Part I

Finally. A witch's soul. Our mission was over.

But, now there was another problem. The two of us were hurtling toward the ground from what was easily an eighty-foot drop, seriously hurt and unable to do any of our flashy, usually superfluous flips. Well, her flips. I'd never been able to do a simple cartwheel, let alone all of her crazy acrobatics, but that's beside the point.

I shifted back from my weapon form and grabbed Maka's forearm, pulling her tightly to my chest, putting myself beneath her, ready to take the brunt of the impact, when she realized what I was trying to do.

"No, Soul!" She shouted, and tore away from me, shifting so that I was above her. Damn her and her insistence that no one help her. I didn't have time to react. No time to reach for her, or to call her stupid. We slammed into the mutilated courtyard with enough force to do a pair of wrecking balls proud. The ground around us caved, so that we were laying in a shallow, cracked crater.

For a moment I just lay there, dazed. It didn't hurt, I noted with satisfaction. I was already stronger, I could feel it. Still, it had been a hard fall, and I had to suffer with watching stars pop in and out of being before my eyes. Distantly I remembered Crona talking about something like that, and complaining that he just couldn't handle astronomy right then. That was before Maka had gotten through to him. With that thought fear surged through back through me, and I looked around. Maka. There she was, lying among the cracked stone and splintered wood, her signature pig tails completely gone and her hair a total mess. Maybe I could have relaxed; it's not like we'd never fallen before. Maka had ended up sprawled on the ground many a time after a klutz-attack. But I was panicking. Something was wrong, and it wasn't hard to figure out just what it was.

I couldn't sense her soul wavelength.

"Maka?" I called hoarsely. My meister didn't move. "Maka!"

No response. She lay there, spread-eagled on the stone ground with her long cloak twisted and in shreds, ashen faced, with blood trickling from the corner of her lips. Her beautiful emerald eyes were closed. She was still as a statue.

I forced myself to my feet and staggered to my partner's side. Only the very faint rise and fall of her chest, and the even fainter wavelengths that still fought to pulse from her, gave any hint that she was alive. Her whole body was drenched in blood, half of her face splattered with it. I wanted to kick myself. I hadn't protected her the way I was supposed to as a weapon. She was on the ground, broken and bleeding, and I was whole, with barely a scratch or bruise on me. I wasn't a weapon worthy of a meister as tough as Maka.

Rough ground met my knees, and then I was kneeling over my best friend, holding both of her hands in mine and pleading with her to open her eyes. I didn't realize that tears were running down my face until they landed on Maka's. The glittering splash against her pale and fragile cheek caught me by surprise, and somehow I managed to feel embarrassed. I mean, cool guys don't cry. But, once tears start, they are difficult to stop. And so, over my barely breathing partner, I cried and begged for her not to go. Pleaded with her to open her eyes, to wake up, anything but die. When looking at her impassive face became too much for me to bear, I turned my face to the sky with my lips parted in a soundless scream. I didn't want it to be soundless. I wanted to shriek, shout, cry, to let the very sky know my pain. But my voice was gone: I couldn't make a sound past the enormous lump in my throat.

No one else was in the square. We were completely alone. There was no one to witness my terror that something irreparable had happened to my partner. Just as there was no one to witness what that one shattered teardrop on Maka's cheek did then. It disappeared. Dissolved into her skin. And as it did, Maka's breathing grew heavier, as though trying to fill her lungs with twice the oxygen they could handle. Color started to return to her cheeks.

Who could have guessed that my enhanced ability as a Death Scythe was a healing wavelength like Marie's? Not me. Probably not anybody that knew me.

I noticed the change immediately in the increased strength of her soul's wavelength. It washed over me, a little battered but solidly there now. Waves of warmth flowed over me, engulfing me in her kind, loving aura. The same one that had, somehow, been found compatible with my arrogant, wild persona. The same wavelength that had saved me from madness, that had made us capable of the technique known as the Kishin Hunter. The one that always communicated what she could never say in words. In some ways, that wavelength was a direct connection to her thoughts and emotions, not just her soul. The wavelength that matched mine. That could resonate soundly with mine, producing a power that not even Maka's mother could boast. It was there again.

"Maka?" I said cautiously, afraid that breaking the silence would break the spell. You couldn't describe the relief I felt when her eyes fluttered and opened.

"S-Soul?" Maka murmured softly.

I smiled my sharp-toothed grin and crushed Maka gently to my chest, heedless of the blood that covered her. I buried my face in her hair, whispering into the sandy blonde locks.

"Yeah, it's me. Don't worry, I've got you. You're alright. I swear to Death I won't let anything like this happen again."

"Did we get her?" She said feebly. "Did…did you get the soul?"

