#he would give it his best shot obviously because people who can maintain a poker face and win are cool

[miramisaki]

60(???) days until Charlie...??

[shroomcult]

@soulxmakaweek

Day 4: Apologize

I fell way behind with Soma week because I got slammed with work and this monster of a fic took me too long to write.

Summary: 

Maka comes to realize that Soul had never felt fully comfortable around Crona, and in ignoring this entirely - she unknowingly hurt her closest friend.

Special thanks to Tori @chichirichick (she betas all of my dumpster fires, bless her) for proofreading this mess of emotions and also to Zi @azroazizah for coming up with the concept for this fic. 

**Disclaimer** This story is not about putting blame on Crona, but instead about acknowledging the fact that Soul went through trauma due to their actions and it was never taken into consideration by Maka before inviting them into their friend group. I'm not saying Crona didn't deserve support, but it's also completely valid for Soul - a victim of Crona - to not feel entirely safe around them regardless of their tragic background and circumstances. If Crona is a big comfort character for you and you feel you would likely be upset by this concept, then I recommend not reading it altogether. We all interpret things different and we're all entitled to our own opinions, and I'm not going to get in arguments with people over this.

It’d been a while since the Spartoi team was all together again.

After the fall of Asura, they really had no purpose to join forces as a team. No big baddie to unite them in ass-kickery. 

The skies were blue again. There were still Kishin eggs to take down, and a shaky new diplomatic relationship with the witches to maintain as well. 

Things were more or less … normal. Boring, even.

The only big difference Blackstar could discern was that nobody seemed to have time to just hang out and be friends anymore.

Kid was over his head with his new responsibilities, and while he was doing an admirable job filling his father’s shoes; there was a steep learning curve and his perfectionist tendencies only made it more challenging to overcome. He upheld a calm and collected demeanor in the public’s eyes, but Liz and Patty spent most of their time holding him together behind the scenes. 

Soul and Maka were a different situation entirely.

It was odd enough to adjust to the recent change in the nature of their relationship. They claimed to be the same as they’ve always been - just Soul & Maka. Only, they grew much closer after the hardships they had endured both in the book of Eibon and on the moon.

They had been close to begin with, but this was a different kind of close. Stolen glances, hands reaching for each other when they thought nobody was looking. Blushing for almost no damn reason. 

Something was going on between them - he could be sure of that.

More recently, however, Maka had been particularly obsessive about solving the dilemma of Crona’s entrapment on the moon. She was driving herself to a slow-burning insanity, considering every moment that she hadn’t rescued them yet to be a personal failure.

She’d been spending much of her time in the restricted section of the library, consuming every piece of relevant research for hours on end. Soul often stayed up there with her doing the same, or at the very least keeping her silent company when he was too burnt out to read anymore.

He’d also spent much of his extra time with Stein, training to perfect his sound-wave abilities into his own form of wavelength attack.

He’d been giving his all ever since making deathscythe status to hone his strength and better serve Maka. He’d even been able to hold his own for a surprising amount of time in the sparring ring against Blackstar, and that was a feat in and of itself.

All of the focus on Crona’s rescue had appeared to be wearing on him, though. 

Soul may have accepted Crona into his friend group for Maka’s sake, even empathized with them - but he had never fully trusted the demon sword meister. Although Soul was outwardly friendly towards them, Blackstar noticed the way his friend had watched them like a hawk before they turned back to Medusa. He was always ready for a scenario like that because he had never felt entirely safe around them to begin with.

Not that Maka had bothered to even take Soul’s feelings into consideration before forgiving Crona on his behalf.

She couldn’t have possibly been that dense. She had to have been actively ignoring the signs of Soul’s discomfort because she couldn’t handle acknowledging them.

And now she was doing the same thing all over again even with Crona as far away as the moon. It was obvious that Soul was doing what he always did - shoving his own feelings aside in favor of Maka’s. The loyal mutt of a boy valued her wellbeing far above his own, that was for certain.

He just seemed so exhausted of it all now. Searching tirelessly with Maka for a solution that may not even exist took up much of his time and energy.  

He never had the time to shoot hoops or play video games like he used to, and Blackstar was far above begging for his attention. He stopped even bothering to ask him.

Just for one night though, by some divine luck - everybody was willing to clear their schedule to have a late night dinner at the most beloved and heart-attack inducing burger joint in town. 

Every member of Spartoi was crammed into the largest booth in the restaurant and their chatter was loud enough to fill the whole section. 

There were multiple conversations happening at a time, but Blackstar was zeroing in on Soul who had his chin resting on his palm and that stupid, dopey look he got on his face when he was proud of Maka. Yuck. Keep it in your pants, loverboy.

Maka was next to Soul, his arm stretched out behind her on the booth, while Ox engaged her in a fiery debate over god knows what across the table from her. Judging by the redness in baldy’s face - Maka was on the winning side. He really couldn’t understand Soul’s hard-on for a bossy know-it-all personality, but whatever floats his boat he supposed.  

He decided he’d seen enough of that look on his best friend’s face and crumpled up a straw wrapper, dipping it in his soda and sticking it at the end of his straw.

He blew on the other end, sending the sticky wad of paper flying across the table. The projectile hit its target directly on the cheek.

“Fuck’s sake dude, how old are you?” he grumbled, reaching over the table to grab a handful of napkins to clean his face off with.

Maka snatched some of his napkins for herself, rubbing it vigorously into the flecks of cola that stained her uniform. “You got my shirt all wet, idiot.”

Blackstar simply threw his head back to cackle obnoxiously. “I just thought I should break up your lame little debate team fight before Ox over here pops a blood vessel. You know he can’t handle losing well.”

“I wasn’t losing!” Ox hissed under his breath.

Maka only met her opponent’s glare with a shit-eating grin.

“Hey, Maka! What had you stopped to talk with Professor Stein about earlier today?” Tsubaki cut in, obviously attempting to diffuse another argument between the two competitive brainiacs.

Maka’s expression relaxed into something a little more neutral, seemingly caught off guard by the question. Debate-mode successfully disarmed.

“Oh. Well… I just had some questions about my black blood research for him.” 

