Winter was starting to remind the world it existed, but the sun filtering through the enclosed porch gave it enough warmth for entertaining. Soul moved towards the sounds of those voices with Julien right behind. There had been something quieter about the old man's greeting today, and while the chatter somewhere ahead of him sounded joyous, Soul couldn't help but worry. That sensation seemed to explode as he finally witnessed the scene: Layla in Remy's lap with Flora and Melanie attentively listening to Remy's strong timbre. An easy recitation of Viv's diary passed his lips.

This was trespassing, and his feet stuck in the doorway.

"It's alright, Solomon," Julien chided from behind him, a gentle, weathered hand coming to his shoulder. "Flora's having a good day."

"Papa!" Layla rejoiced and slid out of Remy's arms, coming to Soul's side to pull his hesitant steps forward. "Uncle Remy's been sharing pieces of Mommy's thoughts. Do you want to hear?"

No! He almost wanted to desperately plead, but under the weight of those little hands he had no choice but to slink further into the beauty of this moment that wasn't his. "Uh, hey, Miss Melanie, Flora."

"Nice to see you, Mr. Evans," Melanie chimed back before turning expectant eyes towards Flora.

The woman brightened, surety seeming to hit her hazel eyes. "Oh, Wesley! Nice of you to come!"

His heart sank even lower than his body in the seat next to Remy. Layla perched on him, arms quickly around his middle as if to hold him together.

"It's Solomon, Mom," Remy corrected softly as he reached for her hand. "Solomon's Wesley's younger brother."

"Oh," Flora murmured, shame in the form of girlish pink touching her cheeks.

"It's alright, they always did look a lot alike," Remy added, squeezing her hand. "Why don't you stay with Layla for a little bit longer before she has to go. I have to talk to Solomon."

As if my gut could sink any lower… Soul held his breath long enough for Remy to turn his attention.

"You have a minute?"

You already announced to the whole room we were talkin' so… Soul nodded, shifting Layla so he could stand. I feel like one of the kids in my classroom. He chuckled bitterly, soundlessly to himself. Teacher's 'bout to rip me a new one for who the hell knows what.

Remy overtook him as they moved wordlessly to the living room. He stopped as soon as they were far enough from any of the other ears in the house. "I want to thank you for this." He lifted the book, a surprisingly tender smile on his face. "It's nice to remember what her voice was like. She always did have a very distinctive writing style."

"I'm glad," Soul answered dumbly as he stashed uncomfortable, itching hands into his pockets.

"But…" Remy extended the journal back towards Soul. "I think you were wrong. I think there's some things in here you should read."

"No," Soul blurted before clearing his throat. "I– it was just for you, Remy. Don't worry about it."

"I'm not my dad," he reminded with a bit of amusement lighting his eyes. "He may take 'no' as an answer, but I won't." Remy brandished the book again. "I expected you to say that, so I marked the pages with yellow sticky notes. Those are the ones you should read. Maybe you can feel like the rest is a little too personal, but those parts you can't skip."

Soul only glared at the leather binding. "I don't see what it has to do with me."

"You accused her of being loving," Remy answered at the end of Soul's breath. "And you were right. I'm just asking you to read those parts."

Soul took out a shaking hand from his pocket, about to shove it right into the gaping maw of a hungry beast. Instead, it only touched leather, the soft reminder of pages stuck in between. "Fine."


Maka stabbed a piece of broccoli, her fork the only thing to break the utter silence between the two of them. She could see the lingering shame as she locked eyes with Spirit, but that in no way built a bridge, leaving the span of the table and more between the two.

Spirit cleared his throat. "How was school today?"

"Normal," she answered tightly, bringing the greenery to her lips so she had purpose to close it again.

He dropped his own utensil with a clatter and a sigh. "Look, I know I overreacted."

Maka left her eyes trained on her plate, concentrating on chewing.

"I'm sorry," he continued, voice warbling to a soft tone she was all too familiar with.

Yes, I know you're sorry. She resisted the urge to roll her eyes, only succeeding in having them narrow viciously at her plate. You're always sorry, but that doesn't stop it. It doesn't change it. "Sorry about what exactly?" That was prefaced with as little emotion as she could muster, taking it out on potato this time instead.

"It's not like I don't realize you're a grown woman…"

She refused to give him the satisfaction of a glance.

"You are, but is now really a good time for you to be dating?"

