Disclaimer: I do not own Soul Eater!

Note: For Silly Twin Stars, who has been nothing but encouraging even though I haven't written anything Soul Eater related in a long time. Thanks, friend!

It had been one of Papa's favorite stories, the tale of how he proposed to Mama.

His enthusiastic recounting appeared in more than a handful of Maka's childhood memories: The moon a spotlight on the two lovers, Spirit, slightly tipsy, his best tie crooked under his chin. Mama, swaying in her sundress, cheeks dimpled in delight. All his good intentions, practice speeches, and promises of a bright future had been muddled through alcohol loosened lips. But Mama had said yes anyway, squishing her swelling belly between them in a sealing kiss.

As a pigtailed, wide-eyed child, Maka labeled the story as romantic and sweet.

When her parents divorced, Maka wrote of the engagement as clichéd and nothing more than a farce.

Now, a bit older, a bit more mature, Maka would describe her parent's engagement as planned and traditional.

When it came to her own, there would be none of that predictable pattern.

She'd make sure of it.

The motorcycle whines as Soul shifts gears. After three weeks gone and two lengthy missions, even the machine is exhausted, grit in every crack in the seat and the grooves of the handlebars. Maka's frayed coattails flap above the exhaust pipes like ribbons, new tears in the cloth that would require some stitching.

Every muscle is heavy from use. Adrenaline and the whipping wind are the only things keeping the creeping sleep at bay.

Ignoring the stiffness in her neck, Maka tilts her head back and takes in the smoldering horizon where red bleeds into yellow and purple clouds splattered across the entire expanse. In the distance, shadows of cacti break up the flat, rocky ground, completing the painting.

Her thighs are snug around Soul's, jeans coarse on her uncovered legs. As she leans up again, she studies the stretch of his leather jacket across his shoulders and down his back. A good view, a rare one, as she is usually fast asleep with Soul as her pillow. Maka presses a kiss to his nape and relishes the shiver that makes its way up his spine.

Soul cocks his head just enough for her to catch the edge of his toothy smirk. The bike shakes as he revs the engine. It's her turn to shiver then.

"I love him."

Miles separate them from home, the desert still sweeping out for miles until it faded into dark mountains to the east. The city shimmers in the distance, but it is still nothing more than a beacon to follow. Collections of collapsed wood and nails surround them now, a smattering of small, abandoned towns on the outskirts of Death City. Their glassless windows and creaking hinges greet returning meisters and weapons.

"This is as good a time as any."

Her skin buzzes, but her heart is oddly steady. There is no plan, no grand step-by-step visual she concocted. Just the two of them and the desert, a question and an agreement, making official what everyone already knew.

As they roll pass one crooked sign reading, "Population 465" Soul slows their pace and dodges a rouge fence post and tumble weeds. There is only one intersection, the town having been too small for even a blinking traffic light. The bike churns its roar down into a purr at the corner of what was once a General Store. Soul drops his boots in time with the slowing bike to inch it to the intersection, even though it was unlikely another group would be returning this way.

At the stop sign, the bike still rolling, Maka presses her lips to his ear and says, "Marry me, Soul."

"The fuck, Maka?"

The bike immediately wobbles and goes sideways like a rickety carnival ride. Her head flies back with her stomach as the world is upturned and suspended in weightlessness. In flash, the ground rushes to catch them.

"Oof!"

"Shit!"

Dust clouds the air. As it settles, a giddy high protects her from the bike's weight crushing her ankle. Dazed, Maka licks her lip, and a chuckle sputters out of her as Soul dashes to lift the machine back to its wheels.

"You alright?" He pants, a cautious edge darkening his drawl. Ignoring the blood leaking over his wrist, Soul yanks her upright and manages to keep the bike steady with his other hand.

"I'm good. So good," she laughs, unnerved, and brushes the dirt from her skirt, not even bothering to flex her ankle.

Soul glares down her leg and then the empty highway. Unable to find whatever he was looking for, he finally gets back to her. "Sorry, but what did you say...?"

Rusty blood left over from the battle flakes from his forehead as he frowns, grip tight on the motorcycle. His hair is plastered to his skull like a cap until he resets it with one swooping jerk of his head. She, hair tangled and knees scuffed, rubs freshened calluses against her palm. The wind finds the rips in her clothing and plays with the loose material. Shifting back and forth from one ball of her foot to another, Maka tries to contain her pleasure.

They are an achy, disheveled (and half-bamboozled) duo. A far cry from her parent's moonlit confession. Delighted mischief purses her lips.

