A/N: I know, just two weeks after I posted and here's another chapter! Minor miracle, right? I know people have been itching for more, so I pushed myself to get this out, but I'll be refocusing on resbang for a bit, so the next chapter will take a little longer, most likely. Thanks again to my forever betas rebornfromash and mamodork , and for this chapter, marshofsleep also has my gratitude. Laura nudged me in a different direction than I was initially planning to go, and Marsh inspired the reappearance of our favorite stylist, so they should share in the praise (or the blame as the case may be!)

When Maka awoke the next morning, it was to her weapon's soft snores in her ear, his limbs tangled with hers, her head resting on his arm. She briefly reassured herself that she was still wearing pajamas, because she had had dreams, before attempting to slip out of his arms to see to her morning routine.

So much for keeping to opposite sides of the bed.

Trouble was, his arms were fairly firm around her, and she wasn't ready to wake him, not just yet. She needed time to collect herself first.

She was tempted, so tempted, to stay where she was for awhile. Her head was throbbing, she felt ridiculously sluggish, and, after how they had ended their roller coaster of a day last night, it was nice just to feel close to him, to feel how content his soul was so near to her own. But no. They had another long day ahead and she needed to get up. With the clock on the nightstand showing 10, they'd already slept in far too long.

Letting out a small sigh, she carefully slid herself down. Soul grunted at that and tightened his grip on her waist, so she gently lifted his arm enough to wriggle out of his grasp, and replaced his wayward limb on to a pillow. When he rolled over with a murmured expletive, she knew the ploy had failed, but at least she was out of bed. Time to shower and dress so she could face the day. No. So she could face him.

Last night was behind them now, and she fully intended to keep it that way.

Thirty minutes later, after basking in the hot water, and then, slipping into a white ruffled blouse and black pencil skirt combo, Maka felt, if not refreshed, at least a little less like road kill. Making her way back to the bedroom, she perched herself at the edge of the bed cautiously and peered down at her weapon.

He looked so peaceful lying there, hair mussed, a line of drool running down his chin, his breathing deep and even, that she was loathe to wake him. The urge to stroke his wild, pallid locks was strong, so she gave in for an instant, reaching out a hand to run it across his forehead and through his hair affectionately once, twice, enjoying the feel of his hair, thick beneath her fingers, the heat of his skin, the soft hum of approval that escaped his lips.

"Maka," he rasped out.

"Good morning, sleeping beauty. Time to get up."

"Noooooo," he groaned. "Dunwanna."

"Well, too bad," she said with a light poke to his ribs. "We're going to your family luncheon in an hour, so you need to shower and get dressed."

"Not goin'," he grunted, rolling over to turn his back to her.

"Yes-you are," Maka replied as she began to poke at his back. "We're here for your brother, so we're going to that luncheon for your brother if I have to haul you into the bathtub myself."

Soul rolled over to face her, practically leering, eyebrows raised. "That an offer?"

She went scarlet, last night flooding her mind, and slapped her hand on his bare chest. "Oh just get up already!"

"No," he slitted his eyes and glared at her, pulling the covers up to his chin. "I'm tired and it's stupid. So fuck it. You wanna go, go, but I'm stayin' right here."

"Noooo, you are going to go shower and get dressed because you told your brother you would go, so you're damned well gonna go."

"Like hell I am," he growled but got out of bed anyway, trudging sleepily to the bathroom and slamming the door behind him, the sounds of him relieving himself a few seconds later unmistakable.

Well, at least he was up. Maka went to grab some heels for herself from the wardrobe and was surprised to hear the bathroom door open so soon, to turn around and see her sleepy eyed, scowling weapon trudge over and practically dive back into bed.

"Soul Alastair Evans," she wielded the newly discovered name with the precision of a death weapon, "you get your lazy ass back in that bathroom and shower or so help me-"

She had begun stalking his way. Soul rolled over again, his back to her, and cut her off with a grunt of "don't need a shower."

Death he was being a child. Why did it feel like she was dealing with the fourteen year old version of her partner rather than her nineteen year old death scythe?

