And here we are again! Huge 'thank you's to L, Kara Black, and Unleashed111 for giving me feedback, and thank you so, so much to all of you who have favorited, followed, or just read this little story of mine. I appreciate each and every one of you.

This has been the hardest chapter to write to date, not to mention the longest, and for good reason - this is where this fic really earns its M rating fair and square. Thus I have to warn for triggering imagery; if you are easily upset by depictions of sexual violence, please either skip the italicized scenes or skip this chapter entirely. Tread lightly; here there be monsters.

If you're looking for a good poem, I do recommend Invictus, mentioned in this chapter; it's always been one of my favorites and I think it fits Maka quite well. There isn't enough appreciation for classic poetry out there.

And, as always, please do read and review. I love hearing from my readers. As much as I write for myself, I enjoy writing to make others happy too.

Chapter 4: Fear in a Handful of Dust

"Soul, you forgot to take out the trash again!"

Maka huffed, trying to pull the overstuffed bag out of the can; she barely succeeded without toppling the entire thing over. She had it tied up and ready to take out before stepping on something slippery – it skidded one way and she went the other and everything landed in a heap on the floor. "What in the-"

She had tripped on a neatly wrapped parcel, the corner damp with now-spoiled milk. The gift her papa had left her a week ago, all but forgotten, laid there accusingly. "Oh," she said.

"Yo, you OK, Maka?" Soul asked from the hallway.

"Yeah." She picked up the parcel, ignoring the smell of garbage. "Could you take out the trash for me? I think I should take a look at this."

Soul grinned. "About time," he snarked, scooping up the bag. "I'll be back in a few."

She waved at him without looking. The plain string on the package was easily untied; the wrapping was plain butcher's paper. The books – three of them, she could see now – were thankfully undamaged from their stint in the garbage, if a little odorous. The top one was an antique 1960s guide to New Orleans jazz clubs; she recognized the names of a few of the bands on the front. Below that was a book of poetry, bookmarked to her favorite poem, William Henley's 'Invictus'. "He remembered," she whispered. "How did he remember that?"

It was all too easy to remember the first time she had heard that poem, her father's voice reading it in a heroic cadence, her constant questions about what 'unconquerable' and 'bludgeonings' meant, and if souls really needed captains.

Before the misty-eyed feeling could grow into something stronger, she set the book of poetry aside and looked to the third book. This one puzzled her. Shel Silverstein's The Giving Tree – she opened it up to find a note in Spirit's loopy handwriting in the front cover.

Maka, I know you've never liked this book, but it's been one of my favorites since you were small. Maybe when you're a mama you'll understand. Until then, keep it as a favor for your old man, please? Love, Papa

She flipped through the illustrations, not paying attention to Soul as he came back and sat down next to her. At the final page, Maka skimmed the lines over and over, then snapped the book shut. "Something up, Maka?" Soul asked, flipping through the jazz guide with interest.

". . . how would you feel about doing some extra housework with me today?"

"You want to leave the Academy?"

Azusa hovered by the door, straining to listen in on the rather heated conversation Marie was having with Shinigami. The blonde had burst in, in tears – Spirit had delivered the news of the canceled search to her earlier that day – and seeing as Marie was one of two people listed the Reaper was willing to see on his self-imposed day of exile, Azusa had let her her through. Now they were back in the Death Room arguing; while the raven-haired shinigami would never admit it, Marie was a close friend, and she felt partially responsible for her.

At least, that was her excuse for eavesdropping.

"I need Crona to find Stein. You don't understand."

"Quite the contrary. I understand far too well. You're forgetting what happened at the trial, though – and assuming Crona will help. And that's not mentioning our pact."

"Then I'll go without him! You're all so worried about Spirit, no one seems to care that Stein's suffering too!"

"Marie, you go too far."

"No! It's not fair! I know he's done some awful things, but that was the Madness! You know he has problems with it, and Medusa made it worse! He could be suffering under her right now and we wouldn't know it!"

