#its so important to me that sasha is tall enough to crush me like a pop can. and that jon is a horrible little manlet | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

someonestolemyshoes · 3 years

Note

So... during the time skip, Hange is on a business trip to Marley. Levi stays home to deal with some installation or important project for Hange, gets injured in some stupid way, falls off scaffolding or something. And he doesnt think too much of it because it's such a stupid way to get injured. And he hides it even when it gets worse and Hange is the only one who notices because she knows him so well. BUT when she gets back, it gets worse. And Levi hates hospitals so Hange forces him to go <3

Hello! Thank you so much for the prompt :) I’m not super thrilled with the way this one turned out, but I had a lot of fun anyway, and I hope you enjoy it! Angst ahead, if that’s not your thing.

(Drinking game: take a shot every time Levi says he’s fine)

Levi was no stranger to pain. While he had been luckier than most, Levi had sustained his fair share of injuries. Bruises and breaks were commonplace. Pain became easier to handle, wounds less debilitating to endure.

It didn’t make them hurt any less.

It wasn't a particularly bad accident, but it was a particularly stupid one.

Hange had been tied up in meetings for days, stuck inside Sina with other military personnel, with carnivorous media, with business moguls eager to ensure their pockets would be well lined by any negotiation plans with Marley and their neighbouring countries.

She had taken Armin and Jean alongside her; Armin had a mind with similar mechanics to her own, and as such he was best suited to help her formulate a compelling case with their higher ups, while Jean had attended at Levi’s insistence. Hange had already made it clear that, with Armin gone, they needed somebody to oversee continued construction on the railway line, and Levi, uneasy with the idea of Hange being without an attack dog, had demanded Kirstein attend in his place. The brat was becoming something of a budget Moblit, always trailing after Hange whenever she was around—Levi thought he looked a little pitiful, following her around like an eager puppy, but he supposed he was grateful for it now, if it meant he had no objections taking a trip into the interior with her.

Levi had been left with the rest of the brood. Eren and Mikasa worked diligently, though Eren—distant and despondent as he had been since the Queen’s address after Shiganshina—remained sullen, while Mikasa alternated between shooting Eren looks of concern, and staring scathingly at Levi whenever he came into view. She tolerated him far better, these days, but Levi was unsure she’d ever fully forgive him for his public display at Eren’s trial.

No matter. She did as she was told, reluctantly as may be. Connie and Sasha, on the other hand, were proving problematic.

They lacked focus. The four of them were working on construction of a rail house near the coast, somewhere to store equipment for maintenance, with a few flat beds for workers to rest in between commutes. The walls were coming along, but the space was still lacking a proper roof, covered only by tarp to keep the metal beams and frames inside from rusting before they could be treated and on the tracks. Eren and Mikasa were working quietly on one side, while Connie and Sasha were goofing off on the other.

Levi clicked his tongue. The work was, in theory, far less hazardous than slaying titans had ever been, but they were still a couple of stories in the air on flimsily constructed scaffolding, without any gear to catch them if they fell. The drop wasn’t deadly in itself, but the inside of the half-built hut was full of great mounds of metal, beams and poles and wires covered only by papery thin sheets. A fall onto that, from this height, would result in breaks and bruises at best.

"Oi,” Levi called, making his way around the rickety structure. Connie and Sasha either did not hear him, or chose to ignore him. That had been happening upsettingly often, of late; whatever intimidation tactic Levi had employed when they were still bratty kids had lost its effect. Connie teetered around Sasha as she tried to smear mortar on his cheek, edging along the scaffolding on only his toes until he made his way around her. Levi picked up his pace and called again, more of a snarl this time, a warning, but Sasha let out a shriek of delighted laughter as she managed to slap a trowel full of mortar on the top of Connie’s head. Neither of them heard him.

“You fall and break your necks and Hange will kill me,” Levi said. Sasha twisted to look at him but offered only a smile. Levi was within feet of them, when Connie moved quickly behind Sasha—he was doing nothing suspicious that Levi could see, but Sasha, awaiting retaliation, tried to scurry hurriedly away. Her foot missed the edge of the scaffolding, and there was a fraction of a second in which her eyes widened, body tilting, before Levi moved.

His hand closed around her wrist. With a sharp tug, he jerked her back onto the safety of the scaffolding, but in his rush to grab her he hadn’t the time to brace himself—with his weight unbalanced, the force of his pull sent his body careening forward, tipping over the edge of the plank.

He barely managed to release his grip on Sasha before he lurched over the edge.

It didn’t make them hurt any less.

Levi hit the beams with a resounding clatter. Metal clanged and wood splintered, dust gathering in great plumes as Levi hit the tarp. The beams, built with enough strength to hold steam engines, had no give to them—Levi struck one solidly with his side and his body bowed around it. Something—his ribs, his spine—crunched on impact. The sudden stop made his neck whip down, temple cracking hard against the stone floor.

Every last drop of air punched out of his lungs and a white, dizzying pain exploded in his head. He slumped the rest of the way to the ground, gasping fruitlessly, but his chest, all empty, crushing pressure, would not expand, would not allow for a single wheezing breath.

He lay in a heap on the cold stone. Dimly, he could hear voices, the clatter of feet on wooden planks and the echo of sturdy shoes on the scaffold poles as the kids clambered their way down to him, but everything sounded muffled and distant, warbled by the pound of his pulse and the rush of blood in his ears. He blinked rapidly, squeezed his eyes closed to push the fuzziness from the edges of his vision, then gathered himself slowly, shifting to lay on his back. His every muscle felt tight, seizing from the shock of the impact and sharp, stabbing pain, but despite the tension, something in his side felt loose. He sucked in a few small breaths, pausing at every spike of pain before trying again, and then he pushed himself up to sit. His head felt thick and full, stuffy, too heavy for his neck to hold up. It throbbed with the change of position, a crack of pain so sudden he thought his skull might split in two. He resisted the urge to grab at it as the kids’ footsteps sounded close by, several sets of feet scuffing and clicking against the stone.

Levi pre-empted their concern with a wheezy, “I’m fine,” as Mikasa, followed swiftly by the others, rounded the corner and stopped short of him. “Get back to work.”

None of them moved. Levi focused his swimming gaze on them as well as he could, attempting a glare, but the corner of his eye and the side of his face felt fat, skin tight over the rapidly swollen flesh, and his breathing was tight, uneven, chest jerking with each attempt to fill his empty lungs. Nobody looked intimidated by the sight of him—in fact, all four of the little brats looked almost frightened.

“Captain…” Eren said. Levi scowled, fought not to wince.

“I’m fine.” Gritting his teeth to muffle each pained grunt, Levi grabbed a nearby beam and used it to drag himself up to his feet. His head spun, the ache intensifying to something almost unbearable, and that, coupled with the sickening grinding sensation in his side as he straightened up, was enough to make him sway on the spot. Mikasa was the first to step forward, hovering awkwardly. Levi suppressed the manic urge to laugh—there was some irony somewhere in Mikasa, grudge so steadfastly held, being the one ready to catch him if he fell. Levi shooed her away. His chest ached something terrible, a persistent, resounding swell behind his rib cage. It should be impossible to feel so full, so bloated, yet so empty at the same time.

“You should rest a little more,” Eren said, at the same time Sasha erupted with a wailed apology. Connie looked pale and guilty behind her.

“Hange wants this—shitty thing—finished, by the time—she gets back.” Levi hitched stilted breaths as he spoke. He took a careful step forward. His side screamed, and his head pounded, but he remained upright, which was good enough. He passed by Connie and Sasha, who both looked ashen-faced, and clicked his tongue against his teeth. They’re too tall now, so tall he almost lost his precarious balance when he stretched up to pat them both roughly on the head. Then he brushed past them with as much ease as he could manage.

“Hurry up. The damn walls won’t build themselves.”

Levi had expected to be better by the time Hange returned.

The pain had not subsided at all in the three days that passed between the injury and Hange’s arrival—if anything, it had intensified, and Levi’s bouts of dizziness and breathlessness were near constant. He hid it as well as he could from the others, compensating with vicious scowls and quick, barked instructions, but he couldn’t escape their concerned glances.

The building, at least, was almost complete. They had laid the rafters for the roof the day before, and were hammering on the felt when Hange, Armin, and Jean appeared in the distance.

