A/N: I did a terrible thing. It hurt me, and now it will hurt you. This is angst—read at your own risk. I hate writing angst, but so it goes. Don't blame me, blame the song. Blame Pearl Jam and blame Eddie Vedder. I heard it this morning and this hit me like a ton of bricks and now it is done. You have been warned—carry on.

If I keep holding out,

Will the light shine through?

Under this broken roof,

It's only rain that I feel.

I've been wishing out the days,

Come back.

"Come on, buddy, time to get up."

The voice was commanding, the hand under his armpits that hauled him to his feet strong and firm. The thing was, he didn't want to get up. He never wanted to get up again.

The choice was taken from him as he was kept on his feet by those unrelenting hands as new, softer hands worked to steady him. Still, he refused to open his eyes, refused to see what his life had become, refused, utterly refused, to face the visual confirmation that she wasn't there, to face another day without her.

"Soul," the voice was soft, compassionate. "You've been doing so well. You need to get up and get dressed and go see Kid. Please?"

With his eyes closed, he could almost pretend that it was her voice urging him, practically begging him to face his life, but no. Her voice had never been so filled with pity, had never been quite so sweet. Her voice was stronger than this. She had left him, and now, he only heard her voice in his memories, faint whispers, achingly sweet. He blinked open his eyes, blinked back the tears that threatened to overwhelm him as they did most mornings, tried not to look at the bottle of cheap vodka on the coffee table below him that had gifted him with first oblivion and now pain, the throbbing headache and queasy stomach so immediate that he could almost forget. Almost.

I have been planning out,

All that I'd say to you

Since you slipped away,

Know that I still remain true.

I've been wishing out the days,

Please say,

If you hadn't of gone now

I wouldn't have lost you another way.

From wherever you are,

Come back.

Some nights, when he was alone, when they'd let him be alone, he liked to pretend that she was still there, that she had never left. He'd sit with his wine or vodka or beer or whatever he'd managed to sneak past his self appointed guardians and close his eyes and imagine she was right there on the couch like she used to be every night, that if he only reached out, he could touch her again. He'd give anything, anything, just to be able to brush his fingers against hers one more time.

Sometimes, he'd joke with her.

"You missed our wedding, you know. Ran out right before you were gonna be stuck with me forever. Guess that makes you the smart one after all, bookworm."

And he would laugh, stilted and forced, but still, he would laugh, because if he didn't, he would just cry again and there'd been enough of that.

Sometimes, he got angry with her.

"Fuck you for leaving. This was supposed to be forever, you were my soul mate. Soul mates don't leave, Maka. They don't fucking leave. Why did you leave?"

Anger always ended in tears. He tried not to get angry. Mostly, he failed.

"I was there, you know, with all those people," his words were bitter. "It was supposed to be a happy day, our day, the best day of my death damned life—not the worst. Fuck, not the worst. You didn't have to leave. Why did you have to leave?"

Anger never lasted. Anger couldn't last. He loved her so much, he couldn't stay angry. All he wanted was her, here, now. All he wanted was the one thing he could never have again.

"I'm still here, you know," he would whisper into the night. "Right here. I'll always be right here. There's never been anyone else, never gonna be anyone else. You can come back, Maka. Please. Please. Come back."

And these days, they linger on

And in the night, I've been waiting for

The real possibility that I may meet you in my dreams.

I go to sleep.

Sleep was his one reprieve, the time when, mostly, he could forget that she had left, that she was gone. He had always valued it, really, but now, sleep was his sanctuary. Some nights, his sleep was dreamless, and the sweet oblivion of knowing nothing, feeling nothing was welcome, so welcome. Those nights, he didn't feel the longing. He did't feel the betrayal, or the helplessness, or the overwhelming sorrow. Those nights, when he awoke, he would sometimes, rare, beautiful times, forget for a few seconds or a few minutes that she was gone, could almost believe that she had left early or was in another room.

Of course, sleep was a double-edged sword. Some nights, too many nights, he had nightmares. Some nights, he would relive the day she had left, how blissfully it had started as they woke up tangled in the sheets together, as they'd made love that last, precious time. If only he'd have known it would be the last time, if only he were a seer who could have seen that soon, too soon, she'd leave him, he would have insisted that checking on the flowers could wait, would have insisted that the quickie be stretched into a morning, no, an eternity of worshiping every part of her. But even in his dreams, it was always as it was then, and their coming together was brief and intense before she left him in bed.

If he'd have known he'd never see her again, he would have made her stay.

Was it worse that the nightmare always began so blissfully? Was it worse that her lingering touch, the feel of her, was always with him when he relived the moment he discovered that she had left, that she was gone?

He didn't know, couldn't say. At least in the dream, the nightmare, he was with her, if only for a few moments. When he awoke, the true nightmare, the reality of her loss, would again be endless.

Even his nightmares were better than the truth. And he would face his nightmares again and again for those nights when he dreamt of her, here and his once more.