". . . and if his own Madness is the reason behind-"

"Then we'll deal with it! But don't ask me to give up on him because of your stupid bargain!"

Azusa's eyes went wide.

". . . I was just going to fire you, but quitting makes it easier on all of us."

Azusa nearly choked. Apparently, from the sound of it, so did Marie.

"Wh-what?!"

"But before I give you freedom – and Crona – I want a favor from you."

Maka, Soul, and Blair stood in front of Spirit's house, armed to the teeth with buckets, mops, and cleaning supplies. "Tell me again why we're doing this?" Soul grumbled, trying to keep his eyes off of Blair – or, more precisely, Blair's bosom, framed nicely in a French maid's outfit.

"I just . . . after he got hurt, I doubt he can do all the cleaning on his own, so I thought we'd help Papa tidy his house up. I mean, I wouldn't care, but he is hurt and it'll look bad if I don't do something to help out, won't it?"

"Since when do you care?"

"Maka . . . chop!"

Having sufficiently driven her point (and a heavy book) home in Soul's thick skull, she dug out her house keys and unlocked the front door. "Lucky for me I have a spare key-"

The door swung open.

Maka dropped everything in her arms, mouth agape. Soul stepped past her, bringing an arm up across her protectively. "What in the hell happened here?"

The living room was a complete wreck – there was no other word for it. Her grandmother's antique glass-top table was shattered, shards of glass scattered all over the damaged hardwood floor. The pictures still on the wall were hanging askew; most of them had fallen, their glass adding to the danger. Splotches and puddles of dried blood were splattered everywhere, walls, floor, even bloody footprints and shoeprints tracking into the rest of the house. The hardwood floor was crushed in the center. "Maka, where did your old man say Stein attacked him at?"

"I- I-" Maka stepped inside and sank onto the couch, staring at the disaster area in disbelief.

". . . I'm gonna find a mirror and call Shinigami-sama." Soul disappeared into the bedroom.

Blair stepped in, sniffing the air hesitantly. Her nose wrinkled as she approached the far corner of the room, where the worst of the carnage seemed to have occured. The pupils of her eyes thinned into slits and she hissed. "Maka? You shouldn't be here. This place is poison."

"What do you mean?"

The feline woman shook her head. "It's poison. Where's Soul? We have to leave. Get one of your Academy people to take care of this."

"Shit, that's not gonna be easy." Soul came back out of the hallway, trying not to tread on any of the bloodstains. "Somebody went nuts and broke every mirror and piece of glass in the house. We'll have to use a windowpane or something."

"Then let's get out of here and go find one!" Blair rushed over to Maka and pulled her up off the couch. "Come on, kiddo."

"But- But Papa-"

"He's not here, Maka." Soul looked between the girls, face set in a determined scowl. "Blair's right. We need to get out of here and let the Academy know what's going on. Something's messed up about this whole situation."

Maka let herself be pulled away, looking back over her shoulder at the wreckage with misty green eyes. "Papa," she whispered. "What happened to you?"

Spirit stood at the threshold of Shinigami's chancel, rubbing his wounded shoulder in a show of nonchalance. Before him was Marie and his Meister, seated at a low table and sipping on tea. Or, at least, Shinigami was – Marie was quietly rolling the cup between her hands, avoiding his eyes. "Hey," he said, looking from the Reaper to Marie and back. "Azusa said it was urgent. What's going on?"

"Have a seat," Shinigami said, waving at an oversized pillow next to the table. "Would you like some tea? Or would you prefer sake?"

The younger man glanced between them, at Marie's untouched cake, at the too-precise arrangement of the tea service on the table, at how close to the other two sitting down would put him. "I think I prefer to stand, thanks." He shifted his stance. "What's all this about, anyway? A little late for a tea party, isn't it?"

". . . it's about the night Stein disappeared," Marie said, her voice soft.

DeathScythe instantly braced himself, eyes narrowing in anger.

"I have reason to believe you haven't been exactly forthcoming with the truth about what happened that night, Spirit," Shinigami continued, turning to look his Weapon partner in the eye. "I'm giving you a chance to explain yourself."

