Title: An Evil Sort of Perfection

Category: Hurt/Comfort/Romance

Rating: T

Summary: "Nobody's perfect." Except for me, I'm Death. My position commands respect, and everything I have must be perfect. Does that make me evil?

Disclaimer: I don't own Soul Eater, all rights to respectful owners

"Do you think I'm beautiful? Be honest."

I don't have to think about it for more than a moment, I've thought about it many times:

Her left eye is exactly one-sixteenth of a millimeter higher than her right, and if you look closely there's a freckle on the right side of her mouth, but none on the left. A cowlick makes the left side of her hair stand up just a tick higher than her right, and she has a scar on her right shoulder blade from when she was eight and her first mugging victim decided to fight back. Her left arm is a quarter of an inch longer than her right, and her right eye brow sits on an angle half of a degree higher than the left and her left foot is an inch longer than her right.

I, Death, am holding a position that demands perfection and respect, and she is asymmetrical and therefore imperfect.

When I told her all of this, she glared and yelled at me. I watch very carefully as her face transformed from its normal caramel color to red. She clenched her fists at her side, like she always does when she's angry, grit her teeth, and jut out her chin before she started shrieking.

"Why in the hell would you take the time to find all the things that are wrong with me!"

"Because-" She cut off me off with more yelling. I almost don't understand this; didn't she ask me to be honest?

"Let me guess, it's disgusting? Do you want to fix me? What are you going to do? Cut off my arms and feet? Chop me down until everything is symmetric?"

"Well, no-"

"Then what? What can I do for you?"

I opened my mouth but she, again, cut me off. Only this time the anger in her voice was gone, instead she sounded resigned and she turned her head, looking at a picture on the wall, in-place of me. It was expertly hung, perfectly parallel to the ground.

"You know, I put up with your neurotic tendency's, but you're just too...too caught up in the need for perfection-"

She's cut off by a sob; she doesn't finish her sentence before she heads for the door. I think about grabbing her, I know it's what she wants. She's silently pleading for me to grab her and tell her she's perfect and that I'm sorry. But I won't, and I know I won't and even she knowsI won't, but she's still hoping.

There's a big difference between logic and hope.

Before she leaves she whispers that I'm evil. And I think she's right.

"You've been so different since becoming Lord Death,"

The world used to be all black and white. You were right or wrong. You loved or you didn't. The DWMA and my father were the good in this world. Now I know we're just using that as a disguise for order.

"I'm afraid of you, of what you've become. Do you still love me?"


Even though it is a lie and I know that it is. I wonder if it's wrong that I lead her on, when it makes her so happy.

She finally leaves, the door shutting quietly behind her. A small gust of air blows my hair back. It's perfectly symmetrical; all three Sanzu lines are connected. I'm perfect.

"Nobody's perfect."

Except for me, I'm death. My position commands respect, and everything I have must be perfect. Does that make me evil?

I think it does, but then again,

"The world is one big gray area."