If I don't fall apart,

Will my memories stay clear?

So you had to go,

And I had to remain here.

But the strangest thing to date

So far away and yet

You feel so close

And I'm not gonna question it any other way.

It must be an open door

For you

To Come back.

He really was trying. He knew she'd want him to try, to keep it together, to do everything she wasn't here to do. And he tried, he really did. He kept his post as Death Scythe of North America, the same one her father had relinquished to him as a wedding gift. Spirit had still given the gift, even if the wedding had become a funeral.

Kid was patient with him, he had to give the Shinigami that much. He rarely commented on the mornings he came in late and hung over, never asked him to take missions because Soul had never been a solo weapon and nobody could match his wavelength, not anymore; his soul rejected every touch that wasn't hers. And when he could focus, could throw himself into his work, he was a capable enough diplomat and a superb strategist, with a level head and calculating mind. Kid valued his opinion and still sought it frequently, patiently. And then, some days when he was hung over, the Shinigami would comment, the few words stinging and inevitable.

"She wouldn't want this. She would want you to move on, find someone, live your life."

"I know," he'd sigh. "I can't. I just…can't."

Perhaps the oddest part was how Spirit clung to him like he had once clung to Maka. No longer was he the octopus head, the miscreant who had the gall to first partner with, then date, then try to marry his daughter, no. He was Soul, his almost son-in-law, his family. He had lunch once a week with the old bastard because, somehow, he knew that's what she'd want, for him to look out for her dad. She had always loved him, in her way, even if she hated the things he did. For his part, Soul loved him, too, because she had loved her father and because her father loved her so damned much and because his presence always always reminded him of her.

He loved him, but like his meister before him, sometimes he wanted to kill him. Mostly it was on the days when he would try to give him a shove. He didn't want a fucking shove, didn't need a shove, couldn't people see that he was doing the best he could?

"She wouldn't want this, you know," he would say with a sigh.

"How the fuck would you know what she'd want?" Soul would answer viciously, hurting him because he was hurt. "You never gave a shit about what she wanted when she was alive, took her brain fucking exploding for you to finally stop being a selfish ass, so why the fuck do you think you know anything about her?"

It was true, and yet, it was cruel. Spirit had never been able to change his ways when she was alive as she had so desperately wanted, yet he was a changed man now. He never drank anymore, was never seen on the arms of a woman. He had admitted to Soul, once and only once, that he couldn't even look at a woman now without seeing his daughter's disapproving gaze, and had lost all relish for his former pastimes. These days, retired, he read a lot, and sometimes he traveled, trying to see the places and do the things he thought she might have done were she able. Part of Soul was proud of him for doing what he couldn't, living as he couldn't, finally being the man his daughter had always hoped he was. The other part of him was bitter and angry and wondered why the fuck he couldn't have done it when she was alive to see it, and that was the part that lashed out now because who was he to judge?

Spirit would always sigh, his eyes mournful, and shake his head.

"I didn't know her like you did, you're right," he would say sadly. "But I do know she loved you and she'd want you to live."

"I am living. Every fucking day. Every fucking day I live for her."

The man who was once Death Scythe would shake his head.

"No, Soul. This isn't living. This is existing, but it's not living, not like she lived. She would want you to—move on. Live your life. You know she would."

"Fuck you," he would growl before storming off.

They never understood, never really got it. How could he move on when she was still right here, right inside of him, the parts of her soul that had touched him a constant whisper in his heart and mind? How could he move on when he still felt her near, so near he could almost touch her, yet so far he could never touch her again? A part of him supposed that he could try to find someone, to be with someone. It might even help him to forget for a few minutes or a few hours, but it would never be real. Could it be fair for him to ask some woman to be a warm body, a stand in for the one he really loved, would always love, the only one he would ever love? Even if he wanted that, and how could he want that, he would never ask that of anyone. He'd been second best enough in his life that he wouldn't, couldn't. He couldn't anyway. The very thought of touching someone else felt like betrayal, stung like betrayal because for him, there was only Maka, would always only ever be Maka. She might be gone, but she was never really gone. She would always be a part of his very soul.

So yes, he really was trying, trying to honor her wishes, to live as she would have wanted him to live, but mostly, as the people around him liked to point out periodically, he was failing. Five years gone, five years after the brain aneurysm that had taken her from him, and he was still failing. Miserably.

And the days, they linger on

And every night, what I'm waiting for

Is the real possibility that I may meet you in my dreams

And sometimes you're there and you're talking back to me

Come the morning I could swear that you're next to me

And it's okay.

Soul tried to live for her, but in truth he lived for those rare nights when she still came to him in his dreams. She always looked just as she had looked then, sometimes dressed in jeans or pajamas or her meister wear. He would open his eyes and she would be there, sitting on the edge of the bed that had once belonged to both of them, smiling at him. At times, the smile was sad, but it was always filled with love.

