"When it all falls, when it all falls down I'll be your fire when the lights go out.
When there's no one, no one else around we'll be two souls in a ghost town."
~Madonna

It had been two weeks. Only fourteen days of proper sleep in the house after a near month of Marie waking up in the middle of the night to Stein's frantic shrieking. Two weeks since she would nearly trip over the blankets that bunched around her legs in order to rush into the lab, his desk where he was slumped, ready to calm his thrashing, to press her glowing hands against any skin he had exposed. Hand to neck, to wrists, to cheeks, skimming over the unlaundered material of the labcoat and turtleneck he fell asleep in, since he never rested willingly.

Two weeks since he would wake up after she drove away those nightmares, gasping, unable to remain in slumber regardless of how gentle she was, to take in multiple deep breaths. Two weeks since he would slam his palms to his face, checking to make sure that he woke as himself instead of some clown or a ghoul or a creature with a twisted caricature for a face.

When he woke from those nightmares, it always took a second for him to remember who he was. For that entire month, he felt sure that he wouldn't ever truly wake up: that some other fragment would simply emerge from the dream and he would be locked away from the world forever as punishment. He wouldn't arise as Stein or Franken, that was certain to him.

It had been two weeks since Marie'd had enough. He only had one bedroom: one bed, too, for that matter. He'd never even really used it which was why there was dust on the sheets when she moved in. It'd been two weeks since Marie told him; not screaming or hollering, but in a soft, deadly voice; that she would drag him onto that bed via force and smother him with the pillow until he was unconscious if she had to, so help her Death.

She did the first few days, too. Drag him, that is. Were he at his best, she'd never have the chance. She was strong, but he knew how to put up a fight, and in a power struggle he could at least get away. But he was just so damn tired.

Only a few days after that did she ask if he could just go to bed willingly. If he was feeling more like himself, he'd lick at his chapped lips and make some smartass response about how they didn't have contraception.

A hollow joke, but a joke nonetheless.

Yet, he'd been staring into nothing, ash on his lab-coat, his hair greasy. She was on her knees in front of him since he was sitting on the floor, leaning onto his wall, and his eyes flicked over her. She looked like she was pleading. Or praying.

Marie was tired too. He saw it in her very soul. But he hadn't known how to respond verbally. He knew she was helping, of course. And there was the comfort of the bed and also the routine of it all that was keeping him grounded. She'd find him sometime at night, a normal hour usually, and try to coax him with warm beverages and some small talk, direct him to the room, curl next to him, and filter her wavelength into him until he felt safe and the shadows didn't stretch their mouths open to swallow him. As though he were some child, afraid of the demons in the dark.

He didn't answer her when she'd asked, when she was praying to him on her knees, but later that night, he was already on his side of the bed. When she went looking for him, his back was to her. Waiting.

It'd been two weeks. He wasn't any better, but he hadn't gotten worse, which was progress simply because it wasn't retrograde. It was her job to keep him tethered to reality, and he holds so tightly to it, to her, as though she brings oxygen and he were a drowning man. He feels as if he has to indulge her.

Now, he is left on her purple couch in his living room, closing his eyes behind his glasses when he hears the tell-tale click of her boots on his floors. She's come to collect her mental patient for his bedtime, he thinks sarcastically. He at least finds amusement in the fact that she couldn't be covert even if she tried, not with him. He'd heard her complain about the lack of carpeting when she called Azusa, probably wanting to sneak up on him and retaliate for all the times he'd scared the ever-loving hell out of her.

It felt strange to be so accustomed to another person. She was a temporary fixture in his life. (Was she? Really?) Yes. All of it was. All of it was supposed to be but he was sitting on a sofa he had no intentions of getting rid of and the pillows smelled of her. The medicine cabinet in the bathroom, that once truly did hold medicines, was full with various lotions and soaps she'd slowly collected.

