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Franken’s words hung thick in the air, seeming to settle over the three of them like opaque fog or billowing black smoke.
“It isn’t your fault.”
He adjusted the calloused hand he’d placed upon Maka’s trembling shoulder, his solemn and half-lidded gaze continuously oscillating between the girl and her unconscious weapon partner.
Mere moments earlier, he’d been fiddling with and restocking some of the medication and first aid items in the glass cabinet, fussing with the positioning of the isopropyl alcohol, when he heard a few pitiful whimpers and sniffles sounding from behind the infirmary’s large privacy curtain.
“He wouldn’t have gotten hurt if it wasn’t for me,” muttered she, voice breaking, in between wrenching sobs. “What if.. what if I-“
“Getting too lost in the ‘what if’s’ will cause you nothing but suffering. What could’ve happened doesn’t matter- not in the grand scheme of things. It won’t change what did happen.”
With a liquid glaze sheathing both of her eyes and with quivering lips, she peered up at the scientist. “You’re right. …But.. I just can’t help it sometimes.”
“We all have our moments,” he heaved a sigh of understanding. “In situations such as this, it’s only natural to actively seek something to place the blame on. But doing so isn’t exactly productive.”
Maka gently and mindfully rested her hand over Soul’s clothed chest. “I know,” she herself sighed, finding solace in the way in which the plummeting sun painted over her weapon, dusted over each and every crevice and arch in his visage.
“He’ll be just fine soon enough. He’s making a swift recovery - an impressive one, even.”
She snuffled, a teensy smile tugging on the corners of her lips. “Thank you, professor. Truly. For everything. For… fixing him up.”
“You’re welcome.”