That night, Soul tested the new suit. He'd had to resort to using an old hideout because he certainly couldn't try it on in the apartment, but it had been worth breaking into the decrepit warehouse for some privacy. The red material, while not actually spandex, was some sort of cloth-metal wonder fabric that was tight and left absolutely nothing to the imagination.
He decided to wear some jeans and a t-shirt over it for his own sanity, along with an old leather jacket-it was all stuff he'd squirreled away here before everything fell to shit. Wearing his old clothes made him feel strange, wrong even, because these things belonged to the Weapon, the old Soul, his old life, yet that was still better than strutting around in a tight red catsuit. The bracers managed to fit under the fabric of his clothes, though barely. He slipped the helmet on and grimaced. It was close fitting and he felt almost claustrophobic, yet he had to hide his face if he was going to help Maka.
Plus this helmet had Tech. However annoying they might be, Ox and Harvar were electronic geniuses, and they'd built an Artificial Intelligence engine into the helmet that integrated GPS, police scanners, and the internet, that could call up maps, profiles, current location, whatever he needed. As he watched the information overlay flare to life atop his view of the world outside the helmet, he had to admit it was bloody brilliant.
Now to see if it actually worked. The clunky test suit Soul had used in the lab had only worked sporadically, not always in synch with the control chip they'd implanted under the skin at the base of his skull (coming up with an excuse for that little injury had been quite the feat) but he'd been assured the final prototype would work seamlessly, that Stein had tweaked it all to read his brainwaves and his genetic signature. Soul would have asked Stein if he was certain it was ready, but he'd been waved off by Ox, told he was on a business trip.
Well, hell.
Hopefully the thing wouldn't blow up the moment he tried to use it.
Raising an arm, Soul focused on a battered, empty crate in the corner. Dark energy shot from his hand, lifting the crate with ease. He almost whooped with joy. It worked!
Time to see if the rest did.
He strode through the building, nearly giddy, and opened the door, bending his knees before willing himself up. Dark energy surrounded him and he began to lift off the ground, slowly at first, then faster. He was flying. He was fucking flying. It was glorious. And this was what Maka did every night, soar through the skies? No wonder she found it so addicting. Well, he supposed, she deserved such a thrill, such freedom. If anyone deserved it, it was her. But, undeserving as he was, he would use this to keep her safe.
Didn't mean he couldn't enjoy it. Sweeping up and over the city, he used the simple thought commands that Ox had briefly relayed to him to control the helmet. A map appeared in the corner, and on it was a small green dot that represented the Grigori, who was apparently speaking with police about a fire she'd just helped handle. Well, she didn't need him yet, and he really had to figure out if this would all work as seamlessly together as he'd been promised. Then the voice of the AI, sounding irritatingly like Ox, droned out that there was a robbery in progress at the First Central Bank.
Well, not a bad test for his new clothes. Soul had certainly robbed the place enough in his time as a villain to figure he owed a bit of penance-it had actually been the site of his first bank job, so for it to be the site of his first act of pseudo heroism seemed somehow fitting.
Plus, it was close.
When he landed a minute later, he could hear sirens in the distance, but the front of the building was empty, innocuous even. Then the doors were flung open, two figures in ski-masks and dark clothing bursting forth and running towards him, guns raised, and he knew he had to act fast. They screeched to a halt a bare few feet from him.
"What the hell? Out of the way, simpleton," the taller, broader figure growled at Soul, who was currently blocking the path to their getaway car. When the second figure, shorter and slighter, raised his gun, Soul figured it was time. Raising a hand, he willed the dark antigravity field towards them, watching as it enveloped both of the would be robbers, and lifted them off the ground, helpless. As he heard their guns clatter to the sidewalk, he grinned behind his helmet. So it worked. Fantastic.
"Shit, oh shit!" The slighter figure squirmed. "Noah, help!"
"Like I can, moron, and don't use my name," the larger figure spat out, twisting his head towards Soul. "Who the fuck are you, anyway?"