"Yes," she said, voice deceptively calm. "You do."

She walked over to yank the cover from him, though he caught the move in time to hang onto the sheet for dear life.

"You smell," she said as she tugged at the sheet to take that, too.

"Like body odor." Another yank, but he was still holding tight.

"Booze." A third yank.

"And ass warmed over," she half growled the last, tickling the one foot that was sticking out and causing him to yelp as she yanked and he let go in his surprise.

She tossed her prize to the floor haphazardly and grinned down at him in triumph as he scowled up at her. Even with that scowl, with his disheveled hair and rumpled sleep pants, Maka thought he looked adorable, like an angry puppy. Annoying, but adorable.

She could feel an odd mix of anger and belligerence along with deep unhappiness welling up from him, and she didn't get it, but he needed to damn well get over it because they didn't have time for this and she was in no mood to put up with this level of childish bullshit, her head still pounding and her body aching with what had to be her first hangover.

"Fuck off," Soul growled as he sat up, still glaring. "If I wanna smell like ass, I'll smell like ass. You don't wanna smell me? Get the fuck out."

Her clenched fist belied the calm in her voice as she answered. "Nobody wants to smell you, and you've got 45 minutes to make yourself fit for human company. Get out of bed now, or I will force you out, and I promise it won't be pretty."

"Why the fuck do you even care?" He launched out of bed and stood a mere foot from her, sharp teeth bared. "They're my family. I wanna blow 'em off, I'll fucking blow 'em off."

"Get dressed," the meister snapped, ignoring her weapon's little tirade. Why did she care? Stupid bloody question. "Now."

"Whatever." He snapped back at her, moving to the wardrobe to grab clothes before stalking past her to the bathroom. He paused and spun around in the doorway.

"Oh, and you might want to see to that," he flung a hand carelessly in her direction. "Sweetie-"

"See to what?" She furrowed her eyebrows in confusion.

"-cause I don't think hickies are fit for human company." With that, a sneer, and a raised middle finger, Soul spun back around and slammed the door, Maka left gaping and rubbing her neck self consciously.

Finally hearing the shower run, the meister sighed in relief before padding over to the wardrobe. She had yet to fix her hair, and so, had yet to properly glance in a mirror.

Seeing her own reflection, her eyes went wide. Holy Death in Shibusen her neck-was black and blue, splotched on both sides with marks that very much resembled the size and shape of her weapon's mouth. Curse him. Curse him right to hell. Her hair was beginning to dry, curling slightly at the ends, but definitely not sufficient to cover the marks on her skin. She looked like she'd been mauled by a damned animal. Stupid, Stupid Soul.

"Asshole," she muttered to her own reflection even as she flushed scarlet with the memory of just how good it had felt to receive those marks. She bit her lip in frustration. "Asshole," she repeated, letting her anger simmer as she moved to her purse to retrieve her compact. Anger was familiar. Anger was safe. Maka couldn't afford to feel the other things hiding beneath her weapon's marks on her tender flesh, wouldn't allow herself to feel them, not now. No, anger was better.

Opening the compact, she took a tentative swipe over the first mark with her powder, but it did little to cover the bruising beneath. She nearly groaned. No, shit, no-this would require far more than the light powder she reserved for special occasions. Shit shit shit-they didn't have time for a run to the store.

She'd have to improvise.

Hadn't Liz made her buy that turtle neck sweater because it could be cool in the Spring here? She was pretty sure? Stomping back over to the wardrobe, Maka rifled through, panic rising in her stomach as she failed to find what she so desperately sought.

She was about to screech in frustration when she reached the last garment-a dark green cashmere turtleneck.

"Oh thank DEATH," she breathed her relief as Soul stalked back in, hair damp and tousled in a way that was so enticing it made her blush to think of. Then he paused next to her and she got a better look at him.

Was he wearing...? Oh hell no.

"You are not wearing that to your family luncheon," Maka said acidly as she eyed him from her place next to the wardrobe, where he was currently rifling through their shoe collection.

"Yes, I am," he countered, not even bothering to face her.