The weather was blisteringly hot. Eren and Connie had removed their shirts long ago, while Sasha and Mikasa had tried fruitlessly to keep their hair off the base of their necks and out of their faces. Despite his lack of manual labour Levi was just as sweaty as the rest of them, though his skin was pale in comparison. He had argued, albeit rather feebly, to do his part in aiding the construction, but the damn brats had put their foot down on that, at least—as such, Levi had spent the last three days sitting beneath the shade, glumly watching their progress.

He stood when he saw the horses approaching. The others climbed down from the scaffolding, wiping sweat from their hands and faces. They cast Levi a sidelong look, and he glared in return.

“Not a word,” he reminded them coldly. Levi had already demanded that they keep the details of his incident quiet. The swelling on his face had gone down some with the aid of a bag filled with cold sea water, but the bruises were persistent, mottled from his eye to his ear. He could play it off as a far smaller incident than it was, so long as he could keep the ugly welt on his torso well hidden. The bruising there was dark, a deep, violent shade of purple, wrapping around his side and bubbling out over his back.

Eren looked uncertain. Mikasa gave him a stoic, level look, while Sasha and Connie still looked sheepish, avoiding his gaze. They had apologised profusely, and on multiple occasions, for causing such a mess. Levi had, at their insistence, scolded them for messing around, but in truth he had little energy left to care.

Hange waved as soon as they were close enough. She kicked her horse on, Jean and Armin following dutifully behind her. The three of them pulled to a stop and dismounted, leading their horses to shade and water, looking tired, but satisfied. Levi kept his angled down, twisted to one side. He was prolonging the inevitable, he knew, but if he could get Hange talking about the meetings, or with some luck the upcoming expedition, or maybe even the mostly completed rail house, Levi could at least wait until they were alone before Hange battered him with questions.

All three of them had dark circles under their eyes. Armin yawned widely, he and Jean bumping into one another as they walked. Hange, as tired as she looked, strode forward with a delighted confidence—Levi, in spite of himself, quirked his lip in a small smile. It has been too long since Hange looked excited about anything. The prospect of an expedition had breathed some life into her.

“We’ve still got to work out some kinks,” Hange said, “but things are looking good. We’ll set up another meeting with Kiyomi. It might take a little while, but we’ll get out there ourselves. See the world with our own eyes, and—more importantly—let them see us.”

Connie and Sasha exchanged excited glances. Mikasa and Eren shared a more subdued look. Levi understood both perspectives—the prospect of venturing out into the world opened them up to a lot of risks. Each of them carried targets on their backs. One wrong move, and they would be in trouble. But, if all goes according to Hange’s plan, there would be plenty of reward. Freedom was worth any price they could pay, if only they can secure it.

Levi listened as the group reacquainted. Eren and Mikasa seemed pleased to have Armin back in their company, while Sasha hounded Jean endlessly until he relented, and surreptitiously pulled a small pack of cured meat from the inside pocket of his jacket. He had the decency to look embarrassed when he caught Levi’s eye on him, but his abashed expression quickly turned to one of confusion when he caught a good look at Levi’s face.

“The hell happened, Captain?”

Hange, who had been quietly engaged with Armin and the other two, looked around. Levi tutted and curled his lip, letting his fringe fall to cover part of his bruised brow.

“None of your business,” he said. His chest spasmed and he clenched his teeth, fighting the sudden urge to cough. “If you’ve still got the energy to stand around talking, you can get up there and help them finish the damn roof.”

Jean, who either hadn’t quite developed the same immunity to Levi’s brash tone as the rest, or was nervous about Levi scolding him for stealing food from the interior, nodded once and shrugged out of his jacket. Sasha’s eyes followed longingly as he hooked it over the nearby cart sitting on the tracks, but then her gaze shot back to Levi, and she scurried after Jean towards the rail house.

The others followed. Hange’s eye was still on him, and she waited until the group had scrambled up onto the scaffolding and picked up their tools before she crossed over to him. She bent a little, tilting her head to get a good look at his face. Hange let out a low whistle.

“Quite the bruise,” she said. Levi gave her a somewhat guarded look, and carefully shrugged one of his shoulders.

“Brats were messing around,” Levi said simply. “Caught me with a stray elbow.”

He didn’t dare look Hange in the eye long enough to determine whether she believed him. He nodded towards the rail house and said, “They’ll be done in a few hours.”

Hange beamed, bracing her hands on her hips. “They’ve made good progress! I wasn’t sure they’d get it finished by the time we made it back.”

“You wanted it finished,” Levi scowled, “those were your orders.”

“Calling it an order is a little harsh, Levi.”

“You’re our commander, Hange,” Levi said. “You tell us to do something, we do it. By definition, it is an order.”

Hange grimaced. It had been years since Shiganshina, years for Hange to come to grips with the position that had befallen her, and to her credit she had taken to it admirably enough, on the outside. It was only in small, private moments like this that she allowed herself to show doubt. The lack of cooperation from Hizuru had been a blow Hange had expected, but hoped to avoid—she had worked hard on her proposals and her negotiations had been sound, but the rejection stung nonetheless. With each new trial and each new error, Hange felt herself all the more lacking. Her distaste for her own position, for Erwin’s faith, grew stronger, and showed face more often.

Levi took in her sullen expression and winced internally. After a moment of heavy silence, he said, “They give you a hard time?”

“Who?”

“Zackley. The reporters. The kids.”

Hange let out a low chuckle. “Zackley’s as rigorous as ever. Picked apart every last thing we had to say, highlighted every possible flaw in the plan. Made us work hard, as usual. The reporters...asked a lot of questions we didn’t have answers to. They’ll smear our names in the papers tomorrow, no doubt, but it can’t be helped. We did our best. Armin was a huge help, though. He’s still a little nervous, but—so clever! So full of interesting ideas, and he negotiates well. He’ll make a good commander one day.”

“And Kirstein?”

“He’s an excellent paperweight,” Hange said, shooting Levi a sideways grin. “I appreciated the company, but I think we would have been fine without him.”

“Never know,” Levi said gruffly. He couldn’t be sure whether it was the heat of the sun or simply standing too long, but Levi was beginning to feel woozy. Breathing was still a chore, a concentrated effort to suck air into his aching chest and let it out again without choking, coughing, and more often than not he felt lightheaded. He nodded towards the boxes he’d been using as a seat over the last couple of days. “Sit. You look like shit.”

“For once, I don’t think you get to judge me for that.”

Levi had already begun walking stiffly to the boxes, and made no comment. He had no valid argument to give—he did look like shit, far worse than Hange, and he felt even shittier. He dropped a little heavily onto the box and bit back a grunt of pain.

Hange sat next to him. The box shuddered. Levi tensed as pain lanced through his side. He took in a quick, sharp breath, holding it high in his chest when the pain intensified. He could feel Hange’s eye on him and clenched his teeth, fighting to keep his face somewhat neutral.

“You sure you’re okay?” Hange said to him. Levi grunted. He busied himself taking slow, shallow breaths, staring resolutely ahead, avoiding Hange’s keen stare. “You look a little clammy.”

Levi made another quiet noise. Levi wasn’t very talkative at the best of times—this, he knew Hange was aware of, and most of the time Hange was content to fill the silence herself, but today she was quiet, and watching him too closely. Scrutinizing. Levi had often praised Hange for her powers of observation—she had an incredible eye for detail and a knack for spotting patterns and anomalies, a talent which had served the Survey Corps very well, but right now, Levi was cursing it. He didn’t need Hange surveying him.

He was hurting. He’d had a near constant headache since the incident, and his chest felt tight, riddled with pain both dull and sharp, stabbing whenever he breathed too deeply or gave in to the pressing urge to hack out a cough, but more than that, he felt unwell. Groggy, sickly, light-headed. His heart beat frantically, and his skin did feel clammy, cold sweat sitting on his brow. He stared ahead, blinking the fuzziness from his head and resolutely ignoring Hange’s steady stare.

Hange’s palm pressed to his forehead. The sudden touch made him jump—his muscles tensed, his ribs screamed in protest, and Levi let out a strangled groan, biting his tongue a second too late to trap the sound.