Soul shrugged languidly. "Just a guy testing his Tech. But robbing banks is a nasty business, take it from someone who knows."
"Buzz off, peon. You'll regret interfering with my collection."
Wow, this guy was awfully ballsy considering he was now completely at Soul's mercy. Soul heard a squeal of tires behind him, the getaway car clearly getting away without them, but ignored it, focusing instead on his prey. It felt so strange, to be the one stopping the bad guys, and the pang of empathy for his quarry was real.
"Shyeah, sure," Soul scoffed. "Look-I'll tell you what-I'm an understanding guy. Leave the shit you took and I'll let you guys scurry off before the cops get here."
"Mmmm... I think not," the man said, far too smugly. "Gopher, if you would."
The smaller man didn't answer, but he did hold out a hand, and black light sprang out at Soul. He had to break his concentration to avoid the blast, causing the two men he'd held in his beam to plummet dangerously. When the slighter figure sprouted wings of black light, familiar yet strange, Soul knew it was trouble. The man swooped down to grab his accomplice and they both lowered to the ground, avoiding the potentially treacherous fall. Meanwhile, Soul himself shot up and out of reach, using a mass of antigravity to bring their guns to him because the little one was a fucking Special and that couldn't be good.
In an eyeblink, the smaller thief came hurtling towards him. Narrowly avoiding him by swooping up, Soul groaned internally at the near miss. He was out of practice and it showed.
"This is so not worth it," he muttered under his breath as a stream of black light shot his way. Soul dodged it handily before willing the antigravity beam towards his enemy again, trapping him helplessly like a fly caught under glass. He anticipated the counter-blast, avoiding it deftly, then flew up higher, holding the little asshole in his antigravity field and barely resisting the urge to slam him into the pavement and be done with it. Instead, he flicked his eyes over to the other asshole who was halfway down the street. Soul flew off after him, dragging the winged bastard with him and narrowly avoiding another energy blast.
Yep, definitely not fucking worth it. Getting in range, he caught the first guy in a second antigrav field just as police cars came screaming onto the scene. About fucking time.
As Soul dodged yet another energy blast, he ground out at the culprit, "Do that again, and I slam you both back to ground and pound you to fucking dust, got it?"
Fuck, he missed his real powers where he could just pummel the idiots with his fists.
The man said nothing, but he put up his hands in defeat and nodded sullenly, so Soul figured that was a yes. Time to finish this and get the fuck out of Loserville.
Looking down, he noticed the police were clustered below, watching the spectacle taking place above them with guns trained on him and the two he held. Unsurprisingly, one cop raised a bullhorn, issuing the command-"Specials! Descend and put your hands up or we will be forced to fire!"
Soul sighed and looked at the smaller man, whose wings had disappeared. "I'm putting you down and you're gonna let them cuff you without using your little parlor trick or I make good on my earlier promise, catch me?"
"Whatever. I'll just kill you when I get out," he sniveled, and Soul laughed as he lowered the smaller man and his accomplice, who hadn't spoken a word for several minutes, but who was instead eying Soul speculatively.
"Perhaps you will be joining my collection soon," the other thief finally said softly, though he seemed to be speaking more to himself than anything else.
Soul laughed again and shook his head, his response meant for both of them. "Yeah, good luck with that." He waited just long enough to see the smaller man cuffed, then as the bullhorn wielder called out for his own surrender once more, he took off, shooting up through the sky and out of sight and feeling like he could conquer the damned world. So maybe it had been worth it, just a little. Maybe he could even understand what Maka got out of this, the insane buzz, the adrenaline rush, the sense of accomplishment untainted by guilt.
High on his triumph, Soul didn't allow himself to contemplate how that might have been him in cuffs a mere three years ago. The newly minted hero stashed his new toys in a well hidden portion of the same abandoned warehouse where he'd begun his night, settling on that as a rather decent hero's hideout, and made his way home. He couldn't risk Maka getting in before him, after all.
