This is her first impression of him: he's shorter than her, slender and thin-limbed. If she were inclined to kindness, she could perhaps call him wiry, but she's not, and so skinny is the word that comes to her instead. Quick, perhaps, and light on his feet, but he'd be no match for her at all in close to medium range combat, with or without weapons. Fidgety too, and probably easily distractible; even now he's shifting from foot to foot, minute movements of his head indicating that his attention is being divided by multiple unimportant stimuli.
- titled “you snuck inside my head and i carved you out of stone”, 2B’s part of a series spanning from when 2B and 9S first meet to the beginning of the game
Why why why - you seemed to be the only person that questioned, or cared, or gave it any thought whatsoever. Maybe it was a scanner thing. Maybe the other S units also couldn't stop themselves from asking themselves these things too, were brushed off by Command in the same nearly contemptuous way. You wouldn't know. Your current social circle consists of 21O, the Commander, and Pod 153. You are pitifully excited to increase that number by 33% by meeting this new android.
- titled “it’s something in my blood, something in my bones”, 9S’s half of the series, paralleling 2B’s
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“I know,” Soul sighs, sounding so unbearably exasperated and inexplicably fond that her heart is sent into overdrive. “Can’t take you anywhere without worrying about whether we’re gonna get kicked out ‘cause you thought punching someone was easier than using your words -”
“Y-you’re one to talk!” Maka crosses her arms, clutching them close in an attempt to calm the pounding in her chest. “You hate making conversation more than I do!”
“Lucky I got you with me then, hm?” He sends her a devastating, sharp-toothed grin, and her heart refuses to be caged in by her ribs and arms any longer, leaping into her mouth.
- untitled, in which Soul and Maka have to pretend to be engaged in order to stop a witch that works as wedding planner
She hesitates. She's hugged Soul loads of times, and vice versa - they've never been shy about physical contact, couldn't be, really, what with him being a weapon and her wielding him. Honestly, she'd probably been in far more compromising positions with Soul in reality.
But something about the way they touched each other in the dream felt different. A kind of casual comfortableness, perhaps, a intimacy that seems strange and out of place in their reality. Just imagining it happening with the Soul sitting across from her, solid and immutable and unequivocally real, causes a low-lying embarrassment to settle in the pit of her stomach.
- titled “giving up”, in which Maka has too-real dreams about future her and Soul in a relationship that makes her start to question what she wants in the present
Shinigami are tools of the living, and so your father tried to write it into the flesh of his firstborn. But tools must have wielders, ones that are equal to the strength of the task, or all risk being consumed. A lesson the world learnt swiftly, but not so swift to prevent your creation.
Asura had a name. Your father merely calls you Kid, and on good days you think that to be a source of pride. On bad days, you think it to be a reminder of the brother you are too close to becoming.
- titled “ghosted with the memories gone astray”, Kid’s part of inverse weapon-meister AU
" 'Never being able to live up to my father?' " he interrupts, tone deadly level. "Don't worry, Maka, you made that point quite well yesterday too, and I assure you, I am well aware of all that I am lacking in comparison to him." Even with the mask, she can read his quiet grief, hear the loss in his voice. The crushing weight of regret and guilt bears down upon her, and she nearly reaches out for him, lips already forming an apology -
But Kid's next words betray none of the lost son she once called 'friend', and her ire spikes as he says, "However, I will tell you as I told you not twenty-four hours ago: whether or not I possess all the qualities as my late father, I am still your god - and your employer. Therefore I suggest you treat me with the respect I deserve."
- tentatively titled “Maka Albarn’s Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day” where Maka gets stuck in a time loop after her insecurities cause her to piss off two very important people to her
Soul doesn't say, You were the one that challenged him in the first place. He doesn't say, Kid's our friend, and you know he only agreed to it because he knew it'd make you happy. He doesn't say, Stop being a sore loser and acting like a brat and let's go play basketball to blow off some steam.
He doesn't say, I wish you cared half as much about my opinion as you do Kid's.
What he does say is, "If you break your hands, we won't be able to challenge him for a rematch tomorrow."
- untitled Soul/Black*Star fic (with minor Star/Kid and SoMa)
Her hand brushes against his elbow and he flinches, immediately curling back up into himself, shoulders shaking.
"Please," he rasps, voice muffled through his arms. "Please. Just a few minutes."
The small, beaten note in his voice breaks her heart, and in its place a burning need to do something flares up. "Wait there," she tells him firmly, moving towards the hatch. "I'll be right back."
But when Marinette comes back, pitcher of water and a platter of cookies balanced precariously in her hands, the balcony is empty. Nothing is there to even suggest that he was there in the first place. She leaves her offerings on the little table anyway, just in case.
She throws the soggy, dew-laden cookies away the next morning.
- untitled, AU where Chat Noir got his miraculous but Marinette never did
You hated your dad's questions. Your words stumbled along without a shred of the eloquence that your father was known for, and you knew, you knew that the more you rambled the stupider you sounded, but you couldn't help it. All you could do was watch the furrow between his brows grow deeper and deeper and no amount of talking could smooth it out. Whatever answer he was looking for, you could never find it, and always walked away feeling like you had disappointed him deeply and would never live up to him.
- titled “an angry blade”, exploration of Law’s life immediately after his mother dies up to where he joins the group
It's enough of a concession that Law's able to recede back into his usual barely-awake state of being during these events. Or attempt to, anyway. Instead he spends the next twenty minutes berating himself for his lapse in judgement. He had survived nearly four years in this hellhole by doing his best to avoid everyone else and keeping his head down and mouth shut; he wasn't tough enough or clever enough to survive any other way. And yeah, okay, he wasn't always very good at shutting up or not drawing attention to himself when his temper got the best of him, but he'd at least been able to stick to the avoiding part. So naturally, less than two days after getting the crap beaten out of him, he decides to go for broke, and with someone who not only has actively threatened to kill him but is also incredibly invested in projecting how much she loathes the organization to everyone who has eyes.
- titled “face to face on high places”, where Law, working for the Snake Eyes, accidentally discovers his fellow agent Rinwell is a double agent for the Silver Swords
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Tsukasa can be obedient. Tsukasa can follow rules. Tsukasa can stop running around like a crazy person, can tuck in his shirt, can stop yammering a mile a minute, can keep his hands to himself when Amane orders him to. He is content, mostly, to let Amane tell him when to stop being Tsukasa and to be more Amane, a distinction he's only just begun to realize. Especially when it means that the perpetual little crease between Amane's eyebrows will smooth out briefly, when it means that Amane might agree to play a game with him, maybe even come exploring if he's lucky.
- titled “when you hit me, hit me hard”, which is an exploration of the events leading up to Amane’s death from Tsukasa’s perspective (and is totally non-compliant with canon!)
Here are your few talents: You can lie as well as a fae is able to. You've a fair hand for stealing and you're better at most at slyfooting and sleight of hand. You've a talent for gossip and secrets and change roles and attitudes as easily as slipping into a new pair of clothes. You also have, through much trial and error and threat of death, acquired a particular skill of slipping in and out of the mortal world without detection by Madoc's patrols.
Here are your worst weaknesses: The inability to curb your tongue. The tendency to find levity at the worst of times, most often when on the other side of a fist. Your tail, which gives away your every anxious thought. The latter at least you can control by hiding it. As for the others, well, you've gotten very good at running, and, failing that, you've had much experience in taking a beating and still living afterwards, even if it's from the perspective of the floor.
- untitled fic with role reversal between Cardan and Jude, where Jude is the human princess of the realm after Madoc carved his bloody way to the throne, and Cardan is a rogue thief just trying to make it another day without getting killed
Anytime you jump off a cliff or tell Bruno to shut up, I'll be there, Alberto had said, and so it was. But he was there even when Luca wasn't trying to be brave - or rather, the lack of him was. With every pillow fort he built with Giulia, with every new food he tried, he felt his absence, an Alberto-shaped hole that made every experience just a little more dull.
He did his best to fill this emptiness with letters, and hearing Alberto's voice on the phone, with all of its verve and expression, helped to blur his absence a little more.
"You're trying to capture something that can't be captured," Agnieszka tells him reproachfully. "It's not like - magic isn't some sort of math equation. It has a life of its own, like a stream, and you just guide it to where you want it to go." And then she's off again about forests and gleaning and picking trails and other words that sound more like they belong in a guidebook for hiking than a treatise on magic. It's like they're speaking two completely different languages. Sarkan has never felt this mystical "consciousness" to his magic, no sense of a will or instinct. Every spell he's ever done on purpose has been the steady, patient work of building: the spells providing the blueprints, his words placing the bricks, his magic holding them together like mortar.
- untitled fic with role reversal between Agnieszka and Sarkan, where Agnieszka is the centuries old witch of the woods and Sarkan a 17-year-old orphan who just wants to steal her magical books
It has been a very long time since I have posted, and it has been a very long time since I’ve finished any piece of fanfiction. But I have been writing in spurts and pieces for various fandoms as they catch my interest, and while none of them may see the light of day, there are still parts of them that I like and enjoy. So in an effort to encourage and to reassure myself that even if no complete work comes out of it, I can still be satisfied with doing things the way I want to do them, in the time I want to do them, I’ve decided to post a couple of my favorite lines from unfinished works. I was intending to do this just for 2022 but since I write in OneNote and write snippets years after I’ve started something, it’ll just be a general catch all, posting them in accordance with the fandoms they’re associated with. Here’s hoping 2023 will inspire me, and whoever is reading this, to write!
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Here’s chapter 2, guys! If you missed chapter 1, you can start the story [here] or [here] !
Summary: In a world where everything is black-and-white until you find your soulmate, one learns to navigate in shades of gray. When Soul, an agent tasked with recruiting operatives for the FBI’s tech division, gets a tip about Maka, a sharp-witted hacker flying under the radar, their story is bound to be a colorful one.
Chapter 2: Somebody’s Watchin’ Me
It’s been three days, and in theory, nothing has changed.
Soul wakes up late again, worms into the same pants, and drops his phone while putting on said pants. At work, his computer loads like molasses as he nurses a coffee cup, staring at the update bar through sleep-heavy eyes. He sits at the same desk, with the same task: wasting his life away, monitoring his newest recruit.
This is all well and good - except, of course, for the fact that everything has changed.
Happy SoMa week friends!!! Here’s part 1 of a story that I couldn’t resist writing for the Complementary theme. Thank you oodles to @jaded-envy, @makapedia, @alliope and @piercelovewonton for the eyes <3
Summary: In a world where everything is black-and-white until you find your soulmate, one learns to navigate in shades of gray. When Soul, an agent tasked with recruiting operatives for the FBI’s tech division, gets a tip about Maka, a sharp-witted hacker flying under the radar, their story is bound to be a colorful one.