She'd bought multiple flower pots. It was starting to feel more permanent than he had ever expected, and he was annoyed at himself that he welcomed it. The lab would just feel unnatural again, and unfamiliar if he couldn't close his eyes and feel the heat of her soul brimming past the walls to touch his.

He thinks, even if he didn't have soul perception, he'd be able to feel her soul anywhere. She all but carved it into his. The thought was immediately twisted in his mind: whispers of how she was getting him used to her, (dependant, it spat, domestic) only to rip it away from him.

He wondered what it would feel like when it did rip away. For it was always when. When, not if. The winning part of him asked if he'd be able to feel her soul when it left her body, even when she was halfway around the world. Or would it happen in battle, when they were still resonating? Not much research had been done on that. What was found was that the remaining partner never lasted for long. It was as if their dying weapon or Meister, still resonating with them, took chunks out of the soul that survived.

He was a scientist: wouldn't he want to know firsthand how that felt? Hell, maybe he'd do it himself, too lost in the madness to realize he was murdering her.

His teeth grit onto his cigarette, grinding and grinding until his canines threatened to tear it to pieces in his mouth as his fingers twitched and dug into his thigh. He reached up with a free arm and yanked his bolt down and back, welcoming the spike of pain.

"Franken?" Marie called out, poking her head into the room. Even with his eyes closed, he could envision her scowl at the smoke. He knew it was just another method of showing her concern for him, but it irritated him in that moment. He always blew it away from her general direction and she never tore his cigarette from his mouth to stomp on it with her high-heeled boots, no matter how much she wanted to.

It was a delicate balancing act with the two of them in regards to his cancer sticks.

But, for once, she didn't make a comment when she saw him smoking on the couch, staring into the back of his eyelids, his hand in a vice grip on his thigh, a wince on his face. She didn't know what was behind his eyes, or in front of them most of the time. The madness could produce terrible thoughts and visions: horrors she could only think about.

Nightmares. Death, those nightmares.

So she brought it upon herself to make sure he wasn't alone, even though she thought he didn't want her around sometimes. Most of the time.

(She doesn't even know if that's true. She's constantly treading upon slick, slippery ground with Stein. One moment he can be himself, goofy and charmless and frank, and the next: aimless. Lost. She ached for him so purely in those times. In all times.)

Marie knew Stein missed being by himself. She doesn't think it's because he hates people, (though he kind of does) but because he wanted to get back to the point where he could trust himself. She looked at him, wanting to cull out every beautiful thing she had inside of her to lay upon the feet of whatever was ailing him: 'Here,' she'd say, 'Just take it. Just take it. And go.'

For now, she could do little more than show him that she trusted him enough for the both of them. That she was there for him. So she readjusted her hold on the beaker and her teacup and padded over to him.

"I brought tea," she said softly, coming to stand in front of him. She was prepared to bring him from the edge of a fit, her nerves steeling.

But they had no need. He forced down everything he was feeling, chewing on the filter of his cigarette. After a moment, he lazily opened his eyes, releasing his grip on his thigh and bolt so both of his hands could rest on the couch cushions. He balanced the cigarette on his lips, blowing the smoke out through his nose.

"Tea or coffee?" he asked, making sure it came out casual.

"Oh, hush," she pouted, relaxing. It was all so false, but make-believe could be better than reality, sometimes. "It was one time. Tea."

He only sat up and scooted forward slightly to grab the beaker she was offering. He flashed back to the apple of a nightmare long past, but it was gone as quickly as it came. He wasn't really in the mood for tea, but Marie made it, so he would drink it.

Once the glassware was given over, Marie used her free hand to tuck a blonde lock of hair behind her ear as they drank. "I was actually wondering if you wanted to watch TV when we're done. I've finished grading papers."

