A/N: It LIVES. Have an update over two years later. Thanks to all my betas and special thanks to the soulstice squad for the kick in the ass to do the thing. Go bask in the awesomeness of their fics because they are all fantastic. Happy Soulstice!

And now, back to your regularly scheduled reverb-be sure to give all those awesome collabs your love. :)

And now, back to your regularly scheduled reverb-be sure to give all those awesome collabs your love. :)

Sitting in the passenger seat of Aria's little Honda again, weaving through Stamford traffic, Maka kept her gaze out the window. She was trying to look relaxed, content; she was anything but, anger and hurt still stewing within her like ripening venom.

It didn't help that even when she was angry, even when she was furious, kissing him had felt good, and his stunned look as she had stepped away, the echoes of stupor in his soul, gave her a petty satisfaction she tried not to relish.

At least Aria seemed more at ease, humming along to some smooth jazz number Soul would absolutely love. It was grating on Maka's last nerve, already rubbed raw by everything last night, but she refused to be rude and ask for the other woman to turn it down or off, aside from which, it kept focus off of her. Still, she longed for the thrum of an electronic beat, the distraction of simple repetition.

She felt it before she heard it, the presence of magic, the hum of multiple souls reaching out from far away. Then there were the voices.

Not now. Not now. Why now , of all times, why her and not Soul?

Because she was the contact person, she knew that, but this wasn't a mission and—she was just going to ignore it. She smiled sheepishly at Aria, who was eying her oddly, and pretended to fiddle with her phone. Hopefully that would—

"It's not working, maybe you can find another mirror?" The voice was muffled from within her purse but audible, and Maka could have strangled Liz for the suggestion. She was about to fish out her little compact to hopefully stop the inevitable but she was far, far too late, and suddenly the current Lord Death was visible in the rear view mirror, flanked by a good half of their collective friends. It wasn't easy for her to see them from this angle and she was sure they couldn't see her, but they could surely see—

"What the—" Aria shrieked from the driver's side, slamming on the breaks and pulling the car to the side of the road. Several horns honked their way but the driver didn't even notice, instead shoving her seat back as far as it would go as she eyed the mirror warily.

"What's going on?"

"Who the hell are you?"

"I don't see Maka, where is she? Perhaps—"

"Shhhh—you're scaring her!"

Maka let out a deep sigh. This was already a mess ready to snowball into traumatizing her not-quite soon-to-be sister-in-law.

"Aria," she said, trying to keep her voice placid. "I know this seems—strange. But those are friends, and my boss, and I need to take this if it's okay?"

"Is that Maka?"

"Shhhhh!"

"Your boss—and friends—are in the mirror?"

"My boss and friends are in the mirror," Maka confirmed. "It's a special magic the god of death can use to communicate. I'm sorry if it—"

"Why can't I see her, wha—"

"Maka, it would be helpful if you'd turn the mirror your way—it seems you occupy some manner of vehicle."

"I'm sayin'!"

Pinching the bridge of her nose with a sigh, a habit she had picked up from Soul, she looked to Aria.

"Do you mind?" She glanced pointedly at the mirror.

"Please," Aria responded, emphatic. What a disaster, but she supposed it was just another log on the heaping garbage fire this entire trip had become.

Slowly, deliberately, Maka reached up and repositioned the rear view mirror, ignoring the cars whizzing past on the road and the confused stare of her companion. Death the Kid occupied the center of the thing, mask mercifully off, flanked by Liz and Patti to the left and Black Star and Tsubaki to the right. What. The hell?

"Deathmeister Maka reporting, Sir." The displeasure in her voice as she emphasized the last word was palpable. "Do you have a mission for us?"

"Not—exactly." Kid looked distinctly uncomfortable.

"Do you need to recall us, then?"

"Oh no, not at all."

Maka decided her raised eyebrows would serve as response enough.

"Why haven't you been answering your texts?" Liz cut in. "We—"

With a light groan, Maka ran a hand through her hair in sheer frustration. That's what this was about?

"Oh my Dearly Departed Father, what happened to your neck ?"

Oh no. No no no no no. The bruises had faded slightly and she'd managed to arrange her hair to mostly cover them. Maka had figured it didn't matter just to run some errands, and had planned to pick up some heavier makeup while they were out. She hadn't accounted for—this.