He beat her home by a scant half hour. She was early tonight, and he was still drunk on victory. His body was spent, the Tech drawing from his reserves, but he felt elated. It worked, he'd used it and it worked and now, now he could use it to help her.
When Maka entered their bedroom, she stripped down with an exaggerated yawn, her body practicality glowing in the moonlight just spilling into the room through the gap in the curtains. Catching sight of her, Soul's elation swelled into a wave of desire, and inspite of his exhaustion, he propped himself on one elbow with a quiet "Hey."
"Hey," she said softly as she walked over and sat on the edge of the bed. "You're still up."
"Yeah. Couldn't sleep."
"Mmm," she hummed, sliding over in the bed and under the covers to snuggle against him. He was naked beneath the blankets; he generally slept that way, and he was already aroused. "Maybe I could help tire you out?" Her voice was soft, playful, as she raised herself to look down at him and ran one along down the burn scar on his chest, the scar she herself had created, branding him for life.
He'd wear her mark proudly if it meant she was his.
"Maybe." He was grinning up at her, but then, with a rustle of sheets and a muffled giggle as he flipped them, he grinned down at her wickedly. Even both exhausted, there was always energy for this.
True to her word, she definitely helped tire him out.
After that, the nights went much the same, with one change-now that he knew the Tech worked, he focused his energy on helping Maka. The first time he crossed her path was nearly a disaster, but that only made it that much more of a triumph.
The Grigori was fighting a man who had robbed Deathworks Labs-he was huge, with a barrel chest and arms as big around as Soul's thighs. He'd gotten her locale from the AI fifteen minutes before, and for several minutes straight he sat and watched, hovering overhead and wondering if this was what his fights with the Meister had looked like from afar. He suspected it might be.
She was definitely holding her own, landing hit after hit before flitting away, virtually untouched-she could fly, and this guy clearly couldn't, and it was an advantage.
Watching her was nothing short of breathtaking. No wonder she'd beaten him so often.
Still, even as she landed hit after hit, the guy never tired, never wavered, and Soul knew something was wrong. When Maka began to tire herself, she swooped back up just a bit too slowly after landing a weak strike, and the massive meatbag she was fighting managed to catch her by the ankle.
Soul panicked. She couldn't be hurt; he wouldn't let her get fucking hurt. He came racing down to slam bodily into the robber's massive chest, cursing as he bounced off harmlessly and had to struggle to his feet. What was this guy made of, steel?
"Cheap trick, Grigori, gettin' your pal to blindside me. Too bad for you it didn't work. You can't blindside an immortal. I was gonna go easy on you, but thanks to your punkass friend, I changed my mind." And with that, he swung Maka around hard by the ankle, her struggles futile within his too strong grasp, before throwing her bodily towards the side of a building.
Soul managed to put himself between her and the concrete, but barely, and she landed against him with a thud as he hit the wall. The wind was knocked out of him, but he didn't have time to gather his wits because Maka was up again. And she was pissed.
"Stay out of my way!" she screamed at him before charging after meathead again, who had already run.
"Love you too," he muttered under his breath as he stood up, wobbly, ready to follow. He was just glad the Tech was doing its job-one benefit of the suit was something Stein called "soul protect"; it blocked Maka's powers from sensing his soul, just like the metal of his Weapon form had done when he could actually use his powers (she would have recognized him quickly had it not been for that feature).
Fortunately for him, he didn't have far to go, because Maka was back, fists and teeth both clenched tight as she glared at him. "He got away! He got away because of you."
"Of course you're welcome for saving your ass. Later, Angelface." Soul didn't stick around, but took off fast and high, relieved that she didn't follow.
Well, that wasn't ideal-but in the end he had saved her, hadn't he?
That night, when Maka got home just after him, she was pissed. She came in heavily, peeled off her clothes, and slid under the covers with a small sigh.
"Somethin' wrong?" he said with a yawn that he didn't have to feign.
