Genre: Friendship, Romance, Hurt/Comfort
T for mild gore
Blood. Scrapes. Bruises. Cuts.
That's all Soul say underneath the rips in his meister's once-white uniform. It was now covered in blood from her wounds, along with mud and dirt in some places.
Four long gashes on her right side, beneath her rib cage. Shallow, but still somewhat bleeding.
She also had a small cut in the center of her forehead, a thin stream of blood running over her nose and near her mouth.
Her green eyes were clenched shut in pain, unshed tears collecting under her lashes.
If only he could run faster.
The soul they were sent to hunt had only been a bit outside the city limits in the desert, but the walk home was agonizing.
With one arm wrapped around her legs and the other around her shoulders—being careful of her torso—he was trudging uphill through town towards their apartment complex. He knew enough about first-aid to dress her wounds. But he hated seeing Maka in pain.
Especially when he could have prevented it.
He was a death scythe.
He was supposed to be stronger now.
They shouldn't have been cocky—they shouldn't have underestimated what they thought was just a simple soul that had strayed from the path of humanity.
Feelings of guilt made his chest ache. He had small injuries of his own, but he didn't even notice the small aches and pains of bruises. She was worse off than him. That's all that mattered. She would probably have nasty scars after the wounds healed. And some day maybe he would lift up his shirt and say "we match". And maybe she would smile and lift up hers slightly as well.
But if he wasn't careful now, there might not be a maybe. Her injuries weren't life-threatening, but only if they were cleaned and dressed.
A little over halfway there.
His arms were tired, his heavy steps causing Maka to bounce around. Every step earned a small groan of discomfort from the meister. She was barely awake. Soul tried his best to keep her conscious with conversation. About everything from repeatedly telling her not to fall asleep to about what they should cook for dinner next week. But the conversation always eventually turned back to one topic.
"It h-hurts, Soul."
She wasn't able to hold back her tears anymore; they were flowing freely down her cheeks, mixing in with the blood in grime covering her face. She had bit her lip hard enough to draw blood, a thin stream dripping off her chin and onto her white jacket. The blue sailor flaps in the back had been torn beyond repair; she would need yet another Spartoi uniform made. Her black tights where ripped in many places, along with her mud-covered blue skirt. One side of her pigtails was halfway out of it's skull-shaped hair clip, the ash blonde strands tickling her neck. Her bangs were stuck to her forehead with sweat. The meister's green eyes were still hidden beneath her eyelids, scrunched up in agony. She had been doing her best to cling to her weapon partner's beige jacket; she needed something to hold onto for comfort.
"Soul... Are we t-there yet?"
The death scythe hadn't heard such pain in his meister's voice in a long time.
It wasn't often that Soul had the feeling of disgust at eating a soul that his wielder had reaped. If it were possible, he would most likely regurgitate the soul right at that moment.
Had other weapons ever felt that way?
Was there ever a time where Tsubaki wished to reject a soul that Black Star had taken? (On the rare occasion that it happened of course)
Did Liz or Patty or Jackie ever find the taste of a soul disgusting?
Probably not.
Weapons were so accustomed to devouring souls. To them, eating a soul that belonged to someone that injured their meister might be even more satisfying.
Soul "Eater" Evans was different, he guessed.
Maka suddenly gave a muffled groan, her wounds stinging badly.
"C'mon, Maka. You're strong. You can do this."
"I-I know..." She clutched her ripped side, attempting to further stop the bleeding, staining her white gloves crimson.
The complex finally came into view as Soul continued to jog uphill. The journey up the stairs was excruciating. So was unlocking the door; him holding Maka with one hand while fiddling with the lock and key in the other.
Inside the small apartment Blair was nowhere to be found, probably out working. And as Soul laid Maka across the small couch he really wished he had the assistance of that damn, magic cat. He sat his meister up enough to remove be tattered coat, revealing a just as tattered white shirt and tie underneath.
Now came the embarrassing part.
