A/N: I wrote this like six months ago and never posted it for whatever reason. Don't hurt me for posting it now.

Inspired by NIN, title and lyrics borrowed from the Mr. Reznor. TW: Character Death.

She shines
In a world full of ugliness
She matters
When everything is meaningless

Fragile, she doesn't see her beauty
She tries to get away
Sometimes it's just that nothing seems worth saving
I can't watch her slip away

I won't let you fall apart.

He didn't know when she has become his reason, had never meant for it to happen, but it had. It had, and now everything he did, he did for her. He lived for her, breathed for her, ached for her, longed for her, had very nearly died for her. He was her weapon. Most days, that was enough. Most days, he could keep her from harm.

Today was not one of those days.

Today, the impossibly strong woman who wielded him, who commanded him, who possessed his very soul, the woman who mowed down kishin eggs with his blade, who had faced Asura himself, today that woman was fragile, cracking, damned near breaking. He was still her weapon, he still lived for her, yet today he was useless, helpless, the wrong tool to mend her shattered heart.

It was killing him because it was killing her. She was withering in front of his eyes and he could do nothing.

He looked at her from across the room, her hand white knuckled on the handle of their home phone, her teeth clamped down onto her bottom lip. Though her face was almost blank, he knew she bit down to keep from crying out in anguish, could sense it in the brush of her soul on his that was always present, could read it in her stiff posture and strained voice.

He didn't know what was breaking his meister, almost feared to know even as he longed for an answer so he could save her from whatever it was.

And then she whispered "mama," and he knew he never could.

"You're…sure." He could hear the struggle to keep her voice even, though he couldn't hear the reply on the other end of the line.

"And you've informed P—I mean Death Scythe?"

More words he couldn't hear.

"Yes. I understand. Thank you for—yes, of course. Monday at 3. Yes. Yes. Thank you, Mr. Mason. Yes, I'll see you then. Goodbye."

Her white knuckled hand clicked the phone back onto the receiver, and for a moment, just a moment, she stood there, tall, blank, strong. Then she collapsed, folded in on herself like a broken card table with an inhuman wail, her body curling on the floor.

If Soul had guessed what was happening from her half of the conversation, now he knew, and he ran to her from where he stood in the kitchen, collapsed next to her, pulled her into his lap where she burrowed into him, her arms tight around his waist. He felt her tears soaking hot and wet into his t-shirt, felt her shaking in his arms as she sobbed, as he stroked her hair, rubbed her back, anything and everything to try to fix the unfixable. He was her weapon, but he was also her friend and, ill suited as he was for the task, all she had here and now.

All he could do was hold her and watch her shatter in his arms.

All he could do was try his damnedest to keep her together because he refused to let her fall apart. He was too selfish to let her fall apart—he needed her too much for that.

"I'm here," he whispered against her hair, tightening his arms around her. "I'm right here."

"B…but…Mama, she's…gone," she whispered against him before letting out a keening sob.

"I'm sorry," he said as he continued to stroke her hair. "Maka, I'm so sorry."

She just sobbed more as he started to rock her, continued to hold her, let his soul wrap around her as his body hunched over her, trying to calm her, still her, sooth her, and feeling helpless to do anything all the while.

Useless, useless weapon, it's all he was—for what good could he be to her here and now?
What good was he if all he could do was hold her helplessly as she completely fell apart?