If there's not a war, there isn't exactly a need for a weapon like him. Kid keeping him around is like bringing a steak knife to a froyo bar - a couple of hired bodyguards would be more than enough.
But being The Last Deathscythe gives him a free pass to stay employed, no matter how overpowered he is for the job, and that means being able to keep the lights on at home. He knows Kid is grooming him to take over as Death Scythe in Spirit's place, and keeps telling him that the real training will come, once he gets all the formalities and high-profile social events under his belt.
Which is what a lot of it feels like: below-the-belt groveling and ass-kissing for people who have no clue what Shibusen really is. But, much like his own existence, if there's not a war, there's little need for Shibusen, either. Kid is very thorough in keeping up with other world powers and staying in their good graces, because the moment someone thinks what Death does is unnecessary or out of line, it won't be long before the whole system is targeted, defunded, and wiped off the earth, even if Kid's role as a shinigami is as integral to humanity as clouds are to rain.
It's frustrating. To top it off, having a real-world application for the ballroom dancing lessons Mom and Dad had him take as a kid makes it that much worse. He was never great at it, which gets under his skin because he can pick up an instrument and figure it out after a little practice, yet dancing had never clicked like that. But he can admit to himself that what really bothers him about it is that he's only felt comfortable dancing with Maka, in his soul, in a room which no longer exists. It had faded away, like the war, like the path he'd chosen.
The choices he has to make now are a lot simpler. Like choosing not to roll his eyes at important ambassadors, or choosing not to fly Maka out to Vegas on his next trip so they can hang out for more than half an hour because he's lonely. Maybe this is what adulthood is, to choose the sensible options. He can appreciate that life is not as nerve-wracking as needing to make split-second, life-or-death decisions had been, so he wonders why he feels more stressed out now than he ever had being Maka's weapon.
Maybe with real, physical training, he can work out enough of his frustrations to put up with the social aspects of the job. At least, this is what he thinks, until Spirit Albarn waves him down before Soul's even made it out of the Death Room after the end of a long video-slash-mirror conference.
Maka's old man hasn't been hostile since the onset of peacetime, but Soul's not about to claim he and the present Death Scythe are buddy-buddy. Apart from weapon manifestations, the only common ground he and Spirit share is the fact they would both drop literally anything if Maka asked. In short: they're voluntary idiots.
Spirit says, "I hear you're eager for training," leaning against the wall in the usual suit, and he would almost look cool if he didn't have such a blatantly smug look on his face.
However, he's not wrong, and that alone is irritating enough to sneer. "God. Are you my instructor?"
"Who else would do it?"
Preferably any other teacher on earth. Soul sighs. "Honestly, I was hoping for like, Miss Nygus."
The image of suspicion over another's mental capacity, Spirit looks at him out the corner of his eye and pushes off the wall, waving for Soul to follow. "Why? She's never been Death Scythe. If you're taking my place, obviously it should be me."
"Yeah, okay," Soul concedes, hating that he'd been averse to something so obvious that he'd been living in some kind of fantasy to avoid the thought of being Spirit Albarn's apprentice. Thinking back on it, Kid's weird, rare smile when he'd talked about training a few weeks ago now makes sense, and Soul's annoyance with both this situation and himself is hitting the redline. Lame. "W-wait," he says, realizing he'd just trailed after the man unconsciously, and stops in the middle of the hallway. "We're doing it now? But I-"
A dozen deadly blades come within millimeters of his face before Soul can blink, sprouted out of Death Scythe's back. He looks over his shoulder, eternally unimpressed, and Soul can grudgingly admit he might look ten percent cool for a split second. "D'you think being a shinigami's weapon gives you the privilege of free time? El-oh-el."
Soul grimaces. "You are such a dad, seriously."
"Thank you!"
To be perfectly honest, she hadn't wanted to work at Death e Cheese anyway. But she deserves at least some form of recognition for taking down that thief; no one appreciates what kind of physique it takes to sprint and tackle a guy into a ball pit while wearing a full mascot suit. She understands that the stolen goods had merely been some cheap toys and a pizza, but it'd been the principle of the thing. Who in their right mind stands around while a crime is being committed?
But since the perpetrator had not been any form of kishin, she has to spend more time at the police station than she'd spent being employed. That kind of justice is just called 'assault,' evidently.
Thankfully, Ox is on the police force these days, and he's letting her go with only a warning. But not before delivering a very frustrated lecture which likely had been well-practiced on his weapon, Harvar, who is only allowed to work at the library now.
"I know it doesn't make sense," Officer Ford says, rubbing deep circles into his temples, "but you can't just take out anyone who breaks the rules. You have to be a normal person, now."
Maka finishes off her burnt police station coffee and argues, "There wasn't a class on this, okay? I was born and bred as a meister, I dunno what normal means."
"For starters, it does not mean beating the shit out of a man while dressed as a five-foot-nothing cuddly shinigami with mouse ears in front of two dozen terrified children. Does your weapon know you're here?"
Is she so problematic she needs a Real Adult to be her guardian? Sinking an inch in her chair, she avoids the question and instead asks, "Do you think I can work at the library, too?"