"You heard me." Maka flips her hair loose and begins to unknot the strands tied by the breeze.

Soul kicks the stand down and mumbles.

"Do you agree or not?" She asks nonchalantly to his back, one hand on her hip. It could have been about anything, a proposed mission, her opinion about a new teacher, even dinner. Instead, the business-like question is about their future, about a lifetime commitment.

"'Do I agree,'" he scoffs, hands on his hips, eyes to the ground. He pinches the bridge of his nose before he snorts. "Hell yeah. Yes."

Only one wide stride separates them and then leather is pressed against cloth, two pairs of combat boots now toe to toe. Forgotten, her hair pools over her collarbone and down her back. Soul cups her cheeks, stroking them briefly before kissing her sweetly. When she parts her lips, he dives in, hungry for more.

"I had plans, you know." Soul catches her lip with a groan, stubble rough against her chin. "Dinner. Candles. A new song." Rapid finger taps dance over her ribs and ghostly notes echo through her bones. "I would've worn a damn suit," he finishes in a heavy breath.

She pushes him back against the bike and straddles his legs comfortably. Grabbing him by the jacket, she taunts, "Beat you to it."

Their lips are chapped, but it doesn't matter. Dust coats them, every skin on skin caress a little gritty. The bike emits a long groan as Maka presses closer, their bodies flush against the other. Fast hands find their favorite places, her ass, his chest, before looping around his neck and her waist. Entwined, they grin at each other like they'd gone mad.

"Papa's going to be so disappointed," she thinks idly and kisses Soul again. "Mama'd be proud though."

No sundress, no fabricated words. Maka practically hums with pleasure, her lack of a plan complete, the right answer spoken between them.

Soul pulls back to twirl her hair as he shakes his head, the first stars twinkling over his broad shoulders. Chuckling, he swipes away a smudge on her jaw, eventually sliding his thumb slowly under her bottom lip.

"You got a ring or what?" He wiggles his empty left fingers.

Maka snorts, "No."

"Good," he rasps and kisses her again. "I do."

She jerks back with a hard blink, waiting for the punch line. But there's no lie in his smirk or the open admiration shining in his gaze. Startled, Maka punches his chest, the first blush tinting her cheeks. "No, you don't."

"Of course I do." Indignant, he squeezes her waist once more. Soul then drops to one knee, deft fingers producing a glimmering ring from his breast pocket. He doesn't have too, the pose screaming the question, but he says it anyway, voice low and rough, "Maka, will you marry me?"

Her mouth drops. Horror is too strong of a word for her surprise, betrayal is too, because there is no negativity in whatever is washing over her. She can't name it. Regardless, it's quickly replaced by a rousing, bubbly mess in her belly.

"This isn't supposed to happen!"

When the moonlight hits the crescent diamond, starting up her brain again, Maka slaps his shoulders, as if by doing so she could pound her 'plan' back into place. But the hits are weak, quickly dropping from a two-handed assault into one. Soul captures her flailing hand in his own and strokes it slowly.

"Stand up!" Maka demands, trying to latch onto her quickly failing resolve. "You don't get to ask again! You already said yes!"

"You're the one who showed up without a ring! I agreed, now you have to!"

"Ridiculous, Soul. How typical of a man to need to do it himself."

Soul nips her exposed thigh. "Say yes, damn it."

Those scarlet eyes go soft and her heart melts. Her lip wobbles as his usually steady hands tremble. In some ways, this is the furthest thing from what she wanted, her tearing up over him on bended knee. How clichéd, romantic, and traditional.

In another way, this is perfect; scuffed, dirty, and bickering. Like so many other instances in their partnership, she took the lead and Soul followed. And maybe that was the most important thing, that it reflected them, even if it didn't exactly buck tradition.

"Yes, you big cheater, yes!" She exclaims, the ring sliding oh so perfectly on her finger. Unable to stop herself, Maka flings out her hand and takes in the black opal nested alongside the diamond.

It's beautiful.

Soul sweeps her up and swings her around, suspending time as they are both lost in each other.

"It's not cheating, it's called being prepared," he insists when both her feet are on the ground again.

Dizzy in more ways than one, Maka shakes with laughter, "You sure weren't prepared for it, Mr. Throw-Us-Off-the-Bike!"

"True, I wasn't, Miss-Drop-A-Bomb, but...," Soul trails off and rubs her left hand, "I think I had a good response."

Author's Note: Thanks for reading this small, goofy thing.-randomcat23