I grinned widely, and I just knew that my scarlet eyes were shining.

"Yeah. Yeah, we did. You're looking at the youngest Death Scythe since the Executioner. How cool are we?"

"Soul…" Maka sighed, burrowing into my thick jacket. Her delicate hands fisted in the orange shirt beneath it, and I laughed.

Then, very gently, I slid my arms beneath her body and lifted her into the air.

"C'mon, Maka, let's get home."

With a quiet sigh, Maka drifted back out of consciousness, cradled against her partner's chest by strong, secure arms. The last thing she was aware of, I think, was the steady heartbeat in my chest.

…

Looking down at Maka, I felt something inside me warm. When had I become so comfortable with this contact? When had I finally accepted her touch without the flinching and the cringing? I laughed. Years ago. It had been years since I'd really thought about my contact with Maka. I never thought about her hand in mine as I transformed anymore, never thought about slumping against her while watching TV, or how we would sometimes have to stagger home, each other's arms the only things keeping us upright. Well, not in the same way, I didn't think about it, anyway. It hadn't always been like that, though. It used to be that I never let anyone touch me.

I still remembered that day. The room I'd been waiting in was dark and rather depressing, with dark walls and a black ceiling, the floor tiled in black and red. Only later would I realize that my soul, the Black Room, had taken on the image of this place, of the cramped room where my life changed forever. A large, glossy grand piano was situated in the center of the room, and it was on the piano bench I sat as meister after meister came and left, always too unnerved by my intensity, my unusual eyes or my strange, sharp teeth. Whatever it was, the point was made early—nobody wanted me. After a long period of time when nobody showed up, I had finally decided that I was out of people interested in a scythe partner, and turned to the piano.

Resting my fingers lightly on the appropriate keys, I began to play. No sheet music. I didn't need it. I had a tendency to make things up as I went along.

Indifference was the façade of my life back then. I never showed emotion if I could help it—it wasn't cool. I tried not to feel at all. Feelings were useless, they were setbacks. But I couldn't help but feel disappointment as the number of meister rejections grew and grew, never mind the fact that I hadn't liked the meisters anyway. Couldn't help but feel pain when my own family continually looked down on me, like I was an irritating insect. Couldn't help the fear that I was drowning in, the fear that I may never have a partner who could tolerate me, who I could resonate with. Couldn't help being afraid, every minute, that I might hurt someone.

These emotions I handled by playing. They all poured out through my fingers into the keys on the piano. The result was a haunting, melancholy sounding song. Usually I preferred to play with the twelve-tone technique, also called serialism, but when I was feeling most vulnerable, I often played softer, more diverse branches. This was how I played now, for nobody but myself, until my sensitive ears caught the sound of the door creaking open.

Immediately I stopped playing and spun around on the bench, expecting one of the professors to come in saying that they were sorry, but there were no other takers. Instead I saw familiar figure. A girl with a thin, rather boyish figure, standing in the doorway, slim hands on under-developed hips. Her sandy blonde hair was in pigtails and her large green eyes scanned the room before coming to rest on me, in my black pinstriped suit and scarlet undershirt, the exact color of my eyes. I was sure that, despite our previous, admittedly pleasant encounters, all she would see was the shark-toothed, red-eyed, white-haired freak that the others did, and knew this meeting wouldn't last long.

She was dressed like a young school girl, with a short, maroon plaid skirt and a thick yellow sweater vest over a white button-down shirt. Over it she wore a long, sweeping black robe that reached her steel-toed black boots. Considering that I had scared off guys twice this girl's size and that looked like they could eat her for breakfast, I didn't expect that she would be any different. She'd probably run out of there faster than all of the others. But, she'd been surprising, even impressing, me so far.

Maka Albarn.

"You don't have a partner?" She asked, stepping forward into the room.

I shook my head wordlessly. She smiled and walked over to stand beside me.

"Huh, small world. I'm a one-star scythe meister."

"Soul Eater Evans." I said in my deep, rough voice. "Scythe. I prefer Soul Eater."

"So do I." Maka laughed. "It suits you." She grinned.

Cautiously I returned her smile with a very small one of my own. I could sense the girl's soul wavelength emanating from her, and it felt…different than the others. The only way I could describe it was warm. Where the others had been defiant, or cynical, or cold, she seemed open and friendly. I hadn't noticed it before. A little rough around the edges perhaps, maybe a bit guarded, but who wasn't like that to some degree? She still was kind and caring in a way that I had yet to see from others. And yeah, I felt kind of weird that I got that about her so quickly. But the thought gave me hope. Maybe, just maybe, that accepting aura surrounding her could include me, however different it might be from my rather pompous, arrogant self.

