"Soul, we match!" Maka's exclamation caught him off-guard. He'd been staring again. Soul blinked in confusion before his eyes settled on what she was referring to. She pointed at him, to his bare chest in particular, and the scar that crossed it from shoulder nearly to his hip. Then she tugged up the edge of her own shirt to give him a better view of her midriff, and her own disfiguring battle scar that commanded his attention every time it was visible, and often even when it wasn't. He rolled his eyes, masking that quick stab of guilt he felt whenever he thought of it.

Maka fell silent, her cheerful demeanor dampening slightly, but she didn't change the subject like she so often did, for his sake. His first inclination was to go put a shirt on and find somewhere else he had to be, and brood. Instead, he silently pondered her words, his face revealing none of his thoughts. And she stared back, waiting.

They were in their apartment, taking shelter from the sweltering heat of the summer day. He'd been pacing around idly in only a pair of pants, fanning himself with a magazine as he tried to think of something besides how hot it was. Maka was sprawled out on the couch, watching some game show on TV, her tank top hiked up as high as her shyness would tolerate with him around. She rubbed at the jagged gash that wasn't quite healed. She probably didn't even realize she was doing it. New scars sometimes itched; he would certainly know. He couldn't help but see, and then he couldn't help but watch out of the corner of his eye.

It had been almost two months now. The wound that had threatened her life was now a jagged pink line on her fair skin. In another few months it would shrink a little more, fade a little more, and even though she'd always have it, it wouldn't always be so fresh. Soul wished his memory worked the same, because he remembered it like it was yesterday, and it pained him just as much every time it crossed his mind.

To him, it was as if Maka walked around wearing a badge declaring his failure. He was a weapon and the point of his existence was to protect his meister. If only he had been a little faster, or stronger, or smarter…the what if's paraded through his head every day. But it always came down to him just not being good enough. He'd been too cocky, and it almost cost Maka's life. She didn't deserve that. If a weapon couldn't protect the wielder, what good was it? What good was he?

Maka, being the perceptive little twit that she was, had understood his feelings much better than he would have preferred her to. She had called him out on it, tried to make him understand that it wasn't his fault. Of course she would do that. But every time she did, he shut her down. He didn't want his guilt softened.

Soul was on the verge of making some excuse and getting the hell out when he noticed she was still staring back at him. His thoughts suddenly and unexpectedly shifted to himself, and he reflexively ran his fingers down the ridged line of scar tissue that spanned his chest. He'd gotten it while protecting her; Maka had had a very difficult time during his recovery, plagued with her own feelings of guilt. Back then he hadn't understood why she would feel like that. Didn't she realize he'd done his duty as a weapon? What did she have to feel guilty for? As if he would let her get hurt when he could prevent it.

He was beginning to see a bit clearer now.

Logic and sensibility didn't have much of a sway over Maka when he'd almost died for her, and they had similarly little effect on him now, with the roles reversed. Nothing changed—he still felt guilt like lead pooling at the bottom of his stomach. But now he could understand how she'd felt.

Cautiously, afraid she would flinch or jerk away, he slowly reached out to her. She made no movement when his fingers made contact with her warm skin. He lightly ran them over the raised scar, following it down her ribs and over her side, where it finally tapered off on her lower back.

It had been an accident, but he was never going to let it happen again.

"Hmph." Soul grunted as he straightened, pulling his hand away again. Maka watched him curiously. "Mine is cooler."

A/N: My first Soul Eater fic. The idea's been floating around my head for the past couple of days, so I decided to go ahead and write it, even though I'm not comfortable yet with the canon of this anime/manga. It's really short, but I have semi-kinda-sorta plans for writing a prequel for it. We'll see.

Please review!