"That doesn't answer my question," Maka replied as blandly as possible, focused on delivering each word like it was the weather. Be an observer. Listen, hear, see, but don't react.

Spirit sighed. "The way I phrased it wasn't right the first time. I shouldn't have accused you of anything since I can see now that it only starts a fight. If we could just talk about this, though, I'm sure–"

"Let me answer your question," she interrupted as that scathing acid came back to her tongue. "If you're trying to insinuate that Mama's death has in some way put my dating life on hold, you'd actually be correct." Maka punctuated that by dropping her fork, her appetite far from fired. "But for me, that happened years ago when she abandoned us– abandoned me. And it's only been now that I've come to grips with this enough to even want to date a man, so I'd appreciate it if that was the last word on the subject."

"But her passing away–"

"Hasn't changed anything!" Maka cut in with a rueful laugh. "The only difference is the postcards won't come, or the calls twice a year for her birthday and mine." Her fingers clutched tightly to the edge of the table, forcing her chair back even though it would never feel like enough space. "It only brought me back here because I was worried about you, but now all that just feels foolish. It's obvious you've moved on."

"Maka, that's not fair," Spirit tried to interject.

"No?" She offered a weak lift in her eyebrows. "Then who's Blair? What makes her so special that I have to meet her for Thanksgiving?"

His hand reached up into his hair, clearing back the red mess of locks before he tried again: "If you're upset about Thanksgiving, you can always bring that guy you were with."

That guy. Rage engulfed her gut, a fire refusing to be dampened even with diligent repetition of Dr. Yumi's words in the back of her mind. "I don't need you to meet him."

Spirit took that as a slap to the face, his eyes wide. "I'm just giving you the opportunity–"

"No, thank you," Maka answered tersely before getting to her feet. "I appreciate that you feel sorry about something. I appreciate that we had this conversation about why it's alright for both of us to be dating." She had to wave a dismissive hand at him since the dripping sarcasm had his mouth opening to peep. "And while I'll be happy to meet Blair next weekend, I will not be giving you the opportunity to meet that guy." There was no space between that and her footsteps which took her directly to her bedroom door.

As soon as it was slammed shut, she picked up her phone, dialing Blake with the certainty of his answer already ringing in her head.

"Sup?"

"It's too cold for a run." Maka was arranging things with a jabbing hand in her purse. "So how about a drink?"


Layla had lived up to her name all evening– cuddle-bug extraordinaire as she clung to Soul until it was bedtime. He couldn't deny some of the relief that blossomed in the way her tiny arms always leeched out some of the hurt, but no matter what the journal still burned at the back of his mind.

Regardless of the show the little lady had put on for Maka, Layla's bedtime routine was now mostly Soul-less. She could brush her teeth, comb her hair, and get dressed all by herself. Tonight was only slightly different as Layla descended the stairs with a comb and hair tie in hand, attacking him on the couch with both. "Will you braid my hair tonight, Papa?"

That didn't require an answer, only Soul grabbing the goods from Layla before she turned to expose her already wavy tresses. They'll be ridiculous tomorrow if she sleeps in this… He still couldn't help but smile. He separated her hair in two, starting on the right side.

"Pigtails?"

"They're cute," Soul insisted softly. Then again, most things about Layla were, but he could be presumed to be a little biased.

She hummed out sweetly, letting him get halfway through one before prodding. "What did you talk to Uncle Remy about?"

"The journal," he answered quickly and truthfully.

"I liked hearing Mommy's journal," she added before quieting for careful thought. "Uncle Remy wouldn't read the whole thing though. Why?"

Instead of using the first hair tie she'd offered, he took the always present spare off his wrist. "People's diaries are supposed to be private. He shared the parts he knew your mommy would want shared."

She wriggled slightly, only stopping when he grasped the new handful of hair. "Are you going to read all of it?"

"No."

"But you were close to Mommy–like Uncle Remy."

Soul tried to concentrate on the movement of his fingers, the calculated back and forth of the strands that made sense. It was the words that threatened that didn't: "I-I tried to be." Then I got up and left. "But Remy's her brother– her real brother so–" So? He accused himself, knowing the same about to echo out loud:

"Papa, what do you mean real brother?"

"Real, like from birth," Soul corrected as apathetically as he could, but his heart had started thundering out of time. "Viv'd call me her brother but it was just… I only got to be that because she married Wes."