What I hadn't know was that, while I was studying her wavelength, she was also taking the time to familiarize herself with mine(Not for the first time either), something that none of the previous meisters had thought to try. She saw hurt, and fear. Saw how hopeless I often felt. The feel of my soul was rough, as she explained to me much later; the best way for her to describe it was maybe a bit worse for the wear. But she could also sense how determined I was to prove myself, how fierce my drive was to become a Death Scythe. And she could read the astounding loyalty that laced through it all. But, unlike me, Maka said she didn't sense any of the pomp, or arrogance—okay, maybe a little—or the overwhelming intensity that scared so many. She also didn't find it at all strange that she had understood me so thoroughly. My soul's wavelength had actually reminded her…a bit of herself. Or so she told me.

"So, can I see?" Maka said when I made no move to start a conversation. I hesitated only for a heartbeat before I shrugged.

"You may want to stand back, though."

Obediently Maka took a couple steps away to give me some room, watching curiously as I rose to my feet and closed my eyes. The transformation never lasted longer than a few seconds. First the spreading tingling sensation, then the glowing blue light, and then bam! I was a scythe, with a long, dark steel handle. The blade in which my reflection could be seen was red and black, and a single scarlet eye stared at Maka from the spot where the blade and handle joined.

Maka stared, a look of awe upon her face. Hesitantly, giving me the option to change back, Maka advanced and reached out a hand for the metal handle. I almost did change, but then I dug my heels in—metaphorically—and waited. The moment her gloved fingers wrapped around the metal rod, there were two simultaneous gasps. A rush of warmth overcame us both, spreading from the point of contact throughout our being, and we knew. We knew that this was it. Our wavelengths had merged.

But, when I changed back, I refused her offered hand, although I readily agreed to take her as my meister. The adamant rebuttal of a simple handshake confused Maka, and maybe even offended her a little, but she let it go, changing the subject.

"Was that you playing when I came in?" She asked.

I grimaced, but nodded. She tilted her head to the side.

"Do you not like people to hear you play?"

I shrugged, looking away. Honestly? No, I didn't like people to hear me play. It made me feel exposed; I was putting floods of emotion into the music, and I just didn't want anyone to know me as intimately as that. So I couldn't believe the words that left my mouth next.

"Do you want to hear?"

Maka's eyes widened just a little, but she nodded. Sighing, I sat on the piano bench and cracked my knuckles. I hesitated with my fingers hovering over the keys, shooting an uncomfortable glance at my one-man(One-woman?)audience, and Maka tried to put a hand on my shoulder. A hand I instantly shook off.

"You don't have to play. Not if you don't want to." She said.

But I shrugged again, telling her it was fine, and then played my favorite song, using the twelve-tone technique that drove my father to madness and beyond. It was a music style that ensured that no note was played more than any other, a kind of orderly chaos, some would call it. My favorite kind.

When I had finished, I'd forgotten that anyone else was there, and I was startled when I turned to see Maka standing there, looking at me with what I could only describe as admiration. She'd stayed. She'd actually stayed, through the whole thing. She gave a little golf clap, and then led me out of the room.

In the days that followed Maka and I learned quickly what bothered each other. The school had convinced Spirit to let his daughter move in with me in my small flat, because weapons and their meisters were encouraged to live together, in order to grow better relationships, and living in such close proximity one was forced to learn quickly. I learned not to disturb Maka while reading unless it was a dire situation, I learned that she was a great cook, that she appreciated equality and was not opposed to making me do some work, just as she refused to decline difficult "men" tasks; she hated "sexist asses". I learned that she was a guarded person, because she'd been hurt in the worse way, and that she found it near impossible to trust, especially men, and that she was taking a huge leap of faith in taking me as her partner, for which I told her I was extremely grateful.

And Maka rapidly learned that I was also guarded. I wouldn't talk about my family, or about my music, or about myself at all, really. I liked to live in the here and now, my main concern being my "cool-factor", or so I led on. I never played again, not when she could hear. And I didn't do physical contact. This Maka learned swiftly, and to my great surprise, she understood the reason why.

Well, maybe not at first, but she respected my privacy and didn't try to push me. All it took for her to understand was our first day of training, though. Maka had obviously not been as adept at weapon-handling as she was today, and during one of her exercises she managed to give herself a nasty cut on her shoulder with me. I had immediately changed back, my eyes surely flashing guiltily, and ran to find the instructor for some bandages. When I returned, Maka tried to cheer me up, tell me that of course it wasn't my fault she was a klutz, and she made the mistake of reaching out to me. I cringed back and muttered something about ice before running off, and that was all it took.

I was afraid. I was so afraid that I couldn't control my weapon form, that I might hurt someone without even meaning to, that I went to any extent to make sure there was no physical contact. Especially between the people I cared most about. And I cared about her. She was one of few that had, from the start, accepted me as I was.

