A/N: This fic was written for Resbang 2014. It centers on ex-villain!Soul, and I had a really good time writing about his journey—I hope you all have as good a time reading about it. This is a continuation of an earlier drabble that I highly recommend you read first, "Weapon vs. Meister." It's the first chapter in my new Down and Out Stories collection. There's also an earlier prequel drabble there about how Soul and Maka met in this AU.

Shout out to persistentplutonium for the art and to all of my betas for the invaluable feedback (you know who you are and I love you all, mwah!—this wouldn't be the same without you guys!)

I do plan to do an omake or two in this universe, so stay tuned to Down and Out Stories if you like what you see.

The fantastic new cover is a commission by Peregr1ne on Tumblr and is absolutely amazing. If you like it, please do check out his work.

"Number 42," the woman called out, clearly bored. "Now serving number 42."

Soul glanced down at his own number: 56.

Well, fuck it. If 42 wasn't here, it was their loss.

"That's me." He stepped forward.

"What can I get you?" the attendant asked, not even glancing his way.

He pulled the list from his pocket and began to tick off items:

"Sharp cheddar, dry salami, honey turkey-"

"One item at a time, please, sir." Her sudden gaze on him was sharp. Short dark hair, thick glasses. She looked vaguely familiar in the way that people tended to be who were a type. Her type was clearly disgruntled minimum wage slave.

"Whatever." He rolled his eyes. "I need sharp cheddar."

"How much, sir?" she droned.

"Uh, half a pound."

She nodded, turned her back to him, grabbed a giant block of cheese, and sliced off a piece in the large metal contraption before thrusting the unassuming food item towards him.

"This okay, sir?" she asked, voice tinged with disdain.

"Yeah, great, whatever. Just slice it already."

Her only response was to resume slicing.

"Excuse me." A little old lady came up next to him. In her floral dress, the woman looked like Red Riding Hood's fucking grandma. She also looked like one of his ex neighbors, who used to sic her vicious lap dog on him when he was 16 and newly on his own. "Excuse me!" she said louder, trying to catch the attendant's eye.

The attendant paused slicing to address her. "I'll be with you in a-"

"But I'm number 42!" the woman insisted, gesturing to the large now serving display and waving her slip of paper around frantically. The attendant stopped slicing, noted her number, and glared at Soul, who shrugged.

"I was here and she wasn't," he said, his tone as bored as hers had been only moments before.

"Sir," she said between gritted teeth. "I'm going to have to ask you to wait your turn." Setting the cheese aside, the deli attendant turned to the older woman to help her. Soul let out a frustrated growl and bared his teeth before wheeling his cart away and shoving in his earbuds.

Fine then. He'd get everything else first and come back.

Although, there was a time when he wouldn't have. A time when he would've come back to take what he wanted, bored attendants and slow assed old ladies be damned. A time when they still called him the Weapon, most feared villain in Death City. Thief, menace, force to be reckoned with.

There was a time when he was somebody.

That time was past, and now? Now he was just Soul, unemployed ne'er-do-well, boyfriend to the bright, vivacious Maka Albarn. Just a guy trying to get by, trying to keep his woman fed, trying to get some fucking lunch meat without having to go through the ninth circle of hell.

Seething internally, he took in some deep breaths to cool his ire and reminded himself he was here for Maka. He fought the sudden urge to hit the fish counter because Maka hated fish, heading for the meat counter instead.

Maybe he'd make her filet-he had a recipe for beef Wellington he was dying to try, and Maka deserved it. Hell, she deserved far more, but a good dinner was the least he could give her, even if it meant facing this bullshit. She worked so hard, did so much. Maka actually was somebody, always had been somebody.

Because there was also a time when Maka was the Meister, most exalted hero in Death City. Champion, savior, a force villains cowered before. She had been the Weapon's greatest nemesis, and the one who ultimately defeated that perpetual thorn in the side of truth and justice.

The Meister had disappeared when the Weapon did and, three years later, Maka Albarn had returned to the city to work for the exclusive magnet high school Death City Academy. She was an English teacher now, instructing the unwitting, ungrateful little assholes at DCA on the finer points of literature by day while defending those same little assholes from the monsters in the dark by night. For with Maka came the Grigori-a new hero to quell the rising tide of darkness and fear, a new force for truth and justice.

