Chapter Text
His phone rings just as he’s realizing he might be the slightest bit inebriated.
Incoming Call…
Wes
The only reason Soul picks up the phone is because he's on his fourth cup of eggnog - or is it his fifth? Truthfully, he's lost count at this point - and he'd woefully underestimated the potency of one sixteen-ounce pour of eggnog, let alone four or five of them.
(A rookie mistake, honestly, given that this year's Christmas party libations had been supplied by Black Star.)
Before he can think twice about it, he's swiping the green answer button and pressing his phone to the side of his face.
"'Sup?"
It's perhaps a bit too casual a greeting, considering he hasn't spoken to his brother in… months, now.
"Well, color me surprised," Wes chirps through the speaker, and Soul can't help how he cringes in response. "Is that you, little bro, or do my ears deceive me? I suppose I’ve simply forgotten what your voice sounds like, after all this time."
"…Should've sent you straight to voicemail."
"Oh, yes, voicemail, I love leaving those,” Wes hums thoughtfully. “Do you know, I’ve even taken to writing out my messages before I call you. Pity, I was quite excited about this one.”
Soul removes the phone from the side of his face and holds the top of it against his forehead as he draws in a long, slow breath, in part to dredge up his quickly dwindling patience, and in part in an effort to stop the room as it perilously spins around him.
Goddamn eggnog. Goddamn his brother.
When he holds the phone back up to his ear, he asks, as evenly as he can:
"What do you want, Wes?"
“I should think it's fairly obvious,” comes his brother’s reply. “I want to talk to you, Soul. If the fact that I continue to call you once per week despite your insistence on not answering doesn’t make that clear enough.”
"Alright," Soul leans backward against the kitchen counter and crosses one leg over the other. "So talk. Here I am."
Against all better judgment, he brings the red solo cup back to his lips and takes a hearty sip from the spiked eggnog sloshing around inside.
If he must converse with his older brother, maintaining his current level of intoxication will at least make it a tolerable experience.
“Jesus, Soul,” Wes laughs. “Don’t make it sound like talking to me is a death sentence, I just want to chat. What’s new, how’s life, how’s the… what is your title again? Death Knife?”
“Death Scythe.”
“Right! Silly me. How’s the Death Scythe thing going? No ulterior motives, I swear.”
Soul narrows his eyes in suspicion.
“I didn’t ask if you had any ulterior motives.”
His brother’s hesitation is infinitesimal, the pause on the other end of the line brief, and he recovers just as quickly.
“Which is great, because I don’t have any!”
Elsewhere in the mansion, the unmistakable opening notes of Mariah Carey’s ‘All I Want for Christmas is You’ chime through distant speakers, followed by a series of whoops and shouts.
It wouldn’t be a Gallows Manor holiday party without overplayed Christmas pop songs. Soul has to wonder why Kid keeps letting Liz have full reign over the playlist every year.
It almost makes him glad to be trapped here on the phone with his brother, in the kitchen and away from the main festivities.
Almost.
He hiccups, his body swaying the slightest bit from the force of it.
“Life’s good, I guess,” he says, hoping he doesn’t sound as drunk as he feels. “The Death Scythe gig is…” honestly pretty boring, but he isn’t about to tell Wes that. “Great. It’s so cool. I travel all over the place with the Grim Reaper and help him keep the peace with the witches. I get paid to stand around and look intimidating. I’ve got so many adoring fans and I can’t go anywhere in town without being recognized.”
He’s peacocking, and he hates it, but when it comes to his brother, he can’t help himself; he’s glad to have something of a relationship with Wes, he really is, but he’s still so selective about what he tells him about his life, lest any of it get back to… the rest of his family.
In reality, his job as the Last Death Scythe is a whole lot of bureaucratic bullshit, sitting around in meetings as Kid’s second-in-command but largely doing nothing, while the Reaper does all the talking and posturing. It’s not as much travel as it used to be, which is fine, he doesn’t like being away from home, anyway. And he does have lots of fans, the vast majority of them being women pining for his affections, but he’s never much cared for attention from girls.