Rating: T for language, rampant invasions of digital privacy, vague references to animal abuse, and probably a lot of innuendos.
—
The summer heat is suffocating, even in black and white.
They’ve been cramped up here for hours, pamphlets scattered across the floor, tiles stark white in the fluorescent lights. It’s almost cruel, the irony of such a cold, unforgiving place completely devoid of air conditioning.
August heat in Washington D.C. is especially oppressive; humid and lingering, it’s the kind of heat that makes you feel like the devil himself is rising up from the concrete to greet you, hovering just out of reach.
Luckily, Maka Albarn loves the heat. And catching demons is what she does best.
Hello again friends, and we’re back on track. This one begins with a very important flashback…
Incidentally, with few exceptions, almost all of the places described are real. Blanchard Springs Caverns, as mentioned in the blood, are a series of caves located in Arkansas; in this chapter, we visit Buffalo Central Terminal, and the facts said are as true as my research could ascertain.
Comments, criticism and reblogs are always highly appreciated. Thank you for reading!
Full story here: AO3 || FF.Net
marshofsleep’s playlist || marshofsleep and thefishywitchy art
WAYWARD SOULS ACT ONE: PACTS
the brother
“The train station was built in 1926,” Wes says, Maserati humming quietly as he shifts gears. “They decided to construct it a good way away from the city, to avoid congestion, and because they expected the city’s borders to eventually expand and encompass it.”
“Fascinating,” Soul drawls, cheek propped up on a hand, head resting against the window. His eyes follow the mile markers as they flash past.
“It’s a pretty big building - fifteen stories of office towers, fourteen train platforms, and a huge mezzanine. Too big, it turned out, especially once the automobile started gaining popularity and people stopped using public transportation to go long distances. But at least that means there will be many areas for us to explore, right, Soul?”
“Mmhm.” He sneaks a glance at his brother, who sits prim and proper in the driver’s seat, hands perfectly aligned at ten and two. Wes is dressed down for the occasion, which means he’s still wearing clothes that would immediately get him mugged. It’s weird seeing him outside of suits and tuxedos, Soul thinks as he turns back to the window. Not that Wes’s busy schedule had allowed him to see much of him at all lately.
Hello again friends, and we’re back on track. This one begins with a very important flashback...
Incidentally, with few exceptions, almost all of the places described are real. Blanchard Springs Caverns, as mentioned in the blood, are a series of caves located in Arkansas; in this chapter, we visit Buffalo Central Terminal, and the facts said are as true as my research could ascertain.
Comments, criticism and reblogs are always highly appreciated. Thank you for reading!
Full story here: AO3 || FF.Net
marshofsleep’s playlist || marshofsleep and thefishywitchy art
WAYWARD SOULS ACT ONE: PACTS
the brother
"The train station was built in 1926," Wes says, Maserati humming quietly as he shifts gears. "They decided to construct it a good way away from the city, to avoid congestion, and because they expected the city's borders to eventually expand and encompass it."
"Fascinating," Soul drawls, cheek propped up on a hand, head resting against the window. His eyes follow the mile markers as they flash past.
"It's a pretty big building - fifteen stories of office towers, fourteen train platforms, and a huge mezzanine. Too big, it turned out, especially once the automobile started gaining popularity and people stopped using public transportation to go long distances. But at least that means there will be many areas for us to explore, right, Soul?"
"Mmhm." He sneaks a glance at his brother, who sits prim and proper in the driver's seat, hands perfectly aligned at ten and two. Wes is dressed down for the occasion, which means he's still wearing clothes that would immediately get him mugged. It's weird seeing him outside of suits and tuxedos, Soul thinks as he turns back to the window. Not that Wes’s busy schedule had allowed him to see much of him at all lately.
Soul jerks as something lands in his lap. "Wha-" He picks it up, and it throws off specks of light from the sun as it twists around on its chain. Chicago Symphony Orchestra, the keychain declares.
"Got you something from Chicago," Wes says. "Like it?"
"Yeah, thanks," Soul says abruptly, letting it fall with a jingle back into his lap. Chicago Symphony. The orchestra that Wes had gotten a personal invitation to play for, as one of the youngest invitees in their history. The orchestra that Soul had auditioned for, only to be met with polite but cold expressions and an official letter inviting him to try again next year.
The slowing of the car jostles him out of his brooding. "We're here!" Wes sings as he puts the car in park. "Chin up, little brother, it's time for adventure!"
"It's just an old train station," Soul grumbles, as if he wasn't the one who suggested this in the first place. He gets out of the car, shutting the door with a little more force than necessary.
"Adventure," Wes insists, shoving a duffel bag at him.
Soul grunts. "What's even in this?" he asks, unzipping it and rifling through the top items. "Flashlights? Blankets? Freeze dried food? Wes, we're going to be here for two hours max, not for a week."
"Welllll," Wes says, "maybe we'll only be here for a few hours, buuuut Allegany is only an hour's drive away…"
"Allegany?" Soul repeats, surprised. "We haven't been there since I was ten."
"Exactly! I thought after we explored here, we could go to one of the restaurants in town, then camp out there for the night and drive home in the morning." Wes beams at him as he clicks the trunk closed. "I was able to beg off performing in Cleveland this week so I could spend it out here with you. It's three o'clock right now, if we stay here for two hours that means it'll almost be time for dinner..."
Cleveland Orchestra, another name in the rejection letter pile on Soul's desk. "I don't think I can," he blurts out, cutting across Wes’s scheduling.
Wes stops mid-word, and frowns. "Why?"
"I have to uh, study. For a test at school."
Wes’s face creases in confusion. "Isn't it summer break for you?"
"Y-yeah but they um, gave us…quizzes. That we need to take. As summer homework."
"I can help you study. Oh, I know! We can have a campfire and I'll quiz you while we roast marshmallows." Wes begins to warm to the idea. "What's it on? English? Math? Science? I did quite well in senior year…"
'Quite well' is an understatement - he aced every subject, as Soul's teachers and parents often remind him. "I think it would be better if I studied by myself, at home," Soul says, a little too sharply.
Wes falters, mouth flapping uselessly, and Soul forces himself to look away, pretends to study the smudges of dirt on the Maserati.
"Well…well, we'll just have more time to explore the station then," Wes says, with mustered cheer. He locks the car and turns to Soul, smile dimmed with disappointment.
"Yeah," Soul says. "Hey, I think they have a chandelier in here, a real one where you could put candles in it."
"It's electric," Wes corrects, "a novelty at the time, since the place was built in -"
"1926, I know, I know. Come on, you nerd, let's just get inside."
The station has clearly seen better days; the outside of the building is smothered in graffiti, weeds choke the gravel pathways, and the letters on the face of the building have been made illegible by time. But there's still evidence of its stately beauty here and there, especially as they slip into the concourse. Elaborate geometric shapes march across the ceiling, unsullied by vandalism. Worn-down columns frame the ticket booths, and the ornamental carvings on the walls wouldn't look out of place at some of the concert halls Wes performs at.
"Soul?" comes Wes’s voice, echoing in the vast space. Soul hates himself for how small and tentative Wes sounds, even while a part of him seeps in vicious pleasure. "I'm sorry I haven't been around much. I know I missed your recital last Tuesday, and I really did try to make it, but -"
"It's not - it's not that, Wes," Soul says awkwardly. "It's just…"
"Is it because I didn't help you sneak out to go see that Norah Jones concert? Because Mom and Dad have been worried -"
"No, it wasn't that either, it's - could you just drop it?"
Wes’s silence smarts, and Soul hurries down marbled floors to avoid the chase of guilt that accompanies it.
Something red catches his eye through one of the ticket booths. He struggles over the counter, and draws closer to the interesting pattern. It looks like a later addition, and something about it feels…strange. Sinister. He hears quiet footsteps sound behind him and pause.
"Hey, do you recognize this?" he asks Wes, squinting at the worn away paint.
No answer. Soul sighs. "Listen, Wes, I'm sorry, I just don't -" he turns, "want to talk about it right…now…"
It's not Wes. The man is tall and burly, with strange tattoos writhing on his bald scalp. Soul backs up against the wall as the stranger advances, hands reaching.
"W-" Soul tries to say, "W-WES -"
The man's hands are rough against his face, and Soul's last thought is that they're cold, so cold, and he's going to freeze…
And then -
He's on stage. The spotlight is harsh and he's sweating in his pinstripe suit. Music flows from his fingertips, a steady stream of beautifully woven notes. The crowd is spellbound, rapt.
He finishes the piece to stunned silence, then thunderous applause. He bows. Dark red velvet curtains slide across to hide the audience from him, and he passes a fond hand over the gleaming piano before exiting.
As he makes his way through the crowd, nodding and accepting congratulations, snippets of conversations filter through his ears -
" - can't believe I was able to get tickets, his concerts sell out months in advance - "
" - original composition, truly moving and unique - "
" - the most talented Evans for generations - "
"- much better than his brother - "
"Soul." Wes greets him with a tired smile. "You were amazing today, little brother."
"Thanks, Wes," Soul says, and accepts his congratulatory hug. "I thought your violin performance was really good too."
"Excuse me?" A woman approaches them, touching her diamond necklace. "Solomon Evans?"
"Just Soul, please."
"An honor," she says in a soft British accent. She holds out a hand; he takes it, shaking firmly. "I was in the audience, and I must say, I'm incredibly impressed with your performance. You've got quite a talent for the piano, and for composing."
"Thank you."
"I happen to be a representative of the London Symphony Orchestra. I'm of the opinion that you would fit in well with one of the concerts we're hoping to…" She pauses, looking at Wes.
"This is my brother," Soul introduces. "Wesley Evans."
"Ah, the violinist in the family." She smiles, but doesn't offer a handshake. "It's a pleasure to meet you. I've heard good things about your playing."
"Thank you," Wes says stiffly.
"You must be so proud of your younger brother."
"He has a gift for music." Wes’s words are automatic and overly polite, but the smile he gives Soul is warm and fond, and Soul glows with pride.
-oul!
Soul blinks, looking around. A few people glance at him curiously, recognizing his signature pinstripe suit, but the majority are still engrossed in their conversations.
"As I was saying," the lady continues, "I was hoping to extend an invitation to your brother -"
"I see," Wes says. "In that case, I'll take my leave. Soul, would you like me to wait for you outside so we can go back together?"
Soul!
"Soul?"
Soul shakes his head. "I - sorry. Could you just stay a minute longer?"
A pained look crosses over Wes’s face. "I'd rather not," he says quietly, but doesn't leave.
The lady looks between the two of them, but doesn't comment. "We'll be holding auditions next week," she says instead. "We'd be delighted to have you participate, if you have the time."
"I'd love to," Soul replies, feeling heady with the prospect of performing for London, the London Symphony Orchestra. His parents will be so proud.