"You think I carved myself up to give that screwhead an excuse?" His words were bitter, furious. "I come to the school bleeding to death and you think I'm lying?!"

Marie reached out to him to calm him down; Spirit jerked away from her, faded eyes flashing in sudden fear. "Spirit, we know you're not lying! It's just – there's something else you're not telling us and we're worried! This isn't like you!"

DeathScythe practically growled, his good arm wrapped protectively around his aching ribs. "I told you everything already. I shouldn't have to repeat-"

"You were home by ten that night."

Spirit stopped dead in his tracks.

"Stein attacked you in your home, not in an alleyway." Shinigami rose from his seat to stare down at his partner, who was beginning to breathe in heavy, terrified gasps. "What's more, reports put Stein leaving your neighborhood around three in the morning."

"Th- that's a lie," the deathscythe stuttered, taking a step away from them. His voice shook; his thin frame began to tremble. "It's – you can't know that!"

Marie rose behind the Reaper, reaching out to pull him back; he pressed forward, relentless. "Sid traced your movements back over the day. The cat witch Blair alerted us to the scene at your home." The color drained from Spirit's face. Visibly terrified, he skittered backwards, barely managing not to trip over his own feet. "We're going to find out the truth one way or another. I'll ask you again: what really happened, Spirit?"

The younger man's voice cracked in desperation. "I told you the truth! Nothing else happened! Nothing! Shinigami-sama, please!"

Shinigami advanced until he stood mere feet away from him. "Then you leave me no choice," he said, lifting his mask with one hand. Below it was golden eyes framed by white-striped coal-black hair, a chiseled face and surprisingly soft lips, a classical Roman nose – the true face of the Grim Reaper, overlaid with a kind of resignation and bitter sorrow. Behind him, Marie grasped his hand.

Spirit's eyes flew open wide.

"Forgive me, my friend," he whispered as he and Marie grasped DeathScythe with their free hands.

"Healing Wavelength."

The dais exploded.

Cold

so

cold it's breaking

breaking

stay out stay out STAY OUT

I can't

hold

together

...

what have you

done?

He landed with a bone-crunching thud on the concrete floor. Marie's wavelength was fading fast; he let it slip through his broken fingers out of this dream before pushing himself up to his knees.

That was odd. He didn't usually have knees.

Then again, he wasn't usually human, either.

Disorientation washed over him again; he looked around the room with passing interest. It was bare slate-grey concrete from floor to walls to ceiling, a battered old projector with the lens cap on sitting on a wooden crate in the center of it. There were no visible outlets or power sources, and yet it churned through the looped film reel without pausing. A data transfer cable hung from its side; his eyes followed the course of the cord as it looped around the crate and across the floor up to where it was hooked up . . .

. . . into the side of a red wolf's skull.

Around the sleeping wolf's neck was shackled a little flickering blue orb, cracked and dented and achingly familiar. The disorientation melted away; Shinigami stared at the Wolf and its jewel before pushing himself to his feet. "Stubborn till the end, aren't you, Spirit?" he murmured.

As if in response, the Wolf opened one silver eye to stare at him. It lifted its lips in a warning snarl, baring razor-sharp fangs. The Reaper grinned back in response. "Oh. Well. You're not Spirit after all, are you?"

It huffed and laid its head back on its crossed paws. Brilliant deduction.

"I thought it was," Shinigami replied idly, pacing the width of the room. No cracks, no entrance or exit . . . nothing. Just an impenetrable room with a Wolf and . . . a projector. A running projector with the lens cap on, plugged into an alpha predator.

The Wolf gave another warning growl as the Reaper laughed.

"I think I see what you are now," he told it, circling it and the projector. The Wolf rose to its haunches, claws flexing. It had looked small when lying down; standing up, its head easily reached Shinigami's shoulder. "I should have seen it sooner. I suppose old age is getting to me."

It howled a warning note; the room shook with the power of its voice.

"You're Fear." Shinigami looked to the heavy chain around its neck, to the soul trapped within. "You're the Fear that keeps Spirit trapped."