Papers, he remembered. That's right. He was a teacher. He had responsibilities. How long had he simply sat there, staring into the maw of something sticky and hopeless? They had a mission tomorrow; they had to drop their stack of grades and lesson plans and assignments off to Sid in early, ungodly morning and-

"I finished your stack, too," Marie added knowingly, letting some amusement colour her voice. He blinked at her, taking a deep sip from his beaker.

"I'm sorry," he said, knowing that any exams and homework she read from his class of eccentric students was enough to threaten even Marie's sanity.

"Eh, it was fine. Patty made another giraffe. It was actually pretty impressive. A shame you don't teach art: she's a genius at that." She paused. "Some of the splotches could be on the correct answer, if you squinted. I gave her a D+."

Stein nodded. "Good choice. I approve," he commented, finding her responding giggle oddly pleasant, calming.

"I'm glad I can get the great Doctor Franken Stein's approval," she said, looking at him playfully as she set a hand on where her waist dipped. His eyes followed the motion. "But, if you will, the discovery channel has a documentary about mammals... predators, I think. You're waiting for that Bengal tiger to come in, right? I thought the show would be right up your alley."

He felt his eyebrows climb up. "Yes," he said, slightly dumbfounded. He didn't think she'd get so desperate to placate him. He knew it was because of the mission they were assigned to. She needed him flexible, compliant to her.

When he finished with his drink, he set the beaker on the table in front of him, ensuring he would get it in the morning. He brought his left ankle to his right knee so he could scrape out the cherry of his cigarette against the bottom of his shoe. Marie'd bought, as well as made him, multiple ashtrays, but the one they usually kept in their living room (which was only declared fit for living after Marie dragged in that bright purple sofa) was missing after a particularly bad wave of madness swept over him a few days ago, forcing him to fall to the table, sweeping everything off of it to the floor.

The handmade ashtray had tumbled down, smashing and skittering everywhere. After he'd calmed, Marie rocked on the balls of her feet, making a passing comment that she might find the pieces and glue them back together. It would give her a chance to draw stitches over the seams, too.

He had told her it would be all too much work: things broken that badly and scattered so far, shattered, were irreparable. She had only looked at him sadly.

He was sure she would find or create another one to replace it. Even then, as he jabbed out his cigarette, she was probably reminded.

She didn't hold her hand out to him to help him up after she finished with her tea, but she did smile at him softly as they moved to the bedroom, the only room with the TV. It was, surprisingly, not as awkward as he would have assumed, sleeping in the bed, though it was massively unfamiliar. He didn't have many inhibitions after he had the pleasure of waking up from a dream that didn't involve having to push his intestines back into his torso as though he were playing Anatomical Tetris.

He became plenty passive to sleeping next to Marie in the luxury of such peace.

Stein all but forgot about the television. He hadn't used it in the past since he wasn't really one for sitting and mindlessly watching things. His excuse back then was so that he could look over the news, but he never really did. Marie was surprised that the box even worked, what with Stein's lack of use. Sometimes, in the near past when he felt more in control, he recorded his dissections and played them back on the TV, but that was the extent of it.

She hadn't tossed those tapes either, like most would. Instead, she stacked them neatly and even labeled them for him. He knew because she locked them up along with the shaving razors recently. It was a useless move and they both knew it: she couldn't hide all his scalpels, and there were always mirrors to break. He'd learned everything was a weapon if you were creative enough. But she tried. She didn't want him hurting himself.

Again.

She spent so much time attaching herself to his soul, weaving them together, that it was unthinkable for him to snap and hurt her. It was already unthinkable for a Meister to harm his weapon, but for a Meister-Weapon pair like them, with a dynamic like theirs: where he leaned upon her so heavily, a man needing the crutch of her humanity?

But everything was getting worse. It was taking more effort on Marie's part to keep him grounded and she was growing haggard. It was harder for Stein to keep from ripping at things and he'd gotten even more jaded about life than before. It was clearly thinkable, now.

He already thought of it.

