Hey hey friendos! Welcome to my submission for Reverb 2017, Beyond the Northern Lights :) My amazing partner, mystery-shrouded over on tumblr, made some beautiful art/poetry that fully inspired me to write this. She is a gem of a person and I've been so lucky to work with her!

Much love also to my beta crew, who have kept me afloat during this whole process: Aquabella888, guacamoletrash, makapedia, professormaka and skadventuretime.

Full disclosure: because I am eternal SoMa trash, this story has some big ole Soul/Maka undertones. Also some TsuStar, if you squint. ;)

This has been such a labor of love. I hope you enjoy the story that took my heart and threw it into the sky.

There's a postcard in the mailbox.

It sits there, innocently placed on a throne of credit card offers and pizza pamphlets. It is silent, inoffensive. It asks for nothing but a pair of eyes; for the reader to turn it over, to access its contents, to read the cursory greeting gracing its B-side.

Blair blinks at the paper on top of the pile, staring at the image on its surface. Waves of blue, pink and green stretch across a snowy wonderland, threads of color weaving together against murky black skies.

It's come a long way to get here, she thinks. A lot farther than her roommate has come in the past two months.

The simple task of bringing up the mail now requires a level of finesse that Blair had not anticipated needing on a quiet Thursday evening. She's used to faking a smile at Chupa Cabra's, but this is a different circumstance with a vastly different audience. She doesn't like tiptoeing, doesn't like keeping up that extra layer of false cheerfulness that she often peels away at home.

She eyes the card again and wishes Soul had asked her to go get milk instead.

It is strange how an act as normal as getting the mail is likely to send her apartment into a tailspin. But despite the plunging feeling in her stomach, she will be there. She might come and go as she likes, and might perhaps occasionally forget to pay the water bill, but she knows when she's needed.

She hesitates for a moment before reaching out, strips of violet joining the mix as her nails move across the paper. She lifts the whole pile, talons splaying against the sides of the mailbox before she grasps the letters in her palm.

When she pulls them out, she sees a small red sticker on the side of the postcard that reads: Delayed: Lost.

The irony doesn't escape her. So much has been lost in the past few weeks. There is a brokenness that was just beginning to mend. The cogs in their lives were finally starting to turn again.

And now there's a postcard in the mailbox.

She shuts the box and ascends the stairs. The curvy tops of her shoes lean away from every step she makes towards the fallout.

She doesn't flip it over. She doesn't need to see what it says. Some things should stay between a mother and her daughter.

She creaks open the door and Soul is on the couch, picking his way through a bowl of spaghetti. He starts to point to the ready-made bowl in the kitchen before he looks up at her. When she puts down the pile of mail with the postcard on top, she watches his eyes flare before something in them extinguishes.

She has seen this expression before, but she cannot remember where.

A successful mission, the final report had read. Blair knows this because Maka had left the folder on the coffee table for three days before Soul had cracked, telling her in the gentlest way possible that he'd put it in her drawer, somewhere she could keep it safe. In return, she hadn't spoken to him for a week.

It wasn't the first time Blair had "accidentally" read something she was not supposed to see. Blair has many skills, and she has her own ways of getting inpurrmation. Even after all of their years of schooling, her kittens have still not learned that leaving classified documents on the coffee table is a compromising choice. Cats are masters of gravity, after all. It's simply not good sense to put anything on the edge of a table, not when all of her instincts oblige her to send folders of Very Secret information careening to their Very-No-Longer-Secret doom.

Normally, she laps up de-briefings like saucers of milk: self-indulgently, and with zero regrets. A true mama cat is nothing without her intel.

This time, she'd done it out of necessity rather than curiosity. She'd come home to find one kitten sobbing in her room, and the other hiding in the kitchen, his eyes unfocused on a burning pot of curry, and she'd needed to know why.

Yes, a successful mission. The rest of the report was equally callous: Evil properly vanquished, but with a casualty. A consequence. An unfortunate, saddening, but ultimately normal part of the job.

The obituary was not markedly different: a short paragraph in the paper celebrating her accomplishments. A woman who lived for her work. A hero. Always on a new adventure, a new path to conquer the wicked.