Wheeling his cart past the magazine racks on the way to the meat counter, Soul caught sight of the Death City Examiner headline and frowned.

Grigori Does It Again!

Of course. It was Maka, and Maka always made good. With the exploits of Meister and Weapon long forgotten, the Grigori was on the tip of every wagging tongue, the headline of every hot sheet. He rolled his eyes and sighed. Soul hated it.

He hated this dull, quiet life, hated watching the person he loved most in the world-the only person he had ever really loved-risk her life night after night while he sat at home and fretted. Soul hated feeling so utterly useless, hated, absolutely hated, that he had ever been the Weapon, because if he hadn't, he might be by her side, making sure she was safe. Truth, justice, these things he cared little for-but Maka? Maka was everything.

Maka was everything, had everything, did everything-and Soul? Soul didn't even have a job. Apparently, a masters in music meant about shit in the working day world. That Maka was supporting him grated, but he was trying to make a living without resorting to taking it from others. He knew he might sell his soul, use his long abandoned heritage as an Evans to get a foot in the music industry, but he utterly refused to build his new life with Maka on a past he had rightfully left behind. It didn't make him feel like less of a loser, though.

At first, when Maka had been laying low too, when they'd been finishing school together, it had been fine, it had been great. Sure, it took him a few months to recover after he was defeated, but once he did, it was wonderful. The money Maka had saved (because apparently heroes got paid? What the hell?) along with some Soul had squirreled away supported them as they finished school. They spent their days in class, spent their nights studying and-erm-connecting, spent their weekends connecting even more thoroughly. It was everything Soul thought it could be when he'd tried to quit the whole villain gig, and he was almost glad he'd gotten caught. No more lies, no more secrets. Yeah, she'd been mad, she'd been furious, she'd screamed at him when he was well enough and cried and given him the silent treatment for weeks, but she still loved him, and he'd made promises and he'd kept them, and she'd agreed to leave the past behind them, and their life had been, well, absolutely fucking perfect.

Until it wasn't. In what would have been their senior year at DCU, they transferred to a university in New York, then settled into two more years of grad school to put some distance between them and their pasts. It had all been going swimmingly, and Soul had never looked back to his old life, his old power. He'd thought she didn't, either, until three months ago. But now they were finally back in Death City. Now she was fighting the good fight again while the best he could manage was to be here, now, waiting his turn at the crowded meat counter.

He'd tried to adjust, god knew he'd tried. He would walk the streets as she went off to her day job, putting in applications, stopping in somewhere for coffee, swinging by her school to bring her a homemade lunch (and if he were very, very lucky, they'd enjoy a quickie in her locked office). He did all the shopping, all the cooking, all the cleaning, refusing to let her help. He made sure her clothes were pressed and cleaned and laid out, made sure her every need was taken care of as she worked her day job and went off at night to quash people like he used to be. He rubbed her feet when she came home in in the middle of the night, tended her wounds when she got unlucky, all the while cringing at every bruise, scrape, and cut. Soul remembered before, what felt like an eternity ago, seeing those wounds and laughing at her for being a klutz. The first time she'd gotten hurt after they returned to Death City, he realized what her wounds had really been all that time, realized that some of them, so long ago, had been from him, and almost cried. He hadn't, because cool guys didn't cry in front of their girlfriends, but it was a near thing.

His thoughts were wrenched back to the present as he was next in line. Soul pulled out his earbuds, the soothing voice of Etta James growing faint and tinny, and scowled at the empty place where the filet tag rested.

"Need a pound of beef tenderloin," he said gruffly.

The man behind the meat counter shook his head. "Sorry. Guy ahead of you bought the last 5 pounds."

Soul groaned. This was unreal. Just. Unreal. He had the urge to mug the guy blissfully walking off with his pound of flesh, but stifled it. He didn't do that shit anymore-even if the guy was an asshole who bought the last five pounds of filet. Even if he probably deserved it.

Unclenching his fist, he took in a few calming breaths.

"Fine, what do you have?"

"Prime rib?" the attendant, a thin, nervous looking twenty something, asked hopefully.

