A/N: This was inspired by the Beatles cover, though the song has been recorded many times. There may be a part two in the future.

A Taste of Honey:

Yours was the kiss that awoke my heart,
There lingers still, 'though we're far apart,
That taste of honey… tasting much sweeter than wine.

"Crap!" The expletive left his mouth unbidden as he found himself sprawled out on his ass for the dozenth time that day. "Damnit, Liz, you didn't have to hit so hard."

"Maybe if you'd get your head out of your ass, Evans, you would have actually tried to dodge it. Death's balls, man, it was just a kiss."

"WHAT?" He knew he had bellowed it, but how the hell could she even—

Liz rolled her eyes, hands on her hips as she loomed over him.

"Come on Soul, we all saw it, and you've been acting like someone kicked you in the head ever since. Doesn't take a death damned genius to know one and one makes two, especially not when it comes to you and Maka. You are the only deathscythe among us, yet you've gotten your ass handed to you nearly every fight. You've gotta get your shit together. Or do you think Maka is gonna be fine with not graduating, with having to repeat your last year because you look like a fucking one star idiot out there?"

His only answer was a groan as he held his head in his hands, still throbbing where she had caught him with a punch to the temple. She was right, of course, and he supposed that he shouldn't have even been surprised she knew why he couldn't even breathe, let alone think, what with the amount of innuendo she'd been throwing his way over his meister for years now, but even still. Fuck. Because knowing she was right and actually doing a damned thing about it were two very, very different things.

It was all Maka's fault. What she had done, it haunted his every waking thought, his dreams, his nightmares. It was his constant companion, the ghost of that kiss, the ghost of their final moment together before they would part. The feel of it, the taste of it, the exquisite, perfect heat of it—and above anything, above all—the why of it. Why had she kissed him? Why then, of all moments, of all times? The worst part was that he couldn't ask her. Or perhaps that was second worst. Perhaps the worst of it was that he couldn't feel it again, that that tiny taste of something he had yearned for for years came just before a train door slammed between them, just before he wouldn't see her for the longest time since they had met; they had not spent more than a day out of company in years, and now they wouldn't see each other for a month. That kiss, that taste of honey, was driving him slowly mad.

Soul blinked. Liz was holding a hand out for him, so he took it, getting up from the dirt with another groan and dusting off the same bland camo practice uniform they were all required to wear as he watched her make her way to her sister. He'd have hated this final weapon retreat bullshit either way, this idiocy they required for graduation. The summer after all students' final year in the EAT class, they were required to attend a training and evaluation retreat to assess fitness for graduation. Because weapons and meisters were so often evaluated as teams, their final test was to be judged on their own merits, so weapons went to one camp, meisters another. If a weapon passed muster, then that weapon was approved to graduate. If a meister passed muster, the meister was approved to graduate. But if one failed individually, they both failed, and neither graduated. In such cases, the pair would be sent to repeat their final year. Enough failures and they'd just be shown the door, given a NOT diploma, never able to work in any combat capacity for the DWMA or their affiliates.

It was a really fucking stupid system, to be forced to stand alone when every facet of their education drove them to work together, but Maka had told him, patiently, several times, that it was a part of working together. In the direst circumstances, they had to be sure that each member of a weapon-meister pair could stand alone if it came to it. It was their final tempering as a team, to force them to stand alone, and anyway, it was just a month and then they'd be done—out of school—free to work at taking longer, harder missions. And for him, it was just a formality, since he was a deathscythe, after all. She had smiled at him so warmly then that he'd just grumbled something about being glad this would be their last bit of bullshit, but really, his thoughts had been obliterated by that smile, the anger sucked right out of him as he got lost in her ridiculously green eyes. So if her smile could do that these days, a smile he'd seen a thousand times in their years together, it was no wonder that he was still reeling from that death damned kiss she'd sprung on him. Fuck this was… this was…

"Yo, Soul," Harvar strode up with his usual unreadable expression. "Boss wants to see you."

"I thought Nygus was—"

"Not that boss."

"Don't tell me Death Scythe is here," he put his head in his hands again.

"Fine, I won't tell you," the spear used the same bored tone he used for just about everything. "Must have been some other tall, pissed off death weapon." Soul just groaned again. He did not have it in him to deal with Spirit right now, with his throbbing temple and too empty (or perhaps too full) head, but not going would just cause him a greater headache when the older man inevitably hunted him down.

"Whatever. Where is the old asshole?"

"Command tent."

"Great," Soul slouched off towards the tent, raising a hand to his friends but not looking back. This was the last thing he needed, but then, he should have expected it. Spirit always did have a way of making anything and everything that much more miserable.

Actually, he wasn't really being fair. It had been a good year since Spirit had really been a pain in the ass, not since they had gone to the moon. Death Scythe and his daughter seemed to have reached some new equilibrium, one where she no longer openly hated him, and this made the old man practically tolerable. He only rarely gave Soul shit anymore, and even that seemed half-hearted at best. Still, if the red-headed idiot had heard about what Maka had done (and Soul was pretty sure that if Liz was right and the whole train had been witness, he must have,) then it might be back to the good ol' days where the old man threatened his life on a regular basis. Oh joy, he couldn't wait.