He was barely aware of Hange’s fussing as he fought to draw breath. Air grated in his battered lungs as Hange’s hand pressed flat to the back of his neck, her voice warped and muffled in his ear as she felt his sweat-damp skin. His vision tunnelled. He blinked rapidly to clear the black spots and wheezed in the humid air. His chest felt like it might split open, pressure billowing out from behind his ribcage, pressing agonisingly against his damaged bones.

He breathed short and shallow until the haze of pain lessened. Hange’s voice was loud beside him, the sharp, deep bark she used when she felt it necessary to assert her authority. Through the fog in his head he could barely make out her words, but he knew exactly what it was she was demanding. Sasha’s voice was meek in comparison, but it still carried over the distance enough for Levi to hear her.

“It was an accident,” she was saying. “It was our fault—my fault—”

Levi hissed through his teeth. Hange’s hands—one still at the back of his neck, the other curled around his arm—tightened their grip on him.

“Drop it,” Levi said. “Stop grilling them. It doesn’t matter what happened, I’m fine.”

Hange had the audacity to laugh, but there was no humour in it. “Fine? Levi, you can’t even move. You can barely breathe! What the hell did you do?”

“Fell,” he said shortly. His voice sounded weak, but he didn’t have the breath to put more force behind it.

“From where? When? Hell, Levi, when did this happen?”

“Hange, leave it.”

Hange turned her question to the rail house, and Connie answered immediately. Traitors, Levi thought scathingly. Mikasa explained without prompt that they didn’t know the extent of his injuries, that Levi had refused a proper medical examination despite the head wound that had left him unable to stand straight. She explained that they had managed with very little effort to get him to observe the construction from the ground, which, it seemed, was enough to concern Hange—Levi wasn’t the type to sit around doing nothing. He despised being idle and she knew it.

“You should see a doctor, Levi.”

“I’m fine—”

“No, you’re not. What else did you hurt? Just your head?”

Levi felt ill. Hange’s persistent questions were making his head spin and his entire body felt sore and spent. He mustered enough strength to glare at her, but nothing more. Hange was watching him carefully, brow furrowed in concern, but at his silence her expression hardened, and she stood abruptly. Levi bit back another groan as the box moved beneath him.

“You can ride, then?”

Levi squinted up at her. “Hah?”

“If you’re fine, you can ride back into town with me.”

No. “Sure.”

Hange stared at him a little longer, waiting, no doubt, for him to backtrack, admit defeat. Levi clenched his jaw and maintained steely eye contact. Hange narrowed her eye at him, then turned towards the rail house.

“Oi!” Hange called up, cupping a hand around her mouth. Six heads turned their way, popping up over the roof. “We’re heading back early. Leave the scaffolding when you’re done, we’ll send for it tomorrow. Good work!”

She turned on her heel and headed towards the horses, still tacked and tethered beneath the shade of a small copse of trees.

“We’ll go get your head checked.”

“Hange, I said I’m fine.” It was a weak argument, made even moreso when he stood too abruptly and swayed on the spot. Hange darted back towards him and steadied him with a hand on his shoulder, and a little of her angry resolve cracked, worry creasing her brow. She led him, more slowly now, towards the horses with her hand hovering over his back. He braced himself for the agony of her touch, if she pressed her palm against him, but Hange—perhaps in fear of not knowing what other injuries he had sustained—didn’t touch him.

“Humour me,” she said. “If you’re really fine, and it’s really nothing, no harm done. I’ll feel better knowing, and you—” she drew them to a stop by the horses and turned to face him fully, grinning, but the smile didn’t quite reach her eyes, “—you get to say I told you so.”

Levi said nothing. The thought of riding for hours on end made him feel nauseous.

“This is pointless,” he said. “I’ll rest here, if you’re so worried.”

Hange shook her head at him. She untied her own horse and Jean’s, holding the reins out for Levi to take.

“We’re going back now, Captain. That’s an order.”

An hour into the journey, Levi began to struggle in earnest.

No part of the ride had been pleasant—the heat was oppressive, and the motion of the horse required a fluidity in his hips and back that sent sharp jolts through his side with every step. Hange was uncharacteristically quiet, occupied instead by watching Levi from the corner of her eye. His head pounded with increasing intensity the longer they travelled, and between the pain, and the scorching sun, and his pitifully shallow breathing, Levi was feeling more faint by the second.

It was an unsettling sensation. Injuries were always difficult, but Levi had never felt so completely wiped out by physical damage in the past. Three days was enough time for his body to at least begin healing, but Levi had seen no improvement since the moment he struck the beam during his fall—if anything, he’d felt worse by the day.

Now, he was fighting to keep himself upright in the saddle.

They were approaching another clump of trees, great leaves wilting in the heat, when Levi, jaw tight and teeth bared, grunted out a request that they stop.

Hange looked torn. She wanted to hurry back into town, and was already impatient enough that Levi had requested they walk—”It’s too hot, for the horses”—but something on his face must have reflected the severity of his discomfort. Hange directed them to the treeline, dismounting and taking Levi’s reins while he did the same. His feet hit the ground and his knees buckled.

Hange caught him about the elbow but only after he had sunk to the grass. He felt shaky, weak, but more than that he felt vulnerable. Realistically, Levi knew that there was no shame in being hurt, in needing help, but he was a stranger to it. He had been self-sufficient since he was in Kenny’s care, and had grown up with the express understanding that showing weakness was a death sentence. And then again, in the Survey Corps—an injured soldier was titan bait.

There were no titans now, but Levi felt distinctly exposed, sitting in the long grass with his vision swimming and his lungs burning, barely functional.

Hange knelt next to him in the grass. She brought a hand up to his face, fingers curling against his jaw. Her gaze darted over his face, all of her righteous anger forgotten as she took in his state. Levi wanted to shake her off, to shake off the spinning in his head, to stand up and get back on the horse and continue their journey, but he couldn’t find the strength to gather his legs beneath him. Hange’s hands—one on his arm and one still on his face—kept him sitting upright.

“Levi…” Hange said slowly. Words sat on his tongue, reassurance that he was fucking fine, that he just needed a minute, but try as he might, he couldn’t get enough air in to voice them. His chest bubbled and rattled as he drew in a thin breath.

“Levi,” Hange said, sharper this time. Levi blinked blearily and searched for her. Neither of them were moving, but Hange’s image wavered and blurred in front of him. He swallowed. Wheezed. His heart hammered in his ears. Hange’s fingertips found the pulsepoint in his neck, pressing, counting. “Levi—what else hurts?”

Levi swallowed thickly, a nauseous tremor under his tongue. After a moment, he choked out, “cracked a few ribs, probably.”

Hange sucked in a sharp breath. “Let me see.”

He didn’t have the strength to fight her as Hange began unbuttoning his shit. He swayed where he sat, struggling to balance without her hands keeping him upright, until he heard Hange’s hiss as she uncovered the bruises wrapping his chest and back.

Levi looked down and grimaced. The bruising was worse than he remembered, stretching further up his chest, dark and mottled, the flesh tight and swollen.

“Levi, this is bad,” Hange said. “We need to get help.”

“Just need rest,” Levi said. His voice sounded slow and slurred in his own ears. Hange’s hand cupped the side of his neck, her thumb tipping his jaw up to look at his face. His eyelids felt heavy.

“I know it hurts,” she said, “and I know you don’t want to move, but—Levi, please. C’mon, I need you to get up.”

It had been a long, long time since Levi had heard that frantic tone from her. She sounded urgent, panicked. Desperate. Levi dragged his eyes open, but found he couldn’t focus on her face anymore. His lungs protested violently as he tried to speak, only coughing instead, dry and hacking. His chest burned.

Hange dragged him to his feet. Levi’s limbs felt heavy and clumsy, detached and completely out of his control. He leaned heavily into Hange’s side as she moved him across the grass.

“C’mon, Levi—work with me.”

Hange hefted him up onto one of the horses. Her horse, he realised, as she clambered up with him. She settled behind him, her arms gripping the reins either side of him. Levi tried to sit up right, but as she kicked the horse on, he slumped back with a low groan. Hange’s voice rumbled through her chest when she spoke.

“You good?” Hange asked quietly, and then, “stupid question, of course you’re not.” Levi found the strength to scoff, but it was a pitiful sound, and followed swiftly with another pained grunt and a fit of coughing. “Bear it a little longer, okay?”