There was a terrifying ticking silence, so empty that Soul could hear the stretching of the elastic as he bound the second braid. "I think Mommy meant it."

His arms dipped over her shoulders pulling her back against his chest. He needed to perch his head on top of hers to hide the look that he knew was tainting his face. "I'm glad you think that." Layla eased into him, her steady breath buzzing through her back to his chest. "Bug, what about…" His heart ached even with her warmth there, but he swallowed down the pain as he desperately tried to remember Maka's surety. "What about when you call me 'papa'?"

"That's who you are," Layla's voice came back insistently while her hands moved to cradle his.

"Your mommy and daddy were Viv and Wes." That murmur was deadly, striking him all the way down to the bone.

"And you're my papa," she finished with all the succinct surety that Maka had promised.

"I'm…" Your uncle, he wanted to correct but he only held her closer.

"Papa, can I tell you something?" Her voice was smaller now, her fingers playing over his instead of just holding.

"Yeah, of course, bug," he murmured.

"I– everyone misses mommy and daddy"—her voice trembled through the whisper—"but sometimes I don't know if I do. It doesn't feel like I have to because… you're the only one I miss when you're gone." She poked at his fingers, delicately tracing his nail. "Like when I go to Grandpa Julien's or even Grandmama and Pop… I miss you."

His throat was fire and sandpaper, making his swallow almost impossible. "You still don't remember much about them, do you?"

"No," she lamented as she turned in his arms, burying her face into his chest. "Even Mommy's journal today sounded just like a story. Uncle Remy said it was like her voice was there but… it wasn't that way for me."

Soul planted a trembling kiss on her forehead. "That's okay, bug. You don't have to." He ran his palm up and down her back. "Remember, the way you feel is fine. If you don't miss them, you don't have to force yourself."

Her breath shuddered against his t-shirt. "I just want you as my papa."

He couldn't help but let a little of the guilt seep in. I don't want to take you from them, but… they're not here. "I'm always gonna be your papa." Soul managed another kiss against her brow before he could barely pull in breath, winded by the utter mess in his chest. Her heart beats pulled him in, steadying him in a moment that felt like catastrophe. "Lemme put you to bed tonight."

She nodded wordlessly.

"Alright, bug." She would never be small again, but Soul still lifted her—albeit with a little more struggle—and started towards the stairs with her safe in his arms.


Maka's cheek was smooshed against her palm, her focus on the buzzing blood in her lips as they tingled.

Blake let out a gusto-filled whistle as he spun his beer. "You are toasted."

She narrowed her eyes at him. "So?"

"I mean, you're a lightweight"—he let a wild cackle interrupt before continuing—"but I've only ever seen you drink two when it comes to cocktails." He motioned towards the half-empty gin and tonic in front of her. "But that's three?"

"Four," Maka muttered. "I had one before you got here."

That irritating whistle was back, blaring over his lips.

"Shut up and drink your beer," she chided. "You have a lot of catching up to do."

Blake firmly shook his head. "Nah, someone's gonna have to carry your ass home."

Maka grimaced, glaring at the bubbles in her glass. "I don't want to go home."

He snorted. "Things going well with Spirit, huh?"

"It's always the same," she let out the alcohol saturated lamentation without tempering it. "He thinks I'm just like him– can't control my urges! Not responsible enough to have a boyfriend!"

Blake had been sipping his beer through her tirade, breaking it with a chuckle. "Boy, if he only knew how little your urges came up with Soul."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Maka snapped.

Innocent hands raised as he stifled any more of his laughter. "Just sure Spirit'd love to hear you're going slow."

"There's nothing wrong with waiting to sleep with someone," Maka spat back, a badgering finger shaking in his direction.

"I'm not saying there is," Blake muttered as his lips tightened into a frown. "But you gotta balance it. You said you've been holding back in everything, and you sure that isn't just because of Spirit?"

Maka examined her drink again before gulping at it, letting the burn hit her stomach in hopes that it would overpower the one threatening her cheeks. Okay, everything. He's been so sweet, kissing my forehead, giving me room, but– we could have kissed, and the only reason I didn't let that happen was…?

Blake sighed. "Soul's never gonna force you. He's not that kinda guy."

"I know," she grumbled.

"And honestly, I know this is gonna sound weird, but… no one's taken a second glance at that guy since he got Layla. Or at least not one that he's noticed, so I can only imagine he'd appreciate feelin' like a man for once?" He shrugged, knowing his eloquence definitely did have bounds.

