Hello again, dear readers, and thank you all so very much for your words of support! Special thanks to Kara Black, L, Tree Wood, Unleashed111, and xStarxWolfx for their kind reviews, and to all those who follow or just read this little yarn! It makes me happy to know I can brighten other people's days up, even just a little.

While this chapter isn't as triggering as the past one, it still has some graphic imagery- so for those sensitive to it, just skip the flashback scenes (noted as centered, italicized text).

Portal fans will probably get the chapter title reference pretty quickly, even though that song in its entirety doesn't really fit the chapter. If I had to stick a song to the chapter, it'd be Guster's "Mona Lisa" (preferably their live performance from Lexington in '04). Their acoustic work is better than their studio albums.

As always, please read, review, and let me know what you think! It's a bright spot in my day to get reviews from you all.

Chapter 5: Like Marbles on Glass

"Wha- Kid, what's going on? You said you had news on Papa?"

The hallways of Gallows Manor were somehow gloomy and foreboding in the dark. The rare crack of thunder rumbled outside, though the clouds likely held no rain for the desert. Inside the Manor, Maka and Soul huddled in an alcove next to Kid; none of them dared raise their voice much above a whisper this late at night, though Maka's outburst had come close. "Keep quiet," Kid hushed her. "Father specifically told me not to contact you about this."

Soul smirked. "Careful. Black*Star's rubbing off on you."

The young shinigami gave his friend a hint of a grin at that. "Something happened involving Miss Marie and our fathers – it knocked my father out for an hour and yours is still unconscious. I do know it has something to do with whatever happened with Professor Stein. They let that much slip."

"Yeah." She scuffed her shoe on the floor. "Papa lied about where they'd fought. The professor wrecked the house. Blair was acting really weird, and they sealed it off after Sid looked through it. Sid looked really upset."

A maid came rushing through; an older man with a beard kept pace behind her, swinging a large black bag. Neither seemed to notice the teenagers, as they were too busy discussing something between them. ". . . that must be the doctor Father called in," Kid mused when they had passed.

"Wait, what?" Soul crossed his arms over his chest. "I thought Nygus was the one taking care of all school medical emergencies."

"She's already here. She requested Father bring in a specialist from the city hospital- Maka, wait!"

The normally level-headed young girl had already taken off after the maid and doctor, her shoes making next to no noise on the plush carpet. After a second the boys went after her. "So where're they at, anyway?"

"Father put DeathScythe up in his bedroom."

"-wait, Shinigami sleeps?"

"Well, sometimes he likes to take a nap!"

And they bickered up the stairs, nearly running into Maka from where she stood in front of heavy double doors. Liz and Patty stood in front of her, clearly not happy.

"But that's my papa in there!" Maka was saying, a desperate note in her voice.

Liz sighed and waved the maid away. "Shinigami is gonna be pissed you let her know about this, Kid."

"Maka doesn't need to see," Patty mumbled from the side. "It's not happy."

"That's my problem, not yours." Kid scowled at her. "What are they talking about in there?"

"Mostly? About keeping DeathScythe sedated." Liz sighed again, rubbing her temples. "And something about divergent wavelengths and soul dissonance and – Kid, Soul, take Maka home. We'll let you know if something happens."

"No way. I want to see what they're doing in there!" Maka was perilously close to tears. "I have to see if he's OK! Please, Liz!"

The older Thompson sister groaned in defeat. "Damn kids," she grumbled. "Why the hell do you have to be so- ugh!" She stepped back enough for Maka to look through the crack of the door, placing a hand on the younger girl's shoulder. Patty grasped Maka's hand in support. "I am gonna be in so much trouble for this."

Maka wasn't listening. Comforted by her friends beside her, and behind her, she peered into the dimly-lit room. A shadowed figure lay still on the bed – her father, bare except for a thin blanket over his lower body, breathing unsteadily in deep, restless sleep. Half his torso was covered in ugly, yellow-purple bruising; the doctor was gently palpitating the man's stomach and noting where the man stirred in his sleep in pain. Nygus sat at the deathscythe's feet with a scalpel and long tweezers. As Maka watched, she pulled a long thin shard of something bloody from the bottom of his foot and laid it aside. "Glass," Nygus said. "Fits what Sid found at the scene."