"Did you get in a fight? Perhaps take on one of those kishin early? You needn't have rushed—it looks like you got mauled ."

"By a shark," Liz chimed in with a predatory grin and Tsubaki tittered, the traitor. The whoop from Patti and, "Soul, my man!" from Black Star were so expected she might have laughed, except for the heat in her face and overwhelming desire to slink below the sight line of the mirror she only just contained.

"Wha—"

"Kid, dude, even you gotta know a hickey when it's staring you in the face. Or mirror. Whatever."

"Do you people have a problem with a woman spending quality time with her husband—" Aria had finally stopped her confused gaping and sounded mildly incredulous.

"Husband—what the hell is she—"

"Oh my Death, you got—"

"I fucking knew you two—"

"So you don't have a mission for us?" Maka cut them all off. This was getting worse and worse.

"Well, no." Kid had never been particularly expressive outside of his issues, but the mortification wafting off his soul was clear. Well, good.

"Wonderful, then I'll see you all when we get home."

Past the cacophony of "But, who is—" and "But where is—" and "But what about—" she pushed through.

"And yes, we're doing well. Soul's family is very welcoming. I'll tell you all about it later—bye!"

Get the hint, get the hint, get the damn—

The mirror was a mirror again and Maka sighed her relief. Thank Death, literally. Also curse him for giving into what she could only term peer pressure.

"Well, that happened." Aria was looking at her contemplatively. Maka was pretty sure she had cut it short enough the whole husband thing shouldn't raise alarm bells, though the mess they'd face when they got home was a different story.

"It certainly did." She let out a second, heavier sigh. "I'm—sorry about that. My friends can be sort of—"

"Enthusiastic?" Aria offered with a knowing smile.

"Understatement, but yes."

"Girl, you've met my fiancé. They'd fit right in."

While Maka found that doubtful, even given Wes's decided relish for teasing his brother, she still couldn't help her smile.

"Maybe."

"Anyway, you said you needed makeup, right? Sophia just texted me. I guess Jean Luc has it handled, so we just need to take care of your fitting and my errands and we should be back in time for him to do his—" she waved a hand "—thing."

"His—thing?"

"Mmm. Whole nine yards, I guess."

Did she want to know? After seeing what he tried with Soul's hair yesterday, her weapon fleeing into the luncheon looking like nothing so much as a wet poodle, she doubted it.

"You look like the cat ate your favorite canary—don't worry so much. Jean Luc is eccentric, but he's also the best." Maka's lips twisted in disbelief and Aria laughed. "I know, but really . Back when Wes and I first got engaged, Sophia sicced him on me, her way of showing support I guess, and honestly, though I felt like a damn specimen under glass at the time, it really wasn't a bad thing in the end. I mean, I know Jean Luc seems all ridiculous affect, and I sure as hell expected to be forced into a bunch of impractical runway nonsense I'd never wear, but wouldn't you just know, what I got were a lot of great things I still wear all the time. It'll be fine ."

There was such sincerity in her soul that Maka found herself hopeful as they merged back into traffic. Or maybe she just realized that between her ass of a weapon, that angry kiss, and the mirror call from hell, her day couldn't possibly get worse.

Her day had definitely gotten worse.

There was a woman working on her hair, another woman applying some sort of goo to her face, a man putting her feet into a fizzy foot bath, and another man rubbing lotion into one hand and up her arm.

It was, to say the least, overwhelming, but it was downright relaxing when compared with the torture methods she'd undergone just before that the stylist called waxing. She had drawn the line at allowing the hot goo down there, but the rest of her was as smooth as a baby's bottom, as if she had the need or desire to be entirely hairless. It wasn't like she had a ton to begin with—she did actually shave!

On top of that, she hadn't seen Soul since the morning. After having her dress fitting (it fit perfectly, no surprise there,) and helping Aria with some last minute errands, she'd been whisked into a large bathroom that was apparently some sort of home spa-a large, bright space covered in clearly expensive stone tile work, and all this had begun. Soul was home, she could feel his soul nearby, but that didn't mean much when she was essentially being held captive and, hell, she wasn't even sure she wanted to see him; he'd been such an asshole and he hadn't even apologized! His words from last night still stung—she couldn't remember the poison he'd flung so carelessly without a wave of hurt washing through her—but she also hated the distance between them, hated that they hadn't been able to talk.