Blackstar didn’t miss the way Soul tensed up beside her at the mention of black blood. His face was void of any distinct emotion, but something was off in his body language. The way his shoulders squared as if he were instinctively bristling.

Anyone with a shred of social awareness could have deduced that black blood, Medusa, and Crona were not Soul’s favorite topics. It wasn’t unusual for him to shut down and discontinue any contributions to a conversation when any of these things were brought up. 

Unfortunately for Soul, all of those subjects were constantly on Maka’s mind since she began her obsessive pursuit for a solution to Crona’s ordeal.

“Oh? And what did he have to say?” Tsubaki pressed, completely oblivious to the tense situation she was potentially triggering.

“As you’re already aware, there’s not really any official research on the black blood that exists. We’ve been digging through countless books - gathering as much information about madness and Kishins as we can, but it can only get us so far. It would be so much more useful if we could get our hands on a physical sample of the substance itself.”

Soul’s eyes widened in concern, but only for a second before he slipped his usual poker face back on. His Adam’s apple bobbed nervously despite the veneer of calm he displayed.

“Anyways,” she continued, turning to look at Soul, “I was going to talk to you about this later, but maybe some of the black blood still remains in your system? I know we believed it was all gone, but surely there’s some residual amount of it lingering behind? Something we could maybe isolate, extract and create a concentrate of? Stein said it was unlikely, but technically possible. We have to try for Crona, right, Soul?”

He was no longer wearing his mask of apathy. Unmistakeable, visible discomfort was etched into his facial features and he was clenching his hands, knuckles whitening from the pressure. Everyone at the table was hushed and the tension was palpable.

“He doesn’t have to try anything,” Kid’s voice cut sharply through the silence, golden eyes flashing sternly at her.

A soft gasp escaped her and her eyebrows shot up, clearly taken-aback by the sudden burst of hostility from her boss and close friend. Her eyes darkened seconds later, determination setting in.

 “I think that’s his decision to make, and I’d like to hear what he has to say,” she turned her attention back to Soul, hope still shining in her eyes.

He fidgeted with his necktie, loosening it and clearing his throat. “Yeah, s’fine. Whatever you need, I guess.”

Maka’s face lit up into a bright smile that turned Blackstar’s stomach and she pulled Soul into a brief hug. “I knew we could count on you, Soul! You’re the best partner ever.”

“Whatever, it’s no problem. Just try not to drain me of all my blood, alright?” he chuckled weakly, avoiding her eyes in favor of staring a hole in the middle of the table.

She gave an easygoing laugh in response, and went back to conversing with Tsubaki as if she hadn’t just pressured her partner into volunteering himself as a guinea pig for the sake of someone who had literally sliced him open from shoulder to hip and infected him with black blood to begin with.

Is she fucking serious?

Blackstar was practically vibrating with fury from the interaction he’d just watched, and Tsubaki’s normally soothing hand on his shoulder did little to calm him down. When he glanced at Kid, he instantly knew the death god had shared his frustration with Maka’s obliviousness. 

It wasn’t long before Soul abruptly stood from his place at the end of the booth, pulling a twenty out of his wallet and placing it on the table in front of him.

“Soul? What are you doing? The food hasn’t even gotten here yet,” Maka blinked at him in confusion.

“I’m not feelin’ too great - gonna head out, sorry guys. Could you just bring my food back in a to-go box?” he said with an apologetic quirk of his lips. He squeezed her shoulder gently before turning on his heels and making his way out of the diner in long strides.

Why does she look so shocked? Does she really not understand that she’s been hurting him?

After that, the night passed by in a haze for Blackstar. He hardly spoke for the rest of the meal due to the fact that he was using all of his mental capacity to keep his impulse to stand up and loudly call his friend out in front of everybody in check. 

The only thing truly stopping him was the knowledge that Soul would likely be embarrassed and more than a little pissed off if he’d made a big scene over something that he wasn’t even willing to talk about.  

So he waited - held his tongue until he could lash out in private.

As everyone was saying their goodbyes, Blackstar watched her rise from her seat gathering her to-go boxes carefully and giving him a nod of acknowledgement before she headed out.

His eyes bore into the back of her head as she left, and Tsubaki’s hand clamped gently on him for the second time that night. Her eyes were crinkled with a gentle concern.

“I think you should leave this between them. If Soul wanted all of this out in the open, he would have had that conversation with her himself.”

A heavy sigh settled in his chest, “You know how he is. He’s the suffer in silence type and he always does her bidding. If nobody says anything, then nothing’ll change. I just want to talk to her - not like I’m gonna beat her ass or anything … unless she gives me a reason to.” 

“Blackstar,” she chided, fully aware that he would make good on that threat.

“I know, I know. I won’t be long, see ya at home,” he said, throwing up placating hands before stuffing them in his pockets and striding in the direction Maka had gone. 

            _______________________________________________

Maka set her walk home at a leisurely pace, dragging her feet slightly as she watched the sunset bleed into the sky above.

It wasn’t that she was trying to prolong seeing Soul, or that she wasn’t worried about the way he’d acted back in the diner - like something was eating at him. 

She was pretty positive that he wasn’t physically ill, which only left the option of it being an emotional issue. 

And getting Soul to talk about emotional issues was like trying to pull teeth from a temperamental bear. 

She had to figure out a way to go about this delicately, and she had to figure it out soon because their apartment block was fast approaching.

She stopped in her tracks when she felt the presence of a familiar soul behind her. His steps had been so quiet, she wouldn’t have even been aware he was stalking her from behind if it weren’t for her exceptional soul perception abilities.

“I know you’re following me, Blackstar.”

In moments, he was stepping out in front of her. “Wasn’t trying to hide. I need to talk to you,” his voice was uncharacteristically stern.

She wasn’t stupid. She knew Blackstar had some kind of problem with her since dinner. He was deathly quiet and glowering at her for most of the night; very unusual behavior from someone who never shuts up or hesitates to start a fight. 

“Okay, I’m listening,” she said, already preparing to defend herself against whatever absurd argument he wanted to pull her into.

“The whole situation with Crona - have you ever once thought about how Soul feels about it?”

Whatever she had been expecting to come out of his mouth - that wasn’t it.

“What? I mean, I know how Soul feels. He wants Crona to be safe, just like I do. What are you trying to get at?”

