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(Manga spoilers, swearing.)

Monday

You're in the office, filling out requisition forms for new uniforms, when Hange stops by.

"I was supposed to give a morning lecture on Corps history to the recruits tomorrow, but Nile just granted permission for me to visit the lab on his base." She thunks an almighty stack of documents on your desk. "Oh-eight-hundred, please. This time, try not to talk about how they'll all die."

The longer you gape at it, the bigger the stack gets. "Wha—"

"Break a leg!" The slam of the door follows her cheery goodbye.

Setting down your pencil, you lift the topmost page, rising slightly from your seat to reach it.

The Scouting Corps has a proud history. But what is history? Modern thought considers history no more than a chronological record of the linear progression of events either societal or individual...

"What the fuck, Hange?"

Sighing, you shove your own work to one side and prepare to do some heavy-duty editing.

Tuesday

"So what is history?" you ask the officer recruits. "History is stuff that happened. Copy down the dates from the blackboard and I'll tell you what happened on them."

They appear unaware of how close they came to a Hange Lecture. You doubt these poor, innocent lambs even realise how horrifying a Hange Lecture is.

"Sir?"

You pause halfway through chalking the third date. "What is it, Felix?"

He smiles enthusiastically. "Could we start with general history? Things that happened with Marley, or with King Fritz?"

Hange's notes had several sections about this; yours do not. "That information is publicly available, so go look it up. Our goal here is to get through the Corps' history and structure before we die of old age."

You continue writing the dates on the board, narrating as you go. You keep talking after the list is complete, staring blandly out the window as the recruits scribble furiously.

"...average about three-hundred, consisting of two-hundred-and-seventy soldiers, five payroll staff – team leader rank – five equine veterinarians, six medics, eight team leaders, a senior team leader, four squad leaders including the senior squad leader, and the commander." Somebody's taking a stroll outside.

Muttering draws your attention. When you frown at the soldiers, Ida raises a hand. "Sir? Where are the captains?"

Oh. Oops. "Captain is a rank borrowed from the other military branches. Historically, the Corps doesn't have that rank." Muttermuttermutter. "Commander Erwin Smith introduced it for a particular soldier. Don't ask me why."

"Probably too short to qualify as Senior Squad Leader."

Who said that?! Making fun of Levi's height is a privilege that must be earned! "Since it was introduced," you say, your voice hard, "the rank of captain is second only to that of commander. So if I were you, I'd be really careful who I choose to make fun of."

The recruits are silent; nobody avoids your eye, lest they look like the guilty party, so a bunch of people are holding fierce eye-contact with you. You narrow your eyes back.

"So that's personnel. Structure next. Again, basing off the average of three-hundred, we operate with around ten teams. Team One are reconnaissance..." Your eyes divert back to the window, and widen when you see Levi standing beside it. He's leaning casually against the wall, hidden from the soldiers' view, watching the lecture with no particular interest.

Your mouth disengages to deliver the lecture alone while your mind wanders. His cravat is a little crooked, showing a glimpse of his throat. A few inches beneath that is a thin, barely visible scar that crosses his left collarbone. You can picture it particularly well after the other night. Oof, and then it leads into the insane territory that are his muscles, chiselled, hot to the touch. The way they tensed when he held you in his arms and moved against you...

"Sir?"

You whirl back to the recruits, disorientated. "What? Yes?" Your face is too warm.

The recruits eye one another until Felix speaks up again. "Sir, what did you mean by 'Teams Eight through Ten are hot'?"

"Hot." Oh, well done. Great move. "Of course you guys don't know what H-O-T means." You sigh theatrically. "'Hands Off Titans.' Slang for teams that don't engage, such as Eight through Ten, our logistics teams."

Um... they're writing that down...

Shina, did they actually buy that?

"Supplies typically include reserve horses, extra gas..." You glance out of the window; Levi raises his eyebrows slightly, very nearly smiles, and pulls away from the wall.