"No, you're not. Ripped jeans and an obscene Pearl Jam t-shirt isn't dress casual, Soul, and Aria mentioned-"

"Fuck Aria," he cut her off with a growl as he finally found the shoes he'd been looking for, a pair of worn black Chuck Taylors.

"Soul," her tone was a warning of impending violence. She couldn't recall the last time she had chopped him, but she was close to doing so now.

"You know what? No!" he whirled on her, fists clenched, "Your fucking way or the fucking highway as usual, right? Well not this time, sweetheart. I'll dress how I please or not go at all, your choice."

Maka just sighed, deflating slightly. Her head was pounding, she felt sick and hurt and spent and now-now she had to deal with her fully grown weapon acting like a petulant child. She'd had enough.

"You know what, Soul? Fine." Her voice was flat. "You want to dress like a punk ass, dress like a punk ass. It's on your head since we really don't have time for this. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to change and finish my hair so we can get out of here."

Not sparing him a backwards glance, Maka walked over to the bathroom and shut and locked the door behind her, collapsing back against it and sucking in deep, calming breaths for a few moments before removing her blouse to pull the sweater on. She caught sight of the change in the mirror and thanked Liz in her mind for her foresight because it covered her neck completely, the marks vanishing beneath the soft knit like they had never been there. The fact that she felt instantly too warm since it was not a cool day was only a minor nuisance, and she decided to mitigate the situation by fixing her hair up into a smart bun, two strands left out to frame her face.

Well, she'd looked worse.

Applying light makeup, she judged herself presentable and, with another deep, calming breath because they didn't have time for more fighting, she made her way out of the bathroom.

The meister found her scythe half sprawled on the bed, headphones in his ears, eyes shut, one foot bouncing to a rhythm she couldn't hear and probably wouldn't get if she could. She strolled up and loomed over him for a bare instant-his shoes were on now, those same worn Chuck Taylors, and he'd spiked his hair up high, a thin black headband perched on top to keep it from his eyes. He looked perfect for a day with their friends, but absolutely ridiculous for an afternoon with his family.

The idiot.

She poked a finger lightly at his shoulder, causing him to crack open an eye and peer up at her lazily.

"Time to go. It's," she glanced at the alarm. "11:20. We need to get out of here."

He must have heard her through the music, or perhaps read her lips, because he half shrugged, opening his eyes fully and sitting. "Yeah, whatever, let's go," he said, getting up off the bed and moving past her, not bothering to remove his earbuds. She grabbed her purse and followed. Maybe Soul wasn't being nice about it, maybe he still looked better suited to attend a concert than a luncheon, but at least he was listening.

Still, a day among virtual strangers with a cranky, underdressed pseudo husband was hardly her idea of fun. Then again, this trip wasn't about her having fun. She was here for him-she had to keep that thought firmly in her head. Even if he was being an ass this morning. Even if she didn't dare let her mind wander to last night. Even if she just wanted to go home.

When they went out the door, Soul made straight for his bike parked in the drive, dug his riding jacket and helmet out of one saddlebag, and swung his leg over easily, throwing his meister an expectant look as she paused in the middle of driveway.

"Thought you were in a hurry," he said with something like amusement. "Sooner you get on, sooner we can get out of here."

She shook her head. Why should she get on to go up the driveway?

"I'll walk," Maka said with a huff she couldn't quite stifle, scoffing at the very idea.

"To the country club? Shyeah good luck with that. It's only several miles."

"But I thought-I mean-isn't it at the main house?" she stammered.

"Nooooo that's the rehearsal dinner." Maka could almost hear the smirk in his voice, though he still looked as bored as ever.

"I can't-" she glanced down at her skirt. "In this?" She was aghast. Soul's cousins already looked down on her. How would it look of they arrived like that. "Isn't there-I mean, aren't the others taking a car?"

"Nope," he said with an exaggerated popping of the p. "Wes texted me while you were in the bathroom and I told him to go on ahead. It's just you, me, and Etta." This time he did smirk. She wanted to punch his smug little face. "Don't see the big deal anyway," he shrugged. "You ride in a skirt all the time."