"Hmm. I want to know why he hid it," said a third, not-quite-familiar voice. "Doctor?"

The physician lifted the blanket on his side, blocking his view from prying eyes. "I'm not surprised, given the history you gave me. I question why you're not reporting it. This is a criminal matter."

A figure in black moved – Maka got a glimpse of a powerful jaw and hawk-sharp eyes that shone like gold. "This happened at the Academy. The DWMA takes care of its own."

"And you can guarantee that whoever did this won't be attacking citydwellers next? Given how many children there are at the school, I don't think your Shinigami would like having a-"

"This will not happen again." The voice was flat and cold, almost inhuman; Maka shivered.

The doctor coughed nervously. "I'm required by law to report se-"

"And the Reaper is the ultimate law of the city, or are you unfamiliar with Death City's charter?"

". . . fine." There was a rustling noise, the sound of leather unfolding. "I don't think I can avoid a full exam. There's too much possibility of internal injury."

The figure in black moved again, stepping nearer to the door. "All right, just a-" It stopped; Maka felt the ice-cold gaze sweep over her. "Just a moment."

The doors opened inward before she could backpedal away. A stern face stared down at them, golden eyes under striped black-and-white hair, full lips narrowed into a thin line; the slim figure slipped through to cross his arms over the chest of his expensive suit. "Kid," the man rumbled, his glare on Maka softening into something akin to pity.

"I'm sorry, Father," Kid said, looking away, "but I thought she had a right to know."

Soul and Maka just stared in disbelief at the human face of the Reaper, who sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose between two gloved fingers. "And Liz, really . . . ."

"But- that's her dad! And she was about to cry!" Liz whined.

Maka studied her shoes; Soul came up behind her in silent support. "Is he going to be all right, Shinigami-sama? Really?" she whispered.

Shinigami lowered himself down to one knee and put his hands on Maka's shoulders. "Maka, look at me." He waited until she did so, giving her an encouraging smile. "I promise you, I'll do everything I can to make sure Spirit recovers from this. It's just going to take time. As long as you don't give up on him, he won't give up on himself – and that's the most important thing." He held out a pinky finger, shaking it at her; after a moment's hesitation she latched her own around it.

Nygus came up behind them, peeking her head through the doors. "Sir? We need your help."

He nodded and stood back up. "Kid, Liz, Patty, why don't you three take Maka and Soul home? You all have school in the morning." The smile slipped for a moment. "You can see Spirit tomorrow, Maka. I promise. Now, if you'll excuse me-" He waved an elegant hand at them before slipping through the doors; this time when the doors closed, there was the definitive click of a lock engaging.

". . . I can't believe Shinigami looks human under that mask," Soul finally said, just to break the silence.

"Yes, well – he doesn't usually show it to anyone outside of family, or the deathscythes. Either he's got a reason, or he's not paying attention." Kid's brow furrowed in concern. "I assume you two can keep this bit about his form private? It's not supposed to be publicized."

"I think they can keep a secret." Liz made a shooing motion with her hands. "C'mon. Let's get you guys home."

Maka hesitated. "But . . . what if I don't get to see Papa tomorrow?"

"Not a chance." Kid placed a gentle hand on her back to guide her along. "One thing I know about my father – he always keeps his promises."

He awakens to a world of pain.

From the raw, burning ache of his throat to the screaming agony that is his upper back to his swollen and bruised wrists, the knifelike jab of broken ribs shifting with each breath, the constant dull ache in his lower stomach – when he does finally pry open his eyes even they hurt, unable to quite focus unless he strains.

It takes an interminable amount of time before he gathers the energy to even move. He forces himself up onto his forearms, slipping on a wooden floor made sticky with a dark crimson stain, and manages to survey the area he lays in. Shattered glass everywhere, a discarded cigarette, and a voice flashes through his mind-

"You have always tried to run from uncomfortable truths-"

Trembling, he digs his fingers into the broken wood of the wall and hauls himself to his feet. Shadows dance across the room, moving as the early rays of sunlight come into the windows, and he cringes away before one can touch him. Something is wrong, something has happened, something that makes his soul go cold inside. He runs a shaky hand down his chest-

"Show me your mind."