As Soul entered the large command tent, Spirit was seated at the camp table, a metal cup of something steaming in one hand.

"There you are octopus head, 'bout bloody time," he groused, then motioned to a seat near him.

"Old man," Soul nodded towards him, stopping just inside the tent. "Harvar said you needed something?"

"Sit down, brat, you and me are gonna have a chat." The man wasn't screaming, nor had he met his eyes, and the younger death scythe found that he didn't like this. Not one little bit. He took a seat near but not too near, a chair away, and tried to look bored.

"Alright, talk."

The red-head let out a sigh as he set down his coffee cup.

"Want some?" He motioned to the cup.

"Nah, just spill, already." When Spirit didn't even comment on his intentional rudeness, he knew this was trouble, and wished he were anywhere but here and now. What the fuck did the old man want?

Death Scythe let out a troubled sigh, leveling his gaze on the younger weapon. "Nygus tells me you're getting beaten by students with half your experience. Mind telling me why the only death scythe in the graduating class can't manage to stand on his own against weapons with a handful of low grade souls under their belts?"

"Because this shit's stupid?" Soul groused.

"Stupid or not, you won't pass if you can't show your skill." Soul knew this. Part of him wanted to throw back how idiotic it was to make them do this at all, but it wasn't going to get him anywhere and he knew it.

"Thought we showed it enough by gettin' this far," he mumbled.

Spirit steepled his fingers, looking thoughtfully at the them for a moment before speaking again.

"You showed you can work with your meister, that you two make a good team." The older man's tone was carefully neutral, odd considering that the meister in question was his daughter. He was never neutral when it came to Maka. "This is about showing what skill you have by yourself, about proving that you can help your meister when the chips are down."

"I…" he wanted to scream that he'd always protected her when the chips were down, would always protect her, but the man hadn't said protect, he'd said help.

"Nobody doubts you'd die for your meister." Spirit had yet to say her name and Soul was beginning to think that was purposeful, "Least of all me, but if you die, most likely, she does, too. You're here to show you can do more than just die for her."

"And you think I haven't shown that?" he was angry now, irrationally so, but damnit, they'd been through too much together for this bullshit. They'd both overcome so much and here was her asshole dad dredging up the old shit, the old insecurities. But Soul sensed another layer here, a second one, and it was that which was making him even more uncomfortable than those old feelings.

"I think you need to show it here. I think you need to stop behaving like a first year whelp and start showing your peers what a death scythe can do. Or do you want people to think your meister forged an inferior weapon?"

"Fuck you, old man," the younger death scythe growled. That was a low blow, even for Spirit.

"I think I'll pass," he said dryly, clearly channeling Stein for a moment, before letting out yet another loud sigh.

"Didn't think you knew how to pass," the white-haired weapon mumbled and the older man went as scarlet as his hair for a moment, just a moment, before all the tension drained from him again and he let out a loud breath.

"Look, kid, I know it isn't easy being separated from your meister, alright? But we've all been through it, every one of us—"

"You just don't fucking get it," Soul clenched his fist and let it fall down on the table with a whumph. Spirit raised an eyebrow.

"Don't I?" Soul was incredulous and must have looked it. Spirit's shoulder's suddenly sagged as he took a sip of coffee, stalling, before he shook his head. His eyes never left his coffee as he spoke again softly.

"I heard about what happened at the station."

Well, fuck, here it went.

"Maka is a lot like her mother in many things. Most people would say she's exactly like her mother, but even though I know you don't really know Kami, I think we can both see that's not true. There are a few ways in which she's like her father." Spirit seemed an odd mix of proud and troubled. Soul could rarely remember the red head being this contemplative about anything, let alone his precious darling daughter. It was making him sweat, making him want to run out of the tent, because the very last thing he needed with his meister so constantly on his mind was a serious Spirit. Life had just became that touch more confusing.

"I think that may be the problem, here."

Soul had had enough.

"Look, old man, for one, Maka is nothing like you, and for two, I have no idea what you're getting at," he stood up, ready to stalk away,

"Sit down, brat. I'm not done with you yet and, like it or not, this is my show." Soul sat down, fists clenched, eyes hard.

"Then spit it the fuck out, Death Scythe. What is your point?"

"Only this," the older man folded his hands together, catching the gaze of his subordinate and holding it. "For whatever unfathomable reason, my daughter loves you," he raised a hand at the protest forming on the other man's lips, "I'm not blind and I'm not stupid, and even if you two have been dancing around this thing for a year, it doesn't mean it isn't there. I may not like it, but to be frank, I'm never going to like the thought of my daughter with anyone. You are no worse than any, and better than most who could come knocking at her door."

"Do you not know what it means to get to the death damned point?" Soul muttered. This was ridiculous.