He was downright yearning for the discovery channel. With the madness intensifying, he took any excuse to rid his mind of the poison and fear. For now, being around Marie while watching mind-numbing documentaries was enough. Though, as they walked, he realized that she intensified her wavelength for him despite how tired she seemed. It felt strange to notice it.

He had some peculiar feelings for Marie, a fact brought to the front of his mind by the sheer happiness he felt when he saw how hard she was trying for him. But he couldn't quite dissect whether that emotion was for her or her wavelength.

He doesn't think either answer would be fair to her.

When they reached the room, she slipped out of her shoes and scooped up the pre-folded clothes she'd left on the (her? his?... their?) bed.

"I'll just be a second, Franken," she told him, staring into his face for a few seconds longer than most would consider appropriate. When she realized, she simply stepped around and walked to the bathroom to change. It was relatively late: late enough for pajamas, though Stein's idea of pajamas mostly consisted of taking his shirt, pants, and shoes off.

Since he was used to sleeping wherever he was working, he usually didn't bother removing the clothes he wore day-to-day, but when he took the time to prepare for bed, he was fonder of less. One would think that Marie would have no qualms about a human body, especially since her wavelength worked best on him if it was filtered in skin-to-skin. But she'd thrown the most transparent fit about manners and propriety and how she was a lady and that they weren't even married. They'd settled on him at least wearing pants.

It was just a body: bone, muscle, tissue. Way too many stitches and wounds he kept prying open, raised at the edges. Though he understood why Marie would be flustered.

He had started to keep a few of his things in the set of drawers because of her insisting he wear something less indecent (tempting, she means. He nearly snickered at the thought). So he had to follow her rules of propriety, not having much excuse to remain in his slacks, turtleneck, and labcoat when other clothing was so close in reach. He simply threw the articles on her desk, once also his.

He turned to kneel down in front of the drawers, reaching into the very bottom for a pair of soft workout pants, having already taken the courtesy to click the door shut to change. They had an agreement that he didn't lock any doors, not anymore, but he still closed them to indicate he was there. Rooms uninhabited were left open.

She knocked, every time, regardless.

As he was changing, he wondered how much longer he'd even be allowed that. Just a few days ago, Marie had to spare precious seconds opening the bathroom door when he flew into a panic. He had nicked himself shaving, and the small trickle that ran down his throat was enough to tip him over the edge.

Nicking himself at all was a sure sign he was spiraling. He was a doctor for Death's sake. He had surgeon's hands.

Marie had raced in when she felt his soul spike. She didn't have soul perception like he did, but she knew him. And his soul was so intimate to her, so familiar, she'd sense something amiss no matter what.

She found him with glass shards embedded in his knuckles, the mirror obliterated, and blood leaking onto the floor while he tried to take the shaving razor apart to get at the blade. She'd thought he was getting better: he had been joking, smiling. It was all forced but it was effort so she entrusted him.

She thought herself stupid for that naivety. He could tell. He knew her.

He was tired of knowing. He didn't want to think anymore.

He had finished changing. It hadn't taken very long. So he settled in the bed, trying to keep his thinking at bay when Marie stepped back in, knocking first and waiting until he gave an affirmation. Her healing influence blasted into him, acting like morphine to a burn victim, and he looked up to see her in her usual sleep-shorts but wearing an oversized, stitched up shirt as opposed to the usual camisole.

Stein lifted a brow, his insanity turning into a moderate buzz in the back of his mind as opposed to a pounding directly in his ears and throat.

"Is that my shirt?" he asked.

"Well, it isn't as though you have need for it," Marie replied, pointedly looking at his bare chest for only an instant before looking away.

He smiled when she played with the hem, refusing to look at his torso. "Marie, you're so easy to read."

She whipped her head up, her eye narrowing. "Excuse me?" she asked, her voice rising in pitch. That much was genuine, that fire.

He grinned, though it could have been a grimace for all he knew. "If you want me, you should just say so. No need for such coy tactics."