-ake up, So-!
The lights flicker briefly, and for a minute Soul thinks he sees -
"Are you okay?" the lady is asking, and Soul's hand is automatically seeking out the edge of Wes’s sleeve. "You look -"
-ease please no, Soul!
The ground rumbles beneath them, and people look around them in panic, chatter rising to alarmed voices. The chandelier above them swings wildly, and Soul turns to find Wes, but he's not there. No one is. The chandelier's chain snaps and crashes down, a cacophony of sound, and
Soul!
shatters as it hits the ground, and the light seeks him out, blinding him -
"Soul!"
Something's shaking him vigorously; he mumbles, protesting, and tries to push away but his body feels thick, unresponsive.
"Soul!" someone says forcefully, and Soul manages enough energy to crack open an eye. A blurry vision of blond and white assaults him, before the shine of a flashlight has Soul squeezing his eyes against the intrusion.
"Oh god, Soul, we need to get out of here - need to get you down, what kind of crazy psycho fuck does this - don't, stop, stop moving you'll tear it out -"
Soul's tongue feels thick and too large for his mouth, but he attempts to garble, "Wes?"
"Hang on, Soul," comes his brother's voice, and Soul can hear the tremor in it, can hear the cavernous echo of panic it belays. "That thing just - just snatched you out of nowhere and I tried to chase after it but it disappeared up the stairs, and we don't get reception so I couldn't call the police and I didn't want to leave you -" There's a snap, and Soul's arms drop as he lurches forward. "- so I came up here instead."
"Where…?"
"I don't know - old offices or something. Shit, I hope these aren't contaminated -" there's a strange sliding sensation under the skin of his neck and what offices? There weren't any offices in the concert hall, were there? "- at least he didn't take much, fucking psycho, draining blood, people are so fucked in the head -"
Everything feels fuzzy, and disconnected, like Soul's watching things happen to him through a screen. His arms are slowly regaining sensation with a burning vengeance, and they twitch when he tries to move them. Wes flings one over his shoulder, saying, "Come on, Soul, I can't carry you back by myself, you need to help me, it's not that far to the stairs back down to the car -"
The car? Soul moves his foot with Wes’s guidance, placing it in front of him, letting Wes coax him into putting weight onto it. Bits and pieces of memories flitter by him - the train station, Wes’s disappointed silence, expensive leather seats, the keychain, the rejection letters -
"No," Soul says, and pushes Wes’s hand away. "No, I don't want to be here -"
"I don't either, Soul, that's why we have to go -"
"- take me back, the other place, don't wake me up, let me stay there -"
"Soul, Soul calm down, I need you to stay with me -"
" - don't wanna be second rate, don't wanna be the other Evans, don't want to be your brother!"
In the shocked silence that follows, as Wes’s face slowly crumples with hurt, Soul realizes that he's said something truly terrible, something that Wes won't so easily forgive with his usual boundless optimism.
He also realizes they aren't alone.
It happens so quickly.
Wes cries out as something grabs him from behind. Soul wobbles, bracing himself against the wall as Wes grapples with glowing blue flames, but there's no smoke, why isn't he burning? He reaches for his brother, and Wes is lifted by the flames and slammed into the wall. They're not flames, Soul realizes, they're tattoos, glowing up and down the strong arms choking Wes. Someone's crying Wes’s name over and over, and his brother stills as the hands grip his head, and Soul tries to make his body move to push the man away from his brother, and Wes’s eyes are rolling back in his head, mouth gaping open, and the man turns to Soul, eyes gleaming an unnatural blue in the darkness, and it's not a man, it's a monster -
"HEY!"
Something loud explodes near Soul, kicking up dust, and it takes him a few seconds to realize it was a bullet. The monster whips around, still holding Wes, swinging limply in its grasp.
There's a person - a girl, small and fierce, illuminated by cracks of sunlight seeping through the boarded-up windows. "Let him go," she growls, aiming down the barrel of her shotgun.
The monster laughs. "Or what?" it asks, voice deep and ancient. "You'll kill me? Human guns don't work on me, little girl."
"I know," the girl replies, and something flashes in her hand - a dagger, blade dark with some sort of liquid. "But this will."
The monster pauses, giving Soul enough time to launch himself at it. He smacks clumsily into its chest, clawing at the hand holding his brother, shouting.
Then he's being yanked into the air, and those unnatural blue eyes fill his vision, its stinking breath washing over his face, and then there's a brief moment of weightlessness as he goes flying.
Something breaks his fall, and hands shove at him away as a voice yells, "Get off of me!" close to his ear and he's trying but his legs aren't cooperating and everything's spinning. There's the sound of footsteps dashing away, and his world tilts as he's pushed to the side, and he hears a "fuck!" before the girl reappears in his view, running after the monster.
"Wes," Soul tries to scream, but his throat feels raw and it comes out as nothing more than a whisper. "Wes," he tries again, but Wes is gone and the monster is gone and the girl is gone and he's alone, alone as his vision dims and the darkness takes him away.
He wakes up when the swerving of the car slams his head into the window.
"Asshole!" someone yells. Groggily, Soul opens his eyes to see a girl flipping someone off as she rights the car. Through bleary eyes, he studies his kidnapper. Her ash blonde hair is tied into two tight pigtails, and her oversized brown leather jacket looks like it's seen better days. Rough hands grip the steering wheel, and he can't help but note the long, muscular legs that jut out from her skirt. He’s never seen so many scars on someone his age before.
The girl notices him staring and gives him an apologetic smile. "Sorry about that," she says. "The people in your town do not know how to drive. You'd think they'd be more careful with all their fancy cars." Another driver attempts to cut her off, and she jerks the car to the right, swearing, and the unexpected familiarity of the muttered "fuck" brings sluggish memories back to the surface.
"You…you're that girl," he says dumbly. "The one with the shotgun."
"Maka," she says. "Maka Albarn."
"Soul," he replies absently, still trying to piece together what happened. "What was that thing? Wait. Wait, where's Wes?"
He cranes his head around to check the backseat, but Wes is not there. He's not anywhere in the jeep. "Where's my brother?" he demands.
Maka sighs, and pulls over. She turns the car engine off and faces him, mouth tightened into a grim line.
"Listen. You and your brother…you two stumbled onto a very dangerous monster. A djinn."
"A what?"
"A djinn," she repeats patiently. "They feed on the blood of humans. Their touch will poison you slowly, but you won't know it, because it also causes hallucinations - makes you go into deep sleep where you live out whatever your heart desires in dreams as they slowly suck you dry."
Soul takes one look at her, with her green eyes laser-focused and serious, and bursts out laughing. "Okay, sure, whatever you say," he snorts.
"Don't pretend I'm making this up, Soul." Her eyes continue to bore into his, and his mouth goes dry under her stare. "I know you know it was real." Her fingers drift to his shirt, and the pads of her fingertips are cold as they press against the bruises on his jugular.
He shoves her hand away, pulling up on his collar. Maka lets her hands drop to her lap. "I scoured that place," she says. "Looked everywhere I could for your brother, but he and the djinn seem to have…disappeared."
"Disappeared?" Soul repeats.
"I'll keep looking, I promise," she says, and the fierce sincerity in her voice convinces him she's telling the truth. "But you need to go home to your parents before they realize you're missing."
"And what am I going to tell them when I get back without Wes?" he demands. "They know we were going together."
She shrugs. "Tell them that you decided to head home and he said he'd catch up with you later? I don't know."
Wes would never let him go home alone. Too obsessed with spending any semblance of time with his brother, he would have driven Soul back, talking his ear off about the ruins. Wes would have followed him up into his room and yammered on about his concerts outside the bathroom as Soul took a shower. He'd ask personal, probing questions, spinning around in Soul's chair as Soul buried his head beneath the covers and attempted to drown him out.
Wes never would have pushed him away, never would have abandoned him, alone in the dark.
"Take me with you," he insists.
"No. It's too dangerous."
"Take me with you or I swear to god the first thing I'm doing as soon as I get to a phone is calling the cops on you."
She rolls her eyes. "Please. You think these license plates are real? Not the first time I've escaped from the police, rich boy."
"Fine. Guess I'll just be taking this with me." Soul waves her leather-bound journal in front of her.
The girl's eyes narrow. "Give me that," she hisses, swiping for it.
Soul dodges, leaning backwards. "Not unless you turn this car around and help me find Wes," he snaps.
Maka huffs a sigh. "Do you even know how to shoot a gun?"
"Yeah," he says, for once grateful for all the stupid fancy shooting clubs and programs his parents had forced him into.
She eyes him. "Fine. But if we find him before we find the djinn, you get him out of there and leave the monster to me."
"Sure," he lies. "Whatever. Just go."
Maka rolls her eyes, but starts the car. "You better not get me killed."
They don't find anything. All traces of the djinn have disappeared; the only thing Soul finds is the keychain Wes gave him not twenty-four hours ago. He tucks it into his jacket.
They do, however, find a vengeful spirit that sinks its hands into Maka's chest until Soul dissipates it briefly with the swing of an iron fire poker. Maka follows up with dropping a lit match over the ghost's bones.
In the crackling of the fire, Maka looks over at him, shadows shifting over her face, and says, "Okay. You can come with me."
Soul's hands are still shaking and his heart is still trying to jump out of his chest. But he swallows, tamps down his fears, and tries to be cool. "Yeah?"
She nods. "Your lockpicking skills aren't worth a damn, and you can't navigate for shit, but you've got good instincts and you're quick on your feet." She shrugs, and says, "The spirit had me in a rough spot. Not sure how I'd have gotten out of it if you hadn't been there."
Honestly, it wasn't conscious planning or thought that had Soul grabbing iron to attack the ghost. He's not sure what it was - Maka's desperate gasp had provoked some instinct he hadn't realized he had, something that had him fumbling for the nearest weapon and charging at the spirit threatening her.
"Cool," he says instead.
She turns to him, sticks out a slender hand. "So? Partners?"
"Partners," he confirms, and her hand is warm in his as he shakes it.
Soul stands in the middle of Burkburnett, Texas, with enough illegal weaponry to land him in jail for at least as long as he's been partnered with Maka, enough salt to keep a driveway clear of snow for days, and $6.81 cents to his name. The cab's tires squeal as it leaves Soul behind.
The long drive here had given him time to cool down, and he's beginning to regret just running off without waking up Maka to talk about what she'd been keeping from him, or at least to let her know where he was going. Her sheaf of papers had been vague - three disappearances and five mysterious poisonings in the past month, but nothing else beyond that. Maybe - maybe there was another reason he hadn't known about it; maybe she thought it was something other than an arachne killing people in town, or maybe this wasn't about Wes altogether and she had just doodled his name on the map while she was thinking.