Consciousness drifted, as they rode on. Levi was dimly aware of the sun on his feverish skin, and of Hange’s warm, solid body at his back. Her jaw brushed his head when she moved. Her voice was constant now, a rumble up his spine and in indistinct mumble in his ear. At times he could pick out her words, but his comprehension was hazy, mind unable to string sentences together, to find meaning in her chatter.

In this state, there was no focal point for the pain. It was consuming, indistinct but ever present, impossible to isolate in any one location. His whole body ached. His breathing was quick and laboured. There was no real respite even in this state.

Hange’s hand repeatedly found his throat, fingers feeling for his frantic pulse.

Time passed strangely. The ride seemed to last a lifetime, with Levi waking a thousand times to agony, consciousness barely breaking before he succumbed again to his feverish dozing.

At times, he awoke to new sounds and new sensations. The echo of multiple voices around him, all talking frantically over one. The scratch of crisp sheets beneath his bare back, the click of shoes on tiled floor. New, stinging, fiery pain, sudden and excruciating enough to make his body jolt in discomfort, followed swiftly by strong hands on his arms and legs to keep him still. Cool air blowing gently over his heated skin. His hand caught in a loose, tangled grip.

The aches in his battered body settled, localised. Levi felt it acutely in his chest, though the pressure no longer felt as intense. Breathing still hurt, but the air came easier now. He felt his lungs fill with it, little by little, for the first time in days. He opened his eyes, blinking rapidly in the light, then rolled his head slowly to look around.

The small window had been cracked open, the fresh, cool air lifting Levi’s fringe, tickling at his brow. Thin morning light poured in, illuminating the small, sparsely furnished room. Besides the bed he lay on, there was only one small table and a stiff, uncomfortable wooden chair.

Hange was slumped low in the chair. Her legs were sprawled out in front of her, her chin dropped to her chest while she slept. She had discarded her military jacket, eye patch, and glasses in a heap on the floor, and her sleeves were rolled up to the elbows, the top buttons of her shirt undone and splayed open. Her hair hung limp and ratty around her face. She looked pale and exhausted.

Levi’s tongue was dry, tacking to his teeth and the roof of his mouth. It took him three attempts to say her name, and when he did it came out raspy and ragged. He tried to move, to reach over and nudge her awake, to ask what the hell had happened since he’d last been lucid—but as he leaned over a sudden, white hot agony ripped through him, tearing into his side.

He gave a strangled groan and pressed himself back into the mattress, squeezing his eyes closed as he rode out the spasms. Wood scraped by the bed; Hange must have startled awake at his outburst. Levi squinted an eye open to see her blinking rapidly, rubbing her knuckles into her eyes before scooping up her glasses and taking in the sight of him.

The pain subsided little by little, though Levi didn’t dare move again. Hange sat on the edge of her chair and reached for him, her hand stopping short of his and falling to grip the bed sheets instead.

“How you feeling?”

Levi cleared his throat. “Like shit.”

Hange managed a weak smile. The bags under her eyes were considerably darker than they had been before, her skin paler, papery. Levi frowned at her. “You still look like shit.”

Hange waved him off with a small laugh, sitting back and scrubbing her hands over her face. She hung her head over the back of her chair, fingers pressing into her eyes beneath her glasses. She sat for a long while, observing the backs of her eyelids. Levi watched her through pinched eyes as the burn in his side settled to a more familiar ache.

“Don’t do that,” Hange said, voice strained by the stretch of her throat. “Don’t do that again.”

“Which part?” Levi said.

“All of it. Don’t get in stupid accidents. Don’t pretend you’re fine when you’re not. Don’t—”

She stopped short, then, with a sudden hitch of her breath. Levi watched her dig her fingers harder into her eyes, watched the bob of her throat as she swallowed reflexively. For a moment she was quiet, then she sat up straight and turned watery, bloodshot eyes on him.

Hange was strong. She was a far more emotionally available person than he could ever be, but she had an incredible capacity to compartmentalise. To switch off. To accept the necessity, the inevitability of loss, to evaluate and recalculate and move forward. Hange mourned—Levi had witnessed the aftermath of it plenty of times before, repaired broken tables and reorganised upended bookshelves in the wake of her disaster—but she mourned later. Alone. Felt all her fears and frustrations in isolation, away from prying eyes.

Hange wasn’t the type to cry at peoples besides and beg them to live.

And yet.

“Don’t leave me on my own.”

“It wasn’t that—”

“You dare tell me it wasn’t that bad and I’ll kill you myself.”

Levi clamped his mouth shut. Hange was glaring at him like she might really mean it. Instead of arguing, he said, “what’s the damage?”

Hange slumped forward, elbows on her knees and head hung low. “Broken ribs. Ripped up a few muscles in your back. Collapsed lung. The air pressure in your chest was restricting blood flow to your heart.” She put her head in her hands and dug her fingers into her messy hair. “You got so fucking lucky, Levi. If we hadn’t left when we did—”

He watched silently as Hange groaned into her palms. She breathed deeply, back and shoulders raising as she did.

“You could have died.”

“I didn’t.”

Hange’s head shot up. “By the skin of your teeth, Levi. You—” she took a long, steadying breath, but her voice still shook as she continued, “—you were barely breathing. You couldn’t talk to me, you would hardly even respond to me.”

“Sorry.”

Levi wasn’t sure what else he was supposed to say. Hange looked distraught, her composure tenuous. Levi’s fingers twitched on the sheets, itching to reach out and touch her, offer some kind of reassurance that he was here, he was fine—but he wasn’t fine, and moving so far was out of the question. He gripped hard at the sheets instead. “Sorry.”

“Not you as well,” Hange said quietly. Levi’s chest tightened painfully at her tone—she sounded so small in that moment. Scared. Levi wasn’t sure he’d ever heard her sound so frail before. “What am I supposed to do if you—” she cut herself off again, shaking her head.

“Same thing you always do.” Hange curled tightly in on herself. Levi turned to stare at the ceiling instead. “You keep going, Commander.”

“Don’t. Don’t do that.”

“One day or another, everyone you care about eventually dies. You said that.” He listened as Hange’s breath hitched, but refused to look at her. “It sucks. It hurts. But we keep moving forward.”

The mattress dipped by his hand. Levi rolled his eyes down, and found Hange hunched out of her chair, her face pressed into the blankets. Levi sunk his fingers quietly into her hair.

They lapsed into a painful silence. Hange hiccupped and sniffled now and then, while Levi scratched lightly at her scalp. After a long while, Hange spoke again.

“I know those were my words,” she said thickly. “But I can’t accept that. Not now. Not after everything.”

“Stubborn,” Levi said quietly. He pulled lightly at her hair until she raised her head, wiping her cheeks and nose messily on her arm. “Disgusting.”

Hange managed a bare, wobbly smile. Levi’s hand fell from her hair as she straightened up, and Hange scooped it up in both of her own. She played absently with his fingers, curling and flexing them, rubbing her thumb over the lines on his palm. She seemed to be gathering herself, brow a little furrowed in thought.

“I know we can’t guarantee anything. I know how uncertain our world is. But just—” Hange paused, closing Levi’s fingers around her own, then looked up at him with a fierce determination. “Promise me anyway.”

Levi blinked sluggishly at her. “Promise you what?”

“That you’ll survive.”

Levi tensed. “Hange…”

“Indulge me. Just this once, please.”

A promise of that kind was unrealistic, Levi knew this. Hange had said so herself: there were no guarantees. Except, that wasn’t quite true—death, at least, was a constant. The only inevitability they had. The island may be free of titans now, but the threat of attack loomed over them like a persistent storm cloud, black and heavy, ready to give at any moment. And accidents, as he had painfully learned, could happen in the blink of an eye.

Levi was resilient, but he wasn’t invincible.

But Hange was looking at him steadily, her resolve unwavering. She wanted his word here and now. Needed it, maybe, but Levi knew her. Hange valued honesty over everything else. There was no way she could feel at ease with such an empty promise.

Levi sighed.

“You’re a brat, you know that? Looking at me like that.”

Hange’s gaze held firm. Levi felt her grip on his hand tighten.

“I can’t promise shit like that, Hange,” he said. She squeezed his hand tighter still, and her body tensed, shoulders drawing up to her ears. “You know I can’t. Nobody can.”