His hands touch bare skin where there should be clothing. He is suddenly aware of a pain between his lower thighs, a thickness and foul taste at the back of his throat. When he touches himself, his hand comes back stained with blood and a stiffly drying milky fluid.

"Sempai."

And it comes back to him in a flood, overwhelming – the fight, the fruitless struggle, the madman taking pleasure in his pain – taking such pleasure in his weakness, his failure to defend himself, his terror and self-hatred – the fear-

"I can see your mind, sempai! I can see your wings breaking-"

Spirit turns and stumbles through the shattered glass minefield (shredding his bare feet on the glass and leaving bloodied footprints the entire way), arms wrapped around himself for protection against the dark, and heads straight for the bathroom. The touch is all over him now, the phantom feel of hands crawling over his flesh, the phantom weight of flesh between his lips choking him (and that singsonging voice, hissing, echoing through his mind – sempai sempai sem~pai~).

He reaches out and turns the showerhead on full blast, as hot as it will go, and sits in the spray while it's still ice-cold. He begins vomiting up the meager contents of his stomach, milky-white mingled with bile that is washed away as soon as he brings it up.

His remaining clothes rip off easily. Lathering up a washcloth, he begins scrubbing at his skin, sobbing, trying to scrub the feel of another's hands off of him. The water is near scalding now, pounding his abused body, reopening the wounds on his back and rinsing the blood from them away. He scrubs at his face, his wrists, and he won't come clean, the filthy dirty feeling won't wash away, and he desperately scrubs between his legs until the skin is raw to get the feeling of shame off of him; even after the soapy lather has turned pink with blood he doesn't stop because he can feel the eyes on him, the fingers pressing, the tearing weight-

"Guess who's been watching this whole time, sempai?"

He stops. The fear coalesces into a heavy knot in his stomach.

Maka.

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

A stifled cry breaks the silence.

What if Stein broke his word? What if Stein went after Maka after he had – after he had-

Running, stumbling out of the shower, grasping for clean clothes (ohgod can't let them know can't let Maka know what he did what I did what I've become) and shrugging them on, running, ohgod please-

"Maka! Please, not Maka-"

Spirit sat straight up in bed, panting, arm outreached, grasping at the fading vision of his memory. Instantly he felt something warm, soothing and familiar at his side – the soul wavelength of his Meister, sitting beside the bed and watching him with solemn golden eyes. "Spirit, calm down," he said gently. "It was just a nightmare. Maka's fine. I promise."

The deathscythe took a deep breath, wincing as it expanded his broken ribs, and nodded once; the terror that had seized him from the memory (and he didn't have the heart to tell the truth about that to Shinigami, not now) began to fade. His eyes strayed over the unfamiliar room – he wasn't in his own bed, but laying on a sumptuous king-size feather bed in a suite made for a prince. The room was surprisingly bright, done up in shades of white, teal, and black, with ornate scrollwork on the walls and antique furniture scattered across the room. "Where-" he began.

"Kid offered his room up, but I thought mine would be more peaceful. I rarely use it as it is." Shinigami answered. As unusual as it was to see him in his human form, it was even more unusual to see him in anything outside of his cloak, or formal wear – this morning he was clad in long-sleeve giraffe-print pajamas, hands folded behind his head and impossibly long legs kicked out in front of him. Pink elephant slippers stared back up at them from his feet. "If you need anything from your house, just say so and I'll send Sid to get it. I think he got most everything important out of there, though."

Spirit was quiet for a moment. His eyes dropped to his lap; long red hair fell like a curtain over the side of his face. "So it . . . wasn't all just a bad dream, then," he muttered, long fingers tangling in the bedspread.

There was a sigh from the elder being. "No, Spirit. It wasn't." A beat, then, "I'm sorry."