"Yeah, whatever, fine, three pounds of that." Because now that it was roast prime rib on the menu, he'd need more meat. He supposed Maka would enjoy that just as much, even if he had to cook hers to shit to make her happy. Much as Soul loved her, the woman had questionable taste in food.

In men, too, so he couldn't really complain.

As the attendant handed him a roast wrapped in paper, Soul thanked him, replaced his earbuds, and resumed shopping. He went through his list, continuing to deal with aisles blocked by rude assholes, with dirty looks, with out of stock sale items and overpriced staples, continually reminding himself that this was for Maka, for Maka, for Maka.

Gods would he love to rob this shithole, to decimate this complete waste of humanity.

After a time, his list completely crossed off but for the deli, he returned to that counter, noting the number was now flashing 57.

Oh goody, his turn had come.

"'Scuse me," he said to the same damned attendant who had blown him off earlier. She had just finished with 57 and was calling 58. "But I'm 56, so I'm-"

She slit her eyes at him from behind her thick glasses. "Sorry, sir, but you missed your turn. You'll need to take a new number."

"No," Soul said, seething, anger not quite contained beneath the boredom. "It's my turn. My number was called." What was this shit, now? That old biddy had come up late and now they wanted him to take another number-he side eyed the dispenser-number 64? Oh hell no.

"Again, I'm sorry, sir, but that's store policy. If you miss your number, you-"

"And the person who missed her number the last time I was here?" he ground out, one fist clenched tightly at his side as the other white knuckled his cart.

"She arrived when her number was being served, sir," the attendant said acidly. "Now if you'll excuse me, the faster you leave me to serve other customers, the faster your turn will come. Number 58!" she called for a second time, and a large man in hammer pants and a hoodie shoved to the front. Soul scowled from him to the attendant and back, baring his teeth.

"It's. My. Turn," he gritted out, beyond done with the bullshit. "You will serve me. Now." The command, the controlled anger in his tone, it was something he hadn't used for a long time, not until recently. Not until he felt himself boiling over far too often to be at all healthy. Not until they'd come back here and he'd begun to feel trapped and helpless and afraid. Far too afraid. His fist was clenched so tightly now he thought the bones might shatter beneath his rage as the attendant gasped at him and took a step back.

"S-sir? Are-you…" she sputtered, her face going white, her eyes on his hand. On his fully metallic hand.

Oh shit. Shit, shit, shit.

"Fuck it," Soul growled, willing his hand back to flesh and turning to storm off. He sped to the self check out, ran his groceries through, left the store. He'd bring Maka take out for lunch tomorrow, or send her leftovers. She preferred them to sandwiches anyway.

He needed to calm down, handle his shit. For her. For her, he had to keep it together. And he'd tried, oh how he'd tried. Was still trying. To find a job. To embrace this new leg of their life together. To accept that she was the one supporting them while also saving the fucking city. The longer it went on, the more hopeless he felt. She kept teaching by day to bring home the bacon, kept getting hurt at night fighting crime, and Soul could do nothing but wallow in self pity and continue to loathe the disgusting press of humanity she worked so hard to keep safe. If he'd ever been a drinker, he might have taken to the bottle. As it was, he threw his whole self into taking care of her. He still felt like a creep, a loser, the guy who would never deserve her. He still stayed up for her every night, terrified something would happen to her, terrified that he wouldn't be there to stop it.

He sighed his relief as he left the store, bags in hand, and stuffed the groceries into the saddlebags of his bike. The orange monstrosity was one of the few remnants of the old days; fitting, he thought as he mounted and shook out his too warm hand. This was his fault, his fuck up, always his fuck up. But watching, waiting, he couldn't take it anymore, not anymore. He couldn't take watching her, couldn't take worrying, needed to do something, anything. Three months into their return to Death City, he'd had enough.

Soul hadn't been taking his pills. He hadn't been taking his pills, and now, he'd transformed his hand in public. Fuck.

She had seen. That bitch attendant, she had seen. Fucking hell. Should he go to her, threaten her, make sure she wouldn't talk? He took in several breaths, tried to calm himself as he sat in the busy parking lot straddling his bike. No. No, he wouldn't do that. He-that wasn't him anymore. The woman wouldn't say anything, and even if she did, no one would believe her. Of course not. Soul had to keep it together, hold it in. So what if people were assholes. So what if his life was shit, if he was shit. He couldn't let it get to him. He had to try, even if he was failing miserably.