Something like a barking laugh came from the Wolf. Am I? Maybe. Maybe not.

"I think you are. And if you're the Fear . . . ." His eyes went from the cord to the projector, merrily running its endless loop of film. "Then that has to be what he is really afraid of. Am I right?"

The Wolf took a menacing step forward, canines bared. It growled.

Shinigami stood his ground. "Spirit, I know you can hear me. You have nothing to be afraid of. I promise you-"

The Wolf lashed out with its claws; Shinigami managed to throw an arm up to block, grunting in pain as spiritual flesh was torn. "Spirit!"

Another swipe, and he managed to block before those razor-sharp claws hit home. Pivoting, the Reaper swung out with an uppercut that knocked the Wolf back a step or two. There was no time to take a breath; he pressed his advantage by jabbing a fist into the canine's eye. It yelped in pain, clapping a paw over its injured eye and snapping out with its jaws.

The bite ripped the sleeve off his coat and took a chunk of flesh with it. Shinigami cursed and kicked the beast in the throat as hard as he could. There was a choking sound before the Wolf smashed him face-first into the floor with one giant paw.

Shinigami had to scramble to regain his footing. The Wolf didn't let him get that far; before he could get back to his feet, it leapt upon him, fangs bared above his head. It howled in triumph-

-and the death god below him pulled hard on the cord plugged into its skull, yanking it out. "Checkmate, you bastard," he gasped.

An unearthly scream shook the room as the Wolf backed away, silver eyes wide. Behind them, the projector began to rewind – the screaming began to rewind, voices sped up in reverse before they all stopped with a click. Shinigami pushed himself up on his knees moments before teeth clamped down on the collar of his jacket and forced him to sit down hard on the concrete.

"What are you-"

The lens cap popped off the projector.

Voices began to echo throughout the room.

The Wolf began laughing, laughing as Shinigami was blinded by the light of the projector – swallowed by the memory of fear.

Stein shoves him face-first into the corner of his living room and he can see dust and shards of glass skittered across the floor, the shadows of the room dancing and laughing around him.

He leans forward, lips against his cheek.

"I want you to fear me."

"I'm afraid, goddammit!" he nearly shrieks, and it's true, it's so true, he's never been this scared in his life, not when he fought his first witch, not even when Kami left him, because there is so much more at stake here than his marriage, it's his little girl and it's Stein, Stein and his Madness, and there's no predicting what he'll do in his insanity.

"Are you sure, sem~pai~? Fear usually has more autonomic reactions than this. Your heart rate has hardly risen above 120." He draws something moist up over the incisions in his ex-partner's back – licking the blood spilling from the wounds. The deathscythe gives a tiny shudder; he's beginning to grow faint-headed. "You're not even shivering."

Spirit leans his forehead against the floor – only for a second, Stein quickly tightens the handmade noose around his throat to pull him up (made from his cross necktie, how ironic is that?) - and cries out in frustration as soon as he can draw breath again. He's trapped, so trapped, and no matter how hard he tries his body is too weak to respond to his demands."I don't- I can't- what more do you want from me?!"

The noose tightens again. Stein's fingers grind into his wrists so hard they go numb. He thrashes for air; dark spots bloom behind his eyes and claw at his consciousness before the cloth goes slack and he can draw a great whooping gasp of air. The mad scientist is toying with him, he realizes – playing with him like a cat does a dying mouse.

Something finally snaps inside him.

". . . you're shaking, sem~pai~! Is that some fear I sense?"

Spirit throws his head back and practically screams a hoarse litany of curses at the man behind him. "You know what? Fuck you, Stein! Fuck you, fuck your fear, and fuck this stupid fucking game of yours! LET ME GO!"

For a moment the pressure on him lessens; Stein lets go of the older man's wrists and sits back. He hiccups a laugh once, twice, three times, before heaving a hissing sigh.

"Soul Sutures."