"What for? Not your fault." Under his breath, so low it was almost unintelligible - "It's mine."

Shinigami had to bite back a sharp retort. ". . . how are you feeling? Physically, I mean."

He gave a snort of something that was not quite amusement. "You're kidding, right? I feel like shit. Need to redo my-" His hands patted his chest down, now bare of anything save fresh bandages; a quick peek under the covers told him the only thing he was wearing was a pair of pajama bottoms. Spirit snapped the blanket tight around his waist and shot his Meister a glare, his lame arm covering his chest protectively. "Who," he demanded.

The Reaper raised an eyebrow. "Not a very impressive owl imitation you've got there."

The glare turned downright frosty. "Who did this?"

". . . I brought Nygus and a physician in last night to look at your wounds." Shinigami looked away for a moment, lips pursed in a frown. "The ones you didn't tell us about."

Spirit turned pale; his hands began to tremble. "How dare you?" he snarled, the hurt and the shame blatant on his face. "You swore to me – you promised-"

"How dare I care if my friend is hurt? If he's not taking care of himself?" Golden eyes turned flinty, defiant. "You could have had serious internal injuries, Spirit! I wouldn't be doing my duty as your Meister – or as your friend – if I didn't have you checked out! I'm just thankful none of it was serious!"

The Weapon poked a bare foot – now bandaged over several lines of thick black stitches – out from under the covers. "How you were walking I'll never know," Shinigami grumbled. "Did you not stop to think about what glass in your feet could do to you?"

"Excuse me if I had other things on my mind." Normally that would have earned him a smack upside the head, but there was something in his voice, a self-directed bitterness that stilled the Reaper's hand. "So nothing else wrong, huh? You worried over nothing?"

". . . I said there was nothing serious," he replied reluctantly. Spirit's knuckles turned white where they were clutching the blankets. "You did have some . . . internal injuries."

The deathscythe glanced up sharply. "What do you mean, did?"

"I don't think now is the-"

"Shinigami, what the hell did you mean?!"

The sharp panic to his tone, coupled with the lack of respect, snapped the answer out of him. "There's . . . scarring. The bite wound, and down-" He waved a hand at his lap. "The doctor couldn't say how extensive it would be because you're still healing, but-"

Spirit folded into himself, drew his knees up – not very far, the motion pulled at his ribs and other things – and crossed his arms atop them, hid his face in the crook of one arm. He barked a short laugh. "Fuck. Fuck. Carving up my back wasn't enough, was it? Wasn't enough to m- mark me one way, h- he had to-"

Shinigami reached out and laid pale fingers on the bedspread, almost but not quite touching his weapon partner's knee; his face fell when the other man flinched away. "Spirit-"

A knock on the door interrupted him. Liz Thompson stuck her head around the doorframe, cowgirl hat hanging off her shoulders. "Hey, Shinigami-sama, breakfast's ready- oh, DeathScythe! You're up!" She blinked nervously when the former looked to her; the deathscythe turned away in an almost shy gesture. "Um, I'm interrupting, aren't I?"

"It's fine. I'll be down in a few minutes. Don't wait on me."

Liz nodded, eyes lingering on the bandaged figure sitting abed, and took her leave. "Don't need to make Kid wait," Spirit mumbled roughly when she had left.

"Spirit-"

DeathScythe's wavelength shoved at him, blindly pushing him away. "Go. Away."

Shinigami began to protest; the younger man clutched at his knees, trying to hide the trembling of his hands, the way his shoulders were shaking. Trying to hide the physical signs of an impending breakdown, when the other could see his soul fraying at the edges – and here in the physical world, without the perfect understanding of souls communicating together, any attempt to help him could just hurt him further.

The Reaper could hardly remember feeling quite this helpless before.

"All right," he relented. "Take your time. Your things are in the nightstand next to the bed; come downstairs when you feel up to it. Patty isn't the sharpest crayon in the box, but she's a wonderful cook when she puts her mind to it."

One hand stole out and ran long fingers through his Weapon's cherry-red hair before he stole out, closing the door on the sound of quiet tears.