"Not in a pencil skirt, and not to some couture family affair," she said unhappily. Maka looked between the bike and her skirt again before sudden inspiration struck. "I know! We'll fly."

It was her scythe's turn to scoff.

"Fuck no," he said, voice flat.

"No, fuck yes," she smiled sweetly. "We can fly close and walk the rest of the way. No one will be the wiser."

"Because they wouldn't dream of looking up," he rolled his eyes.

"I'm serious," she held out her hand expectantly. A little flight was just what they needed. Maybe then they could get past this-this-whatever this was and be normal again. Plus, she really didn't want to arrive on the bike. "Transform." Maka's tone held the command of a meister to her weapon, and she could see the struggle visible on her scythe's face for an instant, but then he shook his head.

"No," he repeated. "We're riding Etta. Now get on."

"Soul," the command remained. "Your meister is telling you to transform."

"Noooo, we aren't on a mission, Maka, and this isn't school. My fake wife is telling me to transform and fly, and I'm telling her fuck no. Or do you want to have to explain how we got there to all and sundry when we don't show up on the bike? I'm sure my whole family would loooove to hear how you had my shaft between your thighs."

Maka couldn't help it, she flushed from head to toe at the implications, at his stupid smug look. She wanted to chop him so, so badly that her hand twitched at her side.

But she was here for him. Clearly something was eating him-she'd need to pry it out of him eventually and hoped he wasn't still regretting last night-but they were already running late, so it would have to wait.

The meister took a deep breath, bit down on her lip to stifle her anger, and stalked up to the bike, digging for her own helmet and riding jacket and donning them before getting on. She pointedly held the seat behind her to avoid having to touch her weapon.

"You're such an asshole," she sighed.

Soul flashed a sharp grin back her way. "I aim to please," he sounded amused, then finally donned his helmet and revved the bike to take off down the driveway.

He drove purposefully fast, took sharp turns at speed to make it harder to hang on from behind, particularly while keeping one hand on her hiked up skirt to remain something like decent. During one quick maneuver to avoid a pothole, her resolve not to touch him wavered with her jolt of shock and she threw her arms around him. She felt the smugness in his soul as he gunned the bike, forcing her to press closer, to hold on tighter, not giving her time to shift her grip.

Death he was a jerk.

Still, it felt nice to be pressed against him like this; it felt far too much like home. Maka closed her eyes and let herself get lost in him for awhile, in his warmth, in the comfortable feeling of his soul close to hers, before noticing the bike come to a stop.

She opened her eyes. Blinked. Let go. They were in front of a larger brick building, columned and elegant. A middle aged man in a pristine red uniform was eyeing them skeptically as Soul dismounted and stowed his helmet, opting to keep the leather. Maka stowed her own gear self consciously, smoothing down her skewed skit as her weapon explained to the clearly flustered valet attendant that he would be leaving Etta in front, and if anyone so much as looked at her funny, they'd have him to deal with, punctuating the threat with a flash of his canines. Both ignored the car that had pulled up behind them.

"But Mister... Mister..." The attendant looked appalled, at Soul, at the bike, at the entire situation. "We can't have such a thing parked so-"

"Evans," Soul provided, cutting him off.

"I don't-" the attendant was shaking his head.

"Soul Evans. It's my name. We done here?"

Upon hearing the name, connecting it with the situation at hand, the poor man looked like he might faint. "Yes of-of course, Mr. Evans," he stammered out.

"Good," Soul said briskly, wheeling Etta over to rest in front of the building on some grass and just behind a smallish tree. Maka was reminded of his behavior at the airport and was irritated enough with him this morning to scoff at his rudeness. For all he seemed to want to dissociate himself from his family, her weapon sure played that card now when it was convenient.

As Soul made sure Etta was safe and secure, the unhappy little man in red finally attended to the car that had arrived just after them. Maka heard footsteps and tittering somewhere to her right and whirled around to face whatever new silliness the morning had in store.

