soma and 20! (things you said that i wasn't meant to hear)
He was not eavesdropping. God help him, he wants to make that perfectly clear.
Maka breaks her arm after a mission, her body a war-zone in itself, bruises spattering pale skin, her lip splits down the middle, giving her a wounded puppy look. He takes the dutiful place of healthy Weapon, he gets prescriptions from pharmacies, he gets ice packs from the the corner store where the Mummy always looks likes he’s judging Soul, and he leaves the apartment at six am when she’s whimpering for ice pops. (She refuses to call them otter pops. He refuses to acknowledge her first four requests.).
Soul does as she asks, because he’s guilty, after all, he’s protected in battle by demon steel and black blood.
So he’s awake, six fucking fifteen in the damn morning, hauling watered down ice pops into the kitchen. He pulls two green ones and a pink out while he shoves the rest of them into their already straining freezer.
“Hey, Mama.” He can hear Maka vaguely, and he freezes, first in genuine surprise, then in morbid curiosity. Soul is not known for his ability to keep things in order, so he doesn’t know how long its actually been since the elusive Mother Albarn has contacted her child. “Yeah, there’s a couple broken bones. But I’m okay!!”
Bah fucking humbug she’s okay. This isn’t Maka’s first broken bone rodeo, but she is moving around slower than usual, and she’s not her best self right now. “No, I’m taking care of myself, promise. Soul has been helping me out a bunch.”
Wait, Soul? Since when did he evolve from My Weapon to first name basis with the God of Meisters (or maybe just his). This was news to him! “Of course he’s on top of things. He’s been really helpful you know? No! Don’t even-”
He is in front of her door, he doesn’t even remember walking over there but here he is…right in the Danger Zone. God help and Forgive him, he needs to know about this conversation. “Mama, stop. It’s not like that!”
What isn’t like that?! Damn it all he’s can do not burst through that door and begging her to own up to whatever is it!
“…he doesn’t like me like I like him.”
Shitting Hell, his heart stops, the color drains from his face. He needs every ounce of willpower to keep from busting in there, and planting a kiss on her lips. He retreats back to the kitchen, organizing her otter pops into a more orderly situation.
When she calls for him a few moments later, he goes to her, fistful of pink otter pops with him.