A/N: This one was a gift for eisschirmchen. It takes place during my longer fic Two of Us in the cracks of Chapter 1, between movie night and getting on a plane several days later, and while I'm not sure it's canon to the fic, it probably could be.

It's pretty much pointless fluff. You've been warned. And yes, I DID steal the title from a silly reality show. These things happen.

"It's not like I'm the one getting married-no one's going to care what my dress looks like, Soul," she finally snapped, exasperated, as he asked her for the half dozenth time what she planned to wear.

"That is where you're wrong," he replied with an almost defeated sounding sigh. "Sure, if you wear the right thing no one will look twice-but if it isn't the right thing, you'll be the talk of the wedding and just-" he shook his head "-can I please help you pick out a dress? I'll-uh-I don't know, Maka, don't most girls like this shit?" He looked exasperated, but she could feel the nervous dread rolling off his soul in waves, and that gave her pause even as she rolled her eyes at the ridiculous statement. She was going for him-if getting a dress would ease his fears, she supposed it wouldn't kill her to comply.

"What are you wearing, anyway?" she asked finally, figuring he deserved to sweat just a little before she agreed for being such an absolute ass about the whole thing.

"I'm in the wedding." He rolled his eyes right back. "They'll shove me into the same bullshit the other guys are wearing, probably some stiff as fuck tux, but you-you need something to wear."

"Well, I do have dresses, Soul. I was thinking maybe I'd wear the one from the last annual ball, you know the-"

"No," he cut her off, and she scowled. She'd actually really liked that dress. It was silver, and slinky, and when Liz and Tsubaki initially suggested it she had balked because the cut was low and the slit was high-but she looked good in it. She'd hoped her partner would think so, too, though of course, he'd been typical Soul, spending half his night on the balcony and avoiding her more than usual. The one dance they'd shared had been nice, but had ended too soon, and then it was a new disappearing act. So much for the power of the right dress-Liz had been wrong.

"Look, that dress is-well, it won't work for this. It was nice, but it's not-" He was flustered and stammering and she was getting tired of silly bickering for the sake of bickering when she'd already decided to give in, so she doled out her measure of mercy.

"Fine, I'll get a new dress. It's your brother's wedding, so I guess I can stomach a bit of shopping."

He looked ridiculously relieved, the puff of air he released audible. "Good, great, let's go-" he eyed her meister wear; they were supposed to train today "-after you change. We're going to Knock 'em Dead, and they-"

"Are very DWMA friendly. Aside from which, we can go after we train. If we're taking a week off for this whole trip, we really need to make sure we get some extra training in before we leave."

"Yeah, yeah, you're the meister." He rolled his eyes again, but the action seemed more reflex than real annoyance.

Their course decided, they grabbed keys and headed out the door.

"Seriously, Soul, this one is fine. Since when do you even care what I wear?" The exasperation was clear in her tone. They'd been in the store for forty five minutes, she'd already tried on ten dresses, and she was utterly exhausted from training. She was starting to feel like one of the women on those silly bridal shows, the ones who tried on dress after dress happily, only to be told by their mother or sister or fiance that it wasn't the one. "Just like the other nine were fine. It's just a dress."

His face behind her in the mirror sported a decided scowl. "No, nothing is just a dress-not to the people we'll be with. And I don't want-" That same anxiousness in his soul still sat there firmly.

"Fine, fine." She waved a hand. "I'll go try on number eleven. Just-"

"Actually," he grabbed her wrist to stop her, spun her to face him. "I'm going to talk to the girl who was helping us. I have an idea." He was gone a second later, disappearing from the large dressing area to find the shop attendant. The same shop attendant he'd insistently waved away when they entered the store. The same shop attendant who had taken in Maka's somewhat ruffled appearance with distaste-they had ended up stumbling on Black Star and Tsubaki at the training grounds, and the resultant sparring match had left her clothes frayed and a prominent bruise on her cheekbone that no amount of freshening up had been able to disguise. Apparently, the girl did not approve if her puckered lips and the crease between her brow was anything to go by. Maka couldn't care; their training kept them sharp, kept a lot of people safe, this girl included, whether she recognized it or not. She'd dealt with worse than mild distaste; she could handle one uppity shop attendant.

The meister moved back into the smaller area that was her actual dressing room to remove dress ten, keeping the door closed since she was now waiting on her weapon to procure-whatever it was he thought he was going to get this girl to find. Hearing giggling outside the door, she cracked it to see that Soul had returned with the attendant, who was holding an opaque garment bag over one shoulder. They stopped in the middle of the room, and the girl, a tall, sleek brunette, put a hand on one of her weapon's shoulders lightly. "This dress will make any girl the talk of the affair, trust me. Even-well, any girl." Her smile was sultry. "Though should you need a new date, I'm sure-"

Soul wore a bored expression as he held out a hand, subtly slipping away from her light touch in the process and cutting off her offer. "Great, thanks. I'm sure it'll be perfect for Maka."

The girl frowned prettily at his expectant hand before offering up the garment bag. "Well, if you need anything else, Mr. Deathscythe, you know where to find me!" she said with a far too accommodating smile, then flounced out of the room.

Was there nowhere in Death City where she wouldn't find women flirting with her weapon? Maka rolled her eyes at the retreating back of the attendant before cracking the door wider. For his part, Soul was looking thoughtfully at the garment bag in his hand, and she couldn't help but to wonder just what was inside.

"Soul, what-" she began, but he walked closer and handed her the bag through the crack in the door. "Try this," he said, his expression blank. "I think it's what we're looking for."