Blair knew that was the Academy's job, to keep a record of these things, but it was so disconnected. This cold, professional portrait was such a contrast to Blair's perception of Mama Albarn.

Perhaps they should have asked her daughter.

Blair hadn't known her, but somehow, she feels like she did. Here in the apartment, her presence had always been undeniable. She lived in the collection of colorful postcards lining Maka's wall, hung precariously on strings. She sent photos of things she loved: snowmen, sunsets, and things she knew Maka loved: flowers, fireworks, fancy gloves. She lived in the handwritten notes that came with packages filled to the brim with books. Maka had kept them all, and they reside in her lowest desk drawer. Blair knows this because that is also where the winter scarves are, and she will nap in cashmere-padded luxury or not at all.

More than that, she lived in the little bursts of joy that appeared in Maka's eyes when the packages came. Maka's adoration for her mother was evergreen; a never-ending stream of affection that never stopped, even if other people didn't understand.

Blair cannot protect her from everything, nor does she want to. She doesn't need or want to be protected, and never has. It is Maka's unlikely combination of strength and kindness that Blair admires most of all.

Even so, Blair sees that this is a battle that Maka doesn't know how to fight. Maka's got no shortage of courage, and it's a weakness to which she has always been a little bit blind. Leaning on others is not so easy when you make a habit of keeping your quills out. Soul's always been the prickly one, but Maka's got thorns of her own, and constantly keeping her defenses up is a drain on all of the energy reserves she has been subsisting on. It has never been a daily task for her, fighting a battle that seethes under her skin.

That, too, had always been Soul's job.

He's been a skittish boy these days. Always hiding, or wringing his hands as he stares at the piano in the living room, willing himself to play something, anything that will soothe instead of strain the tension in the apartment. He spends more time looking out of the corners of his eyes than usual, weapon instincts forever ingrained, and Blair can see him toeing the edges of the bubble Maka has placed herself in, not wanting to overstep his bounds.

Instead, for the past few weeks, his support has come in ghostly forms. A spontaneous mug of tea at Maka's bedroom door late in the night, since they both aren't sleeping. Dinner on the table at six. Blair also reaps the benefits of a timely meal, but she knows it's his way of trying to bring normalcy back into the apartment.

The past year has been hard on him. They're just out of the end of their studies and into the start of actual full-time Death Scythe/teaching duties, and he's still not used to enduring long days without her. He's never been one for words; as much as he craves the label of 'strong and silent', he is simply scared, and now, the one person in which he normally seeks solace has no words of comfort for him. Closed doors have become a permanent fixture in the apartment, and he can't get through.

It had been three weeks before Maka had let Blair back into her room, warm lamplight spilling into the hallway as the smallest invitation, the only clue Maka will give that she's seeking company. Blair had nudged the door open to find her curled up on her pillow with red eyes, a book upside down on her bedside table, and Blair had slunk under the barrier her arms had formed across her chest, purring until they'd fallen asleep in the dim morning light, lamplight accentuating the darkness under Maka's eyes.

She doesn't know what is keeping Maka away from him. This wasn't what they'd agreed on, was it?

Ah. She remembers where she'd seen Soul's expression before.

It had been two years ago, at least. She had slipped into the apartment under cover of darkness, intending not to wake them, and had instead heard whispers spilling in an agitated stream from Soul's bedroom. She is a cat, and therefore curious, so intrigue had pulled her through the apartment as padded paws made their way down the hallway, tail swishing as a single yellow eye peered around the doorframe.

"You're not allowed to be mad," Soul was hissing as he wrapped a roll of gauze around Maka's ankle. "You're the one who decided to change the plan at the last second and not tell me. You can't do that stuff if I can't keep up. You could have died."

Maka, who'd been lying propped up on a pillow, shot up and glared at him as she launched herself into what Blair affectionately called their post-battle battle. It had become a fairly infrequent occurrence, but when the stars aligned and it did happen, it was, in its own way, even more exhausting than the actual fight.

"We can always die!" she hissed back, and Soul's hand stilled on her foot as he stared at the ceiling, as if welcoming the abyss to come and swallow him up instead of having this conversation. "You can't just throw yourself in front of me every time something goes wrong. I know how you feel about this, but we're supposed to be protecting each other. No matter what delusions you're always telling yourself about being The Weapon, Ultimate Cool-Guy Dispensable Shield."

