Summary: He can see her mother in everything Maka does and when he ruffles her hair, the smile that forms on his face is a little proud, a little sad. He doesn't answer her question because he doesn't think there is anything else he can give her that she doesn't already have. — Spirit and the choices he regrets.

A/N: Written for Colour of Your Soul: A Soul Eater Zine!

A Love Stained Red

Maka is twelve when she learns about the divorce.

It's all Spirit can do to stop himself from begging for her forgiveness as she screams at him to leave. He's sure that she hates him now, and he's right, because he later hears her declare, All men are untrustworthy! except he wants her to know that's not true. Not all men are untrustworthy. Just Papa.

Maka is twelve when Spirit is kicked out of the house, followed by the angry-red slam of a door in his face.

Tears prick at the corner of his eyes, but he refuses to let them fall; this time, he doesn't deserve to cry. Instead, he lowers himself to the floor and sits on the doorstep, holding his head in his hands. He thinks of the fights that escalated in the past months, the set of divorce papers on the kitchen table, the choices he's made up until now, and the important things he had been too stubborn to see.

He has many regrets about the things he did when raising Maka, but he never thought that he would lose the right to be her parent on the same night he lost his wife.

.

Over the years, Spirit knows there are some things that Maka has forgotten about her mother.

He's heard her mention, during a particularly vulnerable moment, that it scares her how little of her childhood she actually remembers. The face she sees of the woman who raised her is a hazy image in her memories, with all the most important features blurred away and just out of reach.

Spirit thinks he understands. As much as Maka idolized and looked up to her mother, in the end, she was a woman who chose to travel the world on her own rather than bring her own daughter along. It's easier to break up the bad memories into digestible fragments and he can't blame her for repressing some of the more painful moments.

When Maka asked about her mother when she was younger, Spirit had only placed a hand on top of her head to ruffle her hair. He recognizes the same passion-red tinges in her soul as he did in his wife's and thinks that even though Maka may not remember much about her mother, she already has all the best parts of her.

Because she may have forgotten the memories, but she has not forgotten the love.

Spirit knows this in the same way he recognizes the glow of auburn concentration that surrounds her when she is keenly focused on one of the school textbooks, her admiration for a lost mother figure fueling her to do well in her studies. The feelings of warm pink she's retained of a hand pulling the blankets over her body and tucking her in at night. The echoing sounds of shared laughter when all three of them had been together, colours of crimson and maroon spilling out of their mouths.

He can see her mother in everything Maka does and when he ruffles her hair, the smile that forms on his face is a little proud, a little sad. He doesn't answer her question because he doesn't think there is anything else he can give her that she doesn't already have.

.

Spirit goes out drinking later at night, as he always does.

In the bar, the lights are dim as he swings his head back to gulp down two, three, four glasses of the strongest alcohol in Death City. At some point, he realizes he's crying, blabbering nonsensically about his sorrows to workers who only stay by his side because they are paid to entertain customers.

The liquid burns down his throat each time he swallows and if he ends up drowning, he's at least glad to be surrounded by shades of red.

.

After that, Spirit sends Maka presents every year—for Christmas, on her birthday, any occasion that gives him an excuse to buy her a gift.

He suspects it's unlikely she'll open them at all, but he doesn't know any other way to say sorry, to say I love you, so he lets the packages pile up in her house and hopes that one day, she can forgive him.

.

His daughter is strong. Spirit knows her scarlet willpower and hot-headed determination better than most people, and yet, he still can't help but worry.

He reasons that it's a father's job to be concerned about his child, but the excuse sounds weak, even to himself. At twenty-five, Maka has become a respectable meister who cultivated a Death Scythe. She is more than capable of taking care of herself.

Even so, he will visit her house from time to time, looking in from beyond the windows. After all, he's long since acknowledged that he isn't welcome on the other side of these walls anymore.

But he never expects the door to swing open, so when it does, he freezes like a criminal caught in the act. His mind races through a million excuses about why he is lurking outside her house, mouth opening to stammer out apologies, but he doesn't manage to vocalize any of them before Maka addresses him first.

"I can tell when you're here, you know," she says. Her gaze is hard but her soul is shaded rose, warm, almost inviting. "Come inside, Papa."

.

It's been years since he's seen the interior of the building; when he passes through the doorway to Maka's house now, his footsteps are timid, cautious.

She leads him to the kitchen and gestures at him to take a seat at the dining table before offering him a cup of tea. He sips the drink slowly in hopes of easing his nerves as she sits down in the chair opposite to him.

"There are a lot of things I want to talk about with you, Papa," Maka says, and this time, the words aren't cold or threatening. This time, she is being open with him, newfound empathy in her eyes that he hasn't seen in years, and the rarest of smiles on her face.

Spirit nods, setting down his cup. "Okay."

And the entire house glows red.