For one horrible, gut wrenching moment, Levi thought she might cry again. She took a deep breath and closed her eyes but when she opened them again, her good eye looked terribly blank.

“You’re right. Sorry, sorry!” She let go of his hand and sat back in her chair, hands resting on her legs instead. Her voice sounded lighter, more like Hange, but there was something off about it. Something forced. Strained. She adjusted her glasses but didn’t meet his gaze again.

This was the Hange he knew. The Hange who could bury her feelings in the moment, squash them down and push them aside to focus on the rational, the plausible. Seeing her like that didn’t relieve him the way it should have. It left a sour taste in his mouth and a discomfort in his gut, knowing that he was the cause of the grief she felt she had to hide.

It was stupid, the whole situation—how a moment of carelessness lead to this; Levi bedridden, and Hange struggling to hold herself together.

The space between them grew stagnant. Hange seemed a little lost in thought, gaze caught blankly on Levi’s blankets, while Levi watched her, waiting for her to say something else, to change the subject, to be Hange again. But Levi was never one for giving inspiring speeches, and in truth, he didn’t know that anything he could say now would make anything better. Hange would do what Hange always did—wait until she was alone, and vent in whatever way she could.

And Levi, as soon as he was able, would do what he always did, too—pick up the broken pieces and mend as much as he could.

“You should rest.”

Hange blinked tiredly over at him. It had been an age since Hange looked well-rested, years since Shiganshina and the exhaustion of that particular battle had never left her. The burden she carried—everything Erwin had left behind and all that they had discovered since—was so impossibly heavy, the expectations put upon her too much for any one person to handle. Hange had enough to deal with, she didn’t need to be worried about him, too.

“Eat something, bathe. Sleep. I’ll still be here when you come back.” After a pause, he added, “I’ll promise you that much.”

Hange gave him a weak, wry smile as she fished up her eye patch, strapping it into place and righting her glasses over it. “I guess I’ll take that. And then tomorrow, you can promise me the same again.”

Levi rolled his eyes. “Fine, whatever. Go.”

“Alright, alright. I’ll nap for a couple hours and come back. You should sleep some more too, you know. It’ll help you heal faster.”

Levi grumbled in response, and grumbled louder still when Hange stepped up to the bedside, but he fell quiet when she leaned over, brushing his fringe back from his forehead and pressing a small kiss to his hairline. It was such a simple gesture, and nothing out of the ordinary—Hange had been a physically affectionate person as long as he had known her, always grabbing and hugging and kissing whenever she got the chance—but there was something so tender in it, this time. Levi’s eyes fluttered closed.

Hange lingered longer than was strictly necessary, and yet it still didn’t feel like enough. Levi could easily have let her stay close, feel the warmth of her breath and the softness of her lips on his skin until he drifted into sleep, but she straightened up after a moment and Levi was left instead with the cold breeze from the open window. Levi blinked sluggishly up at her. His own exhaustion barrelled in, making his eyes sting, lids heavy. Hange folded her jacket over her arm and pushed the chair into the corner, out of the way.

“I’ll see you soon, okay?” She said.

“Mm.”

“You’re gonna feel like you got crushed by a titan when the pain meds wear off, so make the most of it.”

“Got it.”

“And you should let the doctor know if anything changes. Straight away, don’t wait around.”

“I will.”

"And there are nurses around, if you get hungry or thirsty. The bathroom is just down the hall too, but they've got bedpans if you need to—"

“Hange.”

“I’m going, I’m going.” Hange had already crossed the room as she spoke, but she paused in the doorway, fingers curled around the frame. She deliberated with herself for a moment longer, then said, “hey, Levi?”

“Hm?”

Hange chewed on her lip, contemplating something, a faint blush building on her cheeks. And then she shook her head, gave him a small smile, and said, "Ah, doesn't matter. Sleep well."

She left quickly after that, closing the door quietly behind her. Levi stared at the space she'd vacated, brow a little furrowed; her hesitancy confused him.

But he was tired. His body hurt. His head felt thick and fuzzy, and without Hange's presence to keep him occupied, he consciousness began to drift.

Tomorrow, he thought hazily. He would ask her tomorrow. For now though, he would follow his own advice; for now, he would rest.

#snk #levihan #my writing #man I had a hard time with this in the end hjhgjj I can't say I'm that satisfied with it #but!! I am sticking to my philosophy after the Drabble week #someone somewhere will like it #levihans relationship ended up more ambiguous but hey ho #also ended up being a lot of angsty hange

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star-puff · 4 years

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for meg (or sasha? or sasha on meg's behalf?) i'm giving you full permission to rant about makki, please enlighten me. i challenge you to turn me into a full-time makki fan :)

ah yes, my favorite unemployed married man.

so i am not articulate At All and it will be a miracle if you can make it through this post unscathed by my brain rot induced word vomit, but honestly the best way i can sum it all up in one sentence is this: makki is the type of guy that would see you crying, freeze, tease you a lil, then take you to buy midnight ice cream (the fancy kind, like haagen daz) while you spill all your emotions to him.

we see in the Few scenes with him in it that he’s a guy that likes to be social. he’s open to talking to people and he jokes with them in lighthearted banter; he likes being friends with people! he’s approachable, he’s easy to talk to, and for me who’s an irl introvert, i tend to drift towards people who give off the energy that i can feel comfortable drifting towards :)

i honestly don’t think there’s ever a Boring conversation with him. he’s the type to Joke and Joke and Joke, not in that saccharine sweet way that oikawa does, but like. genuinely. he’s just a fun guy to be around. and i honestly think he just. cares about everyone. once he talks to you, even if you’re not Tightknit like his close friendship with the Seijoh 4, you’re still A Friend. he’s just :(( such an approachable person :((( GOD HE WOULD BE SO EASY TO CRUSH ON IRL PLS . AND BC HE’S GENUINELY INTERESTED IN WHAT YOU’RE SAYING HE ENGAGES IN THE CONVO AND MAKES YOU FEEL!! SO IMPORTANT!!! UGH

i KNOW for a fact he isn’t a dry texter. i just know it. i would send him 😫🤨🔊🙈 emojis and he would send 😪🥴🤠🗣😼 emojis RIGHT back. prbly clowns on oikawa for using 😂😂😂. AND KEYSMASHES!!! even if he doesn’t keysmash he wouldn’t be confused by my Range of keysmashes and learns to differentiate the energy of “SDLFKJSDKF” vs “JKSJDJDSKFJ” vs “HASHDFLSDKF” vs “MSDFNSDLFK” and so on.

also he has a sweet tooth Which Means i can win him over with cafe dates and bake him things to show him my love <3 BAKING DATES!! i don’t think he would enjoy my favorite activity of museum hopping very much On Its Own but i think he can make anything a fun time with his commentary and i’d like to think that he would have a good time just being with me :’) and with my fleeting interests in...various hobbies... he would listen and then one day he’d just bust out random trivia with The Boys and they’re like 😀 how do you know that?? and he’s just 😎👍

(ALSO IN A LOT OF MAKKI FICS I’VE READ THERE’S LIKE THIS THING OF UNDERLYING INSECURITY BC OUT OF ALL THE PEOPLE WHY DID YOU PICK HIM?? LIKE THERE’S ACE IWAIZUMI AND ANNOYINGLY HANDSOME OIKAWA AND TALL MF MATSUKAWA SO LIKE. WHY’D YOU CHOOSE HIM?? AND IT’S ALWAYS THIS THING OF HIM BEING USED TO BEING SEEN AS JUST(TM) A FRIEND AND NOTHING MORE AND OOOOOO HOT DIGGITY DOG I AM IN PAIN)

anyways he’d just be. a real fun person to be around. and i develop feelings Very Easily so. Yeah. there’s that. i don’t really know if this would convince you or not LMAOOO but this was just an excuse for me to brain rot while i avoid working on his fic bc i’m working on a tendou fic instead lsdkfjsdlfkd ty for this opportunity. lmk if this changes your mind 👍 (but even if you don’t that’s fine slkjdfsdl i’ll love him enough for the both of us 🔊🔊)

#meg answers #dawn 🌙

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dreamycastaway · 5 years

Text

it is the hour

summary:

“Youcanalwayscrashatmyplaceifyouneedto,” Martin said, forcing the words out of his mouth fast enough that he couldn’t think better of it and offer to call his boss a cab instead.