"I know she took you off guard with the—stunt she pulled. But you are going to have to shove down whatever havoc that's played on your fragile little feelings because if you fuck up here, it's going to be a mess. Maka can be impulsive, as much as she tries to plan for everything, and that impulsive thing she did—well—you are going to have to get over yourself, alright? Because you are making yourself and my little girl look bad with your piss poor performance here."

"You think it's so easy just to get the fuck over it?" As if he hadn't been trying the entire time. He scrubbed a hand through his hair in frustration.

"Do you think you're the only one who has ever had to deal with something like this?" Spirit returned quietly. "I've been where you are, and guess what? I managed because I didn't have a choice. Or do you mean to tell me that my daughter failed, that you are the weaker deathscythe after all?"

"I—fuck man, your ex must have been pregnant with Maka by the time you guys did your camp. Missing your girl isn't the same as—"

"No, it was worse, because the night before, it was the first time we'd—"

"Stop RIGHT there," Soul growled. "I am NOT going to have this conversation with Maka's old man." Soul felt like he was going to be sick, wanted to kill Spirit, wanted to run screaming from the tent. The last thing he needed to hear about was his meister's parents doing—NO. Just no.

"Then get your shit together, kid. Be the death scythe my daughter created you to be and stop looking like a no talent hack out there. If you love my daughter, and as much as it might make ill I'm pretty sure you do, then suck it up and do this. Think you can handle that?"

"Whatever." Soul refused to meet the old bastard's eye because the jerk was right, he needed to suck it up, stop thinking about how Maka's amazing lips had felt on his and what it meant, if it meant anything. He couldn't keep doing this but fuck. Just fuck. "We done here?"

"For now," Spirit said evenly. "But just so you know—you do anything to hurt my Maka, and that includes fucking this up, she won't have to kill you, because I will. Got it octopus brain?" Ah, this was familiar territory. Soul perked up.

"Yeah, whatever you old lech." Soul said, rising and ignoring the flash of crimson on the other man's face before moving out the door. He was half expecting the red head to follow him out of the tent, sputtering about keeping his filthy hands off his precious girl, would have been relieved if he had, but of course, he didn't. It was sad when even his meister's idiot father was keeping it together better than he was. Maybe it really was time to get his head out of his own ass.

Once out of the tent, he stalked back to the practice field, annoyed with Spirit, Maka, the world, himself. He strode up to Tsubaki, who with her training and unusually powerful abilities, was something close to a death scythe herself. So far, she had been dominating every opponent, and Soul was just pissed enough to relish the challenge. As she was currently unoccupied, watching the fight between Harvar and Patti, she was his natural choice.

"Up for sparring?" He said gruffly as she looked up at him.

"Oh, hello Soul-kun. Of course, if you'd like," the shadow weapon answered placidly as she rose from her place on the ground, dusting herself off and then walking over to one of the empty practice rings. If she was in anyway perturbed by his abrupt suggestion, she didn't show it, simply transforming the end of her hair into one end of her chain scythe form and taking a defensive stance near the center of the ring.

"Ready?"

Soul transformed one forearm into a blade and nodded. His head was still pounding, but his frustration allowed him to push that to the back of his mind, to focus on the task at hand, which was to hand Tsubaki her ass.

"Go," she said, and they did, circling each other for several long moments before Tsubaki went in with a faint. Focused by his anger for the first time since he'd arrived, he saw it coming and spun away, moving to her side to attempt a swipe of his own that she blocked easily. Soul had never been a strong fighter, but he was a phenomenal tactician and he tried to use that to his advantage now. Tsubaki was also a decent tactician and a strong warrior, but she was used to taking a back seat to Black*Star and her abilities were more suited to strengthening her meister. While this was true of Soul as well—he and Maka worked best together—he did have some abilities he could use to handle an opponent like Tsubaki if given half a chance.

Physically, he would never win a fight against so skilled an opponent, so he had to think beyond the physical. He continued to circle and feint several more times, even took a rather excruciating blow to the side, but in that time he noticed she had a pattern, that she would come in close for the fight for a few minutes before moving out of range and reassessing. That would be his chance. The next time she circled back, far out of easy range, Soul transformed his blade into its piano form and bombarded her with sound, bringing her to her knees. After a few moments of this, she moved her hands up in defeat. She was pinned by sound, pinned by the threads Arachne's soul had granted him, leaving her at his mercy.

The young death scythe relented, grinning at his victory, and walked over to help Tsubaki up, but she was off the ground before he could get there and smiling at him softly.

"That was great, Soul. Maka would be proud."

Soul guessed that she just might be, and his smile widened just that little bit at the prospect. Maybe even proud enough to plant another kiss on him, because really, that was just about all he wanted in life at this point. If he was going to have any chance at a repeat performance, if he really wanted to know what that kiss had meant, then he'd have to do a hell of a lot better than he had until now.

Suddenly, Soul realized what an idiot he'd been, obsessing over that kiss to the exclusion of anything and everything. It could work another way. That kiss could haunt him, but it could drive him, too, and he let himself be driven happily. He would make his meister proud, and then, maybe then, he'd have earned that second kiss he so craved, and many more after.