"Sem~pai~"

There is so much power in that one word, power Stein never knew existed until now, tension and pleasure wringing his mind into hazy scarlet knots. The power of fear, the power of breaking; he hisses it and the slim body beneath him clenches a little tighter, struggles a little harder. Raw power, dominance in six little letters (sempai MY sempai my WEAPON how dare he how DARE he leave me), and it's his body that is coiling up tight, his voice dragging the fear out, his mind flashing white in absolute pleasure-

"Snap out of it, Stein! What would M-"

Static roars through his head.

No.

He pulls the traitor to his knees (he was my Weapon first MINE my EXPERIMENT how dare he try to LEAVE ME) and makes him open his eyes, makes him acknowledge the root of his power – the fear has to be there, the fear he is owed

("I'm not scared of you anymore!" he'd said then, and why had that made him feel so relieved?)

and the sight of him on his knees reawakens that animal instinct, the hissing at the back of his mind, the ache in his lower belly that has yet to be sated. Fear me, the insanity screams as he forces his ex-partner's lips apart, worship me, for I will take your wings of courage and give you fear to soar with.

Spirit sobs. The little blue jewel that is his soul cracks in twain, shards scattering.

And you will fly.

Choking, sobbing-

"Please."

The desperation in that one word cuts through Stein's Madness like a knife. The red fog thins out; he looks down at his feet, grey eyes wide and uncomprehending.

Tears filling empty sky-blue eyes, spilling down pale, hollow cheeks. White spilling from between split lips. And blood, so much blood, red splashed over the floor and the walls, oozing from open wounds and puddling on the floor. Blood-dampened cherry-red hair, now almost black, sticking to the back of his neck as he bows at his feet.

Begging.

Begging to spare his daughter, begging for the pain to stop-

The blood between his thighs.

The white-

"What would Marie think?"

Marie

M a Ri E

Marie is

dead / alive

D E A D

and Sempai is

(so much fear ohgod the fear the red the white what have I done what have I done)

broken

little broken thing

at his feet

because

of

him

A crazed little laugh escapes Stein's lips.

". . . There it is."

One Soul Force later, and the broken little thing is unconscious, barely breathing. Stein stands to his full height and stuff himself back into his pants, zips them shut in stiff, jerky little movements. The belt he was wearing lays forgotten at his feet. He turns and his reflection stares back at him in a mirror on the wall, eyes mad and uneven, face streaked red and glasses askew.

Behind him stands the specter of Marie.

Dead, dead Marie, head lolling on a broken neck, and in her one visible eye is disappointment and accusation.

"Marie . . . ?"

Dead little Marie, in every reflective surface. Staring. Condemning.

"It's not what you think-"

She points down (don't look at it don't look at what I've done I didn't I didn't mean to) and mouths a silent word. Static roars in his ears, buzzes in his skull. Her hand reaches through the mirror for his throat.

"No!"

He puts a fist through the glass.

"Don't look at me like that!"

She speaks in silence again. Another mirror shatters.

"I didn't mean to-"

Crack.

"STOP STARING AT ME!"

Crack. Crack. Crack.

Stein lit up a cigarette with shaking hands. Around him, the shattered remains of what had been a mirror lay scattered; Medusa sat beside him, twirling a razor-sharp shard in her hands. He took a long drag and blew out the smoke into the air. "Marie keeps looking at me."

"She's dead, Stein." The witch tossed the glass fragment aside, using the grown man as an oversized pillow.

He didn't seem to notice – or if he noticed, he didn't care. It was difficult to gauge his emotions normally, much less when he was enraptured with Madness like now. "She's not staying dead." He took another hit of his cigarette, blowing out skull-shaped clouds of smoke. "I wonder what it would be like to dissect her soul."

She smiled, closing her eyes. "Maybe one day you'll get to find out."

". . . Papa?"