Her flushed face answered him and she whirled around, folding her arms and hugging her previous clothes to her chest. "Oh, shut up, Franken Stein! Don't tease: I do not want you!"

He chuckled, twisting slightly on the bed so she got a better look. "Ah, playing the coquette, I see."

"You're impossible!"

"No, I'm Doctor Franken Stein."

She groaned at him, finally turning around to reveal her annoyed face after dumping all her clothes atop his own on the desk. "What's next? I tell you I'm hungry and you reply with 'Hi, Hungry. I'm Franken.'?"

"Perhaps," he replied, finding amusement in how she tried to drop her voice to imitate his. The buzzing diminished even more.

"Oh, don't be such a smartass," she scolded, but there was no bite to it. She'd rather this. Carelessly, she plopped down next to him and scooted around until she got comfortable, grabbing for the remote. She turned the screen on, the channels bouncing out a few words of infomercial before she cut them off and moved on to the next. Devoid of the artifice cheer, the room felt empty. There was never anything to hide behind, anymore.

"Are you... okay... for the mission?" she asked, her eye wandering.

His mouth twisted. "I'm okay with getting out of teaching for a day or two."

"Is something up with your class?" she asked, tilting her head back to look up at him, mostly catching a good view of his chin.

"Oh, no. They're perfect. Save for all the dissection-related complaints." He waved a hand around. "Really, I'm just as disappointed in the lack of specimens, but they have no need to get so anxious."

Marie grinned as he looked down at her, his glasses glinting. She hoped it was a good omen. "Oh, you know that's not why they complained."

"A man can hope."

She left it at that: he could. She was overcome with something after he said the very word itself, 'hope', that it would have killed her not to shift her head up so she bumped his chin with her nose before flicking her gaze to the television. She found the correct station before dropping the remote on the bedside table, tucking her feet under her as she leaned against Stein.

He didn't react to her affection, his eyes simply settling on the screen. They still had a few minutes until it started up, the space filled with useless commercials. Marie seemed to lean back further, settling over him.

He adjusted until he was seated, supported by the headboard with pillows cushioning his back. And Marie followed him, her hair tickling his upper arm. It reminded him of when they were younger, just kids partnered up for the first time after things with Spirit fell through. She had always been too affectionate, came on too strong.

He didn't care much, one way or the other. He was indifferent to being touch.

More or less.

As the show started, she didn't seem to notice that she was absentmindedly stroking a golden thumb over the back of his hand. And she was using him as mattress and pillow, both. Evidently, he was comfortable enough to double as such: a Franken-sized bed. Franken-Furniture.

It sounded cheap. Not to mention uncomfortable.

Yet, she was asleep only half an hour in. It seemed as though he'd been correct in assuming she was only watching the show for his sake, so Stein reached over her small body to grasp the remote she'd left on her side of the bed, clicking the power button before he chucked the hunk of plastic wherever it may end up. He wriggled until he was lying down, taking the blonde with him. Marie groaned, adjusting herself until she had both arms wrapped around one of his own.

He could dislodge the hold, slip away. She trusted him to stay, trusted him to sleep. There was nothing that would prevent him from holing up in his lab until morning came, from spending a sleepless night by himself.

Nothing but her trust.

With his free hand, he took his glasses off and reached over her, setting them down.

When his eyes slid closed, facing her, he didn't hear any screaming from inside his head.

He woke up before her as he usually did. It wasn't common for him to sleep for very long in the past, and the same was true now. Though he was constantly exhausted these days, his body still refused proper rest, even if that proper rest was on an actual-factual bed. With an actual-factual woman.

Marie had him in a vice grip, her body encompassed by his on the bed as she held tight to the arm she hadn't let go of since the night before. Her wavelength was weak, but still present. Already the madness was pressing on him, making him want to close his eyes and just pretend, if even for another few minutes, that everything was okay.