It's probably your imagination, but as he departs, his walk has a hint of a swagger about it.

Friday

Mess hall. You just had a rehab session made of pain and badness. Now that you've stopped sweating and shaking, you're famished, and your food is in danger of being inhaled rather than eaten.

"Are you listening to me?" Hange asks, tilting her head like a curious puppy.

You nod, shovelling more mashed potatoes into your mouth. She wants the final list of officer recommendations. You heard her, you're just busy.

"The initial recommendations the two of you provided didn't agree on anyone," Hange says, looking very serious.

Mouth stuffed to Sasha Braus-ian levels, you glance to Levi. He eyes you back, distastefully. "Then choose between the recommendations."

Hange pinches the bridge of her nose. "I believe we discussed the matter of one particular role?"

You make your face a question while managing to stuff in another forkful.

"I need the two of you to put forward a name for the other position we discussed."

Levi grunts; you look from Hange to him, then back again. "?"

Pinching harder, Hange slumps. "Captain, we discussed this only two months ago. Please think back."

Why doesn't she just tell you? Bewildered, still nomming, you cast your mind back through multiple conversations about the officer recruits. Something waves a flag. Ah! The infiltration officer! Somebody sly and deceptive to look after the squad that goes to Marley. You nod vigorously to show that you've cottoned on. It had been on your mind a lot at first, but after the infection, you've been a little scattered.

"I want the name next Friday. That gives you one week to get together and learn how to agree on something."

You pause mid-chew, and share with Levi a long, unimpressed look.

Hange rubs her forehead. She seems increasingly stressed lately. "I don't care if you kill each other, but please write the name down first."

Linus breaks in; nobody has so much as glanced at him in quite some time. "Commander, next Friday is the Officers' Ball."

Hange glances at your suddenly cold expression, then sighs again as Levi pointedly stands up and leaves. Both of you have finely honed your reactions to all mentions of the ball. Then she dredges up a smile for Linus.

"Then I hope you don't mind attending with a corpse as your date, Doctor. These two..." She shakes her head and looks at you. "You idiots really will kill each other by then. I wish you would grow up."

...?!

You chew hurriedly but she's already leaving, tucking her books under her arm and lifting her tray.

When you look to Linus, he's as thrown as you are. "That seemed a tad... uncharacteristic."

You can't recall ever hearing Hange call anyone an idiot, least of all you or Levi. Typically, stress simply sends her into a frenzy of productivity, but she's beginning to show a short temper, and she's been distant with you all week.

Perturbed, you shrug your shoulders at Linus and keep eating. But you think it might be time to check in on her.

Saturday, 21:00

The halls are quiet as you stride through them, the bottle of whiskey making little gurgly sounds as it swings by your side. It's Saturday evening, there are no meetings tomorrow, you finished rehab a few hours ago, and now it's time. It was a relief to get back to work, but it hasn't magically erased the weeks spent lying in bed with little to do but think. About Shiganshina. Sick and tired of nightmares, of memories intruding on your waking thoughts, it's high time to push them back in the finest tradition of the Scouting Corps: by getting absolutely stocious. And you know somebody else who needs to let off a little steam.

You knock smartly on Hange's door. It'll be novel to get pished in the commander's office.

"Come in."

Gingerly, you use your bad arm to open the door, frustrated that it's difficult to do something so simple, yet grateful that you still can. "Evening, Hange," you say as you nudge the door shut behind you with your hip. "I come bearing gifts." You raise the bottle.

Hange is, of course, seated behind her desk - you fancy you can hear it groaning under the weight of all that paperwork. But what actually gives you pause is the expression on her face. It's swiftly changed from surprise to blankness. "Alcohol? Captain, if this is not work-related, please leave. I'm very busy." She returns to her papers.

The cold rejection shakes you. There's no familiarity or warmth in her. "Hange, something's bothering you. Have a drink and tell me about it." You speak casually, sitting down across from her.

She does not glance up. "Leave, Captain."