Maybe she hadn't betrayed him, hadn't taken his blind faith in her and his willingness to let her decide where they go and used it to forward her own obsession with torturing demons for information they couldn't provide. Maybe she hadn't purposely kept him from the one person that he'd dedicated himself to saving other than her. Maybe, maybe, maybe.
He hopes, more than anything, that he was mistaken.
According to the articles, most of the bodies had been found by the riverfront in one of the more industrial areas of the small town. Industrial, apparently, was a kind way of saying "shithole". Rusted chain fences are sunken in the ground that grows more trash than plants. Water laps away at crumbling pylons, and wood creaks underneath Soul's feet as he prowls along the docks. A cluster of corrugated warehouses slump along the shore, and a larger factory looms further on.
The first warehouse yields nothing but giant rats that hiss at him before skittering into the dark. A thorough examination by flashlight of the second reveals rotting newspapers, used condoms, and an old homeless woman who threatens him with a shiv. The other warehouses are similarly abandoned, and Soul turns to the factory.
It takes him less than a minute to pick the lock on the door. He eases it open, wincing at the shrieking of the hinges, and keeps a cautious hand on his weapon as he slips inside. The interior is vast - cement pillars disappear into the darkness above, and the thin beam of his flashlight fades out before it touches the other side. Broken glass crunches underneath his feet as he begins to search the area. Graffiti tags writhe across the walls, and Soul has the uncomfortable feeling of being watched. He finds himself wishing for Maka's strong grip in his, for her bright, reassuring presence beside him.
His heart beats loudly in his ears as he begins to scan the area. Yet even as his latest hope of finding his brother begins to dim the more he searches through the crumbling stone and debris and finds nothing, a bittersweet relief spreads through him - Maka really hadn't had anything to report, and that was the reason she hadn't sat him down and told him -
There's a stirring in the corner, and Soul aims his gun at the movement. He advances slowly, keeping his sights trained on the blanket, and moves to pull it off, and -
"Wes," he gasps.
He looks…he looks terrible. Soul knows it's been five years, knows that he himself has changed enough so that Wes probably would have trouble recognizing him. But where Soul gained muscle, Wes looks gaunt. Soul shot up in height; Wes looks smaller than ever, huddled in the corner. His brother had always been lean and delicate, but now he looks fragile, bones jutting beneath his skin, hair dirty and long.
And underneath the shock of his condition is burning, curdling rage - Maka had lied.
His brother stirs as Soul scrambles towards him, kneeling next to him. "Wes," Soul whispers, pushing away his fury and doing a quick check for injuries. "Wes, wake up, we have to get out of here."
"S…Soul?" Wes’s voice is thin and reedy.
"Shh." No wounds - good.
Wes moans. Soul goes to help him up, but pauses. Carefully, he unscrews his flask and sprinkles some holy water over Wes’s grimy face. His eyes screw up in response, but he seems unaffected otherwise, and Soul breathes a sigh of relief. He pulls Wes’s arm around his shoulder and lifts him up with almost no effort.
"Wh-where are we?" Wes mumbles. "What happened?"
"Texas. We were - you got kidnapped, and I've been looking everywhere to find you." Soul begins to move towards the exit, saying, "Shh, now, don't speak, we need to get out of here."
"I…I remember…the station. There was a man, and you…"
Something clatters behind them - Soul whirls, but the light reveals nothing.
"…I found you," Wes is muttering, "You were strung up, there was a needle in your neck…
"Wes, shhh." Soul strains, but hears only the creaking of the timbers and the wind through the broken windows.
"…tried to get you down…"
"We have to go, have to hurry." He begins to lengthen his stride, dragging along Wes with him.
"With the djinn." Wes’s eyes are watching him, heavy with accusation. "I tried to save you. Tried to help you, to get us both out of there. But you told me -"
"Wes, no, I wasn't thinking right -"
"You told me," Wes continues, voice growing louder, "that you didn't want to be saved. You told me that you were sick of me -"
"I didn't -"
" - that you would rather DIE than be my brother -"
"No! I never said -"
"Now, does that sound very BROTHERLY to YOU?!"
There's movement on the ceiling, and Soul risks a glance upwards to see -
Arachne. Dozens, maybe more, a swarm that covers the ceiling. They watch silently, still.
"Wes?" Soul's voice comes out calm as he slowly reaches into his pocket. "Wes, we need to get out of here."
"Maybe I've decided to stay here," Wes continues, folding his arms. The arachne begin to descend from the rafters, but stay a safe distance away, waiting, eyes glittering. "Maybe I've realized that blood isn't thicker than water - that I need to find family where I can, since my own decided he no longer wanted anything to do with me."
Soul mutters something, shrinking into himself as the arachne form a circle around the two.
"What was that?" Wes steps closer, leaning in. "I couldn't quite hear you -"
He rears back, hissing and shielding himself with his arms as Soul's spray of salt whips against him, sizzling where it hits skin. "I said, fuck you -" Soul points his gun at Wes, warding off the arachne with a dagger in the other hand "- and stop pretending to be my brother, you sick bastard."
Wes - no, the monster begins to laugh in his brother's rich timbre. "Now, little brother," he says, "you're going to have to do better than that."
"Don't call me that," Soul hisses. He has an uneasy feeling that the reason the arachne are merely watching instead of seizing him is not because of his paltry six inches of dull steel. He grips his weapons tighter to keep them from wavering. "Who are you?"
Wes gives a flawless bow. His eyes, when they rise to meet Soul's, are a milky white. "The demon Arachne. Mother of monsters. You may have heard of me - I've certainly heard of you, murderer." Wes’s pale blue eyes reappear when he blinks, and flicker as Arachne studies his face. "So you're what my little sister has cooked up this time, hmm? Not very impressive, but then, her experiments never do work the way she hopes them to."
Soul's mind is still stuck on her name, and he blurts out, dumbly, "But I…you didn't react to the holy water -"
"Please. I'm far too powerful for something as weak as water to harm me." Arachne hums, smoothing down Wes’s hair and touching his face. "Oh, it's been so long since I've walked around in a human meatsuit. Werewolves, vampires, wraiths - they're all very nice, of course, much more powerful, but oh," she sighs, "there's just something about humans. Especially one as good looking as this one."
She rolls her eyes at his gun. "Come now, Soul, we both know you won't hurt me." She strides over, places the barrel of the gun directly over Wes’s heart. "Go on. Pull the trigger."
Soul grits his teeth, wills his fingers to move. Arachne leans closer, Wes’s blond hair brushing against Soul's temple. "He's still awake, you know. I can hear him. He's screaming, 'Soul, please, please just kill me, put me out of my misery, baby brother…’ ”
Soul's hands shake, and he presses the gun deeper into Wes’s chest.
"But you're not his brother anymore, are you? Not after what you said to him."
And with that, the fight goes out of Soul. His arms fall away, and Soul blinks back tears as Arachne chuckles, voice deep with mirth. "As I thought." She flicks a finger, and the gun is ripped out of his grasp, goes spinning off into the shadows. Soul offers no resistance as his brother's hands tilt his face upwards, and he stares into Wes’s eyes, made unfamiliar with the malice behind them.
"I could kill you right now, you know," Arachne murmurs, caressing his cheek. "I'd even let Wesley out, let him cry as he watches as his beloved brother bleed out in front of him."
"Let him go," Soul whispers, heart pounding in his ears.
"Mmm, no, I don't think so. I think I'll kill you first. Or maybe I'll have one of my children turn you - how does that sound, becoming an arachne? The two brothers, united at last -"
"LET HIM GO!" he screams, and pulls.
Arachne's hands pause, mid-gesture, a frown creasing Wes’s face, and he can hear it, the blood slushing through Wes’s body, can feel his heart pushing it to his arms, through his wrists, to his fingertips. Desperate, Soul strains, pushing past the unbearable pressure in his head, willing the blood to move, and Wes’s eyes widen as his fingers twitch, reaching for his own neck.
It feels like his eyes are going to be squeezed out of their sockets, and the beating of his own heart is loud, too loud. He covers his ears, trying to focus on the singing of Wes’s blood, but he can't hear anything except his own pulse and the sound of laughter, Arachne's laughter - it crashes through his concentration, and his vision wobbles, and she won't stop laughing, Wes won't stop laughing, laughing at him and his stupid idea to come and rescue him -
But Wes’s mouth isn't moving, isn't stretched into a wide grin, and it's with a start that Soul realizes the laughter is coming from him, barking, maniacal laughter -
He shoves his hands in his mouth, bites down, too-sharp teeth slicing into his fingers. The bright pain and taste of metal and tar drills a hole in his skull, pressure dissipating through it.
Wes stands, unaffected, expression predatory. "Interesting," Arachne says. "Perhaps you're not quite the failure I thought you were."
She snaps her fingers, and her arachne descend upon him. He's forced to his knees, arms bound behind him, and he tries to listen, to hear their blood sing, but he can't hear anything over the pounding in his head, splitting his thoughts and his feeble attempts to fight back. Arachne's saying something, Arachne, the demon that took Wes, that has Wes, who he should have killed when he had the chance.
But her face is still the face of his brother, and he can't help the whispered name that falls from his mouth. Wes’s lips curl into a gentle smile and for a minute Soul's seven again, looking for pride in the features of person he loves most.
Then Wes’s grin widens and his expression changes into something mocking and sinister, and something hits Soul hard in the back of the head. He falls forward, and he's failed, failed his brother, failed Maka, failed himself, and the devastation follows him into the dark.
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WAYWARD SOULS ACT ONE: PACTS
the secret
The first thing Soul becomes aware of is the music.
Scratchy, poorly recorded jazz presses against him, muffled by the darkness. Other things gradually begin to make themselves known to him: dark, velvet red curtains, gleaming grand piano, and candles that seem to enhance the darkness rather than drive it away.
He looks down at himself, rubs the pinstripe suit between his fingers. It dawns on him why this feels familiar, why this suit hangs heavy on him, but he pushes that aside.
“Well well well,” comes a voice. Soul blinks, focuses on crooked teeth, calculating eyes, a sinister smile. “Look who’s back already,” the demon says. It sweeps its arms, encompasses the dark room. “Recognize this place?”
“No,” Soul lies.
The demon settles into one of the plush armchairs. “Oh really? Doesn’t ring any bells?” It cocks its head at him innocently. “The magnificent piano performance, the lackluster violin accompaniment, the adoring crowd with eyes only for the younger brother - your dearest wish come true, right?”
“Shut up,” Soul snarls. “Why am I here? What is this place?”
The demon waves its hand airily. “Here. There. Nowhere. Think of it as a space…in between.”
Comments, criticism and reblogs are always highly appreciated. Thank you for reading!
Full story here: AO3 || FF.Net
marshofsleep’s playlist || marshofsleep and thefishywitchy art
WAYWARD SOULS ACT ONE: PACTS
the secret
The first thing Soul becomes aware of is the music.