Instead, he sucked in a deep breath and dislodged Marie's hold. It was too intimate for her to wake up to him: honestly, if he didn't depend so much upon her wavelength, he would never have agreed to be so close to her. But as soon as he peeled her away from him, her hands found him again.

He was ashamed that he didn't want her to let go. His tired mind immediately complained for the balm of her peaceful soul.

He ignored it. It was probably that greed that made him feel dependant in the first place. If he had just kept his distance, left her well enough alone, he wouldn't be yearning for her to touch him.

He does not analyze the difference between dependency and yearning. He didn't have it in him so early into the day.

Instead, he removed her grasp on him, this time pouring himself out of the bed immediately afterward. Marie whined in her sleep, groping about for something to cuddle with, to cling to. He snatched up the pillow he had slept on and placed it into her waiting arms, watching as she immediately nuzzled into it.

He sighed, running a hand over his face and walking around the bed to grab his glasses. He needed a damn shower. As soon as he had his vision corrected, he glanced at the alarm clock she kept on the table, noting that they had maybe an hour before they had to get ready to meet with Lord Death.

For a fast moment, he wondered if he should go back. It would be easy just to sidle into the bed, replace the pillow, bask in the glow of a mad-free sleep for just a few more moments.

But he did want that shower. He was feeling more than a little grungy. And if he took one too late, Marie would end up pounding on the door and telling him she had to get ready.

And, Death, she'd whine all day, and she'd be a general pain in his ass. And Lord Death would ring them up on the mirror multiple times while they fought for the bathroom which would make her an even bigger pain in the ass if she had to rummage around to quiet the ringing of her compact in her purse.

He sighed.

He sounded like a trained dog. She already made him lose some of his edge. He'd gotten accustomed to full nights of sleep and prompt meals, and he was too soothed by her, her wavelength.

He couldn't help a crooked, bitter smile when he thought of that. Marie Mjolnir: Professional Percocet.

It slid off his face when he realized how dangerous that was, for both of them. Marie kept her wavelength blaring at practically full blast for as long as she could, recently. Sometimes, she varied it to short bursts, but she couldn't stand the thought of Stein having to fight the Kishin's influence alone.

The woman was silly, and sentimental, and all too protective of him. It was making him weaker as opposed to stronger, to lean upon her.

He knew a few people who would argue with that line of thinking, but he wanted his independence back. His solitude. And yet, he didn't want the bleak, empty lab that came with it. He wanted- he didn't know. Wanting wasn't befitting for a man like him. He'd gone without most necessities in the past: frivolous things like companionship he could exist free from. He looked at the slumbering woman in the bed (the: because the thought of her in his, or their bed made something churn in him, and for it to be her bed, he would be an intruder, an outsider invited in and she was too trusting, Marie, he could do anything anything anything) and brought a hand to his head, clicking his bolt back.

He needed to stop thinking.

Annoyed, at what, he couldn't place, he made his way over to the desk and had to pick his clothes out from under Marie's. After a second, he simply picked her outfit up as well, dumping it all in their hamper.

He'd have to make a quick run into his lab to grab some spare clothes to change into after that shower.

When they finally made their way to the Death Room, Stein had more than had the time to sober up. Next to him, Marie was keeping high spirits, though she acknowledged that it must be a serious task for Death to send them on when they couldn't really spare many people.

"Well, hiya! Hello! Marie, Stein," Death said, his mitten raised in greeting. Marie smiled.

"Good morning, Lord Death."

Stein simply nodded at him.

"Good to see ya! I assume you're ready for your mission?" Death asked, noting the two bags they had brought with them. Marie was the one who nodded this time, her blond pigtails bobbed.

"Where was the Kishin egg last spotted, Lord Death?" Stein asked, a hand finding its way into his lab-coat's pocket.

"California," Death replied, staring at the two figures in front of him. "It's gotten stronger, too. There's no telling how many human souls it's consumed."

"Well, it won't consume any more after we destroy it," Marie said, her face serious.

