labels attached?

MJ does not respond immediately, and before she can, he is writing again.

I'm not saying we do anything crazy. Just talk sometimes? You don't have to tell me who you are or where you are, and we don't have to meet. Sort of like texting, but on our arms.

What an apt analogy.

I try.

MJ scoffed, but it was more of a laugh than she cared to admit.

"Michelle, are you changed, honey?" her mother's voice carries up through the thin walls.

"Yeah, one second," she calls back, wincing. MJ turns to her arms, which are covered in ink.

Okay. But I have to go, I have dinner.

Me too. I've got stuff to do.

So...

MJ hesitates. She knows what she should say. But her soulmate is being respectful, she doesn't think he'll push her. She doesn't need to give him anything important. Maybe he'll get bored with her, and it'll solve her problem for her.

I'll write you later. But for now, I'm going to wash it off.

There is a pause, and MJ gets up. She does not feel the tingling until she is in the bathroom, having pulled off her shirt so she can wash both arms. The last words appear on her right palm:

Thank you.