With one glaring exception.
On the other end of the call, Wes laughs.
“That’s my little bro for you,” he says, and his voice sounds completely genuine, not a hint of sarcasm to be found. “Sounds like you’re as cool as ever, Soul. You seem like you’re happy, and that makes me happy.”
The stroke to his ego is accompanied by the weirdest twinge of guilt, which he doesn’t understand, because it’s not like he’s completely lying to his brother. He is happy - happy enough, anyway.
“And what about that girl of yours? How’s she doing?”
Soul tamps down the swell of affection that surges in his chest at the insinuation that Maka is his girl.
It’s not like that. They’re partners, best friends, and nothing more, and he is happy enough with their relationship as it is.
“Maka is doing great, and she’s also not my girl, she’s my–”
As if on cue, the door to the kitchen swings open, and a moment later Maka bursts through it.
She stumbles in, a plastic champagne glass in hand and a soft smile on her face as her lips mouth along to the words of Mariah’s iconic Christmas anthem. She gets about two steps into the kitchen before her eyes find Soul, and as soon as she sees him leaning up against the kitchen counter she stops in her tracks.
The change in her demeanor is immediate, and the way her eyes sparkle, the way the corners of her mouth stretch into a bright smile that lights up her entire face makes Soul’s heart stutter helplessly in his chest.
“Soul! There you are!”
He blinks mutely at her once, before he remembers that Wes is in his ear.
“I was wondering where you’d–”
He abandons his drink on the counter beside him, brings one finger to his mouth and purses his lips in a silent ‘shush’ gesture, but it’s too late.
“Is that who I think it is?!”
Soul’s eyes squeeze shut and he exhales in defeat.
“Yeah, Maka’s here with me,” he says hurriedly, wanting nothing more than to end the conversation and hang up the phone. “Listen, Wes, we’re actually kind of at a party right now–”
At the mention of his brother’s name, Maka’s face becomes a mask of surprise, her eyes widening and her mouth falling open into a perfect o-shape, and she hurries along past Soul and makes her way to the other end of the kitchen, where she quickly busies herself with getting another drink.
“I’ll cut right to the chase, then,” Wes interjects. “Confession time, Soul - I may actually have a bit of an ulterior motive after all.”
“Shock of the century,” Soul deadpans.
Wes pauses then, longer and more intentional than the first time, and Soul braces himself.
“I think you should come home for Christmas this year.”
His rebuttal is on the tip of his tongue before Wes even finishes the sentence.
“Not a chance in hell.”
“Soul, it’s been more than ten years since you’ve been home,” Wes continues on as if he hadn’t even spoken, and Soul marvels at how his brother’s voice manages to be both completely sincere and completely maddening at once. “I know you have your reasons, and I absolutely respect them. But, listen - you have to believe me when I say things are different now. Not perfect, but at least… better than when we were kids.”
“Wes, I just –” Soul grips the phone tighter in his hand. “I don’t know if I’m ready. I don’t know if I’ll ever be ready.”
“You know Nana moved in with Mom and Dad a few years ago,” Wes says quietly. “She’s been asking about you.”
Soul feels a lump forming in his throat. He tries to swallow it down with little success.
“She… has?”
“Yeah.” Wes takes a breath, as if this conversation is tough for him as well. “Did you also know she’s got that newspaper article about you framed in her bedroom? The one about your inauguration as the Last Death Scythe? It’s one of her most valued possessions.”
Soul has no idea what to say, so he says nothing, and Wes presses on.
“She’s in good enough health, but… at eighty-nine years old, who knows how many Christmases she has left. I think it would mean a lot to her if she could see the man that you’ve become.”
Soul is drunk on eggnog, standing in the Gallows Manor kitchen conversing with his brother against his will, and said conversation is actually making him emotional about his grandmother.