If there was one thing being treated as an object did other than make her feel incredibly awkward, it was to give her plenty of time to stew in her own head, to actually think.

She didn't understand his upset, didn't understand it at all. Yes, they'd crossed lines the other night, demolished them really, but he had asked for that—it couldn't be all of what was bothering him, could it? Couldn't be why he'd implied—he'd implied—

No, she didn't understand, but she wanted to, wanted to end the pain his words had caused. But most of all, as she read something like remorse in his soul even at this distance, she just wanted to move past it.

It still hurt, but she suspected his actions had been born of his own hurt, his own deep sense of alienation at being back in this place that was once home—at least, she hoped it was that, was misplaced anger and hurt and not a reflection of his real feelings, a glimpse of that part of himself he kept behind high, thick walls even through the strongest resonance. She was here for him and she couldn't be the support he needed if he wouldn't let her be. In any case, hanging onto her own hurt could do no good, she'd learned that much in her dealings with her father and Crona both, so she decided they would talk when they had the chance and clear the air.

They both deserved that, and hopefully he would finally be willing to meet her half way.

Maka was torn from her thoughts by the reappearance of the stylist, who practically bounced into the room to look down at her on what Sophia had assured her was the latest in pamper chairs before traipsing off elsewhere, but which Maka had quickly rechristened in her head as the throne of torture.

Today, the stylist had donned an extremely purple silk shirt with a colorful and florid silk scarf wound around his neck, which contrasted sharply with his decided frown. The equally florid cologne he wore wafted so powerfully her way that she was surprised it didn't hang over him like a cloud, a signal to despair all ye who enter here.

Or maybe she was channeling her weapon and, snark aside, the man was just doing what he was (very highly, she'd been assured) paid for.

"Ah, I see things are coming along swimmingly! Do be a dear and sculpt her eyebrows, would you, Priscilla?"

"You think I'd let her go on like that ?" The over tanned, middle aged woman, who was half way through stripping the goop off of Maka's face, gasped in sheer incredulity. "You should know better!"

"Good, good." The little stylist waved a dismissive hand. "Now. How long until I have my pristine palette ready?"

"If you want me to show her how to duplicate, a good two hours."

"After." His tone was suddenly, shockingly clipped, all business.

The woman removed the last bit of goop with a thoughtful hum. "Forty minutes, then."

"I suppose I can work with that." He sounded put out. "I just need her ready, you can do the rest when I'm through. Give her a viable day to evening look, but make sure you show her day, evening, and casual at minimum later, yes? Yes. Excellent! Chop chop!"

With that the stylist bounded back out, the scarf around his neck billowing slightly in his wake.

Forty more minutes of rubbing, scrubbing, brushing, and plucking at hairs later, Maka was ready to be done with life. It was the most out of place she'd felt this entire trip, like a fish out of water, or maybe a cat thrown into it as she drowned in a sea of high end makeup, tweezers, and celebrity gossip. Pre Kishin had nothing on what Jean Luc had termed "a proper beauty regimen."

Still, the stylist seemed pleased enough as he re-entered the room and Maka stood there in a bathrobe, hair down and cut into stylish long layers complete with subtle highlights, make up absolutely flawless. The aesthetician, Priscilla, had thoroughly covered the leavings of the other evening while tittering and suggesting that any man who left marks like that must be an absolute beast in bed, and Maka had simply let the implication stand because what else could she do?

As if she actually knew . Though, knowing her weapon as well as she did and based on the other night, she doubted he'd be the domineering animal this woman suggested—more like the equal partner he'd always been. The notion had her flushing again, which the entire group found simply adorable, and Maka had consoled herself with the fleeting thought that if they knew she could use her "husband" to slice a tree in half on command, then they might have found her far less "cute."

The recent memory was interrupted by Jean Luc clearing his throat. "Well then, this will do, definitely. I've got a lot for you to try on, Maka dear, and not much time for it, so if you'd follow me, we'll get to it, yes?" He didn't wait for an answer; he never waited for an answer. "Yes. Marvelous! Come, then."

And this is how Maka Albarn, celebrated Deathmeister, found herself trailing after a stylist like a trained puppy.

How was this her life?

Her weapon owed her so huge after everything, and she wasn't just thinking of last night. So. Huge.