“I’m not talking about what he thinks about Crona being stuck in the deathdamned moon, Maka! I mean have you ever thought about how he felt when you forced Crona into his life to begin with? After being sliced open?” 

Maka’s eyebrows shot up to her hairline and her mouth opened and closed a few times, baffled by the question. 

“Soul understands why I welcomed Crona as a friend. He trusts me,” she answered, hoping her voice conveyed the confidence that she couldn’t find in this moment.

This entire conversation was throwing her off.

“Yeah, okay. He accepted your decision because he trusts you, or loves you or whatever the fuck. We all know that - but that doesn’t mean he was comfortable with it. It doesn’t mean he felt safe. He just stuffed his own feelings down, because he knew it made it easier for you.”

Her throat tightened as her own conflicting emotions overcame her. He had no idea what he was talking about. Soul was fine. He’s always been fine. 

“Did he say that to you? That he didn’t feel safe?” she choked out. 

“Soul? You think he tells people things? About his feelings?” he snorted. “No, he doesn’t have to tell me shit. It’s clear on his face every time you mention Crona, or Medusa, or that fucking blood.”

“Maybe you’re just making assumptions about how he feels!” she shouted back, gripping handfuls of the front of his shirt.

He leaned in, completely unfazed by the rage burning in her eyes. “You ever noticed how when Crona was around, he was always watching them out of the corner of his eye - twitching every time they made some sudden move. You ever noticed how quiet and withdrawn he’d get around them? Or any time they were brought up? You didn’t - because you didn’t want to.” 

“Shut up! Y-you’re making something out of nothing. Are you trying to tell me that I should just give up and forget about Crona? That they don’t deserve to have a friend?” 

Some of his aggression was fizzling out as he released a heavy sigh, placing his hands calmly over hers, still clenching in his shirt. “I’m not trying to say that you shouldn’t have helped Crona, or that you shouldn’t keep trying to help them now. I’m only telling you that even if Soul has forgiven and moved on - he’s still a victim of Crona’s actions. He suffered trauma from that, even if he’s too fucking stubborn to admit it. Just acknowledge that maybe he needs a break from thinking about them - all of that shit that happened - every now and then. Get your head out of Crona’s ass long enough to check if he’s okay too.”

She stumbled over wordless sounds as her hands went limp and released their vice-grip on his clothing. She was trying desperately to think of a way to refute the awful things he was saying, but Blackstar wouldn’t give her the chance. 

“If you gave him even half the thought you gave to Crona - maybe you would have noticed it like everybody else has. I just want you to think about it for a bit, that’s all,” his voice softened towards the end, shoulders sagging slightly as he turned away, leaving her to deal with the aftermath of his confrontation.

The heat of tears prickled behind her eyelids and she clenched her fists tightly to her sides. 

She wanted so badly to swing around and scream at Blackstar’s retreating figure that he was wrong, that he had no idea what he was talking about and of course she thinks about her weapon.

But the longer she allowed his harsh words to sink in; the more she could feel the sting of truth settling into her heart.

Had she really been so blind? 

             _______________________________________________

Soul had been laying on his back in bed, hands resting on his stomach and eyes pointed at the ceiling, unmoving for some time. He wasn’t entirely sure how many hours, but he knew his playlist had ended long ago - no music played from the earbuds that were still jammed in his ears.

He couldn’t explain the heaviness in his heart. The anxiety that often set in whenever Maka mentioned Crona or the black blood. It was all water under the bridge, wasn’t it? There was no point in allowing himself to wallow in all the negative emotions that punched him in the gut at the mention of their name. It was selfish to feel those things - it was his job to give Maka his full support. His own feelings were irrelevant.

It was just harder on this particular night. Sure, she droned on about those sore subjects often. Their research revolved around it anyways. He’d just hoped that it could have been different just for one night.

He’d secretly been ecstatic when Maka begrudgingly agreed to shelve her research just long enough to get a late dinner with all of their friends. A break had been long overdue. 

Things had been different between them, after all. They’d been sharing a bed, and they’d even shared a few kisses in the small, rare moments that they’d spent alone together - focused only on each other. They were chaste kisses, but he’d greedily take whatever he could get. 

As she became more frantic about her lack of results in helping Crona, he may as well have not even existed to her. 

He’d just needed that one dinner to pretend things were normal, to pretend as though he was on a date with her and she was willing to spend time with him and think about literally anything aside from her latest fixations. Instead, she’d asked him to play part in some unsound experiment - to prod for things that he hadn’t wanted to find again. It had only been made more uncomfortable by the scrutinizing presence of all of their friends. 

He’d felt used.

Soul perked up at the familiar sound of the front door creaking open and slamming shut. He was immediately ashamed of the pavlovian response he had to the sound of his meister returning - the little flip in his heart that made him feel like a stupid dog wagging its tail at the sound of its master.

Just keep to yourself. She doesn’t need to interact with you in this useless state of self pity. You don’t deserve her comfort.

Self-loathing curled in his gut and he kept his eyes stubbornly trained on a water stain in the ceiling.

Suddenly, light flooded into his dark room as his door was hesitantly opened. He reflexively brought himself to sit up on his elbows only to meet a teary-eyed Maka.

All self-indulgent angsty thoughts instantly evaporated from his head, and he was ripping his earbuds out and swinging his legs over the side of the bed to get up.

She made purposeful steps across his room, throwing her arms around his neck and forcing him back onto the bed with the motion.

“I’m so sorry, Soul,” she warbled mournfully into his sweater. 

“Huh? Sorry ‘bout what? What’s going on, Maka?” he tried to nudge her into looking up at him, but she adamantly refused.

She took a few shallow breaths before rubbing her wet cheek against the quickly-dampening fabric and looking up at him with dewy eyes.

“I haven’t been a good friend to you - have I? 

Was that a trick question?

“I-I don’t get what we’re talkin’ about here,” he stuttered uselessly, attempting to compensate for his lack of eloquence by brushing his fingers comfortingly through her soft hair.

“I never asked if you felt okay with Crona being around you. I never asked you if you forgave them at all - I just brought them into your space, your home. I just wanted them to have a chance at a normal life so badly - I ignored your pain, and I’m so sorry,” she rushed her confession out like it had been a breath she was holding in.