His eyes nearly triple in size as he waves an emphatic hand, like trying to wipe the knowledge of her off the slate of his existence. "NO. I don't care if bribery is illegal, I will pay anyone to ensure you and Harv are not employed in the same building. I think we can both agree the books deserve better than that."
"Oh come on," she says, resisting the desire to throw her empty paper cup in his face. "We're not... that bad." Though after saying it aloud, it sounds doubtful even to her. Harvar has a track record of stabbing anyone indiscriminately if he thinks it's the right thing to do; Maka took out a guy in the middle of Death e Cheese in the name of justice.
Ox might have a valid point and it is the worst truth she's ever had to face. Still, she says, "You're exaggerating."
"Albarn, three people literally phoned in to report you instead of the guy you 'apprehended.'" Standing up from the table as if being too near to her might infect him with the Madness of Violence, he opens the door to the interrogation room. "My weapon is chill when he's not provoked - you don't know the meaning of chill. In fact, I think you're almost as much a threat to the public as Black*Star."
Maka crushes the paper cup and wishes it were his stupidly round head. "You take that back-"
"I won't and I never will." Ox waves her over to the door, eager to kick her out of his place of employment. "Now listen: It's come to my attention that Deathgreens is hiring. Do you think you could possibly handle operating a cash register without tackling any potential criminals?"
"I..." She stops short, flummoxed at this unexpected, grumpy offer of assistance. "I don't know how to use a register," she blurts. Ox looks like he's a step away from imploding just so he won't have to deal with her anymore. "But! I can learn! I'm just as good at learning as you are!"
Ford gives her a look that has the very exact kind of condescending sympathy that would make anyone who received it consider committing immediate murder. "We'll agree to disagree and move on. I'll put in a word for you, but I swear on all sane academia if you screw this up I will never acknowledge we were in the same graduating class ever again."
In the years he's spent living with her, Soul has concluded Maka Albarn is a fairly put-together person, barring the temper and occasional bouts of self-imposed, antisocial fungus behavior. Even when handling a full course load in school, back to back missions, and a literal war on the moon, she always had the spare energy to bitch him out for leaving his clothes on the bathroom floor. The dishes are put away the microsecond they become dry, and no one speaks about what happens when the recycling isn't properly sorted.
Honestly, it's not even that big of a deal anymore. By a combination of survival instincts and genuinely wanting to take at least some of the load off his meister's shoulders, Soul has come to appreciate the whole living-without-hired-housecleaners gig.
Everything has its place in the Evans-Albarn household, so when he comes home from Death City International at a quarter to noon, trudges through the front door, and finds something that is vaguely reminiscent of a murder scene with a lot of his dress socks and a clothesline in the middle of the living room, he doesn't know what to think apart from, well, murder. Death (the noun) is the only logical reason Soul can think of for the apartment to be in disarray, given thirty-three percent of its occupants rule over its well-organized lands with an iron fist the exact shape, weight, and page number of The Complete Demon Weapon Physiology, seventh edition.
Upon further investigation, he discovers two entire pieces of tableware in the sink: a spoon, inside a real, actual mug with real, actual coffee still in the bottom. Maka must be dead.
No, wait. He is not a native death child - he refuses to accept that every minor curiosity could be explained away by something just kicking the damn bucket. "Maka?" he calls, breaking into a sweat. He sets his duffel bag down on the kitchen counter and finally gets over his initial shock long enough to feel the little difference between the present indoor and outdoor temperatures with appropriate levels of disgust. Maybe Maka really is dead.
"When we talked about cutting back on the electric bill, I meant, like, bumping it up a couple degrees, not up Hell's asshole," he says, voice raised when he doesn't find her on the balcony or in her bedroom. Adrenaline makes quick work of his jet lag and evicts his exhaustion. Upon seeing the unmade state of her bed, he picks up the pace. "Damn it, Maka, did you actually die?" Soul breezes past the dark bathroom with a cursory glance inside, but then stops short and backtracks to do a double-take for the blob on the floor.
"Yes," she says, belly-down on the tile. He flips on the light and finds her gnawing on one of those neon-colored, freeze-it-yourself pops, dressed in a sports bra and her Spartoi-edition workout shorts.
Soul has at least twelve things he wants to say, but doesn't know how to express any of them. "Don't joke like that," he says with a disgruntled sigh, leaning on the bathroom door frame.
Blinking up at him with some consideration, she amends with, "Sorry, uh. I did not die. I got fired again."
Soul now has at least thirteen things he wants to say. "Huh?"
"I didn't even last three hours," she says with a blue-raspberry mouth and crunching the popsicle through its plastic sleeve like she's trying to make all popsicle-kind extinct in one go. "I'm reflecting on my actions."
He hadn't known she'd gotten another job. "What, with like a self-disciplinary sauna?"
She doesn't say anything, only chewing in silence, but Soul sees the dullness in her downcast eyes, her own disappointment punishing her well enough on its own. He doesn't know what to do here, or what kind of solution is needed.
"I stole Kid's airplane cookies for you," he says, walking in the bathroom and groaning as he leans over to offer a hand. "C'mon, let's go turn on the air and you can tell me what, uh, what's up with the socks."