It was mid-afternoon; Spirit was, on doctor's recommendation, resting for the day at Gallows Manor instead of staying at his Meister's side at the Academy. After the rather disastrous morning, he had gotten himself dressed in the casualwear Sid had salvaged from his house and wandered down to the mansion's library. (A room with a television had been his first target, until the news broadcast came on - "Eight days after an attack that left a deathscythe badly wounded, the search has been called off for acclaimed researcher and Meister Franken Stein-" was as much as he could bear to listen to before fleeing.)

Maka found him sitting in the same place he had started- curled up into the side of an oversized armchair, back nestled into half a dozen pillows piled into the corner and his bandaged feet dangling off the arm of the chair. A thick book – Nordic mythology and legends, from the title – was propped up in his lap. "Papa? Are – are you busy?"

Spirit looked up, a hesitant smile tugging at his lips. "Never too busy for my Maka," he answered. He set the book aside and sat up straighter, tugging his shirt back down to cover his bandages. "Are classes done already?"

"I got permission from Shinigami-sama to skip last period." Her eyes strayed to his feet, the image of bloody footprints overlaying in her mind; her father tucked them away sheepishly. "Do they hurt? I mean . . . we saw . . . ." She swallowed hard. He tilted his head in confusion – and not a little dread. "Blair and Soul and I – we're the ones who found the house like it was. And I saw them taking the glass out of your feet and I know they brought in a doctor from outside and – are you really going to be OK? Why did you lie to everyone before? What happened?"

There was a moment's silence. Maka's father was normally effusive and hyper to the point of being ridiculous; questions like those should have brought him to hysterics, should have made him rush to reassure her that everything was fine and that he was in perfect shape, and perhaps to even crow over the fact that she was worrying over him. The fact that he was quiet – and that he was taking her concerns seriously – was a sure sign that something was deeply wrong with him.

". . . what did Blair tell you?"

Maka blinked. "She – she said the house was poison and made us leave. She wouldn't tell us anything other than that. Nobody's telling us anything, except that the house is where you two fought."

Spirit sighed in relief, resting his head in one hand. "Thank God," he muttered under his breath.

"Papa?"

The deathscythe looked up at his daughter, managing a weak smile. "I'm sorry to have made you worry, Maka. I've caused you a lot of trouble over the years, haven't I?" He tilted his head back; the yellowing bruises around his throat were made all the more obvious in the sunlight from the library windows. "It's nothing that won't heal. I'll be right as rain in no time, you'll see."

"But . . . ." She twiddled her thumbs before her, frowning. It was too pat an answer, too rehearsed, and he looked so small and vulnerable and broken there before her. He didn't believe his own words; why should she? "Why didn't you tell everyone the truth up front, then?"

". . . I was ashamed." That had the ring of truth, and the bitter note in his voice made Maka stare up at him. His faded blue eyes were focused straight ahead now. "I'm a deathscythe. No, I'm the DeathScythe. I'm supposed to be the strongest of all Weapons, and I let a single Meister take me down-" Spirit made a choking noise and turned away.

It had been a long time since Maka had voluntarily hugged her father, but she did so now, sitting on the edge of the chair next to him and putting her arms around his waist. She could feel the ridges of the wounds on his back, the thick healing scars where Stein had carved fear into his flesh; Spirit paused for only a second before wrapping his arms around her and hugging her tight. Normally, although she'd never admit it, being held by her father like this would make her feel safe; now she could feel his trembling, smell the antiseptic and blood on his skin.

She closed her eyes, examining the cracked, tattered orb that was her father's battered soul for a moment before beginning to cry.

"Hey, hey, everything's all right!" Spirit soothed, rubbing a gentle hand up and down her back. "Maka, don't cry – don't pay any attention to me, I'm fine, I promise! Shhh, it's okay."

But it wasn't okay, and she could feel it, and she shook her head against his chest. "Crona's in a cell and Professor Stein's gone-" and it was impossible to miss how her father flinched when she said that name- "and you're hurt and-" And you're not telling the truth, she wanted to say, but couldn't. She hiccuped a sob; a hand brushed the tears away from her cheek.

"It's going to be okay." Spirit closed his eyes, laying his cheek atop his daughter's head. "I promise, everything's going to be okay."

In his heart, he prayed he wasn't making promises he couldn't keep.