Work Text:
Today sucked. There was nothing for Maka but a night with her girls at one of their favorite haunts: The Graveyard.
Not a literal haunt, of course. They might live in a place called Death City, with a local mascot of a cheery skull-masked grim reaper, but it didn’t mean they were all dreary and hung out at actual tombs and such. No, Maka would rather leave that to the bartender at The Graveyard.
That fits Soul’s vibe down to a tee.
Maka snorts to herself, sloshing the straw around her boozy slushie. On her right, Liz is leaning over the bar, helping herself to another shot while Soul’s back is turned. He’d long since given up trying to police her or Patti, who actually climbs behind the bar and fulfills orders sometimes. Tsubaki always laid down 120% of the drink costs anyway. Liz downs her shot and Tsubaki slips the cash on the other side of the counter after catching Soul’s beleaguered expression while he spins bottles and shakes canisters.
Tonight, it is just Maka, Tsubaki and Liz. Slurping the rest of her blue raspberry drink, Maka sticks her tongue out at him and drags her two girls out onto the floor for the main event. The Graveyard is great because it isn’t a bar-club; it’s a bar- cade . The main floor is crowded with ancient gaming consoles, free to play and refurbished with drink holders on either side of their grubby little joystick and button panels. Anything newer than the year 1999 is pay to play, but there are computers with emulators for games that their friend and the bar owner Killik hasn’t been able to find in the back that are free, too.
Gaming music mixes with techno and with a killer buzz from the deceptively alcoholic drinks Soul mixes, the three lose themselves in a delirious button-mashing ragefest. Random guys challenge them now and then, no doubt, attempting to win them over, but Tsubaki’s demure smiles hide her ruthlessness, Liz is outright aggressive and antagonistic with the foulest mouth, and Maka, well, she just likes to make men cry.
It is just what she needs, to vent out all the anger and frustration from her week and especially today at work. Her office job is not satisfying in the least, and her coworkers suck. The night continues to blur on by with Soul’s heavy hand- his friends would get top shelf, he guaranteed it- and Maka feels the knot of tension start to unravel. Of course, that’s when everything takes a turn for the worst.
She excused herself for two minutes- TWO- to pee and splash water on her face, mentally gearing up for the next round. The pounding of the bass from the DJ station rattles the mirror and thrums in her chest. Maka steps out of the bathroom, head down as she runs a hand through her hair when-
-BAM!
Maka spins on a dime, left side of her chest throbbing, reeling back a fist and lashing out immediately. Her blind knuckles land on flesh and she can almost hear the snap of whoever it was’ head when it whips back. Clutching her injury, Maka draws up all five foot five of herself to try and identify her attacker.
The man is taller, but not by much, with a head of electric blue hair and biceps for days shown by his ‘high fives, good vibes’ muscle tank. Still, Maka has never been taken in by a pretty set of muscles before, so she screeches, “You punched me in the BOOB!”
To accentuate her point and displeasure, she punches him again, in his boob. He grabs her wrists after the air is knocked out of him, trying to restrain her wildly flailing limbs.
“YOU punched me in the FACE!” he counters.
“Yeah, ‘cause you sucker-punched my BOOB!” she says intelligently. Maka is nothing but eloquent.
Through her red-filled vision, she catches a flash of white hair and then hears Soul’s voice struggling to be heard over the music. Maka wrenches her hands out of the punchy guy’s hands to squint around him. Blue Hair keeps his hands up protectively, which is smart of him; she wants to hit him again. Her boob frickin’ hurts . Soul is not behind the counter, but is using his long arms to try and break up part of a fight that has broken out across the bar.
How..? She had been in the bathroom for TWO MINUTES.
Of course, Liz is in the thick of it and Maka honestly can’t tell if she’s helping or hindering Soul. Roughly shouldering past Electric Bluegaloo, Maka sneaks in another punch to his unprotected side. She shouldn’t be surprised when he snags her arm, but somehow she is. She is rightfully surprised when he tugs her back into his chest.
She does not squeak. Maka does not .
Soul’s looking at her or Windex kinda weird, she can’t tell. It’s hard to focus when she gets a good feel of those biceps and an equally muscular chest. She hears Killik over the noise as he swoops in and there’s a flash of long dark hair that must be Tsu’s when Liz is broken away from whatever sucker was unlucky enough to pick a fight or offend her.
“I got this one, boss!” Blue Man Group Dropout yells over her shoulder. There’s some hand gestures and looks that pass between Killik and Soul that Maka doesn’t understand. No time to decipher them, though, because the dude that punched her in the BOOB is lifting her up easily and carrying her off.
She’s shocked into silence, really, since neither her friends she came with nor her friends that work here are doing a damn thing to stop him.
By the time Maka mentally recollects herself, it is quieter and brighter. She’s sitting on a chair in the back room of The Graveyard, where she’s only been one other time, to change out of work clothes into more casual wear Tsubaki had brought for her after a late shift.
Looking up at the man standing over her, she can only stare and say, “...what.”
“You gonna be chill about this?” he huffs, raking a hand through his hair in a way that definitely does not inadvertently show off his arms that Maka clearly doesn’t notice.
“What? You punching then kidnapping me? You aren’t allowed back here!” she accuses.
“Actually…” he trails, walking around her to tug the small employee fridge in the corner open to grab the single ice pack out of it like he knew it would be there. “I am.”
He tosses her the pack, “Didn’t mean to punch you by the way, but-”
“I was coming out of the bathroom,” Maka complains, pressing the cold pack to her chest. “Why even throw a punch that way when the fight was over at the bar?”
“Guess I got excited..?” he shrugs and drags a second chair over to straddle it backwards. It should look dumb and Maka hates that it looks casual instead. “It is my first day and all.”
Maka blanks. She reacts automatically when he makes a gesture with his hand, pressing the cold pack to her chest. Spell broken, she winces and mentally pieces her brain back together. He grimaces in empathy with her.
“First day, huh? You the replacement for Rock’em Sock’em Robots or something?” Maka says to the ceiling through squinty eyes. The brightness distracts her from the pain and from noticing how intently he watches her.
“Wait, they have that?!” Her head snaps down to see the genuine excitement writ on his face. Just as quickly, he jogs himself out of it, scratching at his jaw when he realizes her joke. “Uh, no. I’m the muscle.”
“The muscle.”
“Yep.”
“You, you’re the… muscle.”
“You bet.”
Green eyes flicker over his arms again, folded and on display over the back of the chair. She slumps in her seat a little.
“Sure.”
He squirms under the starched light in the backroom, hair still garish blue. He flinches a little and Maka peels the ice pack off her shirt and hands it to him. He tries to refuse, but she just raises an eyebrow and gives him a wry grin.
“I bet it’s fine, really…” he trails, twisting gingerly to raise the side of his tank. “...what the shit .”
Maka just wiggles the ice pack in his direction. When he takes it, she can see the slowly blooming bruises from her jabs to his side. That’s all she sees, not the way his obliques flex. Certainly not the shadow of some abs.
He hisses at the contact with the cold brick then assesses her. “Maybe you should be the muscle,” he teases.
Maybe it’s the alcohol. Maybe it’s the easy-going lopsided grin on this near stranger’s face. Maybe it's the adrenaline of their almost fight or the endorphins trying to cut her own punch induced pain. Maybe Maka is done making men cry for the night.
“That’s me, Maka the Muscle.” It’s not a good starting line, but Maka is out of practice flirting because she actually never flirts. Sue her.
“Black Star,” he responds, grin widening, leaning forward to almost tip his chair.