A/N: Hello! Here's a little of Maka and Soul filtered by my perception. Hope you like it!


He comes back, always looking starved and parched. Sometimes he's injured. Other times he's not. He comes with requests of food, water and alcohol. Requests to the wall. He comes in torn clothes and bloody fingernails. He comes with tangled hair and steps in the bathroom as if the bathroom was made for only him to step into.

He kicks his shoes off and they land just outside the bathroom door. He undresses. Throws his clothes anywhere. They always land on his shoes, or on his one shoe; without fail. Steps in the shower. Turns the temperature to boiling. He washes everything off. Everything fucking stings. Makes his skin new again.

Steps out. In his towel, he picks up his clothes, shoes and headband, goes into her empty bedroom, takes out needles and threads. He comes in the living room. Leaves everything but his shoes on the table; those he takes to the doorstep. Slaps his forehead. He can't sew them while they're dirty like that. Sighs. He puts them in the wash.

Comes back into the living room. He swears a bit. He could have taken his shoes off before he fucking entered the house. There's muddy footprints all over. He looks over to her. She's pretending to be asleep. Even so, he's going to try and keep it quiet.

He's so tired of mopping floors. He's so tired of cleaning up after himself all by himself. He can't ask for favours now. "Good boys deserve favours", she had once said. He can't ask for any favours. When did she spoil him so? Never. How come he's become so spoiled?

She broke her right arm. Fractured her left. He wasn't there. How did she break her arm? How did she break one arm and fracture the other? Why the hell wasn't he there? What the fuck was he doing while her bones were cracking? She won't tell him anything. He can't even remember what- Really, what the hell was he doing that day? What happened? Every night he asked himself that. Like a mantra. But no, he didn't ask her. He wouldn't.

Would it be fine to use just water to wipe away the mud? It would probably go all over the floor. Does he use a floorcleanerthingthatsmellsl ikeartificiallime? Where do they keep that?


She's pretending to be asleep. Asleep in the armchair in the living room. Her book is on her lap. She's breathing calmly, calculatingly slow. Her eyebrows twitch with every noise that indicates he's there. She'd been staring at the same word for two hours. Now she can't remember which word that was. She's been having a shitty day. She's been having a shitty last three weeks. Stein said he doesn't know how long till she can use her right arm again. She'd have to go see him every week. At least the cast was off her left arm. Just bandages left all over. She went there in the morning. Her roommate was sleeping. He'd come home late the night before.

Stein said he could open it up some more and see what was really wrong, now that the bleeding had stopped. He did. No infection. Just stubborn bones. Spirit said get well soon. Soul said nothing. He wasn't with her, he was home, asleep. He hadn't said anything. Not since he muttered 'sorry' on the way home from Stein's office. If they hadn't been on the motorcycle she wouldn't have heard it. She had the wind to thank for carrying that small word from his mouth to her ears. And the years of being on the vehicle behind him that allowed her to keep her balance on it without using her arms. And her disinclination to hug him every time they had to be somewhere fast.


He puts the mop where he'd found it. He wants some tea. Why? So that she gets up and criticizes his tea-making skills? So that she gets fed up with him being in the same room she is 'trying to sleep' in and go to her room? So that she does anything?

Maka is mad. She isn't mad at Soul. She is mad at herself. She is mad at herself because she's handicapped herself, being stupid and useless without her weapon. A very non-soulless, non-inanimate object-like, breathing, human, mortal and susceptible to injury weapon. And now he is mad at her. And he won't talk to her.

He puts down his cup on the table and sits cross-legged on the couch, looking at her pretending to sleep. He is a five-year-old. A five-year-old frightened of silence and deliberately loosely shut eyes.

Soul is pissed. He isn't pissed at Maka. He is pissed at himself. He is pissed at himself because she's handicapped herself, being unprotected and alone in a fight with a freaking creature from hell. Unprotected. A meister without a weapon. She is mortal, susceptible to injury. And he is made of steel and he was off doing something else. He left his partner alone to go do something he can't even recall. And now she is pissed at him. And she won't talk to him.