She let out a little huff. "No-well-yeah. Some idiot got in my way tonight, and the guy I was chasing escaped," she grumbled as she snuggled into Soul's chest, her naked warmth both calming and distracting against him.
"Oh yeah? Wha' happened?" he murmured sleepily into her hair.
"Welllll I was pulling a feint," she said, moving her head back to look up at him, and he had to work hard not to cringe because he hadn't known it was a feint, "and just when I was about to strike, this-this-moron comes charging at the perp out of nowhere! The idiot doesn't do anything to him because this guy's like a tank, but he sure as hell pisses him off. So the perp ends up hurling me pretty hard, and when I went after him again, he'd already gotten away."
Maka sighed heavily.
"You weren't hurt?" Soul knew the answer, but he wanted to be sure.
"Nooo," she assured him. "The same idiot got between me and the wall. He probably got it worse than I did."
He shrugged slightly. "Guess I owe the idiot my thanks."
She half scoffed, half laughed. "Or your wrath for getting me thrown to begin with. But I guess it was heroic, anyway. Stupid, but heroic."
Soul had to suppress a smile. Stupid but heroic he could live with.
"Anyway, if you wanna be my hero, you can rub my back-it's killing me."
"Course," he said, sliding his hands down her body. "Flip over, would ya?"
She complied easily, and he was happy to massage her anywhere-everywhere-even if he was exhausted. Even if his own back was killing him from his impact with the wall. And even through all the discomfort, back rubs led to other rubs, and he would never be sorry for that, no matter how desperately he needed the sleep.
For a week after, then two, things were much the same. Soul would spend his nights prodding the AI for word of her. Some nights, he got none, and his time was occupied playing video games on his phone. He would only make an appearance if there was a confirmed sighting of the Grigori, and even then, on most nights, he just watched -his Maka was strong, capable, a complete badass, and mostly she didn't need him. But then some nights, even when she had it under control, he couldn't help but to intervene anyway, because their banter set his blood boiling, her righteous indignation at his very presence, and his secret knowledge that he was the one she would return to later that night. And then, on very rare nights, Soul was able to swoop in and prevent her from getting hurt, and he did it happily, thrilling at the idea that he was finally doing something that was worth a shit, throwing his hormones into overdrive. He'd always had a healthy sex drive when it came to her, but now he was insatiable, drunk on watching her work, on helping her work, drunk on their banter and on her skin. It was exhilarating.
The fact that she came home utterly frustrated, utterly furious at the mystery hero made it even better. Those were the nights when she would make love to him most forcefully; Soul was thoroughly aroused by the duality, by the fact that she was utterly his even if he didn't deserve her to be, his blood on fire at the thought that she used the one who provoked her, that she unwittingly took out the frustrations he caused on the one who caused them. He loved being both her reason and her cure, the one who made her utterly wanton.
He knew there was something desperately wrong with that, but he was far too exhausted to look into it deeply, to search his own blighted soul and try to see bottom. He was lucky he wasn't working, lucky that as Maka went off to her teaching job, he could crash for the day and recuperate his reserves. He became a much less attentive partner. They ate more takeout, he barely kept the house straightened, her lunches more and more consisted of frozen meals.
When she periodically asked him if he was alright, Soul waved off her concern, citing insomnia and stress over the job hunt. The new white lies on top of his guilt over he larger deception gnawed at his insides, but he shoved it down because this was necessary, damnit; protecting her was all that mattered. A part of him also felt a pang of guilt because he liked taking care of her, but most of him was willing to sacrifice making her comfortable for keeping her safe. Plus, watching her work was glorious, now that he wasn't on the receiving end of her wrath. Soul loved it. He wouldn't give it up for the world. And if he still felt like a loser when he finally peeled his ass out of bed at noon every day and walked a block for his "morning" coffee-well, at least he was a loser who would keep his girlfriend safe.
