Disclaimer: I do not own Soul Eater.
by. Poisoned Scarlett
What is she doing?
She doesn't know anymore but there's a bitter taste in the back of her throat.
How did it get to this? She can't remember no matter how much she stares at the ceiling at night.
But she can tell you it started some two years ago by the water fountain on the sixth floor of DTH headquarters. She had been refilling her water bottle, mulling over some new project her supervisor had assigned her, and then the elevator doors opened. She looked up at that moment, expecting another haggard co-worker to shuffle out with a cup of coffee in his hand. But she got something else, something better, and she would tell you that her eyes burned from staring so long— the loose tie, black blazer, black slacks, hands tucked in pockets, spiky bleached hair, red eyes. Eyes that were so, so red and hair that was so, so white. She swore to God she had never seen someone so strange and so hot, unfairly attractive in an otherwise boring black-and-white, nothing special, suit.
Her clothes had started feeling like too much for how hot the room had become.
He didn't notice a thing.
She looked at her bottle before he could.
Then he came up to her, opened his mouth, and made himself more perfect:
"Hey, I'm looking for the director's office?"
And then she opened her mouth, all deadpan and frank:
"There is a map right beside the elevator with all the office numbers and their occupants."
And he stared, rose his brows, the corner of his lip twitching like he couldn't decide whether to frown or smirk. He went with the latter and her throat went tight like that time her papa had snuck up on her and she rolled off the bed, the hood caught on the post, her jacket like a piano wire around her neck.
"Yeah, but I figure it'd be easier to ask someone who already works here. Y'know, to save time. So much for that. Thanks for wasting my time, tiny tits."
Asshole. He was an asshole—another one of those suave, better-than-you, douchebags with equally suave, prettier-than-you, girlfriends. Another pretty face, ugly inside. And she very clearly let him know that, tightening the cap on her bottle to the point where it broke and didn't seal anymore, sending him a look that could corrode metal. She stormed back to her office and only later, after she cooled off, prayed to all that was holy that he did not report her to the director and, ultimately, cost her the job. She was just an awkward office worker with temper problems looking for something other than paper pushing in her life; cut her some slack, she deserved a break every now and then.
After all, she was just Maka Albarn—corporate cold, black and white, with emerald eyes that could outshine suns if she tried. But she didn't. She wore plain pencil skirts, plain button ups, plain blazers, and her hair was usually kept in a strict bun on the back of her head. She wore it in pigtails for most of her junior high and high school years but when she turned eighteen and entered college, she figured a more professional approach would be appropriate.
Buns it was.
But no one knocked on her office door and reprimanded her for her poor attitude. No one came, actually, and she had even peeked outside to find the hallways as deserted as they usually were around lunch time. He, surprisingly, had not breathed a word of her earlier rudeness. But he had grinned viciously at her when he was introduced at the conference by Kidd, their boss, a few days later and she made a keen effort to keep herself from squirming in her seat like some flustered school girl. And flipping him the bird, too, because as much as that grin made her thighs clench, the haughtiness in it was enough to send anyone in a spitting rage.
But that was how it started—one regular day, a Wednesday actually, with him ending up two offices down hers with the goal to make her life as miserable as possible.
That was two years ago.
Now she stands around the corner of a familiar hall, holding her clipboard to her chest, gazing at the wine-red carpet that's recently been washed. She can hear them, hear the way that girl laughs cutely and he snorts at something she said. They're pretty friendly, she thinks, they've been getting pretty friendly these past few days. Maka knows too well that girl likes him, has liked him since he stepped foot into the conference room two years ago and flashed his razor-sharp grin at them all.
And Maka Albarn is no competition for someone like her—all pretty and bodacious in that always-be-prettier-than-you sort of way. She glowed in a way Maka didn't, spoke in a way Maka didn't know how. And it didn't matter that sarcastic douche Soul Evans got along with her, Maka Albarn, the best because, hey, she's a cold bitch and it's probably why she got promoted to head bitch only a year ago. That's what they call her, anyway, she's really just the assistant director and happened to do her job to a T.
But nonetheless, head bitch is a title everyone whispered amongst themselves when they thought she wasn't listening.
And no matter that eighty percent of everything that came out of Soul Evans mouth is either sarcastic or sneered, he's still seen as some sort of blessing in disguise because of his good genes. Really good genes; chromosomes perfectly paired in every way sort of genes. Maka admitted this that day two years ago but it's a taste thing, too, because she knows a couple of girls who cringe at the sight of him—mainly his decidedly frightening ruby eyes and sharp teeth. Not their type, they'd shudder with fear, not with those teeth and those eyes and that horrible, horrible attitude.
Maka doesn't know—maybe she has a hidden kink for that sort of thing and maybe some of the women in the office do, too. But kink or not, there's nothing special about her that can attract Soul Evans. He already expressed his type of woman—only too much, drawled with that husky voice of his, big boobs and a tight ass and a sweet personality and nothing like you, Jesus Christ, did you not get enough love from your daddy when you were a kid or something?
