He sleeps poorly that night.

It’s strange to think that he’s already grown accustomed to his soulmate’s nightly visits, but somehow he has. Two nights of healing rest, a third interrupted visit, and now a part of him is missing the rest and reassurance even though it’s only been a single night.

Degurechaff politely says nothing as he hauls himself from his bedroll and gets dressed, and for her sake — for the sake of all his men — he boxes up his emotions and sets them aside for later.

They can’t afford for him to be off his game.

---

They work together like a well-oiled team.

He’s always known that Degurechaff was clever-sharp-capable, but he’s never quite appreciated the extent of it until it’s him and her against the world. Without the other officers in the way, their meetings are short, to the point, and decisive. Between them it almost feels like they can… perhaps not win, but at least survive until help arrives.

(Or until the Empire falls.)

(He tries not to consider that outcome.)

---

Degurechaff knows far more about guerrilla warfare than Erich knows what to do with.

They’re not quite there yet — their force is too large and they’re unwilling to divide into small, self-contained units — but… they start taking measures as they go. Caches of supplies tucked into places their enemy probably won’t find. Scouting focused on the lay of the land and plotting escape routes. Hit and run tactics in an attempt to delay and disrupt their enemy. A base camp hidden away where their wounded can recover in relative safety.

Their raids go off better than they should, mysteriously smooth in a way that indicates his soulmate hasn’t left the area. No alarms are sounded, no warnings go out, nothing happens except for the usual mishaps and trouble; some wounded, a rare few dead, a general lack of useful information to steal, the standard issues of raiding.

His soulmate still doesn’t visit, keeping his distance in a way that makes Erich itch. He wants—

But he shouldn’t, and he knows it.

His soulmate is still a Reaper, still a danger to him and his wife and all the people relying on him, Quincy and soldier alike.

But there are no more murdered camps that he comes across, no more indication that the Reaper is taking things into his own hands beyond smoothing their way, and he…

He doesn’t know what to do with that.

His sleep is restless and unfulfilling.

---

Erich slips away from his men as they all return from another raid, leaving Degurechaff in charge without qualm. She’s shown herself more than competent at handling their combined unit without him around, so… it’s no issue to leave her to it.

He trusts her.

(And he’s so, so tired…)

He ducks into his tent with a sigh and seats himself on his bedroll, burying his head in his hands. He’s tired and sweaty and disheveled, his muscles ache and his feet are sore and he wants to go home but there’s no end in sight, there hasn’t been for years. He’s tired of the killing and the regretful souls and the Hollows that arise from them. He’s tired of sleeping alone and tired of hard beds and terrible food and—

Erich takes a deep breath. Lets his frustrations crowd his mind. Breathes out and lets them go.

(It’s not permanent, it’s never permanent, but…)

(It’s the only thing he can do.)

He straightens. Unbuttons his cuffs and brushes a hand over each of his soulmarks. Alexis is still fierce-determined-focused alongside her usual concern-love-trust and the sense of her feels… closer. She’s almost certainly coming to find him, he decides, and that’s definitely something he should inform Degurechaff of before it becomes an unwelcome surprise.

(He’ll tell her in the morning.)

(She doesn’t deserve to be blindsided.)

The Reaper is also the same reassurance-trust-loyalty as before, but the sense of depression and defeat has… tapered off. It’s still there, but now it’s tempered by patience and… he’s not sure how to take that.

Erich reaches over and pulls his bag closer, digging through it for a change of clothing that isn’t a mess. They really do need to head back to their base camp for supplies and cleaner clothing. Maybe he’ll suggest that to Degurechaff in the morning as well.

The strange hat the Reaper wore tumbles out of his pack as he digs, crumpled and a bit dirtied but otherwise fine. He pauses. Stares at it. Slowly picks it up, running the wide brim through his fingers—

“Your soulmate has terrible taste in clothing, sir, did I ever mention that?” Degurechaff asks as she enters his — their — tent and spies the hat in his hands.

He snorts, the corners of his mouth lifting involuntarily at her words. “You didn’t, but I had gotten the impression off of you, yes.”

Degurechaff comes to a stop a short distance away, hands clasped behind her back and an unreadable look in her pale eyes. Her gaze sweeps over him and he straightens at the assessing stare, wondering at the cause. He’s been professional, he’s been focused, hasn’t allowed himself to wander or leave without her or another soldier except here in the heart of their camp.

So why is she—

“He’s still nearby,” she says without preamble, then sighs through her nose when Erich nods once. “Call for him.”

“I— pardon?” Erich blinks, hands faltering in their motions. He wonders if he heard her wrong, if he’s maybe asleep, if she’s been somehow influenced by the Reaper—

“While I appreciate that he’s stepped back and given you room, you are still affected by his presence and who he is,” Degurechaff begins to explain. “Call him in so that we can get this conversation over before the uncertainty on both of your sides begins to fester. The lack of sleep hasn’t affected you poorly yet, but it will soon enough.”

He hesitates. Watches. Waits for Degurechaff to take her words back, to tell him she’s joking, to… to something that will make sense of her words.

(She didn’t want the Reaper around and now she does…?)

But she doesn’t say anything, just watches him in return, one eyebrow slowly inching up as the silence stretches between them.

He gives in first.

(Of course he does.)

(She’s telling him to do something he wants to do but doesn’t dare.)