"That's the ticket, Marie!" Death said, his high, goofy voice sounding particularly elated. "And speaking of tickets..."

"Oh, right! When does the plane leave, Lord Death?" Marie asked. "We already have our things with us, so we're ready to go."

"Ah, well. You see..."

The crappy rental car Stein was currently driving could probably be carbon dated. Back to circa 1829, even. When he'd first seen it, it only took took a single glance for him to realize how promising it was.

Promising some sort of severe injury at worst, if not multiple mechanical issues.

One would think that the DWMA would realize that time was of the essence, always. Evidently, however, the essence of time wasn't quite worth the trouble of Stein going through airport security with his screw and scalpels and seemingly ever-present surgical staples alongside the stitches for the more vicious wounds he got in battle, all for a trip to Deadwood, California from Nevada, population estimated to about 6. People, not thousand.

The Kishin egg sure picked a dry place to hide out in. It must have been wandering into nearby communities to feast.

It was simply baffling for Death to make the executive decision that it was perfectly fine for a madman who had been having visions increasingly more often to drive for multiple hours at a time. And it wasn't as though he and Marie could alternate, considering his blonde partner was unfit for driving due to being able to get lost in a paper bag.

The DWMA wasn't usually known for such poor decision making skills, but they seemed to be slipping up recently. He didn't understand why Lord Death would send them on the mission, either. Apparently, they'd requested the best, but that didn't mean they were entitled to it. Death must have assumed that a mission with Marie could help ease some of Stein's stress. Marie's, too.

Though, she didn't seem too relaxed at the moment, since she always had a hard time sitting still. The woman had a lot of energy and needed multiple distractions, which, in a car, almost always equated to music. He realized that if he played nothing but Rammstein for the eight and a half hour trip, Marie would be loopy by the time he crossed state lines.

A happy Marie usually equated to a happy Stein. And an upset Marie always equated to a furious Stein.

Upon cataloging this for future analysis, he gave in to what would make her most joyful.

So he gave her control of the radio, which they found out, rather quickly, didn't work. Luckily, or, rather, not so luckily, Marie brought a few CD's she had planned to listen to on the plane ride that never happened.

Frankly? Stein was sick of ABBA. He hated them. He was ready to roll down his window, manually, because the car was most certainly older than their current soundtrack, and chuck the CDs out whilst still driving. He refuses to accept that he is being overdramatic.

And Death damn it all, Marie's wide grin was just not enough to justify it. Not even when she shimmied about and sung along. She didn't have the best voice in the world, but that was fine. Neither did he; though he rather likes Marie's soft mezzo. Even when she isn't providing additional vocals, she lip-syncs so passionately, he can't help but be entertained when he catches it in his peripheral.

Regardless of these facts, she'd sung most of the CD to him, as though a crazed, techno-pop serenade.

It got old rather quickly.

He wasn't really ready to snap yet, but after another few hours of such, he knew he would. And that would be a poor move even if they weren't on their way to an important mission to slaughter a rather powerful Kishin egg. Their resonance was almost always seamless and he didn't want to compromise that.

"I still don't know what you've done to me," Marie sang from shotgun. "A grown up woman should never fall so easily."

Stein kept his eyes firmly on the road in front of them. They were on a path that required multiple sharp turns, and he was trying to keep the car from tossing them from side to side. Marie's voice warbled sweetly in his right ear.

"I feel a kind of fear when I don't have you near. Unsatisfied, I skip my pride, I beg you, dear."

It had already been a few hours. Just how many, he didn't really know. He would have to turn on the highbeams soon, since the darkness was starting to settle. He could tell that she was winding down on energy, simply from the way she wasn't jumping around in her seat and doing ridiculous, dated dance moves.

He felt like he had been transported to another time, driving stick-shift in a beat up car with manual transmission, Marie doing the batusi and holding her nose, pretending to sink underwater, listening to 70's EuroPop. Thankfully, as she wound down, her strangely well coordinated flailing diminished, replaced by a soft swaying.