He had to fight the urge to bark out a laugh. It wasn’t that he found anything that she said humorous - it was just so strange that she was addressing this out of the blue. She’d seemed completely unaware as usual back at the diner, where had this even come from?

He was so lost in thought, he’d almost forgotten to respond and instantly regretted the prolonged silence he’d left her in. “Maka, it’s fine,” he insisted, “I get why you forgave Crona. I admire you for it.”

“But that doesn’t mean you were okay. I should have at least checked on you, or asked you about how you felt - or literally anything,’ she mumbled numbly from his chest.

“Hey. Look at me,” he said, lifting her cheek from its resting place against his sweater, “Sure, I didn’t feel the most comfortable around Crona. I think it was pretty awkward for both of us to be near each other. That doesn’t mean I dislike them, or didn’t want you to be their friend. You can’t beat yourself up over something I hadn’t bothered to tell you.”

His words hadn’t brought the comfort that he’d hoped they would, and her brows remained stubbornly crinkled. “If it had been me - if I was the one who’d been cut by that sword, would you still say that you don’t dislike them? That you’re okay with us being friends?”

It was a question that he instantly knew the answer to, but he was reluctant to say it out loud. He finally caved, bringing his eyes back to hers, “No. I wouldn’t have been able to forgive them if it was you.”

She closed her eyes tightly, nodding her head in grim acceptance of that truth. She had likely known that would be his answer already, but hearing it must have been difficult.

“But I love that about you. You have so much compassion. I only care for the few people that I’ve decided I love - I don’t have room in my heart for others like you do. I’d like to be more like you,” he whispered reverently, taking her cheeks in both of his hands and briskly wiping away all of the moisture he could reach with his thumbs.

“I should’ve had more compassion for you,” she lamented softly under her breath, eyes downcast.

“You’re not a fuckin’ mind reader, Maks. It was my choice not to bring anything up.”

She nodded slowly, but the way her grip tightened on him only confirmed his suspicion that she wasn’t going to forgive herself for it.

Minutes passed before a word was spoken, but Soul eventually cleared his throat. “You know, I don’t expect you to ever stop being friends with Crona, or to give up on rescuing them. I don’t want that. I don’t mind helping you like you’d asked earlier tonight, too. If that’s what you need from me, then I’m here.”

She brought herself to her elbows on top of him to get a better view of his face.

“I know. I’m not going to give up on them. But It matters to me that you’re happy too, and if that means you need a break from all that, then I want you to know that it’s okay to ask for that.”

“Right, I’ll keep that in mind,” he said in a hushed tone, distracting himself with a piece of her hair twirled between his fingers.

“And I don’t want to use your blood for research. It was wrong of me to even think of asking you that. We’ll find another way,” she assured him, voice tightening with emotion, “I definitely got carried away with all of this. It wasn’t healthy, and I really am sorry I’ve pushed you away in the process. We can’t solve this thing if we don’t have time to properly take care of ourselves. You’ve been working so hard with me, and I think we need more actual quality time together.”

“Yeah, I could get on board with that. I kinda walked out on dinner tonight, so how about we do something - just you and me tomorrow? Movies sound good?”

“Movies sounds great,” she hummed in agreement, hands idly playing with his hair.

As much as he would have preferred for her to continue her ministrations, he stopped her movements to grasp her hand, bringing it to his chest to rest above where she knew his scar was. He pressed down on her hand lightly.

“I’m glad it happened. I’m glad they gutted me, ‘cause I hadn’t understood what you meant to me till that moment,” he muttered, pressing a quick kiss to the top of her head.

She only exhaled shakily, hand tightening against the evidence of his devotion.

“I just hate that it took a lecture from Blackstar of all people for me to realize that I’d been hurting you.”

His eyes widened a little at that new piece of information. Blackstar was the one that brought all of this on her mind? He could’ve sworn it would have been Kid if anyone. He couldn’t help but feel a little touched that Blackstar had been so concerned about him, but he was also somewhat irritated that his friend had distressed Maka as much as he had.

“Blackstar, huh? Remind me to have a conversation with him about mindin’ his own business,” he laughed half-heartedly.

“No, don’t. I’m glad that he said what he did - I needed to hear it,” she urged him.

“Doesn’t matter. He didn’t have to make my girlfriend cry from guilt over bein’ friends with someone,” he muttered, but his face immediately burned a bright red as soon as he’d caught what he’d called her.

She was a similar shade, holding her breath as well as his gaze with a tortuously difficult to decipher expression on her face.

“That is, uh- I mean… fuck.”  

Very articulate. Great job, Soul.

He hadn’t needed to agonize over whether or not he’d just fucked everything between them for long because her face soon melted into a warm, genuine smile.

“Girlfriend, huh?” she said with a glimmer of mischief in her eye.

“I’d like that. If that’s w-what you want,” he wanted to kick himself for the voice crack he just experienced. Not cool in the slightest. 

At least she got a good giggle out of it. The melodic sound squeezed something in his chest and he swallowed nervously as a response.

She brushed back his bangs, leaning in to place a soft kiss to his forehead. She peppered a trail of kisses down his cheek until she reached his lips. 

This kiss was far from chaste. She cradled his cheek and jaw as she slanted her mouth sweetly over his, pressing fervently, constantly moving against him and eliciting a breathy moan from him that he would never admit to making. 

When she tried to separate, he followed her, bumping noses for a moment and giving the corner of her mouth a few more enthusiastic pecks before backing up and allowing her room to look at his face. 

“Girlfriend sounds nice, actually,” she smiled broadly, letting her fingers brush against the back of his neck.

“Glad that’s settled, then,” he laughed easily, not even bothering to feel any embarrassment over the flush of his skin or the lightness of his breath.

He crushed her to his chest, and they stayed like that for a while, just listening to the other’s loudly beating hearts until they were lulled to sleep. 

He’d have to thank Blackstar with a game of basketball later.

[assortedmutts]

A X for the whole cast

Valentine’s headcanon meme.

A   :   AFFECTION.   how does your muse show affection?