“What?”

Martin took a deep breath. “I said, ‘you can always crash at my place if you need to.’” It took all of Martin’s willpower not to close his eyes. Instead, he watched Jon’s face, waiting for the shorter man to make up his mind.

Shout out to @lime-pigeon for the concept!

I'm dreamycastaway over on ao3 also, this fic is posted there under the same title as this post. no links because tumblr doesnt like them i guess

Martin hadn’t known when the event “Boys’ Night” had appeared in the office calendar – no one in the Archive had seemed to know. Tim denied having created it, and no one had bothered to ask the Head Archivist if he’d done it, as no one believed that the phrase “Boys’ Night” had even been in his vocabulary prior to its appearance on the calendar.

Tim had, of course, asked Sasha if she had set it up, but she said she hadn’t. Martin had gingerly approached her later to ask her if she minded not being invited. She’d said no, and actually, she thought it was rather thoughtful that whoever had planned it had remembered she would be attending a friend’s rehearsal dinner that night. Martin had been unable to delete the event, and as attempts by any of the rest of the Archive staff had proven similarly futile, they had eventually stopped trying.

None of them knew for sure if they were bound to the events on the office calendar, but Tim’s attempts to ditch staff meetings had been strangely unsuccessful since they had started working in the Archive, and Martin had felt a sneaking suspicion that any of them trying to get out of this wouldn’t do them much good. Sure enough, on the fateful evening marked for “Boys’ Night”, Martin found himself sitting in a softly lit booth in a small pub, ordering chips and drinks alongside Tim and Jon.

Martin had been nervous all day. He was nervous all day most days, but this had given him something to fixate on. As opposed to his typical diffuse anxiety, which floated like a prickly fog over everything, this had been a hailstorm targeted on the approaching evening out. Was it going to be awkward? Was he going to be too tall and big to fit in some tiny booth at some random pub? Was Jon going to go back to work afterwards? Martin knew he had been overworking himself, but it would be different to see it himself, to see that resigned and frightened look on Jon’s face as he mumbled something about there being ‘more to be done.’ What if someone got sick? What if it turned out Jon hated him in a social setting? The onslaught of concerns had played ceaselessly on a cruel loop since Martin had woken up that morning.

But now that he was here, the whole thing felt surprisingly fine. Good, even. They’d asked Martin to pick the location, so he’d been able to pick a homey spot just a few blocks from his flat. Tim had hit on the hostess, who had brought them their new schmaltz fries “to try”, with a wink at Tim that indicated to Martin that the huge basket of chips would probably be free. And while Jon still looked tired and unapproachable, he wasn’t quite as hunched over as usual, wasn’t acting quite as defensive as he typically did. Martin felt strongly that this qualified as the Archivist loosening up, and had to prevent himself from smiling as he watched Jon listen to Tim tell a story about a kayaking trip without looking over his shoulder even once.

“Another round?” Tim asked jovially as he finished his story, and Martin was surprised to see Jon tip forward his empty glass in agreement.

“Oh, sure,” Martin said, moving to stand and walk with Tim to the bar.

“Don’t worry, I got it,” Tim said, picking up all three glasses almost effortlessly and walking towards the bar. Martin realized why Tim had been so courteous as he watched him lean easily on the old wood bar to flirt with the dark-haired bartender, who seemed to be eating him up.

Jon let out a short, good-natured laugh from the other side of the booth. “Figures Tim would be able to find a handsome date, even at an office function,” he said.

Martin looked back at Jon, trying not to let disappointment creep into his expression as he realized that his pale complexion and squishy figure were about as different from the lanky, tan, “handsome” bartender as possible. He frowned before he could stop himself.

Jon grimaced. “I’m sorry, probably not the type of commentary you want from your boss.” He paused, and when he continued speaking his voice was softer and sadder. “I guess I forgot about work for a moment.” The way he said it made it sound as if he thought it was a bad thing that he’d managed to forget about work, and Martin felt his heart sink.

“No, no, it’s not that …” Martin hadn’t been sure where this sentence had been going when he started it, and he still wasn’t sure now, as Jon raised an eyebrow and waited for Martin to finish his clarification. “Well, it’s more …” He was starting to wonder how he had managed to let a three-line conversation go so cataclysmically wrong when Tim plopped back down next to Jon with their drinks.

“Sorry, guys! Here you go,” Tim said. Martin breathed an almost imperceptible sigh of relief as the conversation turned to the most important architectural landmarks in London, hoping that his awkwardness had been forgotten. They continued on like this for some time: Jon consistently surprised his coworkers by being up for another round, Tim continued regaling them with stories of his adventurous vacations while Jon occasionally interjected with a bit of trivia about a location or historical figure Tim mentioned. The more Martin drank the warmer and softer the light felt, and he was happy to mostly watch and listen.

Eventually, the last of the sunlight faded and the street lights went on, and still they sat there, drinking and talking. Tim asked if they were up for one last round, deciding not to wait for their answer before heading off to the bar. When he came back, he was holding just two drinks.

“Who’s cut off?” Martin asked. John raised an eyebrow and waited, expectantly.

“Oh, no one, I’m just headed out,” Tim said with a grin, nodding towards where the bartender was putting his coat on. “I closed out your tabs; this last one’s on me,” Tim said, flashing Martin a wink as he handed him and Jon their cards back. “See ya Monday!”

“See you Monday, Tim,” Jon said. Martin just nodded as he felt a flush rise in his face, and hoped desperately that Jon hadn’t noticed Tim’s wink. He brought his glass up to his lips to try and hide his blush, not even bothering to look at what Tim had brought him. He didn’t put his glass down until he’d finished what he thought based on the taste must be some kind of whiskey cocktail.

“Martin, you wouldn’t happen to have a book with you?” Jon asked as Martin put his glass down. The timing was so exact that Martin knew that Jon must have been watching him, waiting for him to finish. He could feel himself blushing again, and with no way to hide it, was forced to resort to hoping Jon would assume it was the liquor. He nodded and reached into his satchel, fishing out his hardcover collection of Romantic poetry.

While this was normally the type of thing he wouldn’t own up to carrying with him at all times, the alcohol had taken hold just enough that he pushed the worn-down volume towards Jon without thinking much of it. It seems Jon didn’t think much of it either, as he opened it to a random page and plucked the lavender out of his cocktail. He dried the stems off carefully, sipping his drink as he placed the flowers between the pages of Martin’s book, seemingly without reading any of the printed text or Martin’s annotations. Martin watched, confusion weighing on his brow, as the other man finished his drink and delicately closed the book. He handed it back to Martin, who placed it gingerly in his satchel, being careful not to crush the bit of lavender stem Jon had left sticking out from the pages.

“Sorry,” Jon mumbled. “It’s just … something I do. Sometimes. I hope it’s okay.” He was by no means slurring his speech, and someone who had never heard his normal way of speaking might not have even thought him to be drunk. But to Martin, who spent his days at the office hanging on to every punctuated word and purposeful pause that came out of Jon’s mouth, the difference was obvious, and potentially concerning. “If the flowers bother you, we can throw them out. It’s just a French lavender and I thought, well, it might be nice to save it, you know, I mean, as a memento,” as the Archivist continued babbling, Martin adjusted his previous assessment: the difference was obvious, and definitely concerning.

“Jon, Jon,” Martin said, realizing that his words were also slow and sloppy. He still didn’t fully understand what Jon had been doing with his book of poems, but decided it probably wasn’t that big a deal. “It’s fine, it’s completely fine.”

Jon smiled at this, a real smile, not a smirk or that expression he sometimes made that was supposed to be a smile but was really just him sort of pursing his lips, and Martin felt himself grin before he could stop himself. He hadn’t seen Jon genuinely smile since they’d all changed departments. They sat like that for a moment, smiling at each other in the soft light for no real reason at all.

“Last call! We’re closing in fifteen minutes,” the hostess’ voice rang out, breaking through their haze.

“Oh, we should go,” Martin said, not wanting to be the table that prevented them from closing up the pub for the night. Jon nodded, and got clumsily to his feet. Martin waved goodnight to the hostess as they stepped out the door into the cool nighttime. A fine mist hung in the air; the promise of rain later that night.

“Jon, are you going to be okay getting home?”

