The first thing Soul noticed when he got home was the spoon. It lay on the floor between the kitchen and the hallway; too far for it to have fallen off a counter or the table.

It stood out like a sore thumb, not just because it didn't belong down there, but because nothing was ever out of place in their house. The spoon clung to the tile when he picked it up, and Soul wrinkled his nose in distaste when he realized it was covered in honey. He carried the sticky utensil to the sink and perked up considerably when he saw a basket of freshly baked muffins on the counter. The kind he and Maka always ate with honey. There was a crumb-covered plate beside the basket, which explained the spoon, but not why it was halfway across the house. It didn't explain why there was honey all over the counter, but no honey jar.

Maka had made muffins, eaten one, made a gooey mess and then disappeared? Totally not like her. Then Soul remembered Liz telling a hilarious story about honey facials the day before. At least he'd found it hilarious. Nobody else seemed to understand just how enchantingly funny the older Thompson sister was.

Now it all made made sense. Obviously his partner had, once again, come to grief while trying some kind of beautifying mess. Maka wasn't so good with the girly stuff. She'd failed at bubble baths several times; foam crawling down the side of the tub and across the tile. She burned herself with curling irons, stabbed her eyes with mascara wands and, on one memorable occasion, glued her finger to her face in a fake fingernail mishap.

The last had given Soul taunting fodder for a week. He still brought it up occasionally because, in all honestly, that one was going to be funny forever. Honey wasn't quite as permanent as glue, but getting a picture of her with goo all over her face would be priceless nevertheless.

He tiptoed over to her bedroom, pulled his phone out and turned the camera on. Holding it at the ready, he rapped on the door frame.

'Go 'way." came the muffled response.

"Maka," he singsonged, "Maka-Maka-Maaaaaaka."

He could keep that up all day. And she knew he could.

The door opened a crack and when she peeked out, Soul snapped her picture.

"Soul! What the fuck?!" she shrieked, snapping her head back.

While she was blinded by the flash, Soul got a good look at her face. Sure enough, there was honey splotchily smeared across her face and over her mouth. It was in her bangs, too, and a good-sized dollop ran down her neck and disappeared beneath the collar of her bathrobe. She'd really done it this time.

"You said you'd be home just in time for us to go to the movies." Maka exclaimed, blushing bright red, "You aren't supposed to be home for an hour!"

"Yeah, well, you aren't supposed to put condiments all over yourself. Does Kid know what kind of weird shit you do when he's out of town?" he grinned and snapped another picture

"Stop it!" she jerked backward again and the door opened another fraction of an inch. Just far enough for Soul to see the jacket on the floor. Black. Tom Ford. Extremely distinctive white trim. His eyes widened in horror.

"He's not out of town yet, is he?"

It was Maka's turn to look devious. Two could play at the embarrass-your-best-friend game.

"Nope."

"You're not doing a facial, are you?".

"Nope."

There was a noise from inside the bedroom; the sound of someone desperately trying to muffle inappropriate laughter over a kinky double-entendre.

"You be quiet!" Maka giggled over her shoulder. The snickering grew quieter, but didn't stop altogether.

"I baked muffins for you," she explained to Soul, who was mute with shock, "And Kid came over to say goodbye and you weren't supposed to be home for an hour."

They stared at one another until Soul finally recovered his power of speech.

"I can never unthink this, you know." he told her, "I'm never going to look at a muffin the same way again. You have scarred me for life."

She rolled her eyes at him, "No I haven't."

"You have. I have a muffin trigger now."

"Will your trauma be assuaged if I buy you an extra large popcorn at the theater?" she asked.

"Maybe."

"And can you go away and come back at four-thirty?"

"If you throw in a box of Milk Duds I can."

"Done!"

Maka gave him an evil grin and prepared to play the trump card in their game. She casually turned back into her room and came back with a sticky container.

"Here, can you take this back to the kitchen for me?" she asked sweetly, handing it to him, "The lid's on the table. See you in a little while."

Her door closed only inches from Soul's nose. A moment later there was low laughter and the sound that beds make when someone climbs into them.

Soul turned and wandered back to the kitchen, wide-eyed and stunned by Maka's absolute combined sound of a moan and her headboard hitting the wall snapped him out of it. He looked back at the bedroom door and then at the jar in his hand.

"Ew. Eww. Fuck. Ewwww!" he chucked the jar into the garbage like it was a live bomb, scrawled "honey" on the grocery list stuck to the refrigerator, and ran for his life.