Merc: affection, to him, means trust and loyalty above all. He likes for his partner to be able to rely on him, no matter what - be it in providing them with protection, comfort or support. He’ll lend them an ear and a shoulder to cry on and provide them with whatever acts of service he can think of - bring them food, take care of them (best he can) when they’re down, handle their enemies if such exist, back them up on anything and everything. Sometimes, it can be something as simple as removing their shoes from their feet after a long day, ironing their clothes, tidying up, or pampering them in bed if they’re up for it.

He’ll start taking pictures of places around the world that make him think of them, or buy them gifts. He likes putting thought into these and making sure they’re something special - something no one else would have thought to give them, a reference to a private joke or story, or something you cannot find anywhere else in the world.

Another way for Merc to display trust is that he gradually becomes more verbal and shares with them that way, be it in expressing his opinions or sharing stories from his past. Likewise, he’ll gradually become more comfortable with physical touch, and especially enjoys PDA (when he’s otherwise a very private person and likely would not have been seen with them publicly). He also likes taking them to his favorite spots around the city/country/world (depending on their mobility, I guess): skyscraper rooftops, places with pretty scenery, abandoned buildings that are fun to explore, his favorite food joints, markets, clubs, or the aviary where he keeps his pigeons. Anywhere that’s touched him or is dear to him in some way or another. 

Job: so much physical contact and PDA. He’s gonna have a hand on his partner wherever they are, whatever they’re doing, and he’s going to want to kiss them all the time. Likewise: all the sex they can possibly keep up with. Job’s sex drive is high at any given time and is his go-to way of showing affection, and it only becomes higher when he develops romantic feelings for another person. He’s also a service top through and through and will gladly do whatever his partner wants to please them. 

His loved ones are always on his mind and he likes showing them that whichever way he can: collecting little gifts for them from along the road, trinkets and jewelry/items of clothing from thrift shops, flowers he picks and dries among the pages of his books/journal, pretty rocks and seashells, etc. Since he’s unable to communicate with them regularly while he’s on the road, Job also likes writing to his partners - letters, postcards, love songs (which he will occasionally compose and perform for them upon his return). In addition to all the found/purchased gifts, Job’s favorite form of gift-giving is creating handmade things for his partners, if and when he can (say, if he’s working in construction and has access to woodworking tools). He may create little statues for them of things they like, pieces of jewelry or handy stuff for their home/kitchen like wooden bowls or chopping boards.

Additionally, he just loves hanging out with his favorite people and find activities for them to do together: he’ll take them out on picnics (both day and night; nothing more romantic than dinner under the open night skies), little concerts at parks or dive bars, thrift-shopping, etc., and there will always be food involved in these activities to some capacity or another. Little brings Job more joy than feeding his loved ones, and he will absolutely try to fatten them up with his home cooking if he can.

Saul: as he’s never been in love or involved in a romantic relationship, his means of showing affection lean more towards the platonic side. Like Job, Saul very much enjoys cooking for his loved ones and will happily labor in the kitchen the entire day just to see them enjoy their meal by the end of it, and he loves it all the more if/when they want to participate. He likes to include them in his family traditions if they’re not already part of them, such as inviting them over for Shabbos dinner or a major Jewish holiday and offer for them to partake by helping him recite prayers/practice rituals/even something as simple as offer them a yarmulke or head scarf so that they may show their respect to the occasion. While it’s worth nothing that he will respect their wishes if they don’t want to participate, it’ll likely be very difficult to impossible for him to maintain a romantic relationship with someone who never wishes to partake in his culture.

On the odd occasion that he does go on a date (more like did - don’t think he’s been on a date in, like, 10 years), Saul prefers to use his playing field (Manhattan) to his benefit - take his dates out for walks around Central Park (the High Line is also a favorite, especially at night), visit the MoMA or the Guggenheim, chat over a bottle of red wine and share a few courses in some cute little bistros he knows (LBR, he’s likely friends with the owners and gets to have some special shots/dishes sent over free of charge). 

It may also sound a bit funny but, Saul likes arguing? Maybe not arguing so much as debating. It’s no small part of Jewish culture and he loves sharp people who can keep up with his intellect and will always do his best to challenge them. Catch him debating something entirely theoretical and/or nonsensical to death just for the hell of it, just to see who can win the argument. On a similar note and, though he’s never done it before, he’ll also likely enjoy taking his date to his casino and watch them gamble the night away (wouldn’t mind paying for it, either). Bonus points if his date knows poker or blackjack and can challenge him at the table.

X   :   XOXO.   does your muse use / like pet names?

Merc: as is always the case with this edgelord, the answer is: outwardly no, but secretly yes. Obviously, pet names suggest an intimate relationship, which Merc very much prefers to avoid for obvious reasons.

He does appreciate being called pet names in both platonic and romantic relationships and is an absolute sucker for anything soft a partner might call him, such as baby, angel, princess etc., because he’s so often regarded as tough, monstrous, etc., and because his true identity is obviously a touchy subject. But it’s also worth mentioning that words - and names, at that, their meaning and the way that they’re used - mean a great deal to Merc, and that there’s value and intimacy in his friends and partners calling him by his real name. As he often introduces himself under either an alias or a nickname (even before he became Merc, he’s had more nicknames than he can count on both hands), this is a very rare occurrence and, depending on the circumstances, it could be either comforting or terrifying to be addressed by his real name.

With regards to his own use of pet names, he is far likelier to use derogatory terms as terms of endearment rather than actual pet names: rather than call someone baby or angel or what have you, he’s far more likely to call them a bitch, cunt, dickhead, cocksucker, etc. Helps ignore or come to terms with the level of intimacy that a pet name suggests if it’s derogatory or funny. He also often does the opposite and uses terms of endearment as derogatory terms - calling people darling, sweetheart etc. as a means of humiliating them and showing his disrespect.

With that said, though, it’s not beyond him to eventually drop the facade and use actual pet names for loved ones - namely love, pet, darling and sweetheart.

Job: yes to both!!! So much!!! He’s likely to address people by their official title upon introduction, as per his country manners, but he absolutely loves both using and being called pet names by friends, family and partners alike. Even in casual conversation, he’s likely to address someone as man, girl or dude (dude is used for all genders and is hence his go-to) rather than use their actual names. As for his partners, he tends not to prefer one particular pet name and will call them anything that he can possibly think of: darling, sweetheart, honey, sugar, baby... you get the gist. He also likes to play off of people’s names and create cater-made nicknames just for them.