Her finger quotes that accompanied "The Weapon" earned a groan out of Soul, but otherwise, he didn't lose his cool.

"That's what weapons are for, Maka," he'd said, still staring at the ceiling, stoic as a fortress, but Blair could see cracks seeping through the mask, irritation trickling through. "I'm not apologizing for doing my job."

It was a conversation they'd had many times and couldn't seem to make headway on. Both of their walls were up; the two of them stone towers, locked in a standoff. Blair wondered which of them would give first until suddenly, she watched as Soul lowered his eyes to look at Maka and stiffened. She watched him hesitate for a moment before crawling up to her, crossing his legs awkwardly as he looked up at her through his hair.

"Hey," he said. "What is it?" There was a gentleness in his voice that he reserved only for these rare moments of late-night intimacy, and Blair, for the first time, was graced by the irksome notion that she shouldn't be spying. Luckily, her desire to get the scoop was stronger than any sort of moral compass she possessed, so this only plagued her for a moment, and she remained glued to the doorframe.

He reached out for her hand and she threaded their fingers together. "I'm fine," she said, a sniffle escaping her, and despite the concern in his eyes, he smiled.

"Uh huh," he replied, and waited for the real answer, a slow thumb tracing circles on hers.

Soul is no stranger to waiting. This is another thing that Blair knows. He'd wait for her forever if she asked him to.

"It's just… been a while," she said, face falling as she picked at the comforter.

"Since what?"

"Since… it's been that close."

He realized what she meant, and the smile faltered. "...Yeah, it has," he admitted.

Maka looked up at him and Blair watched as fissures appeared in her façade, walls crumbling as she let the barriers break and teetered into her partner's arms.

He was not as awkward and unsure as he'd been in his early teens, but he was still bewildered, and didn't really know what to do when she buried her face in his neck. They sat there like that for a minute, another sniffle sneaking out from beneath his now-damp shoulder.

"You've gotta live, okay?" she whispered, face still pressed against cotton, and there it was, that expression on his face, a flare of something hiding, something bright and alive that extinguished itself before anything could fan the flames.

Blair definitely felt like she shouldn't be spying now, so she did what any sensible cat would do and stayed exactly where she was.

"That's your job," Maka said. "Dying isn't part of it. You aren't allowed to do it."

"...Okay," was all he eventually said, even though that was part of this life they'd chosen, the contract they'd signed, and everyone in the room was painfully aware that they would face death many more times that week, let alone in their lifetime.

"In that case," he added, lowering his chin onto the part in her pigtails, "Your job-" He hesitated, weighing the impact of his words. "...is to let people look out for you." Her breath hitched a little, and there was a tremor in her fingers as she gripped his hand more tightly. "You don't have to do it on your own. You can be strong and still lean on the people who lo-... uh, w-who care about you."

After a moment, Maka took a deep breath. "I… can do that," she said, and a hint of a smile graced her voice.

"Yeah?" he asked, and the moment he started to smile again was also the moment he happened to see Blair. His eyes narrowed in what was indisputably a nonverbal shoo, and Blair decided it was time to take her leave, tail swishing loftily as she pranced away.

She'd seen and heard enough to know what was really going on, anyway.

There is a moment, before something happens, where everything slows down. Where the sadness, the fear, the anticipation are prolonged, poignantly stretched. In this moment, as it unfolds before her, Blair finds herself wanting to jump up, snatch the postcard and run away to keep them safe from the pain.

And yet, even though everything slows down, it happens too quickly for her.

Soul is still staring wide-eyed at the card, sinking back into that sea of helplessness that has become his home, when Maka walks out of the room and sees what is sitting on top of the pile.

Heartbreak is quiet, Blair thinks. It is not always screams and sobs and turbulence, especially not for Maka. Sometimes, heartbreak is the sound of three footsteps crossing the floor, fingers brushing against paper, and a carefully cultivated veneer of I am okay that crumbles into dust. Tears are building in her eyes, and when they spill over, they leave trails that leak with uncertainty. The same ones that she's been walking since the day the report had come in.