You sit still for a few moments.

"Hange...? Did I do something?" She doesn't seem angry, but she must be pissed off with you. It's the only explanation for the cold shoulder you're getting.

She looks up with obvious impatience. "No. I told you, I don't have time for this sort of thing. Not anymore." Is she saying you'll never be social with her again? No, not possible. "Please, Captain," she adds, and a flicker of something sad passes over her. "Go and share the bottle with Linus. You're both off-duty. I would strongly urge you to spend what free time you have with him in future."

You can't get your head around this. "Are you saying we can't be friends anymore?" Does anyone do that as a grown adult?

The sad flicker returns, sharper than before but just as brief. "I hope that our professional relationship will always be friendly, Captain."

Our... "Professional relationship?" Your entire torso grows cold and empty. "Hange - Zoë—"

She redirects her attention to her documents and interrupts you with, "I'm your commanding officer." She picks up her pen, not interested in engaging any further. "Please understand, Captain. Our history will always be important to me, but by necessity, it is history."

Shina on a spike, where is this coming from? Why is Hange breaking up with you?

"I... understand. Sir." You can feel your eyebrows tied together with sadness and confusion. "Then I'll... be going, I guess."

"Good night, Captain."

She ignores you completely as you leave.

Saturday, 23:30

"The foe's footfalls thunder,
The people trampled under
cry where is our big brave Brigade?"

You suck in a huge breath for the chorus.

"Our big brave Brigade,
Our big brave Brigade?
Well, they're hiding in the capital,
Shit-scared and afraid!"

Singing isn't really your strong suit. You could point out Scouts who are much worse at it than you, but they're all dead.

You can't quite remember the second verse, something about the wall and then it rhymes with fall, so instead you hum the tune and lean back in your chair, propping your feet on your bed and conducting the melody with your bottle of whiskey.

Okay, you've got this part down:

"O, they're nowhere to be found,
but the Scouts are on the ground,
We fought and we died
but soon the people cried:

"Our big brave Brigade,
Our big brave Brigade —
those bottom-feeding Scouts
have our dear boys betrayed!"

Somebody knocks on your door, endangering your favourite part of the song. "Come in, but you have to sing!" you call, and as the door swings open, you clamber to your feet and raise the bottle high for the lyrical pinnacle.

"Well, hear us now and hear us true
Fuck your king and fuck you too!
On your big brave Brigade
we will go renegade,
It's about time that we had a coup!"

So many soldiers used to sing that. Down the pub, where it originated, that song killed. Now there's nobody left to sing it but you, because something else killed much more effectively. The other surviving Scouts were there for the coup, but they were all heavily involved in it, unlike you. You were underground - thankfully not literally - finding places to stash Scouts who escaped the round-ups. 'Uniquely qualified', Erwin said. And in a way you still are, because you remember something that no living soul does, and you remember how they immortalised it in song.

"You're drunk." You make your eyes focus on the visitor accusing you of such; Levi, closing the door behind him.

Astonished, you look at the bottle of whiskey in your hand, considerably emptier than it was a couple of hours ago. "Wow, you're really quick." You blink. "Did that sound sarcastic? I meant it. You're, like, sharp. You know? Like a, like an arrow."

He draws close to the desk, crossing his arms. "I didn't know you drank alone."

"I don't!" you say, staunchly. Except you are drinking alone. "I mean, usually. But I got dumped tonight. So I thought, 'hey! Let's drink!'"

He crosses to lean against the wall, fixing you with a curious gaze. "And who dumped you?"

"Hange. We're not friends anymore. She says so." It doesn't sting like it would if you were sober. You give a rueful grin and an expansive, 'what can you do?' gesture. "I didn't know you were coming over. Did you send a message?"

"No. Do you have any idea how loud you are when you sing?" Little surly... grump.

Well, the grump might have missed out on this song, but there's one he definitely knows.

"Forward goes the Scouting Corps—"

He winces. "Shut up."

