This is a (VERY LATE) holiday fic for my non-fandom writing group SS, flutterby_cupcake_26 on AO3.
It’s SoMa. It’s sweet, sad, and sappy. I hope you find some enjoyment even if it’s not your fandom or pairing, and I’m so so so sorry for being the worst latest SS EVAH!
Thanks go to @sahdah for the eyes, the film suggestion, and also for doing a silly awesome thing when we talked about no shave November.
Sahdah’s no shave November post can be found here.
Fuck no shave November, that’s all he has to say. Fuck no shave November, fuck Black Star for goading him into that ridiculousness, and most of all, fuck Maka for being so damned earnest, and so damned cute when she’s so damned earnest that he never has the heart to say no when it actually matters to her. Not that he really denies her anything much ever.
No, really, fuck Maka. He wishes. Which is probably the reason he’s in this mess. Well, more like sappy, gross, sentimental feelings. Refer back to that whole generally-forgets-the-word-no-when-she’s-around thing.
The girl is definitely trouble.
With an exaggerated sigh, Soul scowls at his own face in the mirror. Yeah, alright, he’s got a nice, full, white beard since he’d been too lazy to shave it off right away. And his usual mop of white hair under the silly red velvet cap. And a soft red suit now stuffed at the belly. So maybe he can pass for pop culture Santa, except the whole red eyes and mouth full of oddly sharp teeth that make him look more like Satan than Santa–hey, only a few letters off, really.
He grimaces at his own reflection, and actually, that’s better than the scowl that would surely send kids screaming for the hills. Makes him look just that bit less like the devil posing as jolly old Saint Nick.
“So are you coming out?” A voice calls from the other side of the dressing room door. Is he? No. Definitely no. Being seen in public this way, even in a lame costume shop smack in the middle of a run down strip mall, is surely some form of social suicide, good bye cool, goodbye dignity, goodbye self-respect.
“Yeah, whatever,” he says instead with another exaggerated sigh, his inability to say no to the girl on the other side of the door biting him in the ass for the umpteenth time this month alone.
Taking that last step to the door, Soul twists the knob and haltingly swings it open.
Ah, there she stands, his reason for the season, his cruel, cruel mistress, leaned so casually against the wall that he might be looking for new jeans rather than sealing his social suicide. Not that he’s ever been much for people. Goodbye, cruel world!
“Oh my god, Soul, you look–you look–”
Her grin is stretched so wide across her face that he’s sure it has to hurt, green eyes sparkling, and his heart does loop de loops in his chest cavity. Yes, Maka is trouble and he is in trouble, as usual.
“–Ridiculous?” Soul says before she can, the scowl firmly back in place in spite of the way her smile does funny things to his insides.
“I was going to say ‘adorable,’ but just at the moment, with that sour puss, you look like you want to maim me.”
Well, he sort of does. Not maim, but mark, maybe. Touch definitely. Then again, he always wants that with her, the unobtainable, so that’s easy enough to tamp down on. No, even more than that, just at the moment Soul wants to wither and die, or maybe disappear, anything to diminish the humiliation he feels as two teen girls trying on some sort of skimpy elf get ups come out from another dressing room and start giggling his way.
“Whatever.” He shrugs as Maka glares at the girls, and unlike his scowl, that sends them scampering back into their dressing room. Go figure.
“I told you this wouldn’t work–can we go now?”
“It’ll work if you can refrain from glaring at the world for a whole hour of your life.” She saunters up and puts a hand on his chest, stroking the material of the fuzzy red coat. Maka herself has donned an elf costume–short festive dress, pigtails, ears. She looks adorable. His scowl softens considerably at her proximity.
“Doubtful.” Soul offers her a flat stare.
“Do it for the kids?”
This earns her an eyeroll even if he knows she knows that yes, he is a marshmallow on the inside, and yes, he would indeed humiliate himself to make sick kids smile even if no one else on the planet but her might realize that. Well, maybe Wes, but he’s not here to back her claim.
“Then do it for the reward?”
“Reward?” He’s already going to do it and they both damn well know it, but hell, may as well get something for the trouble and complete loss of cool.
“Mmm hmmm,” she hums and smiles sweetly. “I’ll bake your favorite cookies.”
Maka’s a good baker and pretty much never bakes. His stomach rumbles at the thought. “It’s a start,” he mutters.
“And…” Her hand continues to stroke at the material of the red coat.
“I’ll let you pick the movie tonight. Any movie, and I won’t say a word. Or retaliate.”
Well, that’s also something. It’s not his turn, and even when it is, if Soul picks something he knows Maka won’t like, she will pick the worst historical romance bullshit she can find the week after. There’s only so much coy flirting he can take, really, and the trite classical scores always give him childhood flashbacks he could do without.
“Getting warmer,” the concession is grumbled.
“And, I’ll rub your back while we watch the movie.”
Ding ding ding we have a winner! Movie, cookies, and backrub with Maka. She’s hit the trifecta, and fuck it all if that sly smile doesn’t say she knows it.
“Fine, you win,” he grumble-sighs, and it’s only half for show because while he dreads the next hour, he has an evening of bliss ahead of him.
In the end, Soul supposes, an hour of Santa suit purgatory is a small price to pay.