Even if he still refused to take his pills.

It was bad, it was wrong, but he couldn't help it. It started out as an accident. He'd missed a dose one night when he was up fretting about her safety, one night when she wasn't there to remind him. One dose skipped by accident became more than one as he thought to himself, what harm? He wasn't going to do anything, but what if something happened to Maka? What if she needed him and he was powerless to help her? Surely no one could blame him if it was dire and helped her, if he did nothing else, surely not.

Lying to Maka he hated-but standing by and watching something bad happen to her he would hate far, far worse.

It wasn't enough. Sure Soul could use his powers if he had to now, but he didn't want it to come to that, didn't want to break his promise, not to her. He needed another way to help her, because standing on the sidelines waiting for the worst was killing him. He was tired of feeling worthless, like a god damned weight around her neck. As he drove his groceries home, he wondered if he'd ever be able to get it together, to help her, to help himself. Somehow, he doubted it.

For awhile, a good two weeks after he'd almost lost his shit in the middle of a fucking grocery store, he simply fretted. And then he went to Spirit.

It had been a huge blow to his pride to go crawling to that asshole for help, but what was pride compared to Maka?

It wasn't like he'd ever had much of it to begin with.

He'd had to trick the old lech to set up the meeting, texting him from Maka's phone to suggest a lunch date. Dirty trick, but he'd never been above those either.

Ten minutes late to their meeting on purpose, Soul slid into the booth across from the tall red head who was eying the menu. At the sound, the man looked up, beaming.

"My angel has arr-ived?" Spirit faltered in his exuberant declaration as his eyes rose to spot Soul. "Oh," he said, voice flat. "It's you." He looked around frantically then frowned. "But where is my darling d-"

"Couldn't make it," Soul cut him off. "Actually," he admitted after a short pause as Spirit frowned at him. "She doesn't even know we're here, and I'd prefer to keep it that way."

The other man's frown became a scowl as he snapped his menu shut. "So you stole my daughter's phone to lure me here. I wish I could say I'm surprised, but you are what you are. Well, what is it? And if you think you're going to ask me for my daughter's hand, think again-you'll never deserve her and we both know it."

Soul rolled his eyes. "Okay, one, neither of us fucking deserve her, and yet, here we both are. Two, if I were going to ask Maka to marry me, I wouldn't ask your loser ass for shit because she's not your fucking property. And three, that's not what I'm here for. I'm here because I-" He scrubbed a hand through his hair. Asking fucking Death Scythe for help? Oh how the mighty had fallen... He took a steadying breath.

"Spit it out, then," Spirit snapped.

"Fuck I-I need your help, okay?"

The man laughed, loudly, and it was Soul's turn to scowl. He was about to tell him to go fuck himself when a server, short, dark haired and curvy, approached.

"What can I get you?" she asked cheerfully, voice lightly accented.

"I'll have the kung pao chicken," Spirit said with a smile as his eyes swept her curves. "And the kid won't be staying long enough to eat, I'm afraid."

"Lettuce wraps and steamed dumplings," Soul corrected immediately. The waitress looked between them, confused, but nodded and walked off.

"Well, that was rude of you, Death Scythe. Losing your touch with the ladies?" Soul grinned lazily at him.

The man who had once been Death Scythe glanced around nervously for a moment, and noting there was no one seated near them, growled out. "Watch it, Weapon, I'm not the one with something to lose."

"We both have the same thing to lose," Soul responded evenly. "And I'm here to make sure that never happens. Maka is doing the hero shit again, and because the League has turned me into a useless civ, I can't do anything to help her."

"Help her?" Spirit scoffed, his laugh dry, harsh. "As I recall, the only thing you ever did when you weren't a useless civ was try to kill her."

"I didn't know it was her," he gritted out, guilt and anger washing through him in sickening waves.

"Like that mattered. Like you would of done a damn thing differently had you-"

Soul slammed his fist on the table with a loud thump, eyes boring into the narrowed blue-green gaze of the man before him. "I would never hurt Maka," he growled.

"And yet, you did. Many times over."

"Fuck you. Like your bullshit hasn't hurt her, doesn't keep hurting her. Yeah I fucked up, but I didn't fucking know, and now I just wanna make it right. But you? You just keep. Fucking. Up."