The tough spiritual threads sew Spirit's arms together behind him, digging into flesh and cloth. Rough hands haul him up and shove him over onto his back; the splintered floor and scattered glass dig painfully into his already wounded back, eliciting a sharp hiss of pain. Stein hovers over him. His eyes are unfocused, pupils unevenly dilating, mesmerizing. "I know how to see your fear, sempai," he breathes. "I know how to see inside your mind. I can. I can do it." There's the rustling sound of leather running through cloth, and Stein lays a splayed hand atop Spirit's groin. "Let me show you how."

Faded blue eyes go wide in horror.

". . . no! Stein, stop this-"

Fabric tears under calloused fingers. Breath reeking of stale tobacco and rotting lotus seeds envelops him. Stein leans forward and his tongue darts out to lick the rim of the other's ear. Spirit thrashes against his bonds as he's partially stripped from the waist down, kicking and snarling curses. A sharp kick hits the other in the jaw. Another catches the scientist in the solar plexus. Stein grasps him by one ankle, pressing his weight on the other. "Show me your fear."

"Stein, please!"

Cool night air brushes against bare skin. Soul sutures stitch his shoulders flat against the floor. Calloused fingers prod at soft, limp flesh. Lips on his inner thigh – Stein bites down hard enough to break skin and licks up the tiny dribble of blood. "So spirited tonight, aren't you, sem~pai~?"

"You son of a-"

The metallic purr of a zipper coming down. Heavy breathing speeds up. Fingers press inward and he bites his lower lip, bites back any sound, any show of weakness.

"Sempai. Show me your mind."

Sudden weight, tearing pressure, painpainPAIN- the cry catches in Spirit's throat and he tries to hold it back, tries to press the tears back but it hurts, ohgod it HURTS, and Stein is thrusting within him, jagged animalistic movements that shoot pain up his spine and his hands are on him, trying to coax him into stiffness-

"Sem~pai~"

The breathy little moan does it. Tears spring to the deathscythe's eyes as his ex-partner moans the honorific, rocking his hips inside him, raping him on the floor of his own home, taking the safe place he knew and ripping it apart. "Sem~pai~," Stein moans, staring down at Spirit as he fondles him, the thrusting growing harder, more erratic. "I can see your mind, sem~pai~! I can see your wings breaking, sem~pai~!"

And God, despite the agony and the shame that roils up within him, his flesh is responding to something, and it hurts to be so betrayed by his own body – his Weapon blood deserting him for protection and now his manhood deserting his pride. Above him the madman giggles and licks his own hand before folding it back around the smooth length.

"Don't feel bad, sempai. It's an automatic response to stimulation. It doesn't mean you enjoy this. Or maybe it does. That I can't tell."

He pauses in his thrusting to study Spirit' face, the flushed cheeks, the fury and the humiliation, the tears beading up at the corners of his sky-blue eyes. He leans forward, pulling himself almost all the way out of the other man's abused body before ramming back in. A cry of pain, and something hot splatters across his bare stomach. Stein's crazed eyes light up; Spirit closes his own in shame.

"Sem~pai~"

Ragged, irregular thrusts above him. Hands grip his hips hard enough to leave handprint bruises. The smack of flesh on flesh, of animal excitement, of power. Fingernails dig bloody crescent moons into his skin-

"I – can see – sempai!"

Stein thrusts himself in to the hilt, body taut and muscles quivering, and screams his orgasm. Something tears inside Spirit and he tries to scream but at the end even his voice betrays him, his scream of pain coming out as a hoarse whimper.

The madman collapses atop him.

Spirit lays there, unmoving, even after the younger man pulls out. He doesn't want to see it. He doesn't need the confirmation of what he can feel, the constant throbbing ache, the stinging warmth oozing from between his legs. There is silence for a moment before a hand comes down and twists itself in his hair.

"Where did it go?"

The madman hauls him up to his knees by the hair; he wobbles unsteadily, trying to balance on weak knees. "Open your eyes and look at me," Stein hisses. "I have to see your mind. I have to see the fear."

