AN: Thanks for the positive feedback thus far—you guys rock. :) This section is set during the time arc of the anime and manga (so there will be spoilers); now it's time to bump up the fluff. :3 It's rather more dark as well.

Now! Here's your little mini Japanese lesson of the day...Daijōbu. If you watch the subbed anime, you must have picked up on how often all the characters—but especially Soul and Maka—use this phrase. Its simplest English translation is "okay", but—depending on the context—can have several other meanings: "Don't worry; it's/I'm alright; are you okay?" It's an expression of concern or reassurance—a way of checking up on someone. Simple enough, right? :)

Disclaimer: The rights to Soul Eater, much like unicorns, are beautiful and evasive. Does that mean Atsushi Okubo owns unicorns as well…? :O

And before long, they'd grown used to the…

Sound

Daijōbu.

Neither really notices how often they use the word. In battle, it's their lifeline; a simple phrase repeated over and over to make sure—make sure…

"Are you okay, Maka?"

"Yeah, I'm fine. Focus on the battle."

That word, so overused, is as comforting as a child's favorite blanket and feeling just as tattered around edges as it's forced out a blood-soaked mouth, the sound warped—strangled and splintering off—from pain. And yet both would continue to call out until the breath is pulled from their lungs—'til their jaws unhinge—waiting for a response. Because there's always a response—always—however late or unexpected it may come.

"Soul!—Are you alright?"

"Stop worrying about me. He's planning his next move."

And as for answers, they're brief and dismissive.

For such close partners, they speak to each other surprisingly little—or at least about the important things. Neither has the words and neither is really sure they want them—because saying it aloud makes it real. All the panic, the soul-shattering fear for each other's safety and survival is out there in the open, raw and ugly and in the way.

No. Simple phrases are better. They'll tell one another that everything's alright even when it's so far from the truth that it hurts their teeth to say it.

Daijōbu.

Such a comforting lie.

Smell

They've grown used to the smell of blood over their year of partnership—theirs, their friends', enemies'. It's one of the hazards of their job. Ripe, murky, and strangely metallic, it's found its way onto almost every article of clothing they own. Small wonder Death City's Laundromat makes a killing.

But there are some stains that not even Shinigami-sama's finest detergents can remove.

Black Blood is sticky. It clings to everything, clutching at whatever it touches with malignant little fingers. And even when the spots begin to fade, the smell of it lingers: sickly-sweet and awful.

It sits thick in the air of the Room in Soul's subconscious, coating the back of Maka's throat like devious ink. The Imp watches her, grinning like the Cheshire Cat 'til her head begins to spin, and she all but buries her nose in the collar of Soul's suit to return to a place both safe and familiar.

For his part, Soul's known this scent for a long time; so similar to the one that's haunted him, and more familiar than the small gloved hand holding his own. He pulls Maka closer in the dance, quietly positioning his body between her and the Imp.

He seems to be doing that a lot lately.

Sight

It's almost uncanny how he's always there just in time to pull her out of fear, insanity, doubt, and death. How he's there at just the right moment to piss her off, make her worry herself sick over him, bicker with her father, carry her beaten body home. He's in front of every blow meant for her, arms stretched, mouth set. She's seen his flesh torn apart, his soul bitten into like a ripe apple, all to protect her. And frankly, it scares her.

He watches her try to shut him out, to fight alone—to prove that she's just as strong as he is: she'll go charging into battle without thinking, all but asking to be killed. He's seen her broken and furious, chest heaving, tear-brightened eyes demanding to know—why can't I do this?

But there are worse times as well—times when her face shuts down and she curls up into a tight ball within herself. When Spirit slips away into the cabaret for days on end, when Crona leaves without a word, when she really believed for those few moments that Soul would leave her for Blair—this is what sentences her to her personal Hell; a place so distant, so closed to him, that sometimes he's afraid she'll never come back. The thought scares him shitless.

They're both so scared.

Touch

All there is are her painfully ragged breaths and the shockwaves trembling up her legs as she rushes to catch the trailing fabric of the escaping Kishin. Adrenaline carries them past the despondency of their friends—rage and despair propelling her forward just quick enough to grasp the last thread. And then she's flying up.