You grin, and politely lower your voice, but you sing all the same.

"Forward goes the Scouting Corps,
Civvies sneer as we wage war,
But we're the best for we've got pluck,
Hate us, we don't give a—

FIGHT, my comrades, slash and hack,
We'll take Wall Maria back!"

He sighs. "Are you fin—"

"Forward goes the Scouting Corps,
Garrison life seemed a bore,
Now we're the best, we're fighting fit,
Guards are just a piece of—

SHOUT, my comrades, slash and hack,
We'll take Wall Maria back!"

He starts towards you, evidently frustrated. Dunno why. This song is a belter. You raise your free hand as you serenade him, undaunted.

"Forward goes the Scouting Corps,
We know what we're fighting for,
MPs say we're fucking runts,
We know they're all fucking—

CUT, my comrades, slash and hack!
Scouts wi-i-ill taaake, Ma-ri-a back!"

He's frowning. It's so cute when he frowns! He's your little grump. "What happened with Hange? You fight or something?"

"Nope!" You take a swig of whiskey. "She called us idiots. You and me. And stormed off. Hange did."

He frowns. "I know. Then what?"

"Well, so, I went to see her, and she just said we're history. Me and her." You suppress a burp. "Rank, and all. Professional relationship. I didn't do anything." A thought strikes you, and you laugh. "She basically said 'it's not you, it's me'. I didn't even realise!" It tickles you a fair bit.

"I see." He's brooding.

He's SO CUTE when he broods. You beam at him. "You're all serious. I love it when you're all serious." So cuuuute. "And when you're all sarcastic. I love that, too. You know, when you smile, you get this crinkle at the corners of your eyes." You sigh, deeply moved. "It's really great."

His eyes cut to the whiskey bottle. "You were sad about Hange. I take it you're feeling better right now."

You raise your finger, solemnly. "I am feeling wonderful right now," you correct. Everyone's dead and Hange hates you, and you don't care one bit. You sit down without warning when your knees decide they've had enough.

"You always were a happy drunk." He slouches against the wall, his arms crossed. "So she decided, then. I warned her."

You squint, partly because you're confused, partly because he's blurring out of focus. "What are you on about? And I’m sure it was hard from her. For her.” Words and stuff, right? Tricky.

Suddenly he's at your chair, leaning down to look you in the eye. "Forget it," he says, shortly. "You're a really shitty host, you know. Offer me a drink, already."

You tilt your head. "Why? You can't get drunk." He's immune. He could drink a Titan under the table and still recite the alphabet backwards, if for some reason he really needed to.

"Tch." He lifts his hand and raps smartly on your head. "You want to keep drinking alone, idiot?"

He's not going to lecture you about drinking, or try and boss you around. He's going to join in.

So supportive. Much fuzzy.

"Why is your face so dumb right now?" He narrows his eyes. "Are you thinking something weird?"

Mutely, you offer him the bottle.

"No glasses?" He sighs, sharply. "Seriously a shitty host." But he takes two gulps before handing it back. You swivel around awkwardly to watch him walk behind you, moving to sit on the bed beside the desk. You take a sip of whiskey, and hand it across when he holds his hand out.

"Just so you know, tomorrow I'm going to tell you everything you say tonight." He takes a swig and passes the bottle back. "So watch it."

Pffft. "I'm not saying anything drunk that I wouldn't say sober," you declare, confidently.

He quirks an eyebrow. "You love it when I'm serious, and also when I'm not serious. Yeah, you'd definitely say that sober." So cute when he's sarcastic. Just so cute always.

You dismiss his point with a wave of your hand. "Why not? I love you no matter what mood you're in."

For some reason, he goes utterly silent. You hold the bottle out, but he doesn't take it. Perplexed, you wiggle it a bit. He stares at you, expressionless, not moving a single muscle. Apparently he's thinking about something very important and serious. Thinking about it deeply.

Eventually you say, "Levi, my arm is getting tired." Why's he looking at you like that? Weirdo.

