Chapter Text
It's Friday, early-afternoon. The mission board is empty; classmates are making plans to hang out, the air is thick and sweet with the smell of honeysuckle. Spirit would be among them, except that he's already got plans. The fact that he barely knows what they are is part of the excitement.
Stein forges a path through the students lollygagging on the road, Spirit hot on his heels. "Tell me where it is!" Spirit begs. "Just a hint!" His meister shakes his head, a ghost of a smile on his lips. "We're going by train," he says, "we've got to get home and pack." He's deflecting, Spirit knows it, but the rarity of not knowing anything about a mission - of not having to know, because Stein's got it handled - is half of what he's been anticipating.
A couple months ago, they had been called before Lord Death to talk about their missions, or, more accurately, to get a lecture about how many they were taking. Their eager was more of a greedy, as it turned out - the handpicked targets put up on the board were meant to serve all the active student teams in the school, and Stein and Spirit were burning through them like there was no tomorrow. Furthermore, each student mission was attached to a staff member, and the rate at which Stein and Spirit were completing them was leaving several people rather sleepless.
(Stein fidgeted at the idea of being tracked, but kept his mouth shut. Spirit nodded apologetically - he felt bad that they'd been making work for their teachers, but it made a lot more sense than his previous assumption that the rubber stamp clearing them to reap souls as members of the DWMA was a full training-wheels-off situation.)
"So, kids!" Lord Death had told them, his large, gloved hands spread as if he were announcing a party and not a restriction, "I'm rate-limiting you!"
It had taken everything in him to keep his polite, good-student expression plastered on his face. In truth, he'd've liked to have made some outcry, or at least received further explanation; but at his side, Stein had flinched so hard you could almost call it a spasm, and his wavelength had begun drawing itself into a tight pattern that was utterly inappropriate for the situation, to put it mildly. "Thank you sir, we understand," he'd said instead, and with a bow, he'd dragged his meister out of the Death Room before their lack of decorum could be commented on.
Stein had watched the mission board like a hawk after that, snatching down only the most exciting assignments and then passing them off to Spirit, who would then do the annoying part, which was receiving the logistical information and getting them to the site. It wasn't so much that Stein was foisting it off on him as that he found it boring, and he was (understandably) sulking.
And Spirit didn't mind, really. He'd learned the local airports, trains, and bus stations better than some of Death City's adult residents, and he had grown used to memorizing chunks of ticky-tacky information on the fly to avoid having to lug around extra notes. It was a useful skillset to have, if tiring.
But for the first time in weeks, Stein has taken it all on himself. Spirit's noticing how much it usually takes out of him now that the burden is gone. He's practically skipping all the way home.
The energy slowly drains out of him over the course of rummaging through his drawers and packing, realising how much of his wardrobe is currently in the laundry, and sitting down on the couch, which, actually, is far too comfortable for studying, something he knows better than to say aloud lest he be admonished to work at his desk or the kitchen table.
He moves to the kitchen table anyway. He isn't bringing schoolwork on a mission, and he wants to know he'll be able to rest when they get back.
Like any other day, Stein emerges from the lab with his stitch-adorned backpack and detours past the fridge, wordlessly laying out the last of their after-school muffins as he sits down across from Spirit with his own work. There's no sound but their breathing, and the turning of pages, and the scratch of their pens.
The angle of the setting sun slides ever-so-slowly across everything - the table, the books, the plate of crumbs and piled wrappers. It's that time of year where the days are long, though the nights can still get cold. Spirit will admit to absolutely no-one at school that he's gotten used to being in bed before the moon crests in the sky. He hides a yawn behind his hand, finally giving up on finishing his notes on the eight reaper legions in favour of sleepily watching Stein scribble tirelessly in both his notebook and his book margins. His lips are slightly parted, his fingers tight around his pen. It's been a while since he's trimmed his hair; with his head bowed over his research, it's long enough to fall in his face. He pauses to tuck a stray strand behind his ear.
Spirit drops his gaze to the table, warm-cheeked - his eyes land on the empty plate. He gets up and throws away the wrappers, then washes the single dish, propping it in the drying rack. He can't be bothered to dry it and put it away.
When he turns around, Stein is right behind him. He jumps a little - the guy's got spooky fuckin' cat steps, dammit - and green eyes crinkle at the corners. "Good timing! We have to be at the station in half an hour," he says. "The train leaves in forty-five." Spirit sticks his tongue out at him. That's cutting it close. He's sure Stein's done the math, though.
...it's harder to let go of the reins than he'd thought.
He huffs, brushing past him to get his backpack on. "You're enjoying this," he accuses. Behind him, he hears a frank and amused "yes", and, now that he's listening for them, socked footsteps on tile. He doesn't try to hide his smile.