The older man went scarlet, looked about to pop a blood vessel or five for a moment before the color drained from him and he sighed, rubbing his temples with a look that was nothing short of defeated. "Look, kid, I may have to put up with you because for whatever unfathomable reason, my daughter loves you and actually thinks you're worth a shit, but it doesn't mean I have to like you, and it certainly doesn't mean I have to help you. So why don't you stop wasting both of our time and-"

"No," Soul interrupted, voice firm. Spirit looked surprised beneath the glare. "You're right, your daughter shouldn't love an asshole like me. I've fucked up. A lot. But all I want, all I want, is to keep her safe. I don't deserve someone so good, you're right about that, too, and I'll be damned if I'm willing to lose her. But I made a promise-to you League assholes, yeah, but more importantly to Maka. I take those fucking pills to kill my powers, kill any chance to help her. But I know you know people, Death Scythe. I know you can get me Tech. And for however much you hate my guts or whatever, you have to know I'd do anything to keep her safe. And I also know you'd do the same. So fucking do it. Help me help her. Please."

Fuck, he hated how desperate he sounded, how weak, but he needed this, needed to do something, to help her, and like it or not, Spirit was his lifeline, his way.

Spirit just stared at him for a long moment, unblinking, and Soul stared back. The server set down their food amidst the silence, and, uncomfortable, Soul immediately shoved a dumpling into his mouth to keep from saying anything stupid. He'd already said his piece.

Maka's dad took a deep breath, exhaled, then nodded. "Alright," he said finally. "I'll take you to Stein."

"Really?" Soul's jaw flopped open in disbelief, his half chewed dumpling nearly falling out of his mouth.

"Hm," Spirit grunted with a half nod, stuffing a fork into his own food. "But only because if I don't, you might do something stupid, and it'll be my ass on the line. And hers."

"And you think Stein can help?"

The other man nodded as he took a bite of chicken. "If he can't, then no one can."

Soul couldn't help it; he actually smiled. "Perfect." And because his gratitude was raw and strong, "Thank you. Really."

"It's not for you, kid," the older man said gruffly. "And if you fuck this up, I'll hunt you down myself." The glare was back, but then his face softened for an instant-only an instant. "Just. Keep her safe, would you?"

"Yeah," he said quietly. "I will."

The next day, Spirit had taken him to see Stein.

Stein.

Weeks later, just thinking of that bastard made him shudder, but who else would have the means to let him help Maka without her knowledge? After all, it was Stein who had invented the power suppressing pills; he was an expert on people with special abilities, had even come up with Tech to work with their powers, like Death Scythe's flight boots and the Witchhunter's energy beam. He was a bloody genius, even if he was more mad than scientist, and, more importantly, Soul had figured that Spirit was right; Stein was the only one who could help him.

Of course, there had been a price. There was always a fucking price, though no price was too high for Maka. He'd do anything for her.

Yes, asking Spirit, approaching Stein, that been the easy part. He'd gone to the semi-secret lab, the one that operated under the guise of a genetics facility, in a suit. In a fucking suit. He'd been nervous and sweating as Spirit led him in, afraid Stein would figure out he'd broken his deal and stopped taking the meds, afraid he'd say no, afraid he'd do worse.

Soul needn't have feared the first two.

Stein had said yes easily enough. He had Tech, but it was in the developmental stages. He needed a guinea pig and Soul was the perfect candidate; the doctor wanted his blood, his secrecy, and his data. He expected Soul to be the test subject for the Tech he was "borrowing," which would mean-well, he hadn't known at the time and would rather not recall at the present.

He was also pretty sure Stein knew he was off the meds and was taking sadistic glee in dangling the fact subtly. Fucking bastard. Still, it was worth it if he could help Maka. Worth daily blood draws. Worth the dozens of scans. Worth the surgery to implant the chip that would coordinate the Tech, that would siphon his raw energy to power it. Worth the pain, worth the endless testing, the headaches, the sleepless nights. Worth every last bit of it.

The day they finally called him to let him know it was ready was a day of sheer elation. A month of blood draws, tests, trials-a month of hell-and it was finally, finally ready.