Saul: yes, absolutely, and you can rest assured that they will be Yiddish pet names more often than not. His father used to do this all the time and, the older Saul gets, the more he takes after Menash, especially when it comes to speech patterns. I.e., he’ll often refer to Jess as boychik (as Menash used to refer to him). Among his favorite terms to use are zeeskeit (sweetness), sheifale (lamb), bubbeleh (doll), libe/r (love, female/male), oyster (treasure) and ketsele (kitten).

[a-mountain-ash]

A Very Winchester Mystery

A special little ficlet for @ain-t-bovvered‘s 800 follower “Tales of the Winchesters” project! I visited the Winchester Mystery House a couple years back and couldn’t resist. Even tossed in a little personal easter egg from my time there because it was too good and I swear the ghosts played a little prank on me. Also, I’m sure the WIL CFO is perfectly decent person, but I needed someone to commit the crime :P

We know who the Winchesters are. We're not talking the originals, of course, though I suppose it's not out of the realm of possibility for them to be related. We are ghosts, after all, so the realm of possibility is quite large. We mean the new Winchesters. The brothers. The ghost slayers.

You see, the thing about this place that we inhabit is that it's very popular. Everyone comes here. Demons, ghouls, vampires, werewolves. They enjoy a little bit of whimsy as much as the next fellow.  Some people even drag their own personal ghosts with them, pulled along by their attachment to some piece of jewelry or other. Those times are when we get the good gossip.

The Winchesters almost got me last week, but I got away because my daughter here was catching a flight for this vacation she's on. I guess that Dean boy doesn't do planes.

Sam and Dean smoked my aunt's bones a few year's back when she was haunting me. Now I'm a ghost, too. Irony, amiright?

'Pretty sure I'm half way to angry spirit, and I'm afraid the Winchesters are gonna nab me before my boy stands at the alter in a couple months. You guys have any tips on how to stay on the good path?' 'Sure Fred, find some good friends if you can. We have poker nights once a week to vent. Congratulations on the engagement!'

And that, my good listener, is why we are a little bit worried. To give you some background, the Winchester Mystery House is a big thing. People spend real money to come walk through Sarah's wacky rooms and miniature stairwells. Personally, at this point in our ghostly existences, we don't totally understand the appeal, but the point still stands that people are here constantly. They're always with a tour guide, but every now and again, people get away from the group and we have to set them straight. Nicely of course. We weren't lying when we told Fred to find some friends. Being together all these years has really helped us stay on the straight and narrow.

What you have to understand is that we all want to be here, and not for revenge. Absolutely none of us were trapped here and if we really wanted to, we could probably find a way to get a reaper to come take us up, though none of us knows how. Sarah Winchester was the most excellent of ladies. During our lives, she took care of us and our families well and we are simply repaying the favor in death. We keep the property safe, defending it from harm, and keeping the still hidden rooms clean until the property managers finally find them. Occasionally we play a little mischief on tourists who get off the beaten track, like that time some sisters missed a sign and found their ways into a private area and we shut the gate on them. They got out fine, but they knew what happened, and stayed on the path after that.

Anyway, it all started a few weeks ago when apparently somebody in the higher-ups of Winchester Investment LLC decided to get greedy. We don't really understand how that whole situation works because we only know what we hear or see in the newspaper, but we know enough. WIL is in charge of this whole operation and they run it for the descendants of John and Mayme Brown, the couple who bought the house after Sarah died, may she rest in peace. One night, someone tried setting the estate on fire. Nothing of this scale had ever occurred before and we may have lost our cool, just a bit. It happened again a week later. Needless to say, the Winchesters and their angel friend Castiel were all here now, and we were going to have to try really hard to get them to see what was happening here before they found a way to burn us all. 

As it happened though, the Winchesters were surprisingly willing to listen to reason. It might be because we steered them into a room with only two doors, one of which lead to a 15 foot drop off and the other of which we blocked off with 20 or so ghosts strong, but you know, technicalities. They listened.

"Cas, what just happened?" Dean asked.

Oh my goodness, he was gorgeous! Those eyes. Mabel would definitely want to see him. She hadn't seen a cute tourist in weeks.

"Obviously the ghosts are preparing to kill us, Dean. I didn't think that would require an explanation."

The angel was a funny one. We've heard tell of them coming down to earth, but none have come to the house. They must think they're above fun, but we all knew this one is a little different.

"Yeah, yeah Cas. Thanks for the pep talk. I mean, how many of them are there. You can see them, right?"

"Ah, of course. There are currently 19 of them in the room. I believe there are a few more outside the door, but I don't have x-ray vision so you'll have to bear with me."

We really could have appeared to them then, but it was far too good a show to end it straight away. The tall one, Sam, looked like he'd swallowed a whole lemon while he looked between his brother and the angel. Castiel and Dean were so focused on talking about us that it was entirely impossible they'd forgotten about us. Watching them waffle and bicker before us in their FBI suits, it was hard to believe the vast quantity of stories we'd heard all the years before.

"Alright, well what are we going to do about it?" Sam finally asks practically. "We can't go shooting salt rounds inside a century old work of art and we don't have enough salt for that many ghosts at once."

At this point, we were seriously confused about how they'd acquired the reputation they had. That said, the threat of shots being fired at dear Sarah's carefully chosen wallpaper was enough to make a few of us show ourselves. When our best diplomats, Mr. Jones, Margaret, and John, materialized before them, their reactions (or lack thereof) were disappointing though not surprising. After all, with decades of ghost hunts under their belts, nothing should really shock them anymore.

"I would strongly recommend that you do not fire inside our home." Margaret spoke first, in her best friendly intimidation voice. She practiced it daily in front of Sarah's looking glass.

Despite her warning, Dean raised his gun anyway. Effie giggled invisibly at the glorious eye rolling his actions earned him from both Castiel and Sam. The older Winchester swung his gun in her direction. Admittedly, it was fairly impressive how good his aim was from sound alone. Had he fired, he would have hit her squarely in the head.