For his part, Jean Luc strutted through the hall like he owned the place, leading her to a room with ornate French doors. It was clearly some sort of upstairs sitting room, with marble tile and a pair of plush pastel chairs against the far wall that could only be the remains of its normal furnishings. Today, however, the room was mostly occupied by racks upon racks of clothing, along with rolling shelves piled with shoes and all manner of accessories. There was a large, intricately carved privacy screen set up in one corner, and the whole thing had the appearance of some sort of pop up high end retail store rather than a room in the middle of a mansion.

"Voila!" he announced with flourish as he flung open the French doors. "Maka Evans, I give you… your new wardrobe!"

He looked her way expectantly and she swallowed, hard.

All this—was for her?

It was—it was—too much . Far, far too much. How would she even fit it all in their apartment?

"Um, thanks?"

The fact he appeared a bit incredulous notwithstanding, the stylist strode into the room with purpose, turning dramatically to face her.

"Now, then." His tone was back to the business mode he'd used earlier. "Sophia has been a dear to lend us the room but there's a lot to try on. Priscilla and Mimi, along with my personal tailor Gabriella—" a tall, willowy woman of indeterminate age appeared from behind the changing screen "—will assist you to expedite the process, if you have no objections. Of course you don't! Well, we'll start with the casual wear and work our way up, let's get moving!" He waved a hand to one of the racks and the hair stylist and esthetician from before came rushing past, herding Maka behind the ornate screen.

Thus, it began.

The process was the same every time. The three other women would help Maka dress, she'd walk out to show Jean Luc who would offer praise and snap pictures from different angles, and then it would begin anew.

Just how many outfits were there?

This was as exhausting as training and infinitely less rewarding, though she had a feeling Liz would die of happiness in her place. And sure, Maka enjoyed putting together a cute outfit on occasion, but most of this was a departure from what she normally found cute, and an endless parade of clothes and accessories was about as removed from her own idea of fun as she could imagine.

Still, she took some small bit of pleasure in finding the occasional piece she'd brought mixed in, a tiny vindication for Liz.

And then came time to try on the dress for tonight.

Jean Luc actually got off the velvet chair he'd been directing things from, a makeshift throne for a temporary tyrant, to grab a very familiar garment bag.

"Now, then. Since Sophia insisted we incorporate some of your current wardrobe, we did. You had a few passable pieces—but this, well, I must say I'm surprised and pleased. I had a different dress in mind for the rehearsal, but when I saw the vintage Chanel you'd brought along, I simply couldn't use anything else! Clearly you have been hiding some real taste beneath all that—camouflage." He gestured vaguely. "Of course, the accessories you brought." He wrinkled his nose. "Simply will not do, but this is a masterpiece ." He handed Priscilla the bag. "Well, go on then."

The dress, the one she'd bought with Soul for the wedding, was as gorgeous as when she'd tried it on the first time. It was a patterned black and white number that cinched at her waist just right, flaring out to expose her ankles enticingly. The sweetheart neckline accentuated her modest bust, while the a-line cut highlighted her slight curves. And just as with the first time, after the dress was on and her hair swept into a quick updo, Maka marveled that the elegant woman peering back at her from the mirror could be her. Of course, she'd been doing that with nearly every outfit in a long parade the past hour and it had her head spinning—yet somehow, in this dress, she felt both impossibly elegant and very much herself. It was white dress meets black dress meets her own sense of style and she adored it.

If the way Jean Luc and the others gushed was any indication, so did they, and as Sophia glided in just as Maka made a flouncy little turn, she actually clapped.

"You were right, Jean Luc, darling, that dress is perfection itself! Fabulous!" She breezed over and offered air kisses to the stylist and Maka both, before turning back to Jean Luc. "Are you done then?"

"Very nearly. You've arrived just in time for the piece de resistance, as it were, your very special request."

"Oh! Wonderful!" She clapped her hands together again once. "I can't wait!"

"Ah, you all heard the lady, time for the finale. Off with you now!" Another of his signature hand waves later and they were back behind the screen. Mimi, a short woman with artificially red hair that reminded Maka unfavorably of her papa (an idea that was only reinforced by the ridiculous interest the entire salon squad had taken in her sex life as they'd worked their questionable magic,) soon appeared with a large box that she placed on the display table set up behind the screen. She opened it with the same flourish Jean Luc might have and Maka was faced with a lot of black.