Jon looked up at Martin, blinking slowly. “Oh. I’m, uh, sure I’ll be fine,” he looked around, seemingly disoriented. “I think the night bus in my neighborhood should still be running by the time I get back there.”

“Are you sure?”

Jon paused. Martin figured Jon must be really drunk; sober Jon would respond to any query that questioned his competence harshly and immediately.

“Youcanalwayscrashatmyplaceifyouneedto,” Martin said, forcing the words out of his mouth fast enough that he couldn’t think better of it and offer to call his boss a cab instead.

“What?”

“I, uh, wouldn’t want to impose on you like that,” Jon said.

“It’s really no trouble, Jon,” Martin said, recognizing the script they were following. They both knew neither of them could acknowledge outright that Jon should stay at Martin’s, even though they both knew that’s what was going to happen at the end of this conversational dance.

“I mean, only if you’re sure. I’m sure I can get back to my place.”

“It’s already getting late; I only live a few blocks away.”

“You can kick me out early tomorrow. I wouldn’t want to disrupt your Saturday.”

“I don’t have any plans tomorrow morning.”

“Okay, well. Only if you’re sure it’s not going to bother you.”

“I’m sure, Jon.”

A silence hung between them for a moment. “Okay,” Jon sighed. “Okay. Thank you, Martin.”

“This way, then,” Martin said, gesturing down the street. The walk would normally only take Martin three or four minutes, but given that Jon’s legs were shorter than his and they were both a little off balance, he figured that tonight it would take too long to pass the trip in silence.

“So, what were you doing with that flower?”

Jon looked away. “Oh, I, uh … my grandmother taught me how to press flowers. She tended to take them as souvenirs from places we went.” He paused. Martin waited. “We didn’t do things together too often. It’s just … one of my only fond memories of childhood, and … I don’t have many occasions to do it anymore.”

Martin wasn’t sure how to react to Jon’s statement – like much of what Jon said, it contained both something Martin found incredibly endearing and also a deep-rooted sadness, and Martin, per usual, wasn’t sure which to react to. He desperately wanted to envelop Jon in a hug, whisper something kind into his ear. But Jon seemed embarrassed talking about it at all, and Martin knew he was already pushing his luck tonight.

“That’s lovely, Jon,” Martin said, trying and failing to use the tone of voice a colleague would use, as opposed to someone more familiar. Jon smiled, a soft, clumsy smile that made Martin almost drop the keys to his building. Who would have thought he’d be such a cute drunk? Martin thought as he fumbled with the key in the lock of the front door. He led Jon down the carpeted hallway, and opened the door to his small flat.

“Well, this is it,” Martin said as he closed the door behind Jon. “I’m sorry it’s not more impressive,” he said, letting out an embarrassed laugh.

“Martin, it’s fine. I know how it is to live on an Institute salary,” Jon said. He paused, as if waiting for someone to say something. “Do you have roommates?”

“What? No, I, it’s just me. Why do you … oh.” Martin grimaced at himself as he realized he’d left the bedroom television on. All day. “No, it’s just the television, I can turn it off.”

Jon followed Martin as he walked from the combination kitchen-entryway into the bedroom. Aside from the small bathroom, the apartment was only the two rooms.

“I, uh, don’t have a couch,” Martin said as he looked around for the TV remote. “So you can, um, have the bed, and I’ll sleep in the armchair.”

“What?”

“I know, I know, ‘how do you entertain without a couch, Martin,’ well, to be honest –”

“Oh! No, sorry, no, I wasn’t going to … I just,” Jon shifted on his feet. “I don’t feel right making you sleep in the chair.”

Martin clicked the power button on the remote, plunging the room into silence, save for the rain pattering on the window. If he was going to write a poem about this moment (which he most certainly wasn’t, he told himself) he would have said that the silence was symbolic of Jon rejecting his hospitality.

“I mean, I fall asleep in my chair all the time in the office, and this one looks much more comfortable than mine,” Jon said with an awkward laugh. “I can take the chair, it’s fine.” Martin just continued to stare at him, which seemed to make Jon think he needed to keep talking. “Besides I couldn’t possibly sleep in your bed in my work clothes … I’m being trouble enough.”

Martin looked at his boss in disbelief. “Well, you won’t be sleeping in your work clothes,” he said as he shoved a clean set of pajamas into Jon’s arms. The smell of fabric softener hung in the air around them as Jon slowly took the bundle of fabric from Martin, looking shocked. Martin looked down. “I’m sure they’ll be big on you, but … hopefully it’s okay for one night.”

“I’m sure they’ll be fine,” Jon murmured, holding on to Martin’s pajamas as if they might not be real. He paused. “You don’t have to do all this, you know.”

Martin breathed the kind of exasperated breath schoolteachers make at students who seem to be purposefully refusing to grasp a concept. “I know that, Jon. I want to do this.”

They stood there for what felt like ages, as if they were both waiting for the other to acknowledge the implications of the exchange they’d just had.

“Okay, well, you can go ahead and wash up first?” Martin asked, having decided they were both too drunk to have any sort of serious conversation tonight.

“Oh, um, yes,” Jon said, in a way that Martin could have sworn sounded disappointed. He shuffled into the bathroom and closed the door gently. Martin quickly changed into his own pajamas, and sat pointedly in the chair to prevent Jon from trying to take it from him.

When Jon reemerged, Martin’s pajamas hanging too-loose over his frame, he looked as all his recent sleepless nights had suddenly come crashing down on him. Martin gestured pointedly towards the bed, maintaining his stubborn position in the armchair. Jon opened his mouth, presumably to protest, but all that came out was a quiet “thank you.”

He was asleep almost before his head hit the pillow.

As Martin looked at Jon from behind his own heavy eyelids, he felt tears well up in the corners of his eyes. Something about seeing Jon in hisclothes, in his bed made the smaller man look so vulnerable, and so stupidly exhausted. The mask of bitterness and skepticism was gone from Jon’s face, and he just looked troubled, plagued by the kind of ever-present worry Martin knew so well. Martin’s desire to crawl into bed alongside him and hold the other man in his arms and just let him rest felt like a horrible full-body ache, and Martin knew he was in too deep. He knew that this feeling would get him in trouble someday, and yet … something about Jon meant he couldn’t just let it go.

Martin reached into his satchel for a tissue to wipe the tears off his face, and felt his hand brush against his book of poems. He pulled it out of his bag – he knew he wasn’t going to get much sleep that night; he’d always been terrible at sleeping sitting up. He flipped open the volume without anything specific in mind, but the book opened to the page containing Jon’s pressed lavender. Jon was right, Martin thought, the purple flowers were beautiful. He held one of the stems carefully up to his nose, and breathed in the floral scent that had been lingering on Jon’s breath all night, that now lingered on the pages of his poetry book.

He set the lavender sprigs gently on the table next to him, making a note to return them to the book when he was done reading. As he listened to the rain come down against his windowpanes, he read and reread the poem Jon’s lavender had been on, turning the lines over in his mind:

It is the hour – when lover’s vows Seem sweet in every whisper’d word; And gentle winds and waters near, Make music to the lonely ear.

#the magnus archives #tma #jonmartin #jonathan sims #martin blackwood #dreamy writes #long post #alcohol #alcohol cw

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asidian · 6 years

Text

Day 31: Slice

November 19, 2037

Cinderella’s castle stands like something out of a fairy tale, all elegant towers and tapering spires. It’s an improbable shade of pastel, and up above it, in the sky, the clouds have begin to tinge the same impossible cotton candy pink.

All around them, the ground is littered with harbingers, dying or dead.

Jacob isn’t looking at the clouds. He’s looking at the rest of his team, gathered on the ground beneath a storybook castle. They’re battered and worn; Mayu’s Sandstorm looks like it’s listing to one side every time she moves, and acid has eaten straight through the boot of Ryota’s Sentinel. Jacob can see his foot in there, encased in the plugsuit, but that’s no protection at all.

“We clear?” says Iyawa. She lifts her head; Nova cuts an impressive figure, all hard lines and sharp angles. The face of the suit, indigo and purple, has a scratch straight down the visor.

“Got it, captain,” says Jacob, and the voices of his team echo the assent over the comms.

“HQ says we’ve got two minutes before the next wave’s incoming, and we’re looking at twice as many. Get in your places, people, and let's be ready for them when they get here.”