Of course the limo held the Evans sisters. Soul's cousins were whispering back and forth, wearing light, bright sundresses that suited their elegant figures well. When Lucretia seemed to notice she had been noticed herself, she breezed up to stop a mere few feet from the meister, Minerva in tow.

"Ah, good morning Mara. That is a most interesting vehicle the two of you arrived on. Though clearly it suits you well." The woman gave Maka an up and down look punctuated with a sniff, her smile fake and sweet. She eyed the meister's outfit with a dismissive sweep of the eyes, her smile turning nasty. "And that sweater is certainly a bold choice in this heat. Very daring of you."

Before she could even think to respond to that bit of rudeness, her embarrassment palpable, Maka heard steps behind her, and suddenly there was a hand on her elbow. "It's Maka, actually," she heard her weapon say, and as the meister turned her head to look at him, she saw him flash his teeth in a menacing smile. He was pulled to his full height for once and practically looming. Minerva took a nervous step back and Lucretia looked like she was going to be sick. Maka had to remind herself that this was probably the first time he had spoken to them in almost a decade.

"I guess a lot hasn't changed," he added with a glance between his cousins, who appeared to have been struck dumb by the mere force of his presence.

"I suppose we should be going in," Maka forced out brightly, needing to break the sudden tension. "We'll see the two of you inside." And with that, she clasped her weapon's hand on her elbow and steered them both to the door. She could feel something near homicidal in his soul that was not directed at her this time, and knew it was best to simply flee the scene before it got ugly.

The meister could feel real fear from her weapon's cousins as they retreated and, petty as they were, she couldn't find it in her to be satisfied.

When they paused in the large grand entry of the building they had entered, Soul said flatly, "They've been bothering you." It wasn't a question. "You shoulda said something."

Maka shrugged. "They're silly and shallow and not worth the effort, Soul," she answered briskly because she had no wish to discuss the two who really were beneath notice, and who really had just been frightened into speechlessness. "Now let's hurry up-we're already late."

Beginning to move again, she tugged him in a random direction, but he stopped and she looked up, annoyance clear on her face.

"It's that way," he thumbed over his shoulder casually and she deflated and sighed "oh," letting him take the lead to steer them through the building because for however long he had been away, they were still clearly on his turf now.

A twist and a turn later, they arrived in a light, bright, elegant room with double doors thrown wide. There were smartly dressed people standing or scattered at various shiny round tables, a string quartet was playing in the corner, some sort of light, floaty music, and the waitstaff in pristine white was milling among the partygoers, offering silver trays of fancy little one bite hors d'oeuvres. Soul took up a piece of sashimi from one tray they passed and popped it into his mouth wordlessly, ignoring the pointed stares of his relatives as he pulled them to an empty table in a corner of the room to sit down. Maka followed suit and took another glance around as her scythe worked on devouring the several more tiny food items he had collected on their path through the room.

She felt trepidation from his soul, and wondered if it was the crowd or the people in it.

Then, a few moments later, Maka felt someone approach before she saw him and, she couldn't help it, relief washed through her. Things were strained with her weapon in ways she didn't want to begin to understand, but Soul needed support here, that much was clear. He might actually be able to give it.

She looked up and the smile she offered, half fondness, half relief, was genuine.

"Ah, little brother," Wes said brightly as he walked up and sat down. "Glad I found you. Long night?" He raised an amused eyebrow.

"You know it was," Soul grunted around his mini chateaubriand.

"Mmm," his brother hummed. "I know you had some long unresolved business from back home to handle. I hope that went well."

Unresolved what now? Maka was confused, but Soul went as red as his eyes and growled.

"Damnit Wes, now is not the time."

She furrowed her brow, turned to her weapon. "You had business?" She was confused and a little hurt that he might be keeping something from her.

"No. Just," he snapped and stood up quickly, shoving his hands in his pockets in anger. "I'm gonna get some food," he began to stalk off, but Wes called after.

"Oh, and Soul?"

The scythe whirled around, scowling at his elder brother. "What?" His voice was acid.