I sighed as I thought back on Maka's selfless behavior after that, teaching me slowly but surely that contact wouldn't hurt someone unless I wanted it to. It had taken her months, but the girl was nothing if not persistent.

She had started off gently, simply nudging my shoulder or elbow, or bumping our knees during class whenever she noticed that my mind had started to wander. She wouldn't Maka-Chop me until much later(Unfortunately). As I grew accustomed to this, she would occasionally start taking my hand to guide me around Death City, to which I was still fairly new. It made me uncomfortable at first, but soon I began to appreciate the touch of another living being. Of course, we had plenty of contact during training, but that wasn't the same. I was starting to actually believe that I really wouldn't hurt everything simply by touching it.

Then she took to gently shaking me awake each morning to announce that breakfast was on the table. This was by far the strangest addition to the routine, but as before, I had easily adjusted, even come to welcome and expect, the morning visits. No matter what Maka tried, I seemed ready for it. I thought it had largely to do with the fact that I knew what she was doing, and I was rather touched that anyone was putting so much energy into me. I wasn't used to attention. Not used to anyone caring.

Then, one furiously stormy night, Maka had her breakthrough. We had bonded easily, almost without even noticing, becoming good friends that only wanted to take care of one another, and that night was no exception. I had sensed a hitch in my partner's wavelength; a stutter, then a spike. An overwhelming fear, and I had torn out of my bed and entered her room in less than a second. She was tossing and turning on her bed, her covers tangled around her legs or else on the floor. Maka cried out weakly. Satisfied that she wasn't being attacked, I allowed myself to relax, and walked to Maka's bedside, sitting down gingerly on the edge of the mattress. Sand-colored hair was spread across her plain white pillow in a tangled mess.

"Maka." I said softly. She didn't respond. I placed my hands on her shoulders and mimicked her morning behaviors, gently shaking her. "Maka, wake up." Still she didn't wake, and I shook her harder.

Maka's emerald eyes flew open and she sat bolt upright, nearly sending me sprawling to the floor.

"Are you alright Maka?" I said cautiously. She was breathing as though she'd just sprinted a marathon. "That had to have been one Hell of a nightmare."

She looked at me with shining eyes, and then launched herself at me, burying her face in my bare chest and wrapping her arms around my waist. Although caught off guard, I paused only a moment before my own arms wrapped around her, holding her carefully, as though she might break. It didn't even cross my mind that I might hurt her, that this contact was bad. I just held her, chin resting on top of her head while she cried into my chest, until at long last she calmed down, and fell asleep still in my arms.

Ever since that night, physical contact had been nothing between us. At least, not something negative.

"Soul…" Maka muttered, pulling me back to the present.

"Mm?" I said, looking back up as I pushed through the door to our flat.

"Why are you sighing?" She asked. She sounded as though she was talking through cotton.

"Just thinking." I said with a small smile.

"About?" She pressed. I shook my head as I laid her down on her bed.

"When you finally became my meister."

"What brought…that to mind?"

"I was just thinking about the whole physical contact complex I used to have, comparing it to the fact that now I'm stuck carrying you around half the time." I joked.

"Yeah, that was…hard to break through." She laughed softly.

"But you did it." I replied, my voice taking on a quality neither of us recognized. Maka smiled.

"Yeah, I guess I did."

"I still don't get why you put so much work into something so small." I said, genuine confusion lacing my voice. Her smile grew bigger.

"It wasn't a small thing, though." She said. "You were afraid that you'd hurt someone accidentally, without meaning to, without even knowing it. That's a big thing that can set you back quite a bit, especially in this line of work. Someone needed to show you that everything you touched wouldn't turn to stone or blood."

I stared at her for a long time, not saying a word. My crimson eyes simply gazed at her, an indescribable expression flickering in them, until Maka started to blush.

"What?" She said finally. I gave her a lopsided smile.

"Nothing. Go to sleep. Tomorrow we'll get to walk into school the coolest kids at the Academy."

Maka laughed, then rolled over on her bed. In no time she was snoring quietly.

"Snoring," I muttered as I ducked out of Maka's room. "So un-cool. Well, whatever. There had to be something wrong with her."

Cautiously I peered into my own room, hoping fervently that Blair was out. But, no luck. The magical cat was sprawled in the middle of my damn bed, probably just waiting for me to come in so that she could have some fun. Despite the nosebleed at the thought, it didn't appeal to me at all. The very idea made me rather sick. Pervert cat. She was one twisted feline, stealing my bed. Grumbling incoherently I moved to the couch, stripping off my t-shirt on the way. I had barely made myself comfortable before sleep took me.