(Why would he refuse?)

There’s a satisfied glint in her eyes as Erich sets the Reaper’s hat aside and settles a hand on the man’s mark. He breathes in. Out. Centers himself and tucks away the emotions he doesn’t need. Focuses on need-want you here-please and pushes it down the mark, tries to make it as clear as possible, tries to ignore the glimmer of hope that maybe everything will be better, maybe he was wrong, maybe-maybe-maybe—

“Maa, I didn’t expect such a welcome!” the man announces as he appears in the center of the tent as if by magic.

Erich starts, yanked from his focus by the words. He looks up, feeling suddenly tiny-helpless-insignificant, feels his heart stutter and his breath catch and his mouth dry because no, he wasn’t wrong, that’s a Reaper and he’s currently looming and—

“Sit your ass down,” Degurechaff orders gruffly, and the words manage to penetrate his rising panic because— because—

When did she have time to learn Akitsugo?

(The Akitsushima Dominion hasn’t been important for most of her career.)

(So why would she take the time to learn it?)

It’s the incongruity — the clean diction and easy grasp of a complex language so unlike their own — that gives his mind something else to focus on. Even as the Reaper sends a surprised look Degurechaff’s way and then sits as ordered, Erich’s attention is on Degurechaff instead of him. He arches an eyebrow in question and she… hesitates?

“Later, sir,” Degurechaff answers in their native language.

Erich accepts that answer with a small nod, content to let it be, then turns his attention reluctantly back to the Reaper. Now that the man isn’t looming, his presence isn’t quite so overwhelming. He still can’t sense much of anything from the man’s presence, but there is something there.

(He breathes out.)

(In.)

(Tastes the blood-death-chill of a Reaper and wants to hide—)

“Was there a reason you wanted me here, or was it just to admire me?” the man asks with a smirk, leaning towards Erich as he does. “I’m certainly willing to be admired—”

“Why are you here,” Degurechaff interrupts before he can complete his sentence. The look she levels on the Reaper is one that Erich’s only seen her level on under-performing soldiers, and it makes him tense, makes him remember the moment she hurled a cadet from the third floor and threatened to carve the rules into his skull—

“Maa, maa, my soulmate called out to me! Why else would I be here?”

Breath hisses through Degurechaff’s lips and she reaches up to adjust her cap. “You know what I mean.”

The Reaper hums and rubs at his chin, expression mischievous. “I didn’t know it was illegal to leave my country in order to find my soulmate.”

“You’re a soul. I saw you. Why are you here?” Erich says before Degurechaff can dig herself deeper, earning himself two grimaces for his butchery of the language.

“Sir… your accent is…” Degurechaff trails off with an awkward grimace, clearly trying to figure out how to politely tell him that he speaks like the worst sort of foreigner she’s ever heard.

“Being underestimated has its advantages,” Erich says with a touch of amusement. “People say all sorts of things when they don’t think you can understand them.”

(That, and it’s been years since he had a chance to practice.)

(He’s… a bit more out of practice than he expected.)

She gives him a flat, unimpressed look, but it’s clear she understands both his spoken and unspoken answer. “Just tell me if he says something you can’t catch, sir,” she says at last, then turns back to the Reaper and scowls at him. “Answer the question.”

The Reaper laughs awkwardly and leans back, rubbing at the back of his head. “Maa, can’t a guy just want to meet his soulmate?” He twitches at the way Degurechaff’s expression turns colder and raises his hands in a placating gesture. “Uh… would you believe I was bored?”

“Sir…”

Erich sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. “I know.”

They’re getting nowhere, both of them dancing around the truth. The Reaper hasn’t even acknowledged that he is a soul, and Erich doesn’t want to indicate that he knows what the man is because there’s no reason he should know. Quincy know about Reapers, but the average human doesn’t.

(They can’t build a relationship on lies.)

(He knows this, and yet…)

Degurechaff looks between them, her gaze sharp-cold-calculating, and Erich feels his stomach knot. She knows the history even if she doesn’t know what the Reaper is, and she knows his reaction to it. That she hasn’t called him out for being a coward is a miracle in and of itself, evidence that she respects him more than he ever expected.

A part of him… doesn’t want to let her down.

(Foolish.)

(Why does he care so much?)

(When did he stop feeling terror at the very thought of her?)

Erich grimaces and straightens up, setting the man’s hat aside and tugging his cuffs back in place. “Degurechaff, if you could translate for me?” He’s not willing to risk fumbling his words or speaking something wrong. Not now. Not when everything relies on clear communication. Her nod is all he needs, and he tilts his chin as he gathers his thoughts.

“I know what you are,” he starts, staring at the Reaper with narrowed eyes. “I know what you are and what your people have done to mine, Shinigami,” he hisses, deliberately using the Akitsugo word for Reapers. “I have no interest in placing my life in the hands of one who will end it without hesitation.”

The Reaper startles at the word, attention darting from Degurechaff to Erich and back, listening to her translate and growing more thoughtful as she does. Erich can almost see it as the man pieces it all together, can see the understanding grow, and—

Genius, the plum tree across his right side promises.

He’s not exactly handed the man a complex problem but… the understanding sparks faster than he’d like. It sends a chill down his spine and he can’t force himself to remain in place, sends a glance Degurechaff’s way, doesn’t know what she reads from his expression but she moves, stands between them and he—

Leaves.