Blinking at the box, her confusion increased as the woman pulled out a little (and little was the right word) short ensemble, edged in gold, a matching coat with long tails that was vaguely reminiscent of the her non-Spartoi meister coat, a pair of asymmetrical stockings, several leather straps including a knife holster, a pair of leather fingerless gloves, and some thigh high leather combat boots. Maka vaguely remembered an exchange the stylist had with Sophia about something to fight in and it clicked. Was this… a meister outfit?

By Death, it really was! She could fight in this—and it suited her aesthetic well. Excitement bubbled up as she slipped on the crop top and grabbed the one piece short suit to shimmy it on. Now this was what she was talking about! Maybe there was something to the whole stylist thing after all.

A few minutes later, everything was on and the hairstylist was fussing with her hair as the tailor checked the fit and the esthetician tightened a few buckles at her thigh. "Jean Luc said you prefer pigtails for combat," the red head said as she ran the brush through her hair, standing on a small stool for height. "But this is more age appropriate and equally practical. It also offers less for an enemy to grab, which I'd imagine is beneficial." There was a distasteful slant to her mouth at the words combat and enemy which made her look like she'd just sucked on a very sour lemon, her rounded baby face incredulous. "There! All set. Have a look, then!" The high ponytail wasn't Maka's normal style, but it did seem to go with this—less school girlish combat outfit better, she'd admit. The woman staring back at her was muscular and powerful and maybe even pretty, not a girl-woman at all.

Yes, she smiled at her reflection, this would definitely work. Maka found herself wondering what Soul would think of the new mission outfit as she followed Mimi and Priscilla out to show the head stylist, and the idea made her flush. This one was much more—adult. He'd probably hate it, all things considered.

"Ah! Excellent!" the stylist exclaimed, clearly pleased with his own efforts. "Now, move."

Maka turned in place as she had so many times before, but the man scoffed.

"No, no, I mean move. Fight. Pretend you're—" he waved a hand around vaguely for at least the dozenth time that day "—battling monsters."

"I—" She blinked. "There isn't the space and I—"

"I'm not asking you to slay one of your kishin." Maka could hear how unfamiliar the word was on his tongue as he clumsily stumbled on each syllable even she marveled at him knowing the term at all. "But I do need you to test the range of motion."

"Oh! Okay."

This part she understood and she quickly began a series of full body stretches.

"Your Mister Barrett explained you favor a variety of kicks and was so kind as to send me training footage to review," the stylist said as he watched her go through each stretch. "One of the best sports designers in the business did the work, though they asked to remain anonymous. You know how people get when it comes to Lord Death and human weapons and the like." He offered a dismissive little shrug and she bristled; of course she knew—the prejudice weapons faced in the civilian world was half of why she was so eager to give their presentation tonight, to explain what they did and to show Soul's family how amazing a death scythe really was. She stifled the instinct to snap at the man across from her for treating the topic so lightly; it was neither the time nor the place, and she would not cast further aspersions on her weapon by acting out rashly as she was too often prone to do. "Now then, how does it feel?"

"It's—it's good." And it really was. It gave her the full range of motion and was lightweight.

"I think you'll find it superior to—what you brought with you." The disgust in his tone at her prior outfit was practically physical. "The fabric is a state of the art military grade weave, the latest in protective wear, resistant to gashes and slashes."

"Ah, Jean Luc!" Sophia put in, moving closer to Maka to get a better look. "You've absolutely outdone yourself!"

"I'm wounded that you expected any less," the stylist answered with a dramatic hand to the heart, eliciting a light, airy laugh from Soul's mother before she turned to her would-be daughter in law.

"But Maka, dear, it doesn't matter what I think of it—do you like it?"

There was a genuine affection coming from the other woman's soul that nearly staggered the meister in its strength and unexpected presence, especially in the aftermath of the anger she had only just quashed.

"I love it, it's perfect," Maka said, and she found that she meant it.

It turned out Aria was right—this whole makeover ordeal wasn't so bad after all.

The rehearsal itself was a relatively laid back affair as they went over timing and placement for the wedding itself. It was a bit concerning, maybe, as she realized the ceremony was slated to be well over an hour long, but there was little for her to do save stand between Genevieve and one of Aria's cousins (Maka had finally found out via the stylist gossip machine that her name was Allison, the other cousin's name was Charmaine, yes they were dating, and no they weren't actually related to one another, though they did meet because of their mutual kinship with Aria.)