They both pride themselves on being strong, armed in granite, safe in the towers they've constructed for themselves. A stone wall is a brilliant display of strength - until the day it cracks.

Pieces of her are scattering across the floor, and Soul can't pick them up on his own.

Maka stares at the letter for a moment more, and then turns and walks, robotically, back into her bedroom, leaving Soul and Blair sitting in the living room, facing another closed door.

As it turns out, cat ears aren't too shabby, either, and when Maka shuts the door to her room, a sequence of events presents itself to Blair in a sort of oratory screenplay.

Through the door comes exactly one muffled sob, followed by a silence that stretches through the apartment, through the nervous twitch of Soul's fingers on his shoe. After a minute or so, the silence is broken by frantic tapping on laptop keys, and Soul and Blair exchange a look that is one part knowing and two parts why is she like this.

She's a windstorm in summer; predictable enough to follow but too chaotic to catch, and when the frantic tapping evolves into frantic rummaging, Soul looks at the door, then back at Blair, then back at the door.

"She's packing, isn't she?" he mutters, and because Blair is 1) great at keeping secrets and 2) a filthy, filthy enabler, she winds around his legs and says, "why don't you find out for yourself, scythe-boy?"

He ignores her tone, but still walks up to the door. Holds his hand up to knock, then seems to think better of it and walks to his room instead. Two sets of rummaging commence, and as Blair realizes what is happening, the potential of what is about to unfold, she hops up onto the couch and furtively licks at a paw.

In addition to Blair's other skills, she is a master-class meddler, and like most meddlers, she is thrilled when the meddling happens on its own, without her express effort. She uses the energy she has saved to clean extra thoroughly between her toes.

When Maka emerges, she's wearing staunch resolution like a badge, streaks of fractal night sky still peeking between her fingers as she dumps a gigantic green backpack on the couch. She places a stack of papers on the table, and as she moves to the hall closet to rummage some more, Soul comes out with a small suitcase. When he sees what Maka has packed, he curses under his breath and trudges back into his room.

Ten more minutes of mutual rummaging and finally, he emerges with his backpack just as Maka is tying the drawstring on hers.

When Maka turns to look at him, she tenses, ready for a fight, and then goes still when she sees the bag on his back. Blair watches them size each other up. They haven't been on the same plane of existence in so long that seeing them on the same page is a rewarding sight.

Soul tugs the backpack off of his shoulder and sets it on the couch next to hers. It is both a silent commitment and a silent I dare you to say no, and a solid ten seconds of intra-planar eye contact elapse before Maka turns away, resignation reading in the set of her shoulders, the listless look of her eyes.

"I've gotta go," she says, because that is the extent of the explanation she has prepared, and because maybe she needs to say it, even if he already knows.

"I know," he affirms from behind her.

She looks down at the floor, and the quiet determination that has always fueled her soul begins to radiate through the room. "I have to see where… where she was."

He nods. "Just let me know when we leave," he says, and he sits himself down on the couch, affecting boredom, scratching behind Blair's ears. Maka watches him for a moment with a bemused expression, but says nothing. When she finally breaks eye contact and walks into the kitchen, his eyes follow.

"Where're we going, anyway?" Soul mutters after a moment. Blair looks at the papers, precariously placed on the side of the table, and because she is not one to neglect the skills that nature has given her, she slinks off of the couch and sends the papers into flight with an agile paw.

Las Vegas to Stockholm, the itinerary reads. And then northwards.

The next two days are a whirlwind of preparations, but through it all, two backpacks sit side by side on the couch, patiently awaiting their departure.

In a blink, the door is opening with strange finality, and Blair watches them gather their things and prepare to step into a different sort of mission than the ones they are used to. To seek solace, and a little peace, and answers that she doesn't know if they will find.

To recover things that have been lost.

Bu-tan spends a lot of time in the business of infatuation. Her skills in that department are perhaps her strongest. It's not about love: she knows how hearts work, how they are flexible and easily molded in the right hands. A soft putty that she can manipulate to make things easier for awhile. She is confronted daily with infatuation. She makes games out of being adoring and adored, and she wins them all.

She watches Soul's face as he picks up his backpack and then gently straightens the straps on Maka's, tugging a pigtail out from underneath one of the straps.

Bu-tan still knows what love looks like.