Summary: The Black Dress itches. Soul offers to help take it off.
Characters: Soul, Maka
A/N: Alright. So I've been drowning myself in SoMa fics the past few days, and finally had to write my own. I was inspired by a list of 64 themes, particularly by Itch and Rip. Be on the lookout for more SoMa goodness, as I have a few other ideas stewing in the back of my head. Anyway, Enjoy, and don't forget to review!
The calm, soothing music that was playing in the Black Room was at odds with the angrier sounds of battle that assaulted the pair on the battlefield. The disparity unsettled Maka, and as he spun her around the room, Soul focused on calming his technician. She eased under his reassurances, settling into the rhythm they had all but perfected at this point.
Witch Hunting shrieked into being. She swung Soul behind her, grip on the long handled weapon certain and confident—
With the appearance of the attack, the music shifted and changed. The casual jazz piece morphed into something darker and more sensual. Soul's arms about her waist tightened, pulling her into his chest more firmly. The abrupt shift in mood took her unawares, and she faltered. In her confusion, she stepped wrong, disrupting the flow of the dance.
In the millisecond that she should have begun the attack, Maka hesitated. Soul's apprehension washed over her, and she jerked her focus out of the Black Room. Cursing her distraction, she tightened her grip as the weapon began its deadly arc—
"Maka?" Soul's eyes were crimson pools of blood, swallowing her up.
"Hmm?" She was unable and unwilling to find her voice. The atmosphere had thickened, and the hair at the nape of her neck stood on end. Soul's breath was warm against her ear.
He didn't respond for a moment, examining the cadence of her thoughts as they were transmitted to him through Soul Resonance. She, in turn, could sense his concern at her uncharacteristic slip up. "You alright?" He turned his head to look at her face, and his voice sent chills down her spine.
Irritation flared briefly. They hadn't produced such a mediocre Witch Hunter in years. Her form was off, and her previous hesitation had cost them. Messy but acceptable, Soul's blade whistled toward the target—
"Yeah," she scrambled for an excuse. "The dress—it- it just itches," she stumbled through the lie, flustered by his proximity. He'd see the dishonesty in a heartbeat, she knew, but no way in hell was she going to admit that his nearness made her heart stutter.
There was a pregnant pause. Maka cringed at the lengthening silence. Her wavelength shuddered, and she reigned it back in. She desperately wished for a hard surface upon which to bang her head. Soul Resonance seemed to be headed the same way as Witch Hunting. Maybe she wasn't as resistant to insanity as they'd always believed, because she certainly wasn't in her right mind at the moment.
Her partner's voice interjected into her mortified worrying. There was something in his tone that turned her insides to liquid warmth. "Would you like me to help you take it off?"
Witch Hunting missed. The tip of the scythe caught momentarily on loose fabric, ripping through the cloth as if it were butter, and then screamed through empty space. The strength of the swing sent her sprawling. The impact jarred Soul out of her grasp. The scythe landed a few feet away, clanging on the cold stone.
Soul Resonance ended in a paroxysm.