Spirit does as ordered, lightheaded from shock and blood loss. The man standing before him is like a grotesque parody of his former friend, erection still jutting proudly from the fly of his trousers. He draws a tremulous breath at the sudden sight, fear and self-loathing and shame crashing over him in a tidal wave that threatens to break his composure completely.

". . . guess who's been watching this whole time, sempai~?"

Stein drags him closer. He grips his blood-stained erection with his free hand and traces his ex-partner's lips with it, a broad smile splitting his face in two as the other tries unsuccessfully to squirm away. "So many pictures of Maka. I wonder what she would think about her 'papa' now, hmm?"

Maka.

Maka had seen . . . ?

"Finish me and I won't make her do it instead."

A soft cry escapes his lips. There is no other threat that could have been half as effective as this – the mere thought of Stein touching his daughter, his innocent little girl, breaks down the last vestiges of tattered pride he holds on to. The tears he had been so valiantly holding back now spill from terrified blue eyes down his cheeks. This time when the madman presses forward he takes the vile thing in and tries not to gag on the taste of thick semen, his own metallic blood – tries not to choke as the other man roughly thrusts in.

Spirit sobs, and that is all it takes for Stein to come undone.

His arms come free of their bonds. The now broken man falls to his hands and knees before Stein, sobbing, coughing, dry-heaving, semen and tears dripping down his chin. He drops his head to the floor like a penitent at the altar. His thin frame shakes with the force of his cries. "Please," he begs in a broken whisper. "No more. Leave – leave Maka alone. Please."

". . . There it is."

A sudden shout, a sudden snap of pain . . . darkness.

The projector whirred to a stop.

Shinigami came back to himself in a haze of tears, fingers digging furrows into the concrete floor. His breathing, rapid and hard, slowed gradually. The air in the room was suffocating, heavy with shame. "Oh, Spirit," he whispered.

Chains clanked behind him.

The Reaper whirled around to face the Wolf, now laying protectively next to a filthy, naked human curled up into a tight fetal ball. Even blind he would know the bruised figure there, chained to the Wolf – he knew that broken soul like the back of his own hand.

His Weapon.

His best friend.

". . . Spirit."

The younger man curled up even tighter at the sound of his voice, shaking so hard it was a wonder he could even sit upright. "Go away," he hissed. "Stop looking at me!"

"Spirit." Shinigami took a step forward; so did the Wolf. "It's-"

"It's what? Would you like me to humiliate myself a little longer for you? Do you want more of the free show?" He choked and drew in tighter; the Wolf's fur deepened red, claws scraping the concrete.

The Reaper took another step forward, putting him in reach of the Wolf's claws. It didn't lash out at him – yet. "I'm so sorry," he murmured.

"I don't want your fucking pity!" Spirit screamed, finally raising his head. Bloodshot azure eyes stared wildly at him through crimson bangs. "It was my own fault! I'm a fucking deathscythe! I was his partner! I should have been able to stop him!" His fingernails were clawing into his arms, drawing glowing blue blood – guilt and self-loathing rending his soul. "Why did you have to come here?!"

"Spirit-"

The Wolf bared its fangs, edging closer around the broken man. "How am I supposed to protect Maka – how am I supposed to protect you if I can't even protect myself? Huh?! Tell me that!"

"Spirit-"

"I can't stop jumping at shadows, I can't stand hearing his name – how long until I hurt somebody because I'm too damned weak to grow a pair and get over it like a man?"

"Spirit Albarn. That's enough."

"What?!" Spirit raged through his tears. The Wolf was snarling now, fur bristling and claws digging trenches into the floor, saliva dripping from razor-sharp canines. "Why did you have to come here? Why did you come here when I am not worth-"

Shinigami dropped to one knee and wrapped the terrified DeathScythe in his arms.

The Wolf froze over them, paralyzed; Spirit shivered in his grasp, hot tears rolling down his cheeks and soaking into the collar of the Reaper's shirt. "I came because you are my friend, and because you are worth coming after." One gloved hand stole up to stroke the Weapon's hair in a comforting gesture. "Never forget that, Spirit."