He blows on his tea. It smells sweet. It smells promising. Just bringing it close to his face warms him up. Sets the cup on the table. Looks at her some more. Brings it close to his mouth. Looks at her some more. Her hair is down. Her legs are crossed at the ankles. Her brows are slightly furrowed. She was reading short stories. Short stories are all she's been reading these past three weeks. Gets up, goes into the kitchen, empties the tea into the sink.

"Maka. Bed," he quietly says.

She opens her eyes. Tries to look bored.

"Soul. Bed," she says and makes her way to her room.


She doesn't bother thinking about trying to get her hair into pigtails. She's got the putting-clothes-on bit down. No need to get her hair into pigtails. People can recognize her without them.

When she goes out of her room, the house is empty. His door is open. Wide open. His room is empty and the window is letting a whole lot of wind mess all the papers on his desk. It's freezing. She steps in. On her way to the window, she picks up a stray T-shirt of his, left on the well-made bed. Holds it in front of her. She can't fold it properly with her 54% functional left arm. Leaves it on his chair. Closes the window. Picks the T-shirt half way up, pulls it closer to her nose. Don't sniff it. Don't sniff it, sociopath. Sets it down.

"Stupid Soul. You're lowering the temperature," she mutters. Great, talk to yourself.


The strawberry milkshake is making his hand numb. Driving a motorcycle one-handedly is probably against the law. But Maka isn't here to point it out. And whose fault is that? And a strawberry milkshake in the middle of winter. She always wants strawberry milkshakes. He has to talk to her. He wants to tell her he's sorry. And he knows she's thinking things like wanting to be more independent and be able to fight off any foe alone, just because she's Maka. And she's so hardworking. And she's awesome. That's why she doesn't need a weapon to protect her. She needs a weapon that she can protect so that she can get stronger and have a motive for trying hard. They've had that discussion a thousand times. She doesn't need strawberry-milkshake-flavoured statements from him. She doesn't need to wield him every time she's facing a screeching, drooling, slimy creature that's eyeing her very soul. She doesn't need Soul. She's Maka Albarn.

He gets home and she's watering the plant in the hallway. Her cast is untouched, white. She won't let anyone write anything on it. It's stupid. She said it's stupid. Black Star wanted to leave his mark on it. But he got brushed off silently. No Maka-chop. Obviously.

She's sitting in front of the plant as she's carefully watering each and every leaf. She has headphones on. Her back is turned to the door so she can't see him. He takes a moment to look at her crouching figure and her let-down hair. He's used to it now. He knows she'll be startled if he touches her back but her arm is slightly shaky and there's no room at her sides.

"Maka?" he tries. Her music is not too loud. She's probably thinking about something. "Maka?" he says, louder.

"Soul?" she says and turns around, looking rather expressionless. Surprise, surprise.

"Uh- I thought you didn't...I can do that," he says.

"Do what?"

"Water it?"

"But I already did."

"Oh."

She stands up using only her leg strength. He takes the watering can from her grip and sets it down. Looks at what is causing the lack of feeling in his hand. She looks at it too. Raises an eyebrow. He looks at the floor. Curses, takes his shoes off, hands Maka the frozen drink.

"Thought I'd be very considerate and get you a frozen drink in this late November weather," he says. Clever Soul. O-hoho, you're so clever. Sarcasm is the way to go when talking to a bitter Maka. Well done.

She extends a bandaged arm and tilts her head. She's not being cute. She's reading the label on the container. She won't drink any ice-cream beaten in milk. Satisfied, she takes it in her left hand and sets it on her right-arm cast. It's balanced against her stomach.

"Thank you," she says. Turns around. "You'd left your window wide open."

"Maka?" he tries again.

"Soul?"

"I'm sorry."

"You've said that before." He sighs. "On the motorcycle, I mean," she adds. He looks up. His shoulders drop an inch.

"Still, I'm so sorry."

"It was my fault. I was being immature," she says.

What? Is she lying?

"No, I'm not," she says. "Don't look at me like that, I'm not lying."

She shakes her head. Walks to the kitchen and sets the shake on a counter. She leans against the nearest wall.

"I'm mad at you for not talking to me for so long," she says, looking down.

"I know," he says.

"You won't be there always, Soul. I can't get mad at you for being partly absent for three weeks. You won't always be so near or so available."

"I'll always be here," he pathetically says. His voice is whiny, juvenile. Not cool.


A/N: Thanks for reading!