"God, Dean, what did she just say?" Sam was definitely the reasonable one of the two.

"Yeah, yeah. I heard her. Ghosts say lots of crap, though. Just being on the safe side."

"We will definitely not be allowed back inside if we damage this home, Dean. Even if they do think we're FBI."

"Ugh, fine." Dean lowered his weapon as Castiel placed a firm hand on his shoulder. "What are we supposed to do then?"

"Listen to us, you goon." Mr. Jones spoke then, finally seeing his in. He was a gruff older man, his skin tanned despite his deathly pallor from hours in the sun picking fruit in Mrs. Winchester's orchards. He had died very suddenly one day when a branch had snapped and his ladder had fallen with him at the top.

"We're listening." Sam said quickly before Dean could speak again.

"We're good spirits. None of us are vengeful. We chose to stay here after our deaths, even after Mrs. Winchester passed, in order to protect her property. This place was a good home to many of us and she cared for our families like her own. We just help maintain the property and keep the visitors safe."

"Then why the recent deaths?" Castiel asked.

"Someone is sending people to try and burn the estate to the ground. We believe it must be someone at the organization trying to collect insurance money or something." John spoke now. "One of our younger ghosts, Elmer, lost his temper the first time. The second time, it was Charlie. We aren't vengeful spirits, but protecting this place is our purpose and someone is trying to destroy it."

"You can see we're very much in possession of our faculties, even after almost a century. More for some. But this home must be protected. If it is lost, we truly will go insane." Margaret had dropped her ominous tone in favor of something friendlier.

"Won't you disappear?" Dean asked. "Isn't it the house that you're attached to?"

"No. We are connected to the entire estate, down into the soil that we tended and farmed. We cannot be burned with this house, but if the house burns we will have nothing grounding us to our purpose and then we truly will become vengeful."

"We can't have you killing people, even if they are arsonists." Castiel answered.

"Then help us!" Effie appeared suddenly. She had always gotten impatient with too much talk. "We can't have this house destroyed and you can't have us killing more people. You must be able to do something."

And they could.

With our help concealing the security cameras and silencing the alarms, they snuck back onto the property after hours. We used Castiel as a communication conduit and when we found yet another man entering the property with gasoline and matches we alerted him and they called in an anonymous tip that someone was attempting to burn the estate. Rather than kill the man, we detained him until the authorities arrived and took him away.

A week later, the CFO of WIL was brought in for questioning and one of the Mayme descendants themselves took his position. Every once in a while, when the world isn't ending, the Winchesters take a day or two to come visit us. Castiel always brings the best gossip.

[imaginaryelle]

Fic: Kernel Panic

A short, pre-romance, relationship-building fic for Gil and Ryder. Contains spoilers for the Hunting the Archon questline under the cut. Many thanks to @dipsykoo, @laireshi and @morphia-writes for alpha reading and beta help.

When Gil slips out of the bunkroom and turns toward the galley he’s momentarily stymied by the appearance of the pathfinder lying on the upper walkway. His legs and bare feet are hanging down just a smidge too close to head-kicking height for comfort.

Gil almost reaches out, almost traces along the flow of ankle to toes, but stops halfway through the motion. There’s a line there, and in his waking hours he’s not sure he’s welcome on the other side yet. Most days it’s a line he can’t even see, Ryder keeps himself so bottled up.  Gil rubs his eyes instead, wondering if maybe his head isn’t quite clear of heavy dreams, but Ryder’s still there, prone on the glass in loose pants and a hoodie with his arms spread wide, staring up at the ceiling and doing some sort of meditative...thing with his fingers, like he’s counting them off with this thumbs, over and over.

It looks more nervous than relaxing. It’s probably not supposed to be done as fast as he’s doing it.

“Hey, Ryder,” he says, keeping his voice low enough to not wake the others.

“Hi Gil,” is Ryder’s response.

“You’re up early.”

“Is it early?” Ryder asks. “I haven’t really… slept. I guess.”

“Are you… doing okay?” Gil’s not particularly used to talking to people this soon after waking up, and his brain’s not quite working right yet, but he’s pretty sure this has never happened before. Ryder keeps some odd hours sometimes, but not like this. This is more Gil’s thing.

“Not really,” Ryder says, and Gil can tell he’s trying for flippant but he doesn’t quite pull it off.

Suvi or Lexi would probably say something like Want to talk about it? here, but Gil’s pretty sure Ryder doesn’t respond well to that on the best of days. He ducks around Ryder’s feet and continues his walk to the galley instead, throwing “I’m making coffee if you want some,” over his shoulder.

He’s rather gratified when it pays off, though how the hell Ryder manages to be so damn quiet making a ten-foot drop he’s got no idea. He pulls down what he’s almost certain is Ryder’s favorite mug and fills it before his own, because so there Vetra, he can too be a gentleman when he wants.

Face to face, Ryder’s got a hollow-eyed look Gil doesn’t like. He slumps against the counter, just holding the mug, face in the steam and eyes trained on the contents like maybe it can tell him something.

Gil drinks his coffee. Ryder doesn’t move.  His shoulders curl in around his chest like a shell. It’s a position Gil recognizes from some of his lower moments, when he can’t maintain his mental shield further outside his skin. He breathes, slow and steady. The only sound is the hum of the engines through the decks.

Gil finishes his coffee and casts around for something to say.

“Are you gonna drink that, or…?”

It’s the wrong thing, probably. Ryder hands back the mug and drums his fingers on the countertop. He keeps looking around like he expects something to jump out from behind the built-in cabinets or something, and Gil ends up standing there and silently drinking a second cup of coffee that he doesn’t really want because he can’t quite bring himself to leave Ryder like this but he’s not quite sure what else to do if the man doesn’t invite him in. He’s just about to says something stupid like, I think there’s something brewing between us, or Did you get this tired running through my dreams all night when Ryder says, “I keep thinking, if I close my eyes, if I fall asleep, I won’t wake back up again.”

Shit.

“This about that mess with the Archon?” Gil asks. Ryder shrugs with this little grimace, like maybe yes, maybe no, but it’s been what—a week, at most? A few days? Gil’s grasp of time hasn’t been exactly stellar lately, but it can’t have been that long.