A choked whimper was his only answer.

"I can only imagine what you're going through. But I can tell you that you are strong, and that it's not your fault." The deathscythe began to protest; Shinigami simply held him closer. "He is to blame for his actions. Not you. I know how strong you are. Who better than me to know that? You survived all that to protect your daughter and still help me, still help us to fight – and you call yourself weak?"

There was a moment's hesitation before the younger man clutched at Shinigami's coat, weeping into his shoulder. The Wolf – the embodiment of his Fear – let out a long sigh and flopped to the floor, resting its head back on its paws. When it opened its eyes again, one iris had changed from cold silver to a warm gold; the fur around that eye began to shade brilliant blue instead of fiery red.

Shinigami allowed himself a faint smile and looked back down at the battered man cradled in his arms. "Spirit? Do you think we can go back now?"

The reply, when it finally came, was barely more than a childish whisper. "Do I – do they have to – to know?"

". . . not yet." Spirit ducked his head, trembling. "We'll cross that bridge when we get to it. I promise you this, though – you won't be alone when the time does come."

Silence descended for several long moments before Spirit nodded, once. The Reaper closed his eyes-

"Shinigami-sama! Oh, Azusa, I think he's coming to!"

"Father?! Can you hear me?"

The Death Room was in shambles when the Reaper came to. Wooden crosses lay broken and scattered; the table where they had been taking tea had been broken in half and thrown across different parts of the room. Scorch marks on the floor outlined the juncture of souls where he and Marie had cornered Spirit.

Speaking of-

Shinigami shot up, almost dislodging the younger man sprawled across his lap. Spirit was deep asleep, his face dusty and tear-stained and almost peaceful for the first time in a week. "He fought us," Marie explained from her place next to them. Kid, sitting on his opposite side, furrowed his brow but said nothing. "I've never felt anyone use their soul wavelength to push like that. He pushed me completely out. I didn't know if you'd made it to him or not – did you?"

"How long were we out?"

"Almost an hour." Kid folded his arms over his chest. "What were you doing in here? What happened? I felt that blast clear across the city! You had me worried sick!"

"I tried to keep him out, Shinigami-sama," Azusa said apologetically, giving the younger shinigami a stern glance. "He insisted your orders didn't apply to him, though."

He huffed a laugh under his breath; reaching out, he ruffled Kid's hair, provoking an indignant squawk from his child. "Dad, my symmetry! You've ruined it!" The boy scurried to his feet, pulling out a comb and rushing to the mirror to put his coiffure to rights.

". . . so what did you find out?" Azusa asked once he was out of earshot.

Shinigami's golden eyes went back to the unconscious Weapon in his lap. "Marie? I want you to keep one thing in mind when you go after Stein."

"Yes, sir?"

"If he returns here, or if any DWMA staff ever find him, he will have to answer for his crimes." There was a firmness to his tone that sent chills down the female deathscythes' backs. "Make sure he understands that."

Before she could respond, Shinigami slipped his mask back over his face and lifted the unconscious DeathScythe up into his arms. "Azusa, tell Sid that I want the results from Spirit's house sealed and sent to Gallows Manor immediately. No one is to look at them, and he is not to discuss his findings with anyone, unless he wants me to be very unhappy. Understood?"

She blinked, unnerved by the cold stare. "Y- yes, sir. Anything else?"

"Send Nygus to the Manor as soon as you can, please. Oh, and would you mind having someone tidy this mess up?" He pivoted en pointe and slid over to where Kid was standing, placing each individual hair in place. "Ready to go home, kiddo?"

Kid nudged a hair a millimeter to the right. "I suppose I can finish fixing this there. Is Spirit going to be staying with us?"

"Do you mind?"

"No, not at all." He slipped the comb back in his pocket. "Is there anything I can do to help? I think the guest room is set up, unless – he can use my room, if you like." Kid paused, looking up at his father's Weapon with concern. "Is he going to be all right?"

Shinigami sighed and turned back toward the mirror. ". . . I wish I knew."