It was during one such early afternoon coffee run that he got the call. He was sitting in the shitty Starbucks down the block from their apartment, too tired to walk the extra block to the better independant shop. He'd been trying to tune out the inane chatter of a small gaggle of college girls who were, unfortunately, smiling and giggling his way. Blasting some Miles Davis through his headphones, he hoped that it would drown out their irritatingly high pitched squeals. It only helped a little. With the music in his ears and the activity all around him, Soul almost missed his phone vibrating on the table in front of him. He eventually caught it and, as he saw his girlfriend's flash as the caller, he grabbed his phone and his coffee and sprinted outside. Maka almost never did more than text him sporadically during the school day; a phone call meant something was either very wrong or very right, and his gut twisted in nervous anticipation over which.
Hi! he heard her bright voice say through the speaker as he pulled out his earbuds and answered the call.
"Hey," he returned casually. "Day goin' alright?"
Fantastic, actually. My kids all did a good job on their poetry projects, and a few of them are submitting to the state writing contest, but that's not really the best part. She sounded excited, and Soul felt his palms go sweaty with anticipation because something was clearly up, and he had no idea what.
"Mmmm," he hummed. "I'm glad it's been good. Sorry I forgot your sandwich again-hope the leftover takeout was okay."
Oh, it's fine, Soul. Really, I don't mind at all. So-about my news. Guess who has an interview tomorrow at DCA?
"Uhhh…" he drew out, brow furrowed, because what could that shit possibly have to do with him?
Well, let me give you a few hints. He's good looking, talented, devastatingly good in bed, an amazing pianist, has white hair, red eyes, and wickedly sharp teeth he likes to use to-
"Shit," he breathed. As she'd gone down the list, he felt a little sick because who was this guy she thought was so great? Then she got further and further down and he felt a lot sick because he knew exactly who the guy was, and he wasn't half of those things. Well, maybe half. Red eyes, white hair, sharp teeth-and devastatingly good in bed he could claim. "Shit," he repeated more loudly. "But I-I didn't apply at DCA," he finally managed, numb, feeling completely idiotic. Him-a teacher? How could he be a teacher?
Well, I maaaaay have taken the liberty of completing an application portfolio for you, and I maaaaay have highly recommended you to the Headmaster. Her voice was on odd mix of proud and sheepish. But Soul, this'll be so great for you, don't you think?
"Uh, yeah. Yeah, sure, of course," he stammered out, numb. A teacher, a teacher, a teacher. It felt surreal.
So, the interview is tomorrow at one. Your good suit should still be in the back of the closet, and he wants you to have a piece prepared to play, plus he'd like to see a sample lesson, so you'll need to work on that today. Remember when you came into my class and talked about opera? I was thinking maybe you could use that. Since you've done it before-and you were brilliant by the way-you shouldn't have too much trouble with it. I know it's a surprise, I hate springing it on you, but you've been so hard on yourself, and I just wanted to do something, and I figured there'd be more time before they scheduled an interview, but they're really, really interested in you, Soul, and I know you'll be perfect. Anyway-I'll see you after school. I'll bring home Chinese and we can practice interviewing, but I gotta go now-love you!
"Love you too, Maka," he said just before the click. Sighing, he gave up returning inside the Starbucks-it was annoying in there anyway-and shuffled home, the odd mix of feeling nervous, pathetic, and the tiniest bit hopeful settling in as he went.
The next day, after a frantic night in which Maka stayed in for once to help him prepare before helping to relax him with giddy heat, after an interview where three people grilled him for an hour, after playing Mozart and teaching Handel and sweating like a stuck pig, Soul was told he had the job and could start Monday. He thought he should probably be happy that after so long being an out of work loser he finally had a gig, but all he really felt was sick.
He wasn't cut out for this teaching crap. Then again, he wasn't cut out for the boyfriend crap, wasn't cut out for the hero crap, wasn't cut out for the just living crap, and he'd been managing. He'd manage this, too, because it was for Maka, and he was willing to manage a fuck of a lot worse for her when it came right down to it.
He might be a piece of shit at heart, but for her, he would be a Renaissance Man.