Opportunity to speak with her weapon was pretty much zero, and really, Maka preferred not to hold any meaningful discussion amidst the wedding party had there been the chance—the last thing they needed was to draw any more negative attention to their "marriage." Unsure what to say when things were still so tense, she chose to say not much at all when he was near. That didn't prevent him, however, from turning his eyes her way frequently as he stood across the aisle from her next to his brother, his dark jeans, t-shirt, and leather jacket a sharp contrast to the dress shirts and dresses of the rest of the group, herself included—when Jean Luc had insisted she change into a simple couture blue dress to wear to the rehearsal, she couldn't exactly refuse. Still, her weapon looked distinctly uncomfortable in spite of his far too comfortable clothing.

His expression didn't help, face passive yet eyes silently imploring, remorse echoing from deep within his soul.

They would definitely need to talk and soon , though she wasn't sure when that would be possible; the wedding party had arrived together in several limos, Maka with the rest of the women in the party, and would depart back to the Evans estate the same way. The fact he was so unhappy, however, served as an unexpected balm to her lingering hurt. The things he had said, had implied—yes, they hurt. Even still, they hurt. Maka needed to hear from him, they needed to speak the words, but feeling how much he clearly wanted to make things right soothed.

The rehearsal couldn't have lasted more than thirty minutes, the drive back less, but it felt like an eternity, sitting in a car with so many people who were essentially strangers, feeling her weapon a car away. At least they were near the home stretch, and it wouldn't be long before they could go back to the way things were before this mess, could go back to being just weapon and meister, Maka and Soul. Assuming they could make it through a few more days of gross pretense, of him shoving down what could only be disgust at having to appear intimate with his partner and of her shoving down the gross, sappy feelings and attraction and hurt that had characterized this entire farce.

What would happen after, as memories of kissing him, as the tiny taste of what it might be like to be together as a couple continued to haunt her, Maka couldn't say, but she figured she would manage as she always somehow did. It wasn't as if she hadn't been living with such ridiculous, unrequited feelings for years—she would return home and deal with the misplaced sting of his rejection because there was really no other option.

Lost in her own head, her own swirl of emotion, Maka ignored the chatter around her, ignored Aria and Genevieve going over the timeline for tomorrow, ignored the Evans sisters gossiping about a recent, scandalous affair between the conductor and first chair flautist of some renowned orchestra, ignored Aria's cousins as they discussed how it was their turn soon and what their dream wedding would look like, ignored it all as she concentrated on the anxiety coming from her weapon in the car ahead and tried to imagine returning to their past-future life a few days from now

Somehow, when they made it home and she hurried to the guest house to get ready, she missed him changing even as she changed herself, preoccupied with going over the many hair and makeup instructions she'd received at the end of her makeover, and it wasn't an hour later that she was seated at dinner, anxiety welling within her. Being seated at a table with the Evanses was uncomfortable, with Alastair eying her speculatively from across the table while Sophia went over last minute performance details with Wes, and Aria chatted with Gran about her last orchestra tour. Aria was trying to include her in the conversation, but Maka was finding it difficult to do much beyond idly picking at her ceviche, anxiety mounting rapidly. The fact she recognized it was hisfear she was feeling rather than her own didn't make her stomach twist any less; the program indicated he was shortly to perform "an original composition," and even looking at the raw fish appetizer on her plate was making her nauseous, so she excused herself and made her way to the edge of the stage, seeking him. Her presence so close should help—at least, she hoped she still had that power even after what had happened the past two days; it was why she'd come, wasn't it?

To say she was surprised he'd agreed to take the stage was an understatement, and a kernel of pride swelled within her. Her weapon had faced his fears coming home and faced them still to play here and now. Finally, his family, everyone , would hear just how breathtakingly, hauntingly talented he really was, because how could they not?

Still, swamped with his nervousness, Maka couldn't help feeling stiff and awkward and acutely aware of the eyes of the audience as her weapon strode onto the stage, walking with an uncharacteristic stiffness, an odd rigidity. He had changed from his rebellious teen ensemble into a well fitted black suit and red shirt that hit her with a wave of nostalgia. Yet, for all he looked good , he was clearly miserable as he took a seat at the baby grand in front of all and sundry. An open air stage had been erected on the Evans grounds, fronting well appointed tables where a slew of family and out of town guests were currently enjoying a sumptuous repast.