Scratchy, poorly recorded jazz presses against him, muffled by the darkness. Other things gradually begin to make themselves known to him: dark, velvet red curtains, gleaming grand piano, and candles that seem to enhance the darkness rather than drive it away.
He looks down at himself, rubs the pinstripe suit between his fingers. It dawns on him why this feels familiar, why this suit hangs heavy on him, but he pushes that aside.
"Well well well," comes a voice. Soul blinks, focuses on crooked teeth, calculating eyes, a sinister smile. "Look who's back already," the demon says. It sweeps its arms, encompasses the dark room. "Recognize this place?"
"No," Soul lies.
The demon settles into one of the plush armchairs. "Oh really? Doesn't ring any bells?" It cocks its head at him innocently. "The magnificent piano performance, the lackluster violin accompaniment, the adoring crowd with eyes only for the younger brother - your dearest wish come true, right?"
"Shut up," Soul snarls. "Why am I here? What is this place?"
The demon waves its hand airily. "Here. There. Nowhere. Think of it as a space…in between."
"In between what?"
"You and I. We're connected now, you see." It props its head on one of its hands, tapping its fingers against the armrest. "I must admit, I'm impressed. I was beginning to think you would be a failure like the rest of them, but you've surprised us all with your aptitude."
Soul shakes his head. "What are you talking about?"
"Your little stunt with the arachne. Not only did you successfully kill it, with a display of power that none of us anticipated, but you snapped back to sanity afterwards." At his shocked look, it laughs. "Come now, you didn't think that you had suddenly developed telekinesis all on your own, did you?"
"I - you - but - how? Our deal was for my soul, not for…whatever this is!"
"You should have read the fine print, Soul," it says, shaking its head. "I'm not surprised though. So few people do."
His nails dig into his palms, and he glares at the demon. "What did you do to me?" he hisses.
"I merely gave you a piece of myself." It folds its hands together over its stomach. "The price of our deal was your soul, yes, but you bargained away more than just its final destination."
"So, these…powers -"
"A manifestation of our exchange." It leans closer, eyes gleaming. "You've been blessed with a gift, Soul - a gift you can use to your advantage, especially in your line of work."
Soul takes a step back. "A gift I'm supposed to just believe you gave me out of the goodness of your heart, to solve problems I'm supposed to believe you care about?"
"We have your soul already." It grins. "What more could we possibly want?" At his unconvinced expression, it waves a hand dismissively. "Think about it, Soul. What did you really ask for when you made your deal?"
"For you to revive Maka," he mumbles.
"Those were more or less the exact words," it replies, "but you were really asking for Maka's life, weren't you? To fulfill your spoken contract to her - to be her partner and protect her." It spreads its hands. "How better to do that than with these new abilities of yours? You've already seen how useful they can be."
Soul stares it down, arms tightly crossed. "I don't believe you. At all."
It shrugs. "Believe me or not. We both know that when it comes to Maka, there's very little you won't do to keep her safe."
As if on cue, the music bends to make way for her voice.
Soul…Soul…
"I suppose that means our time here is complete." The demon sighs. "Worry not though, Soul. I'm sure I'll be seeing you soon enough."
The room begins to darken further, candles snuffing out and the red of the curtains deepening into black. The only thing that doesn't fade is the demon's grin.
"We'll be watching you closely…"
"-oul. Soul. Soooooul. Soul -"
"Mmmgfh." He becomes aware of something poking his cheek, and swats at it thickly. "Stoppit."
Maka pulls back, returning her hand to the wheel. "Finally. You okay?"
He rubs at his eyes, moving his aching neck. "Yeah," he says. "Just…weird dream."
"Sorry," she says. "I know you didn't get a lot of sleep."
"S'okay," he grunts, pushing away the memories of dripping fangs and blood. "What's up?"
"We're about four hours away from Papa's," she replies. "Stein's pulling all the books he has on rugaru."
"Rugaru?"
"Yeah. You got bitten by it, remember?" She taps her fingers against the wheel. "And there was something…weird about the way it acted. That it ran away."
"What are you thinking? Rugaru rabies or something?"
Maka shrugs. "I'm not really sure; I've never heard of anything like this happening before. But it's a start. Unless you have any better ideas?"
You should have read the fine print, Soul…
"Yeah, me neither," Maka says, taking his lack of response as agreement. "We'll start off with this, then."
They lapse into silence, and Soul stares blearily out at the sky, where the first strands of light are weaving their way into the deep blue. Maka keeps stealing glances at him when she thinks he's not looking, and he doesn't like the expression on her face.
"What?" he asks finally.
She doesn't say anything for a moment, then - "Your hair," she says, frowning. She reaches up, fingers touching the fringe. "It's…gotten paler."
"Eyes on the road, Maka," he says, pushing her hand away and pointing out the windshield. He glances at himself in the mirror. It's hard to tell in the dim light, but she's right - it does look like the color has lightened. "Must be all the scary situations we find ourselves in," he jokes weakly.
Maka snorts. "Scaredy-cat," she says affectionately. "Mind taking over the wheel for a bit?"
"Sure," he says, not particularly eager to sink back into sleep anyway. He shakes the memory of the room, the demon and their conversation out of his mind, but the words aren't so easily shrugged off.
You've been blessed with a gift…
Maka's snoring in the backseat, newspaper over her head and Soul's jacket draped over her. Soul's getting tired himself - the white lines on the highway are starting to blur, and he reaches for another swig of cold coffee. When he looks back at the road, there's a woman standing in the center of it.
"Shit!" he swears, slamming on the brakes and swerving out of the way. The car misses the woman by inches as it skids to a stop.
A thump as Maka hits the floor. “Wha?” she mumbles, sitting up immediately. “What is it?"
Soul's already unbuckling his seatbelt. "Think I almost just hit someone." Maka groans, but fumbles for the door as Soul gets out of the car.
The woman is still standing, facing the other way. "Jesus, lady, are you okay?" Soul asks, jogging to her. He does a quick once over - pale hair, long, dark colored dress, a height and posture that makes him think of the aristocratic ladies that once flocked to Wes' performances. "You came out of nowhere, I'm sor-ry..." His words slow, and he hear Maka's sharp intake as breath as the woman slowly turns around.
Red eyes glow in the taillights of the jeep. The demon smiles at them, sharp teeth showing.
"Hello, Soul," she says. "I've been looking for you."
"Demon," Maka hisses, taking a step backwards towards the jeep.
The demon turns its gaze to her. "Maka," she says, with no small amount of disgust.
"Who are you?" Soul demands.
"I must say, I'm impressed," she continues. Braided blonde hair sways hypnotically as she saunters a few steps closer. "You tested far better than I expected. A prodigy, I suppose, just like your brother. Though in a…different sense."
"Who are you?"
"Medusa. Queen of the Crossroads." She tilts her head. "Perhaps you've heard of me?"
There's a brief moment of shock, then Maka is lunging forward before Soul can grab her, knife and teeth bared. Medusa offers no resistance as she plunges her dagger into her heart and twists.
Medusa looks down at the weapon protruding from her chest and clicks her tongue. "Tsk tsk," she says, and easily pulls it out. "You know better than that, Maka." She flicks her wrist, and Maka is flung into the air. She hits the back of the jeep with a hollow thud and slides to the ground.
"Maka!" Soul yells, taking a step towards her.
"Ah ah ah -" Medusa says, and his feet freeze to the road. "Not you. I have business to discuss with you."
"Let me go, bitch," he growls.
"I suggest you treat me with respect, Soul," Medusa replies, voice dangerously low. "Remember who holds your contract." At Soul's silence, she smiles. "Besides, I come here with good intentions. I believe we can help each other."
"Your head on a platter is the only thing we want," Maka says, leaning heavily against the jeep. She takes a few steps towards Soul; Medusa watches, but does not interfere.
"Is that so?" she muses, looking more bored than intimidated when Maka pulls out her sawed-off shotgun. "And here I thought you were looking for Wes."
Soul reaches out and puts his hand on Maka's shotgun, forcing her to lower it. "…What do you know?" he asks cautiously.
"I know who Arachne really is, for one," she says, inspecting her nails. "I may even know where Wes is. As for your new abilities, who better to tell you about them than the person who bestowed them upon you?"
Maka's grip tightens on her gun. "You - it was you?"
"Well, through a proxy, of course. I'm a very busy woman, as you might imagine."
"We already know what arachne are," Soul says. "We just killed one, and Wes wasn't there." I hope, he thinks, swallowing his fear.
Medusa shakes her head. "Slow as ever, Soul, do try to keep up. You fought an arachne, lowercase; one of her pet monsters, the dearest to her heart. She won't be happy with what you've done, by and by. Wesley is most likely paying for that now."
"Then what -"
"A demon. My sister, as it happens." She rolls her eyes at their shocked expressions. "Arachne is her name, you imbeciles," she says scathingly, "and you best not forget it."
"Then where -"
"Not yet, my prodigy." Her scornful expression melts away in to a far more pleasant visage. Her teeth gleam as she favors Soul with a predatory smile. "Now, about your powers -"
"No," Maka interrupts. "We don't want anything to do with you unless it's breaking Soul's contract."
"Maka, stop, let her -"
Medusa yawns, covering her mouth with a delicate hand. "Very well."
"Medusa, w-" But Medusa is gone, and the road is deserted save for the two of them and the jeep.
Soul paces a hole into the basement floor while Maka scribbles down Stein's words into her journal. "All demons can possess humans," he's saying. "Perhaps owing to their nature as a tortured human soul, or because of a human's vulnerability to supernatural phenomenon, it's relatively easy for them to -"
"We know that," Soul snaps. "What does this have to do with my brother?"
Stein's voice is calm and clinical. "It's always good to establish the basics before moving onto new concepts."
"Soul, let Stein speak," Maka says, not looking up from her journal. She points a pen at him as she flips through the pages. "And for god's sake, sit down. You're making me dizzy."
Soul growls, but complies, flopping down on a squashed couch and glaring at the ceiling.
"As I was saying, all demons can possess humans. But it takes a much more powerful demon to be able to possess the supernatural. And as far as I can tell, this demon - Arachne - is one of them." Stein shakes his head. "Unfortunately, I didn't find much more than that. Only that she's been placed as a werewolf, vampire, ghoul, shapeshifter, siren…if there's a race, she's used them as a vessel."
Maka lets out a long sigh. "And she might have Soul's brother."
"It seems so. The question is, why?"
"Yeah well, who cares?" Soul says. "She's dead either way."
There's a pause. Maka puts down her pen. Stein says nothing, overhead light glinting off of his glasses.
"What?" Soul asks aggressively.
"Soul…" Maka rubs her eyes. "Soul, how? We don't know how to kill demons. We don’t even know if demons can be killed."
