Breakin' Me Down
by. Poisoned Scarlet

Summary: "He's just a package of cool and sexiness she can't understand" – both internally and externally. A 5 senses plus one overload collection.
Rating: T for language, sexual situations/implications, minor violence.
Genre: Romance/Humor.
Pairing: Soul/Maka.
Authors Note: I'm insane for posting this up but I believe that's an acceptable state-of-mind in the Soul Eater universe, so the creation of this collection is justified 8D
Story Notes: Post-Soul Eater anime? There isn't a real time-line to follow in these one-shots now that I think about it...

Disclaimer: I do not own Soul Eater.

Touch
Maka

It's their job.

She can't be squeamish about touching Soul, even if he is male and thus prone to cheat and lie – or so she tells herself. She guesses that was the primary reason she wore gloves in the beginning of their partnership: because the idea of touching him, be it in scythe mode or otherwise, was almost revolting in its nature.

She hates men.

Has since her parents began having marital problems, which was at the tender age of ten.

He knows that.

Everyone knows that.

To her, they're all lying, cheating, good-for-nothing freaks; merely replicas of her whore father who acquires memory loss to having a daughter whenever something with boobs appears in his line of sight.

The loath is palpable in the way her lips twist in a sneer, her lake green eyes narrow is distaste, and her hands clench into tightly balled fists every time this happens.

Especially when her papa swoons over a woman who's boobs are bigger than her IQ and calls her the cure to his ailments; the love of his life; his everything, because Maka knows far-too-well it's all just a sweet lie. It makes her burn with resentment on behalf of her strong-willed mama, who had to deal with her flighty papa for such a long, long time.

"Hey, your hands alright?"

"What?"

"Your hands. That's why you wear the gloves, right? Swinging me around must hurt your hands."

"O-oh, yeah...they're fine, thanks."

"Cool."

But Maka knows she stopped feeling that revolt toward Soul a long, long time ago.

She doesn't want to admit it because she hates being a hypocrite but he's probably the only exception to the rule.

The gloves merely became a trademark of hers, just like his jagged grin is for others, but the curious thing is she still can't recall the time or day when she stopped feeling sickened by his touch; uncomfortable with his stare; nervous when they speak.

She doesn't know if it's when she was slammed into a brick wall by a Kishin, breathless, choked up, ribs searing with the break in them as Soul automatically transforms and grabs her hand; hauling her up, calling out her name frantically, defending her with a partially transformed arm as she regains her lost bearings.

Or maybe when she fell asleep on the floor in their shared apartment because it was too hot that evening: softly breathing in dust, stretched out like a cat on her side, barely hanging onto the last threads of consciousness when his arms scoop her up with a soft sleeping on the ground is so not cool before reality melts away along with his soft gaze.

Either way, the gloves lost their real purpose.

She longs for his hands now, ironically – those elegant, pianist, hands that can create such beautiful masterpieces yet kill all in sight with a simple flick of the wrist.

"What about your gloves?"

"Huh?"

"Your gloves, Maka. I don't wanna' hear you complaining about hand sores when we get home. That'd be so uncool..."

"Oh! Right! Gloves..."

It's almost ridiculous.

She uses every instant to touch him now.

When they're on missions it's the best because she can always touch him; she has to.

When they're at home there isn't much she could do together with him but she still takes every opportunity to lift him up, even if she does paste up an annoyed expression to hide her eagerness, when he's too lazy to lift himself off the couch.

When they're in public it's the worst: she has to consciously chide herself from walking too close to him so she doesn't do something stupid – even though his hands are nearly always jammed deeply in the pockets of his jacket.

Even now, as she lounges on the sofa, her head propped up against the armrest as Soul lets himself fall back in the small space she's left for him, his hands gently prodding her ankles in an attempt to give himself more room, she wants to ignore his silent demand just so she can continue feeling the lovely soft feel of his skin on hers.

"Hey, Maka?"

"Hmm?"

"Move your fat ankles outta' my way."

And sometimes she just wants to chop those delicious hands off because Soul is an idiot who doesn't deserve such wonderful hands!

"Ow—ow, quit it—damn it, Ma—Shit, watch it!" Soul leaps away, glaring at her when she tries to aim one more kick at his family jewels, something which only makes his glare intensify. "That was not cool at all, Maka!"

"Calling my ankles fat wasn't cool either!" Maka sharply replies.

He rolls his eyes, holding a bowl of popcorn in his hands. He tosses a piece into his mouth before saying: "How 'bout this: you give me space and I'll share."

"Half and half?" She bargains.

He only nods. "Deal."

Maka draws her legs in, catching the bowl Soul has none-too-gently tossed in her direction while he snatches the remote control off her lap and flips through channels until he arrives at the basketball game anyone who's anyone will be watching tonight and gossiping about tomorrow.

He's lucky she's good at catching stuff or those elegant hands of his would be on their way to being professionally severed from his body by one only-too-willing Dr. Stein...