His grandmother, who had been the only person in his family who wasn’t completely shocked when Soul turned twelve and discovered he had the ability to turn into a weapon. His grandmother, who’s eyes had lit up when he’d shown her his transformed scythe-arm, who had tearfully told him that she’d thought the Evans family weapon gene had all but gone dormant, that it hadn’t manifested for generations.
His grandmother, who had pointed him in the direction of the DWMA and Death City, who he then proceeded to not speak to for over a decade.
“Wes…”
“She’s so proud of you, Soul. And I’m proud of you, I really am. And I think if Mom and Dad could hear about your work, they would be too… and if they’re not, I’ll be more than happy to give them a piece of my mind.”
Soul leans back, casting his eyes to the ceiling and bringing his free hand up to run through his hair in exasperation.
“Look, I-” he starts, pauses for a breath. “I hear what you’re saying, Wes. And… I’m not necessarily saying no, but…” Soul’s eyes involuntarily flicker over to where Maka is standing in front of the open fridge, pretending to be very interested in its contents. “I would feel guilty about leaving Maka alone here–”
“Why don’t you bring her with you?”
Soul blinks, feeling his stomach drop down to his toes.
“W-What?”
“You heard me,” his brother says, his voice once again taking on that distinctive, so uniquely Wes flair of his. “Come home for Christmas, and bring Maka with you.”
“I-I don’t…” Soul trails off, unsure of what he’s even trying to say anymore. He’s blinking furiously and his heartbeat has picked up its tempo in his chest, he’s starting to sweat in odd places, and he isn’t one-hundred percent sure the alcohol is entirely to blame for any of it. “W-We spend Christmas with her old man every year, I couldn’t possibly-”
“Is she still there with you?” Wes interrupts, and Soul can hear the shit-eating grin in his voice. “Why don’t you ask her what she thinks?”
He can sense Maka’s eyes on him, can feel the confusion and concern emanating from her wavelength, and he’s sure that she already knows what Wes is proposing, somehow, despite only hearing Soul’s side of the conversation.
“Uh, okay Wes good talk gotta go I’ll call you tomorrow BYE.”
Before he can second guess the decision, he hangs up.
A second or two of silence passes, in which Soul realizes the room is spinning a lot more than he’d previously realized, and then Maka’s there, poking her head into his field of vision like she’s some blonde, otherworldly holiday sprite, and she’s smiling at him brightly and pushing a glass of water into his hands.
He sighs, takes a tentative sip, and it tastes way better than it should.
“You missed Mariah Carey, you know.”
He barks out a laugh before closing his eyes and taking another gulp of water.
“Yeah, I’m not all that torn up about it,” he smirks, tossing his head back and taking a deep breath in through his nose. He’s long past the phase of his life in which he’d rather Maka not see the less flattering sides of him, of which tonight happens to be a double whammy - fresh off an intense, emotional conversation with his brother, and drunk.
If anything, he’s so glad she’s here right now.
When he lowers his head and meets her gaze once again, he finds she’s still looking at him with a smile on her face - softer now, though he can still feel every bit of her unwavering support in the slight curve of her mouth, in the endless green of her eyes.
She doesn’t say anything, doesn’t make any effort to fill the comfortable silence, or push him about the conversation with his brother, and Soul thinks, not for the first time in his life, that this may be one of his favorite things about her - the fact that she always meets him where he’s at.
And maybe, if they were elsewhere - at home, on their couch, enjoying a quiet night together - he’d tell her the full extent of the conversation, about his grandma and everything.
But they’re at a party, and he’s had far too much eggnog, so he decides to just rip the band-aid off.
“Wes suggested I come home for Christmas,” he says, all on one long exhale. “And he also suggested I bring you with me.”
Maka’s smile turns pensive, and she brings her champagne glass to her lips for a quick sip of her drink.
“Hmmm,” she hums, swirling the glass around in her hand. “To New York, huh?”