Cold wind whips past as they ascend the passage far too quickly. Maka yells something and slams Soul's blade into the brick-and-mortar wall. She feels him shudder in her hand as his blade shrieks through mortar like a thousand nails on a chalkboard, and swallows the heavy stone of guilt. It's made no difference in their speed and her sweating hand cramps awfully in her glove as she forces her fingers to hold on. She's beginning to slip.

The Kishin breaks through the city street—chunks of cobbling exploding in every direction—and she might just have managed to hold on, but a stray piece cracks her in the back of the head.

And it's like flipping a switch as she releases both Kishin and scythe and begins a ragdoll freefall towards. All she registers is nauseating pain and sudden descent and no—

And then wickedly strong arms are there, wrapping around her shoulders and middle like a tourniquet, holding her against the only solid surface as the air rushes by around them and they plunge through the storefront canopy. Bottles and crates and poles and tables give way violently beneath them. The force of impact snatches the breath from his lungs and he grits his teeth, pressing Maka's head into his shoulder as to keep from crying out from the excruciating assault on his back.

Roaring waves of pain ripple and twinge through his neck and spine, blinding him for a few moments. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he wonders vaguely how many of and what he's broken. But that's the least of his concerns.

Maka stirs—makes an impossible effort to get up, to help, to stop him—and she struggles, muttering words of duty and self-disappointment before nausea and unconsciousness claim her again and she falls back onto Soul's chest.

The boy is stunned. He figures he must be in some sort of shock because his limbs are slowly loosing feeling. And all he can do is laugh quietly to himself in awed disbelief—because that's Maka… Incredible.

A thousand feet above the Kishin and Shinigami-sama exchange words and blows too far away for Soul to hear or fully grasp anything except a certainty that—in this new, surreal world of bleeding clouds and warring gods—nothing was ever going to be the same. It's all he can do to watch and wonder and fear and shield Maka against the shockwaves from the blows above.

And then the show is over—the Kishin's escaped—and Soul sighs, the comforting weight of his meister pressing him against solid ground. He nudges her head over with his chin and manages, at length, the Herculean task of getting them both on their feet.

With one last huge effort, he gently hoists his meister onto his mangled back and begins the long trek home; whoever's completely incapacitated always gets first treatment.

It's not always as fair as it sounds.

Taste

"Ahhhh," Soul pantomimes, opening his sharp-toothed mouth wide in example as inches the spoon closer to her mouth. It remains tightly closed in an unhappy line. He sighs; neither of them wants to be doing this. But since being paralyzed by Arachne's golem, the only thing in Maka's control is her facial expression, which is enough to express her varying levels of displeasure, but not to keep her fed.

Instructed by Nygus-sensei get the food-energy in her himself—because they're partners, after all—he was shoved a bowl of porridge, a plastic spoon, and a very uncooperative Maka. At one point BlackStar had volunteered to help, but Soul had declined, not particularly keen on murdering his meister.

"Nygus-sensei will kick my ass if I don't get you to eat anything, you know," he mutters.

"I'd do it for her if I could move."

At least it would be a different kind of abuse. He leans back in the folding chair, biting back his growing irritation. This wasn't cool to begin with, but now—after nearly an hour—they've both lost their patience with each other. Clearly he needs to try a different approach.

"Look, you're reading too much into this; you feed me souls all the time, don't you?"

"That's different, idiot."

As if on cue, her stomach growls loudly. Soul cracks a grins inspite of himself.

"You don't have to keep proving it to me, Maka," Soul sighs, his breath tickling against her forehead as he leans over to set the bowl on her lap. "I already know how strong you are." He puts the full spoon to her lips once more.

The porridge is cold and lumpy from its hour-long wait, and awful powdery medicine that hasn't been mixed in properly sticks nastily to her tongue. But as far as Maka cares to notice, it's the best meal she's ever had.

AN: Kind of irritated at myself for not keeping things quite as short and clipped as I'd intended for this story. I got caught up in the thoughts of the characters this time—so much so that, in the end, I couldn't bear to extract them and rewrite it all...Where's a Maka Chop when you need one?! D: Hope to get back on track with the next chapter… :)