Maka looked from him to the bag and back before taking it from him and shutting the door. What exactly had her weapon managed to procure? Well, time to find out. She hung the bag on the hook on the door and unzipped it unceremoniously to reveal black and white. Slowly inching the garment from the bag, she almost gasped because it was nothing short of breathtaking-white with a black pattern overlay, long a-line skirt, sleeveless with thick ruffled black straps. It was the most elegant dress Maka had ever seen up close, far too sophisticated for someone like her. Still, still, her weapon wanted her to wear it, so she would.

She slipped it on, then struggled with the back toggles with a frown. She could probably manage them, but it would take awhile.

"Hey, Soul? A little help?" she called out softly as she cracked the door.

He didn't answer, but he did make his way over, and she opened the door and presented her back to him. His deft fingers were soon working the closures on her back, and she willed down her shiver at his light almost-touch. "Done," he said after a few moments, and she turned to him with a skeptical frown.

"So-this is the one?"

"Yeah," he swallowed and nodded. "Definitely the one." He backed up. "Um, I'll just let you-change back-and we'll settle things and-yeah," he stammered, then backed all the way out to close the door behind him.

He truly must be freaking out over this whole wedding-going-home thing, because he was acting strange. Then again, she knew his family was wealthy and prestigious, and from what little she had gathered from him, highly critical. Maybe-maybe if he was this nervous about what she'd wear to the wedding, she should take this a bit more seriously. Maybe some new clothes were in order. The last thing she wanted to do was embarrass her weapon, make him feel ashamed of his death child meister and her odd fashion sense. It wasn't like Soul was really any better with the mustard yellow horrors he'd sported in their younger years-but that was here, and this would be-well, there, where he was from, and she wanted him to feel comfortable, feel proud of her, of himself, of what he'd become, of what they'd become together. Maybe she'd call Liz. She still had a few days until they left, and if anyone would know about these things, it was the highly fashion conscious demon pistol.

She turned to the mirror for the first time to take a good look before she took the dress off and blinked at what she saw, because the woman in the mirror was far, far too elegant to be her. The dress was lovely. It cinched at her waist just right, flared out to expose her ankles enticingly. The sweetheart neckline accentuated her modest bust, the a-line cut highlighted her slight curves. She looked-well, she looked good, the dress itself almost a meeting of white dress and black dress, a tangible reminder of the intricate dance of their souls. It was perfect. No wonder Soul had insisted on this one, had rejected all those that came before it. This dress made them look like dishrags, like pale imitations. This dress was amazing.

Where it had come from was a better question, because it was classic, nothing like anything she'd seen in the shop. She moved her hands back to undo the clasps and found herself facing the same struggle she had trying to fasten it, so she cracked the door again to seek out her partner, who was sitting on a plush ottoman, staring blankly into space, hand tapping a nervous rhythm on his thigh.

"Uh, Soul? I could use another hand-if you don't mind?"

"Yeah, sorry-I should have-sorry," he said, shaking his head, a decidedly red tint to his cheeks. He walked over and deftly worked at the clasps until she was unfastened, then retreated just as quickly, though there was a confusing mess coming from his soul he quickly shoved into hiding. He really was thrown off by everything, wasn't he?

"Thanks," she threw over her shoulder before he could shut the door. He grunted an acknowledgment and she removed the dress and placed it carefully back in the bag before re-donning her Spartoi uniform. It was no less beaten up by her match with Black Star than it had been when she came in, and suddenly, she felt plain and gangly, the elegant woman she had just seen in the mirror once more replaced by the awkward child-woman she had long been. With a sigh, she put the hair she had kept down to try on dresses back into pigtails, then grabbing the dress, walked out the dressing room door.

They walked to the counter together, a strange awkwardness she couldn't quite place settling between them. The attendant smiled warmly, her attention wholly taken by the weapon.

"So it's what you wanted?"

"Yeah," he nodded, voice thick. "Perfect. You got the payment information, right?"

"Mmm-hmm!" she said brightly. "Though I'm pretty sure Madame De Fleur would be happy to let the Last Death Scythe take anything from the store you'd like free of charge. We don't give access to her private collection to just anyone, you know, and that vintage Chanel is one of her favorites." The fact that her gaze had drifted to Maka with distaste when she'd said the last bit wasn't lost on the meister.

"No, charge it. We don't take gifts," he replied flatly. It was true, too-much like politicians, DWMA students and workers weren't allowed to accept such tokens of appreciation.

"Of course, Mr. Evans, of course," she held out a business card, and when he put out his hand hesitantly, pressed it into his palm warmly. "Feel free to call me if you need anything. Anytime." Death, how flagrant could you get? Maka wanted to hurl even as a tight cord of jealously twinged in the pit of her stomach. It quickly vanished as Soul just blinked at the woman and shrugged, shoving the card haphazardly into his pocket. "Yeah, thanks," he said with the same bored tone before turning to his meister. "You ready?"

"Uh, yeah, let's go," she responded, and without a backward glance, they made their way out of the store.

As they drove home in the most awkward position imaginable, Maka with one hand around him, one hand held up high to hold the garment bag, she could still sense from him an odd mix of nervousness, dread, and something she couldn't quite grasp, something he was working very hard to shove down beneath it all. She marveled again at what a mess he was over this whole going home thing, how worried he seemed over how people would react to him and, worse yet, to her.

Yes, a call to Liz was definitely in order.

Maka tried not to let her own stomach churn, tried not to feed off of his unease as they made their way home. And as they ordered in pizza, changed into pajamas, and curled up on the couch for an impromptu binge marathon of Lord of the Rings, all dread was forgotten, at least for the moment. There would be plenty of room for that once they actually flew to Connecticut in a scant three days, but for now, all was well.