"Gran wants to see you, so you might want to, oh I don't know, change? I have a spare pair of pants and a dress shirt in the trunk of my car that ought to work," he offered airily, "unless, of course, you'd prefer to wait until Mom finds you and sicks her stylist on you?"

Maka watched her weapon swallow and go pale. "Ok. Yeah, I'll take your keys and, yeah, thanks," he stammered out before grabbing the keys from his brother's extended hand and walking off, more slowly this time.

"Any time, little brother," the older man muttered to himself with a smile that was as much amusement as exasperation. "Any time."

Maka remained silent, still baffled, though ultimately glad her partner had seen fit to listen to someone about his outfit, but it was only an instant before Wes turned his eyes to her and she realized with a little jolt that this was the first time they had ever been alone together.

"So, Maka," he smiled at her politely. "I trust you are well this morning?"

"Um, yeah, I'm-I'm fine. I hope you're okay, and Aria."

"Of course," he waved her statement away with a small gesture. "Aria was engrossed in discussing our honeymoon plans with Genevieve. I'm sure she'll be around soon to greet you. She's quite fond of you, you know," his own smile was fond, soft, and she smiled back.

"Oh, I like her too, very much," Maka replied. "And you two seem so happy together! I know Soul is really glad to see it. He-I think he's really missed you, even if he's not very good at saying it."

Wes nodded. "I know. Words have never been his strong suit, but it's nice to hear, anyway," he leaned closer, though he was a seat away from her. "And you, Maka. How are you faring through all of this? I imagine it can't be an easy adjustment. And I realize that the-situation-might be less than ideal."

"Mmmm," she hummed. "It's-really okay," she lied, because how could she tell the truth, that she was in love with his brother and all this pretence was damned near soul shattering? "Soul and I, we-well-I wanted to be here for him, you know?"

"I know," Wes nodded again. "I can tell how much you care about him. It makes me feel better about not being there-I know he's in good hands." His fond smile was back and Maka flushed brightly, but nodded back. "Anyway," he rose suddenly. "I need to make the rounds, but Gran is eager to meet you as well. She's over in the other corner of the room. I can walk you if you'd like."

"Um," she felt nervousness well up in her stomach and realized, for the first time, how warm she was. She remembered why, felt the sweater snug against her neck, and had to stifle another flush and a frown. "Actually, I think I'd rather wait for Soul, but thanks," she replied with a forced smile.

"Can I at least get you something?"

"No, I'm fine, really, but thanks for offering," she tried to smile reassuringly.

"Well, if you change your mind, I'll be around," he said, and paused for a moment, looking like he wanted to say more. Instead, he gave her a little wave and then left, weaving through the crowd with a poise and skill she could only envy. Soul's big brother really was something else.

Tired of sitting alone after a few minutes, Maka finally decided to get up and seek something to drink. Her stomach felt too queasy for food-some combination of nerves and hangover had it doing flip flops-but she was parched. Moving through the crowd and gathering far less looks than she had the first time with Soul at her side, she managed to flag down a server to order an iced tea (iced anything sounded good, she was sweltering,) then looked around the room for someone, anyone, familiar. She finally spotted one of Soul's three male cousins nearby, but as they were exceptionally low on her list of acceptable company, she moved her eyes away to keep looking. Unfortunately, he must have noticed her as well, because he began walking her way, sporting an oily smile.

"Ah, Maka, right? I see your dear husband abandoned you to the wolves. He never did like these things."

Maka ignored the comment, instead greeting him cautiously. "Good afternoon, Mr. DiFranco. I hope you are well?" She could do formal, she could do polite. She was the daughter of a Death Scythe, the creator of a Death Scythe, and this was little different from a hundred diplomatic functions she'd attended, right? No different from dealing with any meister or weapon or witch she didn't care for.

"Please, call me Luca. And I'm much better now that you're here. My cousin is a fool to let you out of his sight-I'd never make the same mistake." His smile widened and Maka could feel something predatory from his soul she didn't at all care for, something challenging. "Oh, and you look good in that sweater. It suits you."