They don’t wait around; two minutes isn’t long. They peel off and take to the air, and Jacob scans the ground beneath them for the ridged white dome on the far edge of the park. The holo-vids that splash along the ride’s entrance aren’t running today, but the title is sleek and silver, in lettering five feet tall: Space Mountain.

Jacob shuts off the comms for a second, as they touch down at the base of it. “You think they’re gonna take the bait?”

It’s almost funny, to watch the hulking form of Nemesis pull off Xia’s guarded shrug. “Guess we’ll find out.”

They’re silent for a second or two, staring up toward the sky.

“How’s your arm?” she says, voice quieter – muffled, through the faceplate.

“Kinda rough,” says Jacob. He hesitates. “For real, I owe you. That, uh. Could’ve really sucked.”

“Pretty sure it did,” she says, and tilts her head toward the wreck of the plating on his forearm.

“They’ll patch me up when we get back,” says Jacob. “Wonders of modern technology, right?”

Xia makes a noncommittal noise. “Just stay on your feet. We’re gonna have enough clean up without picking up parts of you, too.”

“Yeah,” says Jacob, and ducks his head. “Sure thing.”

They hear the arrival above them – a burst of sound that shakes the world, chest-deep and all-encompassing. Jacob flips his comms back on, and he falls into position, the blade from the wrist of his good hand ready to go.

Their part early on isn’t hard; hold ground, try not to attract too much attention. Buy time for the harbingers to take the bait, and don’t be too showy about it.

It’s almost easy, after the last wave of the fight. With Nemesis at his back, anything feels possible. When he twists and weaves and dodges, she’s there to back him up. If one of the fast ones circles around her, too quick for those massive fists to grab hold of, Jacob angles Hurricane in and darts over to take care of the problem.

They move together effortlessly, an endless ebb and flow of destruction. Nemesis runs out of grenades, and Jacob has to swap out Hurricane’s blade to one of his spares, the primary eaten through with acidic gunk.

At long last, word comes over the comms: “They took the bait,” says Iyawa. “Sandstorm, Steelshot, move in.”

“On it,” says Mayu.

“We are on our way,” says Sasha.

“Hurricane, Nemesis,” says Iyawa. “Be ready to move. You're sweeping up the mess.”

“Born ready,” says Jacob.

“Don’t worry about us,” says Xia.

“Sentinel,” says Iyawa.

“Yeah, yeah,” says Ryota. “Look helpless. Can do.”

There’s a snicker on the comms. “He’s got that one down,” says Mayu.

“Hey,” says Ryota.

“Do not make enemies of the medic,” says Sasha. “Perhaps this is not a proverb, but I feel that it should be one.”

There’s a brief pause in the audio. Jacob cuts down a creature that looks like a sky whale with the neck of a giraffe, all in tones of toxic purple and rot black.

“Hey,” says Iyawa. “What’s the hold up?”

There’s no reply.

Iyawa says, “Mayu, god dammit, don’t you dare –”

Somewhere overhead, a sonic boom sounds, so deep it shakes the world to the very core. Another follows just after, and another.

Sasha says, “Mother of god.”

“Blitz,” says the controller at HQ, too late. “You have incoming.”

Mayu screams, and her comms cut out. Jacob jerks his head toward Xia, and Nemesis nods when she does. They don’t wait to clear the creatures they’re engaged with; they jet straight across the sky, over the happy kingdom, toward the waterfront.

“Sentinel,” says Sasha, into the comms, voice shaking. “We have need of a medic.”

Maybe he says more; the rest is lost in another barrage of sonic booms, and suddenly the early morning sky is dark with wings and eyes and shapes that shouldn’t exist in this world. Hurricane and Nemesis don’t engage; they twist through, and duck under. Jacob puts on more speed, and then more yet. The ground beneath him is a blur. He veers sideways and misses something the size of a small car, black and sinuous and almost entirely teeth.

Then he spots them, down on the ground: Steelshot and Sandstorm, on the banks of the Rivers of America. Behind them, the sign welcoming guests to the Pirates of the Caribbean stands with its skull and crossbones. Inside, past the empty ropes to cordon off crowds that aren’t here, the shape of a treasure chest looms in silhouette, larger than life.

None of that is important, though. The important thing is Sandstorm, lying prone on the ground, blood pooling underneath, the vitals on his HUD flashing critical. The important thing is Steelshot standing above her, crushing in harbinger skulls with massive metal fists.

The important thing is that Jacob is almost there.

He leans in harder, bearing down on the harbingers with his blade drawn – slashes at the first one, at the second, trying to cut himself a path.

He’s almost there. He’s so close that he gets a front row seat for it: something hulking and gelatinous and strange, the black lines of it entirely the wrong shape. It’s as big as a subway car, and its whole head unhinges when it opens its mouth, like a snake swallowing a bird. It yawns wide, and then wider; it seems to stretch.

The teeth come down over Steelshot’s head and shoulders. They bury into the armor at his waist. Jacob hears the squeal of them cutting into metal; over the comms, he hears Sasha give a strangled cry.

The creature bites down.

The metal gives, then tears, then pulls apart. Half of Sasha falls to the ground.

“Holy shit,” says Xia.

Sasha starts to scream.

Jacob makes a sound. It’s a quiet sound. Maybe the comms don’t even pick it up.

He shoulders through – cuts and tears, twists and dodges, a constant flurry of motion. The screaming stops, over the comms; the creature’s throat works, with visible effort.

Then it dips down toward the ground, mouth gaping open to snap up the legs.

Jacob doesn’t stop to think. He only moves – throws himself into its path. He rams his blade up through the roof of its mouth, and he drags it out, and then Xia’s beside him, grabbing the thing with Nemesis’ fists and hurling it bodily to one side.

“Shit,” says Ryota, over the comms, and Jacob glances up to see that Nova and Sentinel are on the scene. “Shit, move, cover me, I –”

“Are they,” says Iyawa, and Ryota says, “Mayu has a chance.”

Iyawa makes a choked, strangled sound over the comms.

Jacob registers Nova charging up, from the corner of his vision – light and heat – and then a force blast rocks the area. The waterfront of the Rivers of America caves in, sloughing off into the water.

Sentinel crouches over Sandstorm, down on the ground. The puddle of blood is huge.

Jacob can’t watch them, though; the sky is full of wings and teeth and eyes. The black has blotted out the dawn.

“We have to get her out of here,” Ryota’s saying. “She needs a hospital, she needs –”

Beside him, Nemesis is like a force of nature, pulverizing everything Xia comes into contact with.

Beyond her, Nova takes out a swath of harbingers at least twenty deep. The blast caves in the Mark Twain, its pristine white walls crumpling under the force.

Jacob twists, and turns, and takes down everything he can reach. He slices the wings off of one creature, and it crashes to the ground. Hurricane darts between the monsters that choke out the sky, fast as its namesake and twice as deadly.

There behind the metal faceplate, Jacob’s face is wet.

“Blitz,” cuts in the controller from HQ. “Clear the area. Do you copy? You have incoming in three minutes. Do not try to hold your location.”

Nova’s force blast puts out the windows of the quaint New Orleans style buildings all along the waterfront. “God dammit,” says Iyawa. “God dammit!” Her breathing is ragged, over the comms.

“Iyawa –” says Ryota.

“Do you copy?” says the controller at HQ. “Fall back to Tokyo.”

“I copy,” says Iyawa.

Nova seems to straighten – turns toward them, hovering in the air above the dock. “Hurricane, clear a path. Nemesis, you're on tank duty. Sentinel –”

“Already ahead of you,” says Ryota, scooping up the battered shell of Sandstorm in his arms.

“Three minutes,” says Iyawa. “We need to be out of here, people.”

There’s no time to reply. There’s no time to do anything but move – dart out and ahead, into the roiling mass of harbingers, to try and carve them a retreat.

Behind him, what remains of his team follows in his wake.

Up overhead, barely visible through the mass of writhing bodies, the sun has risen.

#my OCs #inktober #inktober 2018 #original fiction #jacob cross #xia igarashi #iyawa eze #ryota shimada #sasha kozlov #mayu hashimoto #xia belongs to a friend of mine #the rest of the team are our shared brainchild #the way the world ends

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