Maka tried to drown that idea with another gulp, another bit of burn, another bit of straying thoughts.


Soul woke up to stars cutting across Layla's ceiling, her nightlight cascading different colors to brighten the darkness. His neck was stiff from perching above her so he tilted it back and forth, trying to ease the muscles back to life. Layla had finally turned over, her hands no longer digging into his t-shirt in that stranglehold she'd kept when he finally eased her into bed. She was calm now, sleeping with mouth slack and eyes tipping back and forth under her lids.

He leaned down, leaving another soft kiss on her forehead before exiting the room. The bathroom was next, relieving himself before taking extra time to wash his hands. The reflection in the mirror looked tired, but he wasn't all too sure sleep was going to come for him. So it was back to the hallway and then down the stairs, plodding towards the kitchen as he pondered what would serve him better: whiskey or water.

His fingers wrapped around the neck of the bottle when his phone buzzed in his pocket. The clock told him it had to be Blake– no one else bothered past midnight. He decided to humor it and pulled the device out only to find another name blaring there. "Maka?" he questioned as he pressed the phone to his ear.

"I-I guess I didn't expect you to be awake." A light laugh twittered over the other side. "I didn't wake you up, did I?"

"Nah." He toyed with the bottle, spinning and then untightening the cap on repeat. "Everything okay?"

She huffed. "Yes and no. I went out drinking with Blake tonight."

Soul couldn't help but chuckle. "Yeah, that usually doesn't go so well. What made you pick death by liver picklin'?"

Her giggle resounded in his ear before she sighed. "I guess I can't get along with my papa."

He shrugged even though she wasn't there to see it. "Some of us don't. Startin' to think that whole 'you have to like your family' is a racket. You can love 'em, but it doesn't mean you have to like 'em."

"Is that from Layla or have you figured that one out on your own?"

"All on my own," he replied with a short laugh. "So you at least get a little catharsis in exchange for tomorrow's hangover?"

"Sort of." There was some shifting, probably the sounds of sheets before her voice came back as a whisper, "There was something I wanted to say to you."

That hot-seat feeling was back, sure that he was reliving that day in her office. "Okay…"

She sighed. "I… I think you're really handsome."

Any toying he was doing with the bottle froze as his fingers lost all connection with a brain that was surely flatlining.

"And your hands, I like the way they feel. They're sort of rough but your touch is still soft."

He gulped on air and saliva, trying to will some kind of thank you but finding his tongue completely tied.

"And you're just the right thinness for your height– not gangly but fit. Though, well, I don't even know if you work out."

"Blake makes me," he managed to murmur deliriously.

"Oh." She seemed to quietly ponder that for a moment before continuing: "And being with you isn't just about comfort. I'm not some nun, and I don't want you to think you have to be either, it's just– just–" A little frustration petered into her voice, culminating into a huff of air before her voice started with stern gusto. "Even though I find you so attractive I'm scared."

Soul wished desperately that he'd unscrewed the cap and given himself at least the leverage to squeeze in a shot, but there wasn't any time. There was a delicate balance here, a moment he needed to fill with just the right thing. Whatever the fuckin' right thing is! "I-I get that. I like what we have, but… I want to show you how beautiful I think you are, too." His stomach quaked in her silence, making his knees wobble until he leaned into the counter.

"Are you scared?"

"Fuck yeah," he replied on a desperate huff of breath.

"But you think I'm pretty?"

"Beautiful," he corrected. "So fucking beautiful." It was so soft, but maybe there was a perfect little bit of contentedness to her sigh. Maybe it was just enough to give him the courage for the next part: "So we don't have to rush it. I– it's just good to know, like you said. Havin' moments like this where we can be honest and just… try to tackle that fear little by little."

Now it wasn't just a tidbit of satisfaction but a full, happy hum from the other end of the line. "Soul…" she cooed.

His face flushed from pink to red, the resonance of her voice making his body quiver. My name like that off her lips! It was definitely the thing of daydreams, something to tuck away guiltily for later. "Yeah?"

Now he got only silence, puffs of her breath on the line.

"Maka?" He tried one more time but there was nothing. Soul chuckled, running his hand through his hair as he listened for a moment longer. "Alright. Talk to you tomorrow, sleepin' beauty."