"So? We've killed plenty of things that weren't supposed to be able to be killed -"
"We've got no idea where she is," Maka says, ticking off on her fingers. "We've got no idea if Medusa was telling the truth about her having Wes. Hell, even if we do find her and she does have him, we have no idea how to fight her, much less kill her!"
"So what, we're just going to let her have Wes? Just leave him to die?"
"I'm not saying that," Maka says patiently, spreading her hands in a gesture of peace. "I just don't know what we're going to be able to do, or how long it'll take us to figure it out. But it's been a month and a half since you made your deal -"
"We're not giving up on him!" Soul snarls, rising up off the couch.
"I didn't say we were! But if this Arachne is that old and that powerful, I'm not sure what we can do!" Maka gets up from her chair, moving around the table to stand in front of him. She places her hands on his chest in an attempt to soothe him, but he shrugs her off. "We need to find out more about these…powers," she says, crossing her arms. "And about Medusa, and how we can stop her -"
"Powers? What did he do?" Stein interrupts.
"Later, Stein," Maka says, giving him a warning glance.
"I don't care about any of that!" Soul shouts.
"You don't - what part of you have less than a year left to live refuses to get through your thick skull?!" Maka yells back.
"I don't fucking care if I have nine months or nine hours! I'm rescuing Wes even if it's the last thing I do before I'm tossed into hell!" He stabs a finger at her. "And we'd know where he is right now if it wasn't for you and your reckless, gun-happy ways -"
"She's a demon who wants to see you burn in hell, of course I didn't set out the fucking welcome mat -"
"-if you just listened to me for one goddamned second maybe we'd know more about Wes and Medusa –“
"All right, that's enough, you two." Stein unfolds himself from his chair and towers over them. "You both are tired and cranky and it'd be best if we all got some sleep and revisit this when we wake up."
"Since when do you care if we argue all night?" Soul mutters.
Stein raises an eyebrow. "Frankly, I don't. But if you continue on like this, you'll wake Spirit, and I believe we all would prefer to avoid that until we’re a little more rested."
"Fine," Maka says, tossing her hair. To Stein, she says, "We'll talk later." As for Soul, she stalks past him without a word, stomping up the stairs and slamming the door to the basement behind her.
Stein sighs. "What did I just say?"
Soul makes as if to follow, but Stein catches his arm. "Wait. What exactly happened with the arachne? How did you kill it?"
"I…" The arachne's headless body twitches in his mind, and he says, "Beheading. I'll…tell you more details later."
He shrugs off Stein's hand, trudges his way up the stairs. Maka's closed door glares at him, and he ignores it along with the pang in his heart. The couch welcomes him, and he snuggles into an elaborate cross-stitched pillow, buries himself into the blankets. The sheets are soft, the room cool, and the living room is quiet without Maka's snuffles and restless movement.
And yet, sleep doesn't come easily. He stews in anger and frustration and a small thread of guilt, replaying their argument over and over, ignoring the voice telling him that she has a point and focusing instead on Wes, Wes's smile when he played his instrument, Wes's pout when Soul hid his magazines, Wes's shocked face when he said…when he told him…
Eight hours of sleep does, at least, make Maka far more agreeable to Papa's antics. She wakes to the smell of bacon and toast, gets ready over the clinking of dishes and his surprisingly melodious singing. It's reminiscent of Papa's victory breakfasts after he and Mama successfully saved a victim or rid a town of a monster, and she catches herself humming as she makes her way to the kitchen.
"Good afternoon sweetheart!" Papa crows as she takes her seat. Mickey Mouse chocolate chip pancakes grin at her with a bacon mouth and whipped cream eyes.
"Thank you, Papa," she says, giving him a small smile and digging in.
Soul stumbles into the kitchen soon afterwards. He stretches, yawns, and mumbles a good morning as he slouches into the seat next to her. He seems much improved too, she notes, though she can tell by the deep hollows under his eyes and the way he keeps nodding off over his eggs that he didn't get as much sleep as he should have. Their spat still sends up a chilly barrier between them, and he busies himself with the sliced bananas in his cereal while Maka picks at her pancake.
"Oh happy dayyy," Spirit trills, flipping eggs. "My darling daughter has come home agaaain." He twirls, handing a surly looking Stein a mug of coffee, who grunts and buries himself in the local newspaper.
Maka and Soul exchange exasperated glances, and the tension between them eases. Soul smirks and steals an ear off of her Mickey Mouse, and Maka downs his glass of orange juice in retaliation.
They recount their encounter with the arachne between mouthfuls. Maka narrates their confrontation in the cave and then, reluctantly, Soul describes the arachne's demise.
"It was…weird," Soul says, looking at his hands and frowning. "It was like…I could hear it. The blood in its veins and arteries. And somehow I was able to - to squeeze it, or pull at it, I don't know."
He falls silent, and Maka takes over, giving a brief account of their conversation with Medusa. Some of Soul's sourness comes back at the reminder of the demon's abscondence, and he broods over his coffee as she finishes.
"So what's the plan, honey?" Papa asks.
Maka tugs at a strand of her hair. "Talk to the witch in Arizona - Tsubaki, I think her name was. She might know more about Arachne. Get our hands on a demon, maybe, see if any feel like talking about where Medusa is."
"I'll see if we have any leads," Papa says, collecting the dishes. Soul helps him, then mutters something about their jeep before disappearing. Stein follows soon after, depositing his coffee cup on the counter.
Maka takes Soul's place at the sink, falling into a familiar rhythm as Papa washes and hands the dishes off to her to dry. The quiet rush of the water and the clinking of plates is broken when he clears his throat. "I'm - I'm glad you're home, Maka."
"Mmm," she replies, picking up Soul's bowl. "We'll be leaving soon though, as soon as I can find a case to follow up on."
Papa scrubs hard at a pan. "You could stay for a while longer, you know," he says casually. "All that fast food isn't good for you, and I know Soul likes my cooking - he practically inhales it anytime you two visit." He concentrates on a small speck of rust near the handle. "Soul could stay in the other bedroom. Stein barely uses it anyway, and that partner of yours is getting too tall for the couch -"
"I think I'll call Tsubaki first," Maka says. "She might know of some demonic activity that needs investigation."
Papa doesn't say anything for a while. Maka finishes drying the last utensil and tosses her towel on the counter. "Thank you for breakfast, Papa," she says, softer, and leaves him there, alone with his regrets.
"Arachne?" Tsubaki echoes.
"Mmm." Maka shifts on her bed, and several books thump to the ground. "Stein said she's a powerful demon - one that can possess monsters."
"Hang on a minute, please," Tsubaki says, and Maka waits patiently through the sound of flipping pages. "Ah…"
"What is it?"
"Yes…I thought so." A heavy sigh, and then, "She's one of the few white-eyed demons I know of. Very, very powerful, as your Stein says. But her possession of monsters goes a bit deeper than just that. According to my notes, she views them as her children, and herself as a mother."
"A demon with a maternal instinct?" Maka says, skeptical.
"Mmm. Many monster species do seem to worship her, and she's achieved cult-like status among some of them. And prized above all are a rare monster race from Greece -"
"The arachne."
"Yes. According to the lore, it was Arachne herself who created them, and they act as her eyes and ears."
Maka chews on a knuckle. "So it's possible that where the arachne are, she might be as well?"
"It's probable," Tsubaki agrees. "Many glimpses of her throughout the centuries coincide with description of spider monsters terrorizing the area."
An awkward silence falls between them as Maka tries to think of how to word her next question.
"…How are you doing, Maka?" Tsubaki asks softly.
"Oh, um, I'm - I'm doing fine," Maka stutters. Tsubaki waits, and Maka feels compelled to add, "Soul and I are at my father's place right now, we…actually just came back from dealing with an arachne ourselves. And when we were on our way back, we met Medusa…" More details spill out of her, filling the gentle quiet of the room. Tsubaki listens, saying nothing more the occasional hum of agreement.
"Soul seems to be particularly good at getting himself into difficult situations," Tsubaki says finally.
"Tell me about it. You should have seen him when he first started out with me. Didn't even know how to throw a punch, much less how to behead a vampire." She sighs, running her finger against the spine of one of her books. "Not really his fault though. He wasn't born into this like I was."
"That's…unusual, isn't it?" Tsubaki asks. "I was always under the impression that most hunters picked this up after something tragic happened, later in life."
"Usually, but the Kamashi family has been doing this since before they moved to America. Mama was a hunter, and her mother before that, and her parents before that…"
"And now, you."
"Yep," she says, pride making her voice swell. "I taught Soul everything he knows." Thinking about her partner sobers her, and she says, quietly, "…He was never supposed to be a hunter, you know. He had a - a career, and everything. Seventeen and already playing in fancy concerts. But he and his brother, they were exploring an abandoned train station, and I didn't…" She takes a deep breath. "I didn't get there fast enough. I was too slow, and Wes - Wes paid the price."
She stares at the book's cover, digging her nails into the binding. "I messed up," she says, voice hard. "And if I hadn't, Wes would never have been taken, Soul wouldn't have wasted the last half decade stuck with me and running around America. He wouldn't have - none of this would have happened."
Tsubaki hums. "What does Soul think about all this?"
"Soul?" She blinks. "I-I don't know. He doesn't really…we don't really talk, about things like that. But he's been…different, ever since he made his deal. Quieter. Angrier. And that's not the only thing." She pauses, chewing on her lip. "Soul, he…something happened with the arachne yesterday. Soul kind of - killed it. With his mind."
"With his mind?"
"Yes, and he was - was humming. When he killed it." She shudders at the memory. "Medusa - she claims it was her doing. Tsubaki, your brother, did he ever act…strangely?"
"I'm not sure, Maka," Tsubaki says. "We hadn't talked in the three or four years before our fight. But when he confronted me, he was…more enraged than I'd seen him. He kept ranting about injustice and how I was a - a terrible, selfish sister." She sighs. "To be truthful, he'd said much of the same during our arguments before he cut off contact. And he did make a deal for the power of witchcraft, and you well know that the ability to kill in many different ways is part of that."
"Y-yeah." Maka taps her fingers on her knees. "I'm sorry," she blurts out. "For…for being so rude to you. It's just, witches…" She trails off, thinking of flames and tears, of leather jackets and cigars, before shaking her head. "No, there's no excuse. We came to you for help, and I was being…I was mean, and judgmental. I'm sorry."
"Apology accepted," Tsubaki says, and try as she might Maka can't make out any resentment in her tone.
She bites on a knuckle. "If - if you ever need help from me, you can call. Or text, whatever. I'm not sure what I can do for you, but I want to. Stein - that's my uncle - he's one of the best resources for anything supernatural, and if he doesn't know, Papa's got an entire network of hunters and psychics to ask."