"Don't go wasting your emotion, lay all your love on me," she crooned, her voice seemingly filling the entire car, even though the windows were all rolled down entirely, wind blowing in and sending the loose wisps of her blonde hair flying all over her face. The music was blaring, too.

It didn't make much sense, if any, that she was the only thing he was focusing on. Suddenly, the road in front of him became second in his mind, a dangerous move which made him question his intellect. But, as opposed to when she was chirping and belting out the lyrics, which prompted amusement and slight irritation in him, when she sang so gently, it made his stomach drop out.

"Don't go sharing your devotion, lay all your love on me," she finished with the song, and he took the briefest of moments to turn his head and look at her, noticing immediately how she was gazing at him and how her lips were parted and shining as they shaped the words.

And then, suddenly, her eye widened.

"Franken!" she screamed out, whipping her head to fully face the windshield.

He thanked his instincts, somehow still present even in the constant fog of his mind, for immediately slamming down on the brake pedal. He heard their shitty car squeal in protest as it jerked.

He had missed the turn and they were gunning for a mass of trees which would ensure a nasty accident and multiple wounds. Stein turned the wheel sharply, and Marie fell into him from the force of the turn. The seatbelts evidently didn't lock, and Stein cursed, keeping his foot firmly on the brakes and feeling his heart beat furiously in his chest. As the car evaded the trees and came to a shuddering halt, he threw his arm out to stop Marie from slamming into the windshield, catching her as she careened forward with the force.

From the speakers, the next song started up, and he listened in to the bubbly pop song in the indelicate silence, cataloguing Marie for any injuries she might have. Despite looking dazed and a little shaken up, she was absolutely fine. After doing a quick once over of himself, he came to the same conclusion. Marie settled her weight onto the arm that stopped her fall, her fingers wrapped around his forearm.

"Honey, honey: how he thrills me, uh huh, honey, honey. Honey, honey: nearly kills me, uh huh, honey, honey."

He took in a deep breath. "Are we done with ABBA, Marie?" he asked, uncharacteristically soft. He hadn't pulled his arm away, partially because she was holding on to him rather tightly, but also because they were stopped, and he knew she needed some slight comfort.

Marie nodded after a second, sheepishly letting go of his arm.

"I'm sorry," she said, feeling guilty for distracting him and looking away as she closed her eye. Her heartbeat was rocketing in her, practically thumping her bones together. Her voice had hitched, having swept up rather high when she called out his name, and her throat felt dry and uncomfortable. She grasped the sides of the cheap seat in her hands, willing herself to calm down as she bit at her lip.

She didn't expect for his warm, large hand to come to the top of her head, carefully rustling her hair. Her eye snapped open, but she didn't dare move for fear of cutting the moment short. The last time he did something so tender was when she had sobbed into his chest, holding on to his jacket as though he were her only salvation. And, as with then, she didn't have a word for it other than affectionate, though she knew that couldn't possibly be right.

Naigus' warning rang through her head, but it sounded hollow then. It sounded especially so, now.

He spared another second to smooth his fingers over her blonde locks, a fingertip running down the shell of her ear. She soaked in every movement he made, pressing into his hand. His palms were calloused, though she couldn't feel that against her hair, she knew the detail nonetheless, especially when his finger whispered against the skin of her ear, prompting a delicate shiver.

But it was over immediately, his hand coming back to rest on the steering wheel once more.

Marie took in a deep breath and smiled, tilting her face up to look at his, and though he didn't turn to face her while he changed gears, he tipped up one corner of his lips.

The right side, too, as though to ensure that she couldn't miss it. She grinned at the deliberate action, leaning forward to eject the CD and effectively cutting off the singer.

("There's no other place in this world where I would rather be-")

The road twisted ahead of them and Marie rummaged around for some Madonna.