Soul nods, and the motion very nearly makes him lose his balance.
“That sounds kind of nice, honestly,” she muses. “I hear the Adirondacks are lovely this time of year.”
Soul smiles, because for now, that’s confirmation enough that she’s on board with the idea. Surely, they’ll hash out the details in the coming days, when he’s decidedly more sober.
He opens his mouth to say words, but his stomach has other ideas. Before he knows it, his hands are clutching at his face and he’s stumbling as all that eggnog starts to come back up.
He makes it to the kitchen sink, but just barely, and as Maka rubs her hands soothingly between his shoulder blades, he swears off the classic holiday beverage for the rest of his life.
Her phone rings just as she’s beginning to spiral into an existential crisis about packing for winter weather.
Incoming Call…
Papa
Maka answers the phone because quite honestly, she’s been staring at the same two knitted hats for so long, her eyes are starting to cross, and she could use a break. Also, the last few times her Papa has called her, she’d been unable to talk - either she’d stayed at work too late grading papers, or had lost track of time at the library, or she’d just gotten home from the store after realizing she’d forgotten to buy wrapping paper and then had to double back.
Either way, it’s been too long since she’d spoken to her father, and she supposes that today she does have a somewhat important update for him.
“Oh, Papa!” She answers the phone with a genuine smile on her face. “I’m so glad you called. I’ve been meaning to text you, actually.”
“Hi sweetheart,” her father beams from the other end of the line, and his voice is comforting, familiar. “Is now a good time?”
“Yeah, actually, it is.” Maka sets the knitted hats down on her bed, happy to forget about them and the dilemma they represent for the time being. “I’m sorry I missed your last few calls, I’ve just been a little busy with end of semester stuff and holiday preparations–”
“It’s fine, it’s fine! You’re an adult with your own life now, I get it,” he says, and he sounds like he really means it. “I just wanted to chat, is all. See how you’re doing.”
Maka sits down on her bed, next to the hats and her suitcase and the general explosion of clothes on the mattress, since apparently, packing for a holiday trip to upstate New York warrants pulling out most of the items in her wardrobe.
It’s been so long since she’s done any traveling, even longer since she’s done any leisure traveling, and since this particular trip doesn’t require her to dust off her old combat boots for a mission or cram all of her research materials into a carry-on bag for a conference, she doesn’t have a clue where to begin.
It’s definitely just because she’s so used to traveling for work that she’s thrown off, and no other reason.
It’s definitely not because she’s freaking out about visiting Soul’s hometown for Christmas, and meeting his family for the very first time.
No way.
“I’m doing good, Papa. Life’s good,” she says. “Dr. Stein gave all the teaching and research assistants Christmas bonuses this year, and the extra cash is very helpful. Soul had a lot of unused vacation time to burn, so he took the last three weeks of the year off. He’s been home a lot, which has been great, because I’ve been pulling a lot of late nights at work with end of semester finals.” Maka pauses, her thoughts wandering to how many nights in a row Soul had dinner ready for her when she got home, even if it was merely just frozen pizza. How he’d been keeping the sink clear of dishes and the bathroom tidy without her even asking. “Although I definitely owe him dinner and a movie night.”
“Ah, good to hear that that punk is still taking good care of you,” Spirit chuckles, his tone of voice teasing, and Maka rolls her eyes.
“We take care of each other,” she corrects him.
“Of course, pumpkin, of course,” her father laughs. “Speaking of which, have the two of you decided what you’d like to have for Christmas dinner this year?”
Maka’s heart skips a beat at the topic change, an uneasy, fluttering sensation starting up in the pit of her stomach. Christmas at her father’s condo in downtown Death City had become something of an annual tradition for her and Soul these past several years, and she honestly has no idea how her Papa will react to the news that they’ve made other plans this year.