Maka saw red, her flush one of anger rather than mortification. "I was cold. It's much warmer in Death City," she offered flatly. "I wonder, though-why wouldn't you leave your wife alone? Is it because you wouldn't trust her? Because I'd say, then, that getting married is probably a bad idea."

"Oh no, not at all," he stepped closer, too close. "It's more that I wouldn't trust other men not to try to move in on something so precious, so beautiful." He moved a hand to take up one of the strands of her hair framing her face, but Maka was much faster, intercepting his hand and stepping back in one fluid motion. His hand was tight in her grip and she squeezed, causing him to make a muffled yelp of pain, before releasing him.

"Ah, but you assume that such a woman isn't more than capable of fending off any attackers," her tone was casual, conversational. "Have you ever seen a kishin egg, Mr. DiFranco? Because I can assure you, they are far more threatening than any would-be suitor-and as Soul is well acquainted with how we manage to exterminate those for a living, he has no reason to fear."

The man before her had taken a step back himself, looking slightly pale.

"Do you know where kishin eggs come from?" the meister continued, her tone still light. "Because I do. Predators. Murderers. Rapists," she put emphasis on the last. "People who covet, who want things that don't belong to them, who want power over others. It's those people who Soul and I must eventually hunt, without qualm or mercy. I do hope never again to have to hunt down someone we know. It's very unpleasant, but unfortunately necessary."

Luca had taken another step back, and then, nodded. "Yes, well, it was nice to see you. I'll, um, see you around. Ma-Mrs. Evans," he stammered out before backpedaling and disappearing among the crowd. Maka smiled to herself, satisfied.

She heard a light chuckle at her shoulder and turned to see Aria right behind her, shaking her head. "Nice," was all she said. "That one has been begging for a set down since the day I met him, probably since the day he was born."

"You… saw that?" Maka asked cautiously.

"Enough of it, anyway. Never did much care for those DiFranco boys. Remind me never to piss you off, eh? But enough about the resident jerk-how are you? Or, more importantly, how was your night?" The wide grin and knowing gleam in her eye and in her soul set Maka immediately on edge because there was absolutely nothing to know.

"It was fine. We went straight to bed when we got home." She realized her mistake the moment she made it, but correcting it would only make it worse. And in the end, she supposed, it was best if others thought they had gone home to tear each others' clothes off when all they'd actually done is ignore each other pointedly. People were supposed to think that.

"Oh, I'm sure you did," Aria laughed. "Boy looks like he hasn't slept. Didn't even bother to get dressed."

Maka sighed at that. "He can be-stubborn-when he's cranky."

"Mmm, I can see that. And yet, I'll bet you have ways of getting him to cooperate. Nice sweater, by the way." Maka was pretty sure that grin should be illegal it was so loaded.

"I was cold," she replied automatically.

"Uh huh. And we were late to breakfast yesterday because I lost my keys. Oh," her eyes strayed up. "Hello again, Genevieve."

Moving her eyes again to where Aria's had strayed, Maka smiled in relief as she caught sight of the tall, elegant Maid of Honor. "Ah, Maka, lovely to see you again. You look stunning, as usual! I simply adore the sweater!"

Maka almost groaned and had the sudden urge to find her weapon and deck him. She was already sweating beneath the tight knit of the garment-uncomfortable from the heat and the too knowing glances.

"Uh, thanks. I was-cold. It's much warmer back home." She wondered just how many times she would feel the need to justify her clothing choice that day.

"Yes, I do hear that things are rather- heated-in Death City," Genevieve responded, and Shinigami damn the amused glance she shared with the bride. Damn them, damn her partner, damn this whole ridiculous situation.

"So, Aria love, I just got a call from Em. She says she's managed to salvage my dress and will bring everything by tomorrow morning-she wants to make a final check for myself and Maka."

As the two other women began to chat about the dresses, Maka silently scanned the room, wondering when her missing scythe would see fit to show himself again. She was about to resort to her soul perception when she felt a warm hand on her shoulder.

"Don't. Move," his voice spoke in her ear.