Slowly, he takes the bottle from you. "You are the worst kind of drunk," he says, very quietly.

"I'm a great drunk!" you counter, cheerily. "Happy!"

He takes his time drinking, his eyes never leaving you. When he's done, he hands it back, looking unusually pensive. "You're completely fucking oblivious." He doesn't sound annoyed, though.

"Oi, not true." The whiskey seems to taste better now. Everything seems better now. "I'm pretty sharp. I'm not an arrow, or anything, but I'm... you know, fairly quick. Generally sort of... on the ball." The ball! "Speaking of, how fucking shit are fucking balls? The dances, I mean, not the body parts. Not qualified to comment on those."

ahaha you're so funny

He leans forward. "You're really close to your pass-out point."

no you're totally fine

"Why do they call them balls, anyway? The dances. Seriously, have you ever thought about it?" you ask because really why?

he is SMILING

BEST DAY EVER

"Oi. Lie down with me."

ohh he's great yes okay lie down with him

He shifts as you move to the bed (balance is a little off must be tired yeah actually feeling pretty tired now long day) and takes the whiskey bottle as you slump down, stretching out. Then he sets the bottle on your desk and lies down beside you.

yes good nice want to be closer

You roll over and cling to his shirt, snuggling into his heat like a demanding kitten. He's warm and smells so nice; clean and cool, like... laundry drying in a spring breeze. "Smell good," you inform him. "Ahh, nice."

"Pretty sure we talked about the cuddling," he says with a note of severity.

your little grump ahaha

"Stop laughing." His chest – The Chest! – expands and deflates with a massive sigh. "You better pass out soon." Then his arms go around you, holding you gently.

not going to pass out

going to stay awake all night and enjoy this

says he hates cuddling and then does this well too bad little grump because absolutely not gonna miss one second of—

Sunday, 04:30

You wake up beside a dark figure, feeling a hangover crawl over you. It's Levi next to you; vaguely, you remember him stopping by when you were already three sheets to the wind. You manage to extricate yourself from the bed, leaving the blankets a crumpled mess, and lurch off to the bathroom before your bladder stages a coup.

Feeling decidedly rough, you get a glass of water on your return, slipping quietly into your room after a long drink. Your head throbs as you change into nightclothes, finding them by feel, and set the water on the desk. Now to get back in bed without waking your guest. You hesitate as you squint down at the bed, surprised that you were able to get out as smoothly as you did. And Levi's chest is bare. When did that happen? You were fully clothed so it's unlikely that you did anything exciting, but—

Did you sing?!

Before the horror can set in, Levi reaches for you, grabs a handful of your vest and drags you into bed. He makes hardly any room to let you in; instead of rolling over and taking the space you had slept in, he merely rearranges himself to create a tiny gap and hauls you into it. Before you can even lie down properly, he yanks the blanket up and grabs you in a fierce embrace, fitting you against him like a jigsaw puzzle piece. Your face is pressed against his neck, with no choice but to breathe his heat in; your right arm is pinned to your side in his embrace, and your left arm is trapped between you, which can't be good for it. It's far too warm and you're losing circulation to your limbs.

"Levi?" He doesn't answer. In fact, his breathing has evened out. He's immediately gone back to sleep. "Levi..." you whisper again, gently trying to pull away, and this time he stirs.

His arms tighten to an iron grip. His chin urges your face even closer into his neck. His leg crosses yours.

Then his breathing evens out again.

It takes a lot of concentration and effort to get enough air, and the incredible grip is far from comfortable. You're hungover, several hundred degrees too hot, your injured arm hurts, his leg is shockingly heavy as it gradually crushes yours, your right arm is numb, and you couldn't be happier if you tried. "Idiot," you murmur before pressing your lips against his skin.

You immediately regret this when he gives a sleepy mmmrf and, against all established understanding of biology, manages to crush you against him even more tightly.

By what manner of witchcraft can being so uncomfortable be so amazing at the same time?