"Do any of them know about, ah…voodoo?" Tsubaki asks. "I'm not as familiar with some of the traditions of magic in this country, and I'd like to change that."
"You mean hoodoo?" Maka replies eagerly. "There's a difference, hoodoo is white magic - oh, I read an amazing book on the practice, specifically in making quinconce for fixing spells, I could lend it to you -" and the rest of the afternoon passes by in a happy blur as they exchange book recommendations. Tsubaki's laughter is soft and genuine, her comments witty and questions sharp with intelligence. Maka willfully shoves aside the knowledge that this connection, like nearly everything else in her life, is only temporary, and lets herself pretend, for just a little while, that she'll hear from Tsubaki again.
It's near nighttime when Soul finishes up with the jeep. There was something soothing to tending to it, something almost meditative in checking gauges and filling reservoirs, in soaping and drying it. It brings him back to his and Maka's first year together - him, a snot-nosed kid who didn't even know how to check the oil, and Maka, who had been helping maintain her family's vehicles since she was old enough to hold a ratchet. Her patience had been rewarded; he had taken over much of the jeep's regular upkeep, heaping more love and sweat into the car than Maka ever cared to.
He stretches, begins to towel the motor oil from his hands. The contrast of the dark grease on his long fingers makes him smile; what would his parents think of him now? Oil under his fingernails from working on his own car, callouses along his palms from wielding guns and knives, scars crisscrossing his skin from defending himself against vicious monsters.
Wes would probably demand that they get manicures.
The thought of his brother deflates his mood, and he decides against joining the Albarns and Stein for dinner. As much as it pains him to pass on Spirit's meatloaf, he feels exhausted, and bed (or rather, couch) sounds amazing right now.
He hovers over the bathroom sink, hands gripping either side of the basin. He looks like he's gotten about as much sleep as he feels he has; dark circles stand out against sallow skin. But there are other things that give him pause. He touches his hair - Maka had said it had been getting paler, but when did white-blond become the shade of fresh snow? And his eyes…maybe it was just a trick of the light, but they looked less like deep russet brown and more…dark maroon.
He opens the medicine cabinet forcefully, leaving the mirror to reflect the tub. He unravels dental floss, winds it around his fingers and tries to wedge it between his teeth only to have it immediately snap and he's left holding two frayed ends. He frowns, tries again, but the second piece severs as quickly as the first. "Stupid shitty floss," he grumbles, tossing it in the trash.
He digs around in their toiletry bag for a toothpick and closes the medicine cabinet, scowling at his reflection. He unwraps it, leans close and bares his teeth, only to pause. Were they…sharper than before? He runs an experimental finger along his canine, and pulls back quickly at the taste of metal. Droplets of blood ooze out from a nearly invisible cut on his fingertip.
Soul slowly lets his hand drift down, and he stares at the boy in the mirror, who suddenly looks a lot more intimidating and less…human than he remembers.
"What's happening to me?" he whispers, and the question reverberates off the bathroom tiles, but no answer comes.
Soul's still sleeping when Maka comes into the living room the next morning. She freezes, taking in his lanky body tangled in blankets, the fitful expression on his face.
She turns to creep back to her room, but there's a stirring behind her. "Mmm…Maka?"
She curses silently, and turns around. Half-lidded eyes greet her, and she swallows down a fluttering in her throat. "H-hey."
He blinks at her, sleepy, and the smallest of smiles curls around his mouth. "Hey."
He makes room for her on the couch, and she sits gingerly on one end. He shoves some of his blankets at her, still warm from his body heat, and accepts her peace offering of coffee. "What's up?" he asks, yawning.
"I might've found our next lead," she says. She lays a folder on the table, flips it open. "Papa told me about this case last night, and so I printed out the article…"
He picks it up, rubbing sleep out of his eyes as he skims the words. “ ’Two dead near Rapid City in murder suicide pact'?"
"One was a schoolteacher from Kansas on vacation, the other was a nun who lived all of her life in South Dakota. They had no way of knowing each other, much less plan on committing suicide together. And neither of them showed any inclination of it the day before, according to their loved ones."
"Think it's demons?"
"Hope so." She shrugs. "Figure we'll go up there, check it out…maybe it'll be amicable to telling us where Arachne or Medusa is."
"Am-ic-able," he corrects, leafing through the other articles in the folder. "Hey, what's this one? 'Rising river pollution suspected in deaths of three teens'?"
"Oh, um, sorry." She takes it from him, folds it in half. "A mistake, I didn't mean to print that-" she yawns, "one."
He peers at her. "How much sleep did you get last night?"
She shifts. "Enough."
"Makaaaa…"
"Fiiiine, I got five hours, okay?"
"Mmhm. And the fact that this article was printed at two in the morning means nothing, I guess."
"…Maybe it was more like three."
He groans. "Maka, why."
"I just got caught up in looking for cases." She doesn't mention how quiet her bedroom had been without his low mumbling in his sleep - a habit that had once driven her crazy, but that she now finds hard to sleep without. "It'll be fine!" she insists. "I'll sleep in the car."
He sighs, and lets her slurp at his coffee. "Guess that means we're leaving soon then?"
"Time's a-wasting, Soul." They both flinch at the too-heavy implications. "We'll leave in an hour," she says, more seriously, then pauses. "Does…does that sound okay to you?" she asks awkwardly, a peace offering in question form.
"I'll follow you wherever you go," he replies instantly, and she smiles.
"I think Papa made breakfast again," she says. "And he's packing us lunch so we'll have something for the road."
Soul perks up at the mention of food, and scrambles for clean clothing. She smothers a laugh, and leaves him to it.
She's deciding which of the books she'll take with them when she hears her door creak open. "Are you finished packing, darling?"
"Almost." She decides on Ars Goetia and picks the others up to put away.
"It's a shame you couldn't stay longer," Papa says, coming to stand next to her. The scent of his ridiculously overpowering aftershave hits her nose, and she scowls, shoves the books into the bookshelves.
"Um, sweetheart." Papa's voice wavers nervously, and he clears his throat. "Darling, I was just wondering…"
"What is it Papa," Maka says flatly.
She can feel Papa's wince at her tone. "Sweetheart, what are you going to do? You know…when Soul's…gone?"
"Nothing, because he's not going anywhere," Maka says fiercely. Papa shrivels even more under her scathing glare. "He's not going to hell, and I don't care what anyone else says."
Papa spreads his hands meekly. "Of course, darling. If there's anyone who can break a demon's deal, it's you." The pride in his voice mollifies her somewhat, and she lessens her grip on her book. "But you're closer than you've been before to finding where his brother is. What are you going to do when he finds him? That is why he got into hunting, isn't it?"
"I -" she starts to say, then stops.
She hadn't thought about what it might mean for them if they found Wes. Sure, she had expected him to leave during their first year together, when she was still teaching Soul the ropes and having to make up for his blunders - when they were expecting Wes to be in just the next town over, or the town after that. But now…
Suddenly, the thought of going on jobs by herself - of only renting a one bed motel room, of planning out driving routes with only one driver, of having to constantly watch her back for surprises, seemed…difficult. Lonely.
When had she gotten so weak? Mama would be so disappointed in her.
"I'll keep hunting," Maka says. "I never expected him to stick around, anyway, Soul was just tagging along, like you said. He'll go home with Wes and I'll pick up where I left off." She hefts her bag onto her shoulder. "I'm a Kamashi, after all."
Papa opens his mouth, and Maka cuts him off. "No, Papa, for the last time I'm not coming to live with you. Just because you gave up doing this doesn't mean I have to."
"I know, sweetheart, it's just -" But Maka's sharp look makes him falter, and his eyes drop to the floor. "All right, Maka," he says quietly. "Whatever you want."
The road to Rapid City seems to shimmer in the heat of the noonday sun, and Maka replays her conversation with her father over and over in her head.
"Soul?" she says, interrupting his soft humming along to Diana Krall.
"Hm?"
She finds herself repeating her father's question. "What are you going to do? If - when, when we find Wes."
"God, I don't know." He drums his fingers on the steering wheel, brows furrowed in thought, but she doesn't miss the smile that plays around his mouth at the prospect. "Go back to Connecticut, to start. Take Wes back to our parents, tell them that he's - that we're both alive. God, they must be…" He trails off, expression falling, but shakes his head. "…We'd have a lot to catch up on. All of us would."
"Oh," Maka says, heart sinking. She waits for more, but he says nothing, and she sneaks a peek to see him lost in his own thoughts. Stop it, she tells herself fiercely as she turns away to look out the window. This was always temporary, you knew this. He's not supposed to be here - you're not supposed to have a partner. They're more trouble than they're worth, didn't Mama teach you that?
A staccato of trumpets from the radio snaps Soul out of his daydream, and he eagerly reaches for the volume, turning it up with a quiet "yesss". "That certain night, the night we met, there was magic abroad in the air," he sings, and Maka can't help but smile.
His voice is rich, deep and smooth, every note precise. He lingers over the lyrics, infusing them with a warmth and depth of emotion that she could never hope to emulate. Still, he nudges her, singing, "-that when you turned and smiled at me," and she joins him for the chorus - "a nightingale sang in Berkeley square." Her voice warbles, thin and offkey, but he seems pleased at her paltry contribution.
He belts out the next parts, imitates the blaring of the brass and sweep of the violins. His fingers span the steering wheel, pressing down on invisible keys as he plays along, and there's so much passion in every movement as he loses himself to the song. Her voice peters out, and she fades into the background, just watching him in his element, one that she appreciates, but can't understand, can't be a part of.
There's no room for either of them in each other's lives, the way their lives are supposed to be.
The mysterious murder suicides turn out to be a very sloppy siren, one that takes them four days to dispatch of. A murder in North Dakota reveals itself to be the work of a spirit, as well as another death in Idaho. A drowning in Montana isn't a monster or a demon, but just an unfortunate swimmer caught in a deadly river current.
It's not until they investigate a killing in Wyoming that they finally hit upon pay dirt.
"Where is she?!" Soul demands. "Where is Arachne?"
"I. Don't. Know!" the demon shrieks. Tears run down its face, but it glares at Soul as it spits, "Arachne couldn't care less about other demons! She'd never -"
It screams as Soul dumps more holy water on it, writhing and twisting against the ropes that bind it tightly to the chair. "I won't ask again," Soul says lowly. "Tell me where she is, or you're going straight back to hell."
"Then I'll see you there," it hisses.
Soul's hands clench into fists, and something about the look in his eyes has Maka reaching for his shoulder. "I'll take care of this," she says.
Soul jerks, starts to say something, then stops, rubbing at his temples. "Fine." He stalks off, muttering something about a headache.
Maka gets as close to the demon as she dares, careful to stay outside of the devil trap. "You may not know about Arachne," she says. "But I know you know Medusa."