Some nights, they would talk about things—their friends, her father, the treaty with the witches—the same things they might have spoken of over dinner before she had left. He would tease her, as he'd always teased her, and she would respond with anger or teasing of her own, and it felt so normal and right that he would forget she was gone, forget that she shouldn't be here, and just bask in her presence.

Some nights, she wouldn't say a word—not a single word—before she slid up near him on the bed and kissed him, and they would make love in his dreams, as they used to before. Those nights, when he felt her skin, her warmth, the sighing of his name into his mouth, those were the best nights, the nights when he was so close to her that he knew he could never be like this again with anyone.

And then, there were the rare nights that she would lecture him, when she would tell him what Kid and Star and Spirit and Wes and every damned other person was always telling him.

"Soul, you need to move on," she would say quietly from her place at the edge of the bed. "You can't keep living like this. Please."

"No," was all he would say. "I love you. I only love you. So if this is all I get, then this is all I get, but I don't want anything else."

"This isn't real, Soul."

"Don't fucking tell me that. You think I don't know? I don't fucking care, Maka. It's all I have left. Why don't you understand that? Why the fuck doesn't anyone understand that?" He'd reach for her then, and he'd let her. He would hold her, kiss her head. "I miss you, you know? Every minute. Every second. I even miss you chopping me. You can fucking chop me any time you want—just—come back. I need you to come back. Why won't you come back?"

She would sigh and stroke his hair. "I wish I could. You know I wish I could. You know I never wanted to leave you. But I can't, and I want you to live. I can't live, so you need to, don't you understand? Find someone else, have kids, have a life. I wanted that, and you can still have it, so please, Soul, please, have it."

He would feel the wet then, against his shoulder, her tears, so false, so real, and he would pull back and look at her, searching her pure green eyes for something like truth. "I can't," he would whisper, plead. "Not without you. Never without you."

Most nights, he would wake up then, wake up to his bed so cold, so lifeless without her.

Only one night did he not awaken, only one night, over a decade after she died, did he hear her whisper, "I know."

I'll be here

Come back,

Come back.

Ten years after she left, ten years gone, he awoke with those words in his mind and in his heart. Ten years gone and she was still coming to him in his dreams. He was trying, he was trying so hard now. Five years ago, he had begun to teach weapon's classes, had begun to guide others. It gave him a small sense of accomplishment, to watch them grow, to watch the pairs, so much like they had been, struggle and sometimes fail, and sometimes triumph. It always hurt the worst when he lost one, though when it was to stand by their meister, to save them, he was proud, too.

He would visit her grave, then. It always hurt to visit her grave, to see such tangible evidence of her absence, but sometimes, he made himself go, and he would talk to her as if she were there like he did when he was drunk or dreaming. This time, this day, ten years past, he felt broken anew as he stood there.

"I lost another one," he whispered for her alone. "But he died protecting his meister. He died for her like I wish I had died for you."

He received no reply, could receive no reply.

"I'm really trying, you know? Sometimes—I even think I'm helping them, the kids I teach. I know it's probably some cosmic joke to you, the idea that I could be a teacher—I know it makes me laugh sometimes—but I think you'd be proud. I hope you would be."

He sighed into the wind as he sat on the grass fed by what had once been her life, the green never as vibrant as her eyes had been.

"I've been talking to Wes again. I'm even talking to my Mom. They keep trying to get me to come home. They don't understand that this is home. But, I'm going to visit them, I think. It's been over a year since I've seen them, you know, so I figure it's time. Oh, and get this, they're having another baby. Wes and Aria, I mean, can you believe it? They're over forty, you'd think the two they have now would cut it. It'll be nice to see the kids, anyway."

He was quiet for a minute then two, his eyes scanning the clouds for everything and nothing.

"You would have been their aunt—are their aunt. You would—you would have been such an amazing Mom, too. I know—I know you always talk about how great your Mom is, but I don't see it. But you would have been the real deal. I wish—I wish—"

He didn't finish. Couldn't. He got up, dusted himself off.

"Anyway, um, hopefully I'll see you. Tonight, or later this week. I know last night you weren't so happy with me, but I swear Maka, I'm trying. Just. I'm trying, okay?"

With that, he walked off and back to his bike. He drove far and fast, because the wind in his face and his hair made him feel alive, made him feel like she could be right there behind him, drove until it was long into the night. He knew she'd yell at him for not wearing a helmet, wished she'd yell at him for not wearing a helmet.

He drove down old desert roads because he could, roads he'd driven dozens of times while she lived and hundreds since she'd died, drove and wished, as he always wished, that she were there, because he was here waiting, always waiting. Wished that this would be his last ride without her, that he would somehow fall asleep and wake up in her arms and it would all be a dream, a sick, twisted dream.

He never saw the other car coming.

When he woke up in her arms, she smiled down at him and he whispered, "you're back," but she shook her head, her smile just a little sad as she whispered back, "no, Soul, you're home."