His gaze swept the crowd before settling on her. The smile he flashed was small and shy and genuine as he said, "This is for you, Maka," and her heart ached as he finally began to play.

It was mesmerizing from the first note, as his playing always was. Some of it she recognized, especially the earliest part, the main thread of the piece. It was the song he had played for her so long ago as they forged their partnership, but it evolved, dark strains slowly intertwined with a lightness, a hope, that stole her breath. So this was what it was for him, to grow, to change, to learn to accept himself. That darkness—that darkness was what he had returned to face and he was—he was . And it was clear she was a part of that journey, woven somewhere in the light. His anxiety but it's 't been about her , that must be what he was trying to convey through his song, through their soul link that screamed listen, just listen . And Maka was listening; Maka understood.

He was sorry. Clearly he was sorry, had used her as a target for misplaced feelings, for years of pent up hurt, and he was showing her his journey, showing her that she had been a part of it, too.

Blinking back the tears that threatened because his journey—how far he had come—how far they had come together —it was amazing, he was amazing, and a few harsh words shouldn't shake the bond they had, couldn't change that she was here for him now and would be here for him for as long as he wanted her to be. They had been through far worse together. Always together.

They were partners and she was proud.

Finally, finally , they could move past this. Maka stepped to the end of the stage, to the edge of the steps where he would descend. As he drew near, her heart still full of his song, she couldn't help her smile.

"Soul," she breathed, facing him, looking up to meet his gaze. "That was beautiful."

There was a confusing mix of emotions rising within him that he was working hard to contain, and she couldn't catch what he was feeling, there was just so much.

"Uh, thanks, I-" he struggled to find the words.

"It was about you, right? About how far you've come? I know this hasn't been easy. I'm proud of you."

"Yeah, thanks." His expression was pained and there was a disappointment, a hurt that flashed briefly within she just caught but couldn't at all parse. "I-I'm sorry. For everything."

For everything. For last night, for yesterday, for what happened at the club. She knew he was sorry, though the hurt crashed into her again just the same. But Maka refused to let angry words and her unrequited silliness break them, so she forced the smile to remain as she answered, "I know, me too."

She took his hand, needing the comfort of his touch, hoping this time he would not flinch away, and basked in the relief he felt floating above whatever other feelings he was shoving down. The warmth, the familiarity of his hand in hers felt right as she tugged him towards the table where they'd been assigned to sit and eat with his family. Even Alistair Evans' cold, silent gaze across the table couldn't ruin the mutual contentment they felt at finally moving forward.

Dinner passed quickly if a bit awkwardly, and then the elder Evanses were off with the dessert course. Their rendition of "Caro Nome" was hauntingly lovely, and Maka could have no doubts where Soul inherited his talent.

As dessert came and went, punctuated with polite applause from those seated, Sophia returned, bending over to speak quietly to Maka.

"It's prepared, Maka, dear. If you'll both change and make your way to the second stage, the other guests will be over in a few minutes." Soul looked confused for an instant, a feeling that rippled through their connection, but she silently reassured him, clasping his hand and rising to lead him to the little green room where her new ensemble awaited.

"What's all this?" he asked, unable to keep the incredulity from his voice. Maka had slipped into a small changing area behind a screen where she immediately began undressing. "I told you, your mom asked us to do a demonstration," she answered, removing her second too high heel and then moving her hands to the back of her dress where she found the obnoxious toggles that were the one thing she couldn't stand about it. "A little help?"

"Erm, yeah," he said before appearing behind the screen. His soul was guarded as he deftly undid the toggles, and Maka shoved down her own upset that he had to hide his disgust even now. In an instant it was done, and he slunk back to the couch that occupied one side of the little tent.

As she continued to undress, she explained her plans for the demonstration, a combination of what they normally executed for the NOT and EAT classes, along with laying out the plans Sophia had detailed to her earlier with the stylist—that she had set up a second, circular stage just for them and that they would be the main event as the makeshift outdoor dining area was switched over to a dance floor.

Several minutes later, Maka was changed and strode out to stand just in front of him on the couch, hands on hips as she looked down at him. "Well?"