"What?" She whirled on him, surprised and annoyed in equal measure. Aria and Geneveive stopped talking at the outburst, and Maka reddened as she glared at her partner.

"Just-don't move," he implored, hunching suddenly in front of her. Was he-was he hiding?

"Aria, darling!" She heard an affected voice behind her, heard the smack of air kisses.

"Jean Luc," Aria replied evenly.

"And Genevieve! So lovely to see you again!" he offered airily, followed by more air kisses.

"And is that..." Maka turned around because it was rude to keep her back to them, "of course! Miss Maka!" He approached her to offer the same air kisses, hands on her shoulders, looking an odd mix of elegant and ridiculous in knit gray slacks and a purple shirt tied at the neck with a green cravat. A cravat of all things. She worked hard not to cringe.

After he was through, the stylist looked her up and down and sniffed, much as Soul's cousin had before him. "That sweater is an-interesting choice. Fortunately, I should have several things to you by tomorrow. Never fear! I'll take good care of you, my love! You are quite the canvas to work with. I daresay you could end up being my best work yet! But of course, I have a more difficult task for the time being. I thought I spied that husband of yours over-" he finally glanced past her shoulder just as Soul was apparently trying to slink off. "Ah! Mr. Evans! So glad I could catch you!"

Maka was shocked at just how predatory a smile the little man wore, but that quickly faded when Soul rudely continued to walk as if he hadn't heard him. Maka growled his name, causing the death weapon to turn around with a sullen glare her way followed by something like sheer terror as the stylist stalked up to him and reached a hand up to actually touch his stiff white spikes. Soul flinched back and glared down at the man.

"Tsk, tsk Mr. Evans. Your mother was right-you do need more work than your wife! Well. I'll get on the clothes later, but for the moment, we should deal with that hair."

Maka heard a half snort from her side and glanced over to see Aria, hand over her mouth. Genevieve was biting her lip before she mouthed 'sorry.'

"Don't need clothes, and definitely don't need you to touch-"

"Actually, um," Maka wasn't sure it was polite to call the stylist by his first name, and hadn't heard his last name, so she stammered on. "Soul promised to introduce me to his grandmother-she'd like to see us-so I'm afraid his hair will have to wait. If you'll excuse us?" She walked up to take her weapon's arm and steer him away. As they passed Genevieve and Aria, both women smiled their goodbyes as the scythe meister led her beleaguered scythe determinedly towards the other side of the room. As he sighed in something like relief at her side, she thought that he really hadn't earned this little rescue, not after what an ass he'd been all morning-but he was still her weapon, and she was still here for him. Plus, she figured, nobody really deserved whatever horrors the little stylist had in mind-and, though she would never admit it in a thousand years to him or anyone, she actually sort of liked his bad high school hair. It reminded her of his younger self, of their younger selves, and that was almost enough to make her smile through this whole ridiculous business. Almost.

"Thanks," he said after a moment, surprising her by pulling them to a stop. "But, uh, if you really want us to see Gran, she's that way." He gestured vaguely to the opposite side of the room and Maka felt suddenly very foolish since Wes had already told her where she'd need to go.

"Oh, yeah, thanks." She looked at him for a moment, noticed the expensive black slacks and dark blue button up he'd 'borrowed' from Wes fit perfectly in spite of his slightly broader frame, and had to stifle a smile. "You okay?" she asked instead.

"'M fine," he said testily.

"Uh huh."

"You wanna meet Gran or not?" Soul snapped, causing his meister to sigh at just how short lived his thankfulness had been.

"Of course. Lead the way, oh my gallant prince," she answered with forced lightness, because she was damned tired of humoring his foul mood, her own temperature rising in the stifling heat of her sweater.

"Whatever," he said with a shrug as he began to steer them towards the other end of the room.

Their walk was too slow, too methodical as they weaved through the crowd, and she could feel the new trepidation, the sheer guilt, rolling off her weapon in sickening waves, causing her own stomach to drop to her toes.

Apparently, as the pinnacle of an entirely terrible morning, she was about to meet the mysterious entity known only as Gran.