I do not own Soul Eater; I do not profit from this writing.

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Maka opens her eyes, and Spirit is there to see her. Maka says her first word, "Dada", and Spirit is there to hear her. Maka takes her first steps, and Spirit is there to hold her. Maka falls and skins her knee, and Spirit is there to comfort her.

Spirit thinks of these days often, especially now that his little girl is all grown up. He thinks of all of the women he has wasted his love on, his compulsions and aberrations and the things he's lost so much time over because of his selfish and thoughtless nature. He regrets all of his behaviour, because every time he sees his baby girl, all tall and loud and confident and able, she looks at him with her green eyes and in them he can see disappointment.

At current, Spirit fully did not expect for her to overlook his past transgressions and allow his presence during a moment of great importance. He adjusts the red flower in his lapel, smoothing back his dark burgundy hair once more. He checks his reflection in a nearby mirror, though it is not out of vanity but out of nervousness. He is fearful that if he says or does the wrong thing, Maka will oust him from the building and he'll be forced to try and hide in the bushes outside – and then he'll be accused of being a peeping Tom! He gulps at the thought of it, finger swiping his neckline as he struggles to loosen his suddenly too-tight tie. Black, with red stripes.

He hears her from the next room swearing loudly, and her voice edges with pain and trembles with oncoming tears. Without thinking of what she will do to him for interrupting, he bursts through the doors to find her seated at a vanity, an angry stare reserved not for him but for the thing of her burden: a curling iron now thrown on the far side of the room, come to rest on the tile by the door. He bends down to pick it up, uttering a quick, "Ouch!" as he realizes it is as hot as the surface of the vigilant and panting sun above Death City that day.

"Did you burn yourself, Maka?" he asks stupidly. He was never good at initiating any sort of conversation with his daughter, and even now after so many years he feels like a bull in a China shop, fumbling clumsily in desperation to leave the beauty untouched.

She said nothing at first, looking at him with her big green eyes. For a moment, her face is frozen with dual expressions: first, the shock of having her Papa burst into her dressing room; second: the utter stress of striving for perfection under an incredibly high level of stress without Soul by her side for support.

Spirit offers her a comforting smile, his eyes drinking in the scene before him. Looking resplendent on the wooden stool in front of the ornate mahogany vanity, the top of which is littered with cosmetics and various hair products, is Maka Albarn. Her long, dirty-blonde hair has been pulled back, the upper-most layer a French-braid that seems to net the rest of it. On the center of each crossing is a tiny flower; the blooms alternate in white and red. The ends are not secured, somehow holding on their own, though Spirit does suspect the tall silver product may be hairspray, and all but one last section fall into soft, full curls.

Her green eyes are dusted with the lightest shimmering of shadow, a thin line of black and a helping of mascara – they appear ethereal almost, doll-like and captivating. He has never seen Maka with so many modern beauty products on her, and he realizes that Blair must have had a very large hand in this event. He reminds himself to buy her something later in thanks, and stops himself shortly before his thoughts wander to the image of the beautiful Blair in sexy underwear.

"I don't know if I can do this," his daughter says, her voice wavering. She clenches one hand in the other, eyes cast downward at the top of the vanity, lids lowered in shame for even uttering such a phrase. She has come so very far, so why is a sudden burn from her curling iron going to hold her back?

"Let me see your hand," Spirit says, and though he does say it gently, it is not a request. His daughter reluctantly holds her hand up, and he surveys the tiny burn mark. He is not surprised, given his discovery of the temperature setting the device was on. Very lightly, he kisses her hand, and hands it back to her.

"Better?" he asks.

Maka nods. "Thanks, Papa," she says with a wan smile. "I'd better hurry, or I'm going to be late." She rises to fetch the curling iron, but Spirit puts a hand on her shoulder and urges her to sit back down.

"Let me help," Spirit offers. Without further ado, the iron is retrieved and he moves to her back, lifting the last section of hair and winding it carefully around the ceramic spiral. He holds it for fifteen seconds, and then gently releases it. "What now?" he asks, and then accepts the can of spray Maka hands back to him. He dusts her entire style with it lightly, and then moves to her side and holds out a hand. "Let me see," he encourages her.

Reluctantly, Maka twirls on his hand, then lowers her arms, smoothing over the flowing skirts of nylon, silk and tulle that make up the lower half of her princess-like gown. The top is a simple and strapless white corset, though it is conservative. Spirit knows that Blair did not have a hand in selecting this.

"Maka, you look radiant," he says. His eyes glimmer with tears.

"Papa..." she begins.

"I know I haven't always been the best father, Maka. But I've always loved you, and I will always love you – and you will always be my little girl, so don't try to think you can ever escape that."

"So.. eloquent," she says, a smile of mixed emotions crossing her face. It is not an uncommon facial expression from Maka to Spirit, and he is not offended.

"One last hug, for your dear old dad?" he asks, holding his arms out to her. He is surprised when Maka falls into his arms, and he can hear her make a sobbing noise. "Oh, don't cry," he warns her. He tips her chin up and gently wipes the shadow of a tear from the corner of her eye with his thumb. "You'll ruin all of the hard work Blair put into your makeup."

She smiles up at him in spite of herself. "Thank you, Papa. For everything."

He smiles again, and then steps away, taking her hand and twirling her for another spin, this time even getting her to laugh a little. The door opens again and surprises them, and Liz sticks her head in.

"Sorry to interrupt, but everyone's ready – and by that I mean Kid has finished adjusting the decorations so both sides of the main room are symmetrical. I think we should probably start before he finds something else to adjust," she warns. She skips a beat and then says, "You look gorgeous." She gives Maka a thumbs-up, and then slip back out the door.

"Well, I think that's your cue. Are you ready, Maka?" he asks of his daughter.

She looks at him for a long moment, and says nothing.

"Maka? Are you ready?"

The way he asks it the second time is more serious: he is giving her an opportunity to say no. She is still silent, and he doesn't know what's going through her mind but he believes he has a good idea. Finally, she gives him a firm nod and a smile.

"I think I am," she says.

He gives her another kiss, this time to the top of her hand at her response. "Then may I have the pleasure?" he asks, holding his arm out to escort her.

When the doors of the church open and Spirit stands with Maka, their arms linked while she holds in her hands a bouquet of white and red roses, the entire church gasps. Soul, who stands at the altar, gets a nosebleed, but he manages not to faint.