As he slowly unbuttoned and peeled away the tattered remains of her shirt, he was sure his blush spread across his entire face. Maka was in too much pain to feel uncomfortable or embarrassed; she was just grateful that she had Soul to take care if her.
Her skirt and tights soon followed. Now only clad in her underwear, the death scythe picked up his meister and carried her to the small bathroom they shared.
"I-I think I can... Sit up." Maka still had her hand at her side, the pain of her wounds still sharp.
Although Soul felt uneasy, he gently sat her up in front of the wooden cabinets beneath the sink. Turning the water on, he plugged up the tub and stood back to let it fill up. He shed his Spartoi jacket; unbuttoning the cuffs and rolling up the sleeves. He removed his tie, as not to get it wet. He looked back to his meister, still breathing heavily, still clad only in her undergarments. He leaned down and freed the rest of her hair from it's pigtails; worried that they might give her a headache. She smiled at him weakly. He smirked back.
She would be okay.
Soul turned the knobs above the faucet off, the tub halfway full. Leaning down, he scooped up Maka's petite form and slowly lowered her into the water. She gasped and cringed at the stinging sensation. But after a moment the water begun to feel almost soothing. The weapon dipped a washcloth into the water and gently began to rub the dried blood from the edges of her wounds. Maka had enough strength to wash away a bit of the grime and blood from her arms. He gently wiped at her face, scrubbing away dirt, blood, and dried tears.
After scrubbing most of the excess grime away, Soul left briefly to retrieve items from the cabinet under the sink. He soon returned to her side with gauze pads and a large, brown bottle of hydrogen peroxide. He couldn't help but laugh slightlt at her reaction. Her weak face scrunched up in mild disgust, knowing that the strong liquid would cause some discomfort. His strong little meister could kill the Kishin but couldn't even bear the sight of a bottle of chemicals.
Soul soaked one of the pads in the lowuid and pressed it to one of the gashes. Maka bit her lip as the chemical bubbled and fizzed against her flesh. Remembering a remedy from his childhood, Soul lightly blew on the cut, relieving some of his meister's discomfort.
He repeated the process three more times before moving on to the minor cuts and scrapes marring her legs and arms. Maka had taken to leaning against the back of the tub, trying to relax. Her eyes were closed as Soul ran a pad over the cut on her forehead, not really caring about the stinging anymore. He then gently scrubbed the blood and grime from her hair, careful of the cut on her forehead.
Soul turned around as she removed her undergarments to finish washing herself. When he turned back around she was struggling out of the tub, clutching a towel around herself. After helping her from the tub, he brushed used another towel to dry her hair.
They sometimes wondered how they could do these things together so often and still keep their relationship so platonic. Or was it even completely platonic?
Maka was able to retrieve new undergarments and put them on while Soul fetched a large t-shirt of his for her to sleep in; loose-fitting clothing probably the most comfortable.
He also returned with bandages; wrapping up her midriff and applying small band-aids wherever needed. Maka laughed weakly at the amount of sticky bandages that covered her legs and arms.
Soul laughed too.
The weapon pushed the large, yellow t-shirt over her head, a large EAT emblem resting across her chest. He helped her lay down on her bed, pulling the pink covers over her. But instead of leaving, he pulled her desk chair up beside the bed, holding her hand while stroking her now-dry hair with his free one.
Maka sighed, her pain eased more now that her injuries were clean and covered.
"Thanks so much..."
"You know it's no trouble. We're partners, after all."
And with that he performed a gesture he reserved only for such occasions. He leaned down, brushed back her bangs, and lightly pressed his lips to her forehead in a kiss. The meister smiled, content. Soul took better care of her than her old rotten Papa. And Maka always took better are of him than his family ever did.
As long as they had each other, they didn't need a family.
And as Soul predicted, after Maka's wounds had healed, they had lifted up their shirts, showing their scars, and declared that they "matched". Maka had smiled back, but with tears shining in her eyes.