“Um, yeah, Papa, about that…” She doesn’t know how to say this, doesn’t know where to even begin. “W-we, um…” She takes a deep breath. “We’re actually… gonna be spending Christmas with Soul’s family this year. I-In New York.”
There’s a pause on the other end of the line, one that Maka genuinely doesn’t know how to interpret.
And then:
“Oh,” Spirit says, and there’s an expectant weight in his voice, an undertone to it that she hadn’t anticipated in the slightest. “Is that right? Does this mean what I think it means?”
Maka blinks.
“I… don’t know?” she stammers. “What do you think it means?”
“Well, honey, it's just that… meeting Soul's family seems like a big step,” he says. “Are things between you two… getting serious?”
She feels heat start to rise to her cheeks at what her father is insinuating.
It's a thought she's refused to let cross her mind even once in the days since Friday, the evening of Kid's party - not the next morning, when they'd hashed out the details of the trip while Soul nursed a dreadful hangover. Not that same evening, when he had begrudgingly called Wes again to ask about dates and flights and which New York airport would be the least amount of headache to go through during the holiday week. And certainly not these past several hours, as she spends her Sunday evening trying to pack instead of spiraling into an existential crisis, and mostly failing at both endeavors.
She had been more or less aware of the thought's presence as it lurked just on the fringes of her consciousness, but she hadn't dared even let herself think it.
“Come on, Papa,” Maka says, trying for an air of nonchalance in her voice. “You know it isn't like that.”
She’s saying it to her father, but also as a reminder to herself - because it's easier to tell herself that she and Soul are best friends and partners, and nothing more. It’s easier to stick to what she knows, what's comfortable and familiar, rather than dwell on the unknown, the ‘what if's’.
What if he feels the same way I do?
What if we tried being more than friends?
What if we try it, and it doesn't work out, and it ruins everything we currently have?
What if this trip actually does mean something more, like her Papa is saying? What if it means something more to Soul? What if his family thinks…
She slams on the mental brakes, brings the restless thoughts to a standstill.
“Maka,” her dad says. “I’m not trying to pry, or stick my nose where it doesn’t belong, I promise. And we don’t have to dwell on this topic for very long. But I want you to know… I just want you to be happy, sweetheart.”
Maka swallows slowly.
“I am happy,” she insists. Happy enough, at least, she mentally adds. “Do I not… seem happy?”
“That isn’t what I meant,” Spirit laughs. “I just mean… I know you and Soul aren’t kids anymore, and I also know how much you mean to each other. I realize you probably don’t want to tell your Papa all the details of your love life” – Maka groans internally – “and I’m not asking you to. I’m just asking you to try to be honest with yourself. Don’t be afraid to examine your feelings. And more importantly…” He pauses. “Don’t be afraid of what you might find when you do take a closer look.”
It’s such a far cry from what she expected her father to say, how she expected this conversation to go, that Maka is shocked into utter silence for a long moment. When she finally does find her voice again, it’s small and sincere.
“Thanks, Papa.” She smiles, standing up from her bed to reassess her packing situation with renewed enthusiasm. “You sure you’re gonna be okay without us for Christmas this year?”
“Don’t you worry about me, angel,” he replies. “I’ll manage. Who knows, perhaps I’ll pay a visit to Stein and Marie’s. Maybe I’ll crash their Christmas and play the role of the fun uncle instead of the supportive, doting father for a change.”
Maka wedges the phone between her ear and her shoulder as she reaches for one of the knitted hats again.
“I’m sure Shelley would love that,” she says, remembering the last time they'd visited Stein and Marie and their daughter, how happy the four-year-old had been to see her Uncle Spirit and Cousin Maka. “Give them all of my love when you go?”
“I will,” he promises. “When do you and Soul leave for New York?”
“Wednesday,” Maka says. “And thank Death, because I’m gonna need two more whole days to pack.”
Her father chuckles on the other end of the line, and Maka wishes she could hug him.
“Well, I won’t keep you, then,” he says. “But if you could send your old man a text when you’re safely in New York, he’d appreciate it.”