Soul showed up at the lab in ripped jeans and a ratty old band t-shirt-who was he trying to impress? He showed up, strolling in like he owned the place, and was greeted by Stein's two assistants, Ox and Harvar.

Ox looked him up and down with a sigh.

"What?" Soul snapped. He'd grown used to the two men with the strange affinity for electricity, but that didn't mean the bald freak didn't annoy him. He didn't care if Ox Ford was the technical talent, if the inventions were as much his as they were Stein's; the guy was a haughty asshole most of the time and Soul was damned sick of it.

At least soon he'd be done dealing with the prick for the foreseeable future.

The man cleared his throat.

"Just-hard to believe that you were the Weapon."

"Stein told you." It wasn't a question. He felt anger rise and tamped it down. His temper was so quick nowadays; this stagnant life, his unused energy, it left him like a tinderbox ready to ignite.

Ox shrugged, noncommittal, but then the other man, Harvar, coughed lightly, his eyes unreadable behind dark glasses. "We were here when the Meister brought you in, though you wouldn't remember."

Oh. Right. Well then.

Soul let the subject drop uncomfortably. "So, it's ready?" he asked instead, trying to keep the eagerness out of his tone, desperately trying to maintain his customary apathy in the face of being so near his goal.

"No, we called you on a Saturday because we wanted to share high tea," Harvar said, voice so dry that he could practically see the eyeroll behind his dark glasses. Soul didn't dignify the snark with a response, just offered a half shrug, and Ox let out a long suffering sigh.

"Yes, it's ready-follow me."

With that, both men turned on their heels to lead him through the maze that was Death Corp Genetics.

Soul hated the place, he really did, yet it had saved his life, and it was gifting him with a way to help Maka, so he would learn to tolerate it, even if remembering all the cuts and needles and prods and… well, even if he'd rather not remember most of his time here.

They turned several corners, though not quite going in circles, and stopped at a large steel door Soul didn't recognize. Ox paused for the retinal scan and gave a voice code before the door slid open with a click and a soft whoosh of air. Lights flared to life with the movement, garish industrial fixtures that cast a harsh glow on the objects that gleamed from the table in the center of the room. As he focused on that gleam, among the first things Soul noticed were silver bracers and what looked to be leg cuffs, sleek and bright. He approached cautiously, looking to Harvar, who just nodded. Carefully, reverently, he reached out a hand to brush a finger against the cold metal and was surprised when it warmed at his touch. He could almost feel the energy within as he lifted the bracer. It was feather light.

"This is...?" he questioned, eyes never leaving the object in his hand.

"You can't feel it?" Ox asked, incredulous.

But he could. The warmth, the hum of power. It was something like the prototypes they'd forced him to work with again and again and again, yet those had been clunky, junky hunks of wire and metal, a suit of patchwork armor. These were light, sleek, almost elegant.

"I feel it," Soul said softly, his eyes moving from the bracer he held to the rest of the things on the table. "How do I-"

"You'll need to get the suit on first," Ox cut him off, tone brisk. Soul turned his head to look at him in question.

"Suit?" And that's when he noticed that the bracers were resting on red spandex. He moved the bracers aside to pick it up. It was light and strong and he was sure it would be skin tight. "Oh hell no!" he scoffed. "What the fuck is this?"

"Part of your Tech," Harvar put in.

"Fuck it, I'll just take the bracers," Soul grumbled, because no way was he wearing skin tight spandex.

"You could," Harvar began, amusement clear in his tone. "Buuuuuut..." He looked to Ox.

"They won't work without the suit. It's a package deal," Ox finished. "Use it all or use none, Weapon, your call."

"Also," Harvar said, his voice far too even. "There's this." He held out a black and red lightmode helmet he'd produced from who knew where, cut down the middle with a zig zag pattern. It looked a hell of a lot like a motorcycle helmet, and would encase his whole head.

"And that's necessary too?" Soul raised an eyebrow.

"Noooooo," Ox said, his voice even more condescending than usual. "But it will give you a Tech feed, help with control, and hide those pretty white locks of yours from your girl. Unless you don't care if she realizes-"

"Yeah, okay, I get it. Anything else?"

"It'll protect you from getting your brains knocked out in a fight," Harvar suggested flatly.

Soul sighed. The things he did for love.