“It’s stupid,” Ryder says.

Gil gives him the most incredulous look he can muster.

“You think worrying about dying after you literally died is stupid? I mean, I might not be the best voice of rationality on this ship but even I’m pretty sure that’s about as normal a reaction as possible.”

Ryder shrugs again, not really looking at him, which is actually really fucking annoying because Ryder always looks at him. Really looks, like maybe he wants to know more than will the Nomad be ready for Elaadan tomorrow, or so when’s the next crew-wide poker game?

Gil hadn’t been there, obviously.  Sneaking onto enemy ships is a bit outside his purview, especially when he could instead be prepping a quick getaway, but Vetra had been pretty rattled after. “He just—fell,” she’d said, her hands clenching and unclenching restlessly. “And then SAM couldn’t even get his heart going again on the first try. For a second I thought, ‘that’s it, it’s over, we’re all dead. We just don’t know it yet.’”

He’s glad he wasn’t there. Ryder, here, alive and nervy with his hair pressed into weird shapes and his wrinkled sweatshirt hanging from slumped shoulders, is only a dim reflection of his usual self. Gil doesn’t want to think about what Heleus would look like without even this tiny sliver of hope and light.

He needs something to do with his hands, something to stop him just reaching out and poking holes in whatever trust they’re building here.

“Want to come hang out in engineering?” he asks. “I guarantee I can keep you better distracted than whatever it was you were doing earlier.”

“Meditating,” Ryder says. “Well, trying to anyway.”

“Yeah, that looked super relaxing,” Gil drawls. “Come on, I’ll tell you about the time I jury-rigged a derelict on the fly during a live firefight and you can tell me how many laws of physics you’re planning to break tomorrow. It’ll be like shore leave, but with better acoustics.”

He does tell the derelict story. And the busted of hovercraft story, and the one about the elcor in the elevator. Ryder doesn’t quite laugh but he does at least smile a few times, and by the time Gil’s gotten himself elbow deep into system checks on the Nomad’s drive-train he’s looking significantly more relaxed. The little crease between his eyebrows smooths away and he’s actually let himself lean into a halfway comfortable-looking position against a few of the munitions storage crates.

There’s a bit of a lull while Gil tries to rid the wheels of any lingering vestige of Kadara’s noxious mud, and he’s just about to suggest that a helping hand from the person responsible for the mess wouldn’t go amiss when Ryder says, “I know it won’t happen.  The dying thing. I do trust SAM. It’s not like I think it’s a real risk. Rationally. Not that I could do anything about it either way, but…”

“Well, you could always get SAM out of your head,” Gil says. Ryder’s giving him this I don’t think you understand look, and he shrugs. “I’m not saying it’s a good option, but you do still have a choice there. You could sever the connection with SAM and trust yourself to the wonders of slightly less-cutting edge medicine if you wanted to. And sure, we’d probably be down a pathfinder and out our best shot at actually making this place livable, but that���s about everyone else. Not you.”

Ryder shakes his head. “I don’t think I could do that. I mean, even if I could survive the process I don’t think I’d want to do it. The things we do, being the pathfinder and setting up the vaults and everything...” he drops his gaze to his hands, fidgeting on his knees. “I don’t think I could go back to anything else. Sometimes I feel like I’ve waited my whole life to do this. Does that sound weird?”

Gil grins, part reflex, part incredulity, because they both know he doesn’t have a clue what he’s doing with his own life most days. “You’re asking me?”

“Yeah,” Ryder says, and he meets Gil’s eyes properly this time. “I guess I am. I mean, my dad died giving me this job. How fucked is it that I feel like it’s what I’m meant for?”

For a moment all Gil can think is be careful what you wish for, which is pretty useless as far as advice goes and doubly annoying because it’s at least half self-recriminatory reaction to finally getting Ryder’s attention in any sort of serious way. The guy just looks even younger than usual, and so vulnerable with his bare feet and trailing pantcuffs and that needy look in his eyes. And then he thinks, Shit, Gil, fucking say something you idiot.

He starts with, “I can’t speak for your dad, obviously,” and grasps for more words. “From what I’ve heard, it doesn’t seem like anyone really can, but I do know that you’ve done some pretty impossible things since you got here and it’s doing a lot of people a lot of good. And it seems to me that if you find meaning in that, if that’s what gets you through the day and helps you find your own peace, who cares what anyone else thinks? You find your purpose, you don’t let that go for anything. That’s how it’s supposed to work, right?”

Ryder chews on his lip for a moment, looking confused.

“Huh,” he says.

“What. Did I garble something in there? Did it not make sense? Because I’ve been known to not make sense sometimes.”

“No, it’s—I think you’re right,” he says. “I just didn’t expect it. From you.”

Gil thinks he might be a little offended by that, but then Ryder smiles again, soft and sweet, and he says, “Thanks, Gil.”

“Sure—uh, sure thing.” Gil clears his throat. “Anytime.”

“Got any more stories?” Ryder asks, and Gil starts off on the first thing that pops into his head because there’s no way he’s saying no now, and that’s how he ends up regaling the human pathfinder with the rather cliche tale of his personal first contact adventure, aka that time he hadn’t realized his batarian poker partner was in the Blue Suns until after he’d taken all the guy’s money.

The next time he looks over Ryder’s asleep against the crates, curled in on himself with his knees pulled up to his chest and his head pillowed on his arms. When Gil looks back at his datapad, trying to decide if he has time to strip off his gloves and go find a blanket before the final checks start chiming completion, there’s a message from SAM in the bottom corner.

Thank you, blinks in blue and white.

I didn’t do it for you, he sends back.

And yet I am still grateful, SAM replies. The pathfinder’s continued good health is my utmost concern, but I cannot offer the emotional support an organic being might provide. It is good to know that others are willing to intervene on his behalf.

Gil can’t really think of a good comeback for that, so he busies himself with wiping down the headlights. When the chime finally goes off he mutes it quickly and double-checks the readouts, and hesitates.

Thanks for bringing him back, he types, and then he pulls off his gloves and goes to find a blanket, because ‘taking care of the pathfinder’ is apparently part of his job description now.

Ryder barely stirs when the blanket settles over him, and for the first time in months, Gil lets himself dream.