He's always been one.
She kind of likes it.
She thinks she has issues although she's equally scathing so this may be one of those math things. They cancel each other out. Their words are about as hurtful as throwing marshmallows at walls. It hurts less but feels better. Comfort in each other, understanding like no other. Yeah, that's probably why she feels jealous right now as she walks back to her office. What if he finds understanding in another? Then what? Does she have to start over again—hell, she hadn't even started this time. He just dropped into her life and, despite being a dick, somehow improved it. What'll she do now if he's gone? Who'll push her buttons, who'll make her laugh, or ask her what's wrong and mean it?
She broke that one rule her father garbled out one night he came back drunk sometime in her freshman year of high school. One rule that's helped her in life so far. Everything had gone well until today, the day she decided she officially broke it.
"Don't get attached to someone you can lose. Your mama—she was some…some'un I could lose. I fucked up, baby girl, I dunno' how to…fix it. I can't."
He's right: you break the rule and then you don't know how to fix it. How can you fix it? It's been broken. No matter how much you try to repair it, it wouldn't do much, because it's already broken. It'll never be the same again. You'd have to replace the part to be safe and that takes a long time—a long time to order that part, the wait as it ships, and by the time you're ready for that part, you'd have decided to take care of it to the point of obsession because, hey, this is a new part and it's fucking expensive and paying for another one is just outrageous…
She's going to ask him out.
That pretty girl, she meant, not her. God, the day Maka Albarn asked a man out was the day her boss decided that the OCD was really all in his head and he could control it. And she'd tell you, that'll be never. But she's sure that girl will, I mean, she's built all of this talk over the past few days and for what? Just because? No. Maka may be a little slow when treading the waters of courtship but she's not a fool enough to not be able to see what she was trying to do. Talk to him, warm him up to her, and when the moment was right, BAM!
Pop the question.
It was really all on him. The power was in his hands, which Maka supposes is favorable. It's just how he likes it—with the cards falling right into his palm every time. And a part of her thinks he will say yeah, sure and they'll go out and thus an office romance will ensue that will have the entire floor in a chattering frenzy that'll push that icicle in her heart a little deeper. But another part of her snorts at the idea of Soul actually taking her seriously, of saying yeah, sure and going along with it. For all his douchbaggery and general idiocy, he's as sharp as a tack and always manages to startle her with his moments of brilliance.
He's not stupid.
He's on the same level as her.
That's why she hated him in the beginning. It's his ability to keep up with her but to pretend to be bored and whine, whine, whine about how boring she could be and how she'd never get married with that attitude. But he read books, once and usually by force, but he read them, and he recited whole paragraphs if he wanted to be particularly snotty and he corrected her sometimes and was actually fucking right each time. She didn't know why he hid it, these talents of his, this intelligence of his, but she supposes it has to do with the fact that he upholds this idiotic cool ideal. Studying isn't cool, he'd tell her, neither is being a know-it-all prick or cheating.
Yes. He emphasized on that—cheating, unfaithfulness.
He's too smart for his own good, Maka thinks darkly.
But she digresses.
Soul Evans likes to pretend and she lets him pretend because if it made him feel good, well, who was she to call him out on it? Besides, the last time she called him out on it, it resulted in an explosive argument in the parking lot that involved a lot of insults and a lot of shouting. They hadn't spoken for four days after that and they had been the longest four days of her life. But he wasn't a dumb jock, he was an intelligent douche, and that was why he was the one who apologized in the middle of the fourth day and managed to piss her off a few minutes later and still be in her good graces (somehow). That's why he caught her little ticks, her little smiles, and all those times she loosened up enough to laugh at something he said. It's why he quickly figured out why she doesn't like tick tacks and why she prefers Mentos or why she only crosses her leg one way and not the other. He quickly realized the signs for when she's angry, gloomy, bored, happy—what she does to express either, those little ticks that give way to what she's really feeling. He knows it all and it's unnerving, just how cataloged he has her.
But it's also just a little…relieving.
"You've been happier recently."
"You smile a lot, even if you don't realize it."
"How could I not realize when I'm smiling? I'm pretty sure I would, Soul, don't be stupid."
"Nah, I don't think you do. Like right now, you're fighting back a smile. So stop being difficult just to be difficult and admit that I'm right so we can move on with our lives."
If only she can confess she just wants to fuck Soul Evans on a nice, flat surface until he begs for mercy twice so she can move on with her life.
And that she probably fell in love with him sometime between now and a year ago.
But she would never admit that, her face still puts tomatoes to shame when she even thinks about it.
So, for once, Soul is wrong and she's not being difficult just to be difficult. It really is difficult and Maka allows herself a few seconds of triumph at being right before she hunches over and turns her stapler around in her hands, a tiny smile grazing her lips and softening her eyes.
Soul bought her this stapler.
He said it reminded him of her, that prick.
A/N: This is something I wrote up in my spare time. It's a new style I decided to try out this once. Also, I am quite aware that they are slightly OOC. I tried to keep it within believable bounds, though :)