"I—what?" he sputtered, and there was a turmoil in his soul, one he quickly hid that nonetheless hurt . "What the hell are you even wearing?"

A small shrug. She felt defeated for reasons she couldn't face, stifling her feelings as she always did, as he clearly was, each trying to protect the other from what neither could control.

"Jean Luc commissioned me a new combat outfit. I actually like it, so you'll just have to get used to it." She sighed exasperation before holding a hand out to him. "Come on, we should head over." Soul was still in his suit, as it really didn't matter what he wore; he'd be in weapon form anyway.

As they stood in front of the seated guests not long after, Maka continued to send soothing waves to her distressed weapon even as her gaze swept the crowd. It was an ideal venue, with a raised circular stage surrounded by a half circle of chairs that was well lit by surrounding lanterns and a spotlight even in the encroaching twilight, and the meister couldn't help but to be pleased that they would finally be able to show Soul's family more of what he could do, how far he had come.

"Good evening, I'm Maka Evans and I'm sure you all recognize my husband Soul." She was no longer surprised at how easily the lie had become. "As many of you are aware, Soul is a demon weapon—which means he can transform into living steel at will." Punctuating this was a flash of light as Soul transformed into her waiting hands. Palpable relief echoed through them both at the familiar contact even as the crowd gasped in awe; both meister and weapon had missed this, even in the few short days since they had arrived.

The presentation continued, Maka breaking down every step in simple terms, with Soul transforming back to his human shape to demonstrate several partial transformations—forearm, full arm, leg, even back. He then did another full transformation into his piano blade, then back to his base death scythe form, Maka performing basic contact material to thunderous applause, before it was time to move on to resonance.

Standing with her feet firmly planted, meister was echoed by weapon in a shout of, "Let's go, Soul Resonance!" While they never did so in combat these days, long having outgrown such needless showboating, it did make for a better presentation. And so their connection deepened and their energy overflowed as they amplified one another again and again and yet again.

The gasps and applause of the audience were expected, but what they wouldn't, couldn't recognize, what only the most experienced meister might notice from the outside, and what Maka hadn't seen coming at all but probably should have, was just how tenuous, how strained that resonance was. She wasn't sure if it was how much she had to hide, to tamp down on her own feelings, or the high internal walls he had erected, or the strain and lingering hurt of their recent fight, but something was absolutely wrong with their connection. They wouldn't be able to sustain this for long. Fortunately, they wouldn't have to—they were nearing the end.

Quickly, Maka explained the basic mechanics of resonance before calling up witch hunter, showing off several formations. On his end, Soul went through the motions in relative silence, though his confusion was palpable, leaking through his walls even if nothing else did. Although Maka had originally intended to show his higher forms as well, even witch hunter was a stretch with how absolutely off their resonance truly was, so she kept her explanation to different standard combat movements before willing her weapon to shrink his blade back to normal.

This was it, the finale. Just this little bit more and they could end their increasingly painful connection and finish out the evening.

"And now, to cap our demonstration, we will show you all how we achieve flight!"

Maka , her weapon implored silently in her head. Something's wrong. I don't think—

We're almost done. We can do this. We can show them all what you've become, she silently insisted.

We already have, just—

Ignoring his plea and his irritated thoughts of stubborn, reckless idiot, she straddled his haft and shouted, "Transform!"

Reluctantly, Soul retracted his blade and, both of them concentrating hard, sprouted wings. They were hazy, barely functional wings, lacking the sharpness of their normal efforts, but they would suffice, and soon, weapon and meister were rising up into the air to ooos and ahhhs from the spectators below. Soon, they were flying out of the circle of false illumination to end the worst demonstration they'd ever given as the crowd cheered.

Maka and Soul had clearly impressed an audience full of civilians, had pulled off the latest bit in their big show, but at what cost? For what that audience couldn't see was that the pair barely maintained flight, and Maka's initial plan to showcase swoops and dives and standing moves became a slow, stilted flight past the glow of the lanterns and out of sight. What that audience also couldn't see was how the pair crashed in the woods moments later amidst thundering applause, the crowd deluded into thinking they had flown off into the night.

And what no one else could see in the darkness, not even Soul, was the silent tear of hurt, of fear, of sheer frustration that she shed as Maka wondered if they'd ever be able to go back to the way they were.