“I will, Papa.”
“I’ll call you on Christmas, sweetheart. Love you.”
“I love you too, Papa.”
No sooner than she hangs up the phone, tossing it lightly onto her bed with the rest of her things, then comes a knock at her bedroom door.
“Come in,” she calls out, and it occurs to her that her door isn’t even closed; it’s slightly ajar, and Soul definitely could have just pushed it open, but he’d chosen to knock instead.
“Hey,” he says as he enters, a mug of cocoa in each hand. His eyes settle on the clothing carnage laid out on her bed, and his eyebrows go up. “I was gonna ask how packing’s going, but… by the looks of things, I think I have a guess.”
Maka laughs, and can’t help how her smile widens at the sight of him as he stands in her room, looking adorable in his plaid flannel pj pants and a dark blue sweater, and bearing two bright red mugs full of steaming hot chocolatey goodness and piled high with whipped cream.
“Your guess would probably be correct,” she admits. “Which hat do you think I should pack for New York?” She holds up both of the knitted garments in question, one pale pink with a pom-pom on top, one white-and-gray patterned and with ear flaps extending down the sides.
“Both of them,” comes Soul’s simple reply. “New York winters are cold as fuck.”
Maka blinks at him, lowering both of the hats slowly in disbelief.
“You know… yeah, that makes sense,” she says. “Why didn’t I think of that?”
“Because you’ve lived your entire life in a desert, and also you’re a notorious overthinker?” Soul answers helpfully.
She resists the urge to chuck one of the hats at him, if only because it would be a shame for the hot cocoa to end up on the carpet.
She settles for placing both hats in her suitcase before taking a step toward him.
“Is one of those for me?”
“Yeah,” he says, a bit sheepishly. “I figured you could use a little pick-me-up. And… maybe a break from packing?”
Maka takes another step in his direction, and she’s close enough now to reach out and take a mug from one of his hands. When her fingers brush against his, her heart does a funny little dance in her chest, and she hears her father’s advice in her head:
Don’t be afraid to examine your feelings. Don’t be afraid of what you might find.
So she lets her fingers linger on his for the briefest of moments, meets his eyes and holds his gaze as she takes her helping of cocoa from him, and the way her stomach flutters at the contact isn’t an unpleasant sensation.
“Yeah, a break sounds really good,” she agrees. “Maybe we could… watch a movie?”
Soul’s eyes soften, one corner of his mouth tugging up into that lopsided smile of his that she’s so very fond of.
“Yeah, a movie would be cool. Do you have something in mind?”
“I was thinking… Die Hard.”
Soul laughs, and Maka spends the walk from her bedroom to the living room arguing her case for the 1988 action flick being undeniably a Christmas movie, and by the time they hit play and settle into the couch, Soul seems pretty convinced.
He doesn’t even tease her as she recites half the movie along with the characters under her breath, or when she can’t help but cringe at the scene in which John McClane pulls shards of glass out of his bloody feet. When Hans Gruber says ‘Do you really think you have a chance against us, Mr. Cowboy?’, they both recite the iconic ‘Yippee-ki-yay, motherfucker!’ line, their voices in unison before Maka dissolves into a fit of giggles.
And when she feels Soul’s arm slipping from its place behind her on the back of the couch to rest gently atop her shoulders, she doesn’t shy away from it; instead, she leans into him, snuggling closer into his side. When she feels his grip tighten as he wraps his arm around her, she lets her head come to rest against his chest. He’s so warm, and the rhythm of his breath is relaxing; he smells like vanilla and clean clothes and home, and Maka lets herself enjoy the feeling of being so close to him, how her heart beats a little bit faster and she feels fluttery all the way down to her toes.
They stay like that for the rest of the movie, and when it ends, neither of them make any move to separate. Soul suggests they watch another one, and Maka is entirely thrilled with the idea.
After all, she’s still got two entire days to finish up packing.