"Maybe," it says coyly, as if it hadn't just been shrieking in pain a few minutes ago. "Who wants to know?"
"Don't play dumb with me, demon. I can recite the words as well as he can."
"Oh yes, you must be Maka. His precious partner." It rocks back and forth on the chair, leering at her. "How does it feel to know that it was your recklessness that got him into this mess in the first place?"
"I didn't ask for your opinion," she snaps. "Where is Medusa?"
"You can't save him," it says, sneering. "He's going to die, die so painfully that he'll be cursing your name while he's being ripped to shreds. Just like your mama did."
Its head snaps back and Maka's fist throbs at the impact. "Shut up," she says, and wishes she imagined the tremble in her voice. "I won't ask again -"
"What, don't like being reminded that it was your fault she died? Just like it's your fault Soul made a deal? Traded his soul? Became a monster -"
Her hands are around the demon's neck before it finishes. "You don't know anything," she hisses over the ringing in her ears. The demon's eyes find her, deep with malice, and she squeezes until the hate drains out of them and fear replaces it. Tears stream down its face and she realizes, abruptly, that its - her eyes are blue, that the human the demon is inhabiting is suffocating, that she's suffocating the girl -
She lets go immediately, taking deep breaths as if she was the one who was having the air cut off to her lungs. "E - exorcizamus te," she says shakily.
The demon groans, shuddering as Maka feels her way through the ritual. "You can't save him," it says again, and this time Maka doesn't stop reciting. "You can't, you know that, it's your fault, you can't save him, you can't SAVE HI-"
With a shriek, it tears out of the girl, pooling above her in a thick black cloud before it's sucked back down to hell.
"I will," Maka whispers in the silence that follows. But even to her ears, it sounds like a plea.
He's nursing a beer, wishing it was Cabernet, and watching Maka sweep the local arm wrestling champions of their money when there's a flash of blonde and green out the corner of his eye. He turns his head and makes eye contact with Medusa, staring at him from where she sits, half-hidden in the dark corner of a booth. Her smile widens.
Soul's hands shake as he carefully puts down his drink, but before he can get up, he feels heavy boots thud against his chair. Maka plops down next to him, resting her feet against his barstool. "Looks like we'll be eating well for the next week or so, Soul," Maka says, fanning herself with dollar bills.
"Joy," Soul deadpans, trying to cover his unease with a quick swig of beer. "Applebee's instead of McDonald's. A real treat."
She smacks his arm lightly, and he grunts. Something must show on his face though, because she pauses mid-motion and leans forward, peering at him. "…You okay?"
Soul forces a smile. "I'm fine. The alcohol here just sucks is all." Hel can't help but steal a quick glance towards Medusa, still in the booth. She shakes her head.
"…You know, we had a really rough day today," Soul says. He takes another sip of his drink, staring at the dark sticky wood of the bar. "Maybe you should head on back to the motel, get some sleep."
Maka gives him a strange look. "What about you?"
"I'll take a cab back." He shrugs, unable to look her in the eye. "I wouldn't be able to sleep right away anyway. Too many demons haunting my dreams."
Maka frowns, but sits back. "Suit yourself. Don’t stay out too late though, we're driving as soon as we get up tomorrow." With one last glance cast his way, she leaves.
He waits another five, ten minutes, not moving until the jeep's taillights have faded into the distance. When he looks away from the window, he meets Medusa's eyes, beckoning him closer.
Soul's blood roars in his ears as he slowly stands up. He wobbles a little as he makes his way across wheezing floorboards, and he wishes he could blame it on the alcohol.
"Soul," Medusa greets him as he approaches her. "I'm pleased to have you join me. Shall we have a drink? I happen to know where the bartender keeps some of his higher-quality whiskey."
"Shut up. I'm not here for pleasantries." He crosses his arms, still standing, looking down at her. "Where is Wes?"
"Oh, but we have so much to talk about." She lays a pale hand on his forearm; he shoves her hand away roughly. "Don't you want to know more about your new gifts? Our conversation was so…rudely interrupted the last time we spoke."
He stays silent, glowering at her. She affects a sigh. "I see that I can't dissuade you. Very well." She flaps her fingers at him. "Ask your question, and I'll answer it, as a show of good faith."
"Tell me where Wes is."
Medusa smirks, eyes boring into his, and gestures him closer. He bends, and she leans into him, braid tickling his neck. "Ask your partner," she breathes into his ear.
"Wha -" He jerks away. "Maka?"
"She didn't tell you?" Medusa puts a hand to her mouth, feigning surprise. "She's figured it out a while ago. Don't tell me you didn't know…unless…" she tilts her head, "she doesn't trust you?"
"Shut up!" he snaps. "Maka and I trust each other with our lives, she wouldn't - wouldn't keep -" He falters.
Medusa's eyes leave his as she takes a delicate sip of her drink, but he can see her smirk over the rim of her glass. "Perhaps I was mistaken. You would have to ask her."
"Maka," he says, voice trembling with rage, "is my partner. If she knew where Wes was, she would have told me."
"Of course she would," Medusa says soothingly. "Still…it wouldn't hurt to make sure, would it?" She arises from her seat. "Don't be a stranger, Soul," she says, patting his cheek, and Soul channels every bit of hatred he feels towards her in her glare. She laughs at his expression. "We'll talk later," she says, amused, and when Soul turns his head to tell her to fuck off, she's already gone.
Another case, another monster, another dead-end. He tries to tell himself that at least they saved someone from becoming another victim, but it's been a month since the arachne and frankly, it's wearing him thin. He's tired, frustrated, and covered in shapeshifter blood. Maka's in no better mood; she flips through her notebook with enough force to rip the pages, and his last inquiry of what she wanted for dinner earned him a terse "I don't care."
Still, Medusa's accusation rattles around and around in his head, and he finds himself meekly breaking the silence. "So, uh, Maka," he begins. "I was…I was thinking. About where Wes might be. And I -"
"I'm so sick of hearing about Wes," Maka says under her breath.
Soul goes very still. "Pardon?" he asks icily.
"I said I'm sick of hearing about your brother!" She slams her notebook shut. "Wes this, Wes that - we're wasting time! Your time!"
"Well I'm sick of you harping on me about this damn deal!" Soul fires back. " 'Guess what day it is, Soul'. 'You know it's been four weeks since we saw Tsubaki?'. 'Sure is feeling more like fall now'. I get it already!"
"Well too bad," she snaps. "You're stuck with it, and with me."
Shafts of light from the setting sun makes him yank the sun visor down, nearly tearing it out. He wishes very badly to take out his anger on the steering wheel the same way, but refrains out of respect for the jeep.
"You're going to get yourself killed going after him," Maka mutters.
"Yeah, well, guess we'll be one for one then," he says without thinking.
There's a silence, then, "Fuck you," she says, and Soul can see her blinking back tears. "You think I died on purpose? That I wanted to be the reason you traded your soul to a demon, the reason you have only a year left?"
"That's - that's not what I meant -"
"I would rather," she says, deadly serious, "I would rather die again than watch you be torn apart by hell hounds. I would rather march through the gates of hell itself and throw myself on the rack, than have your soul taken by that bitch of a demon."
"I know," he says, and he does. "But I - we still have time, still have ten months. Wes doesn't and I…" He swallows. "I was responsible," he says. "I found the place. I made him go."
"You were just kids," Maka says, as if she wasn't only six months older than him, as if it wasn't just five years ago. "You couldn't have known about the monster. You didn't even know they existed."
Soul shakes his head. "You don't know, Maka," he says, staring out at the road. The fields that whip past takes him back to another trip, in another car, with another driver. "You only showed up after. You weren't there when…"
"When what, Soul?" Maka finally asks, when the silence stretches on too long between them. "What happened?"
Soul doesn't answer. Maka sighs, but for once doesn't push.
Famous Violin Virtuoso Disappears Along with Brother, the faded newspaper clipping declares. Where Is Wesley Evans? another asks. His keychain feels smooth and cool under his fingers as he flips through the scrapbook, skimming headline after headline. He pauses at a news page mostly taken up by a photo of his family, peers down at a younger Soul who scowls off to the side as Wes drapes an arm around his shoulders and beams at the camera.
A soft thump interrupts his trance, and he looks up to see Maka hunched over the table, arms cradling her head as she snores. He frowns, looking back down at Wes's smiling face.
He closes the notebook and gets off the bed. "Maka," he says gruffly. "You need to get to bed."
Maka's eyebrows draw together and she mutters something, turning away from him.
"I know we have to find another case with a demon," he says patiently, stepping around the stacks of papers and books. "But you're not going to be any use to anyone if you don't get some sleep."
He gently closes her laptop, and lets himself stare at her while she's not awake enough to notice. This close, he can see the dark smudges underneath her eyes, and for the first time he realizes how tired she is, how she's been driving herself on, burying herself in research. He feels a tendril of guilt reach through his suspicion.
"Come on," he says softly, laying a hand on her back. Maka buries herself further into her arms. He sighs. "Okay, fine, but you asked for this," he warns, and bends down to pick her up.
She's heavier than he expects, and he wobbles a little before he straightens, cradling her. Papers flutter from her arms, and Maka's head flops around before she curls into him, snuggling into his shoulder.
She breathes something into the crook of his neck, and he tilts his head to hear her better.
"Sorry," she whispers. "Sorry, sorry, sorry."
Soul feels his heart shrivel with shame, and he's about to shake her awake and tell her that she doesn't need to be sorry for anything, that he knows she's just worried about him, when something catches his eye amongst the papers.
He gently lays her down on top of her bed, where she immediately latches onto the pillow and sighs into it. He watches her for a moment, making sure she's actually asleep, before going back over to her desk.
It's buried beneath countless documents and books, but eventually he unearths what he had glimpsed - a map, with WES?? scrawled across the top. Dots are scattered amongst cities and towns, with a few outliers, but most are concentrated in one area. Burkburnett is circled in red, with a line attaching it to his brother's name.
The first thing Soul feels is confusion. Then he looks closer and recognizes one of the articles - the one she had printed out "by mistake" back at Spirit's.
Ask your partner…
The stinging whip of betrayal is drowned out in the seething rage that sweeps through him, blood catching fire. There's a pulsing in his ears, and his head pounds, and pounds, and he can hear - can hear the beating of Maka’s heart -
He wrenches himself away forcefully, clawing at his ears in order to drown out the shush of her blood. It's only when he's certain the only thing he hears is the rapid, angry hammering of his own heart that he lowers his hands.
She barely stirs as Soul sweeps her research off the table and into his bag, as he straps on his knives and tucks his gun in the waistband of his jeans. He pauses at the door, looking at her. Ash blonde hair fans out across the pillow, eyelids fluttering as she dreams. She's going to be absolutely furious when she wakes.
Good.
He leaves. The click of the door sounds like finality.
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