Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Your captain is an utter catastrophe in human form. If madness had legs, it would be wearing his boots. He’s a complete lunatic who seems to function solely on pure hatred for any form of matter and an obsession with you.

Officially, he’s the commander of the unit, a special forces leader, the strongest soldier of humanity. Unofficially? A part-time stalker and, for the rest of the time, a psychopath obsessed with cleanliness.

You have no idea when he finds time to sleep, given how packed his schedule is — more than half of it marked in bold red letters with your name and notes to turn your life into absolute hell. You suspect he exists in three places at once, and from each one of them, he’s staring directly at you.

Honestly, this man does nothing but intimidate every poor soul who dares to cross his path and obsessively clean. When he’s not cleaning, he forces you all to clean with such passion, as if humanity’s survival depended on the spotless condition of that window. Somewhere between these duties, he’ll find a moment to kill a titan — as if it were a minor inconvenience in his daily plan.

The rest of his day he devotes to haunting you like some ghost you had the misfortune to summon during a botched Ouija board session.

Petra thinks it’s romantic. “Oh, look at how he’s looking at you!”

Yeah, Petra, of course. He’s literally noting down in his little notebook that you’re breathing too loudly. Romance, my ass.

It’s weird, it’s sick. And honestly, it’s terrifying.

Your own captain is stalking you, and no one seems to see any problem with it.

You run into him at all hours of the day, in increasingly improbable places.

After all, there’s no better way to start your morning than almost crashing into him on your way to the shared showers. Especially when you salute him while still holding your underwear in your hand. He, of course, doesn’t even blink, completely used to the fact that his subordinates are completely idiots, unfit for life. Meanwhile, you feel like hiding in the nearest broom closet and staying there for the rest of your miserable life.

Breakfast, lunch, dinner — you spend all three meals in the same awkward position: squeezed between him and Petra, who, in turn, faints every time he passes you the salt.There wouldn’t be anything strange about it, if not for the fact that just a few weeks ago you were sitting next to Oluo. But one day, the captain, without a word, simply stood over the table, pointed at the seat, and silently forced a change.

Scrubbing the floors? He’s there.

Washing windows? Of course, he’s standing right behind you.

Trying to wipe away a mud stain someone else left behind? Levi leans over you like some ghost of hygiene and, in an indifferent, almost bored tone, points out that you missed a spot by the baseboard.

This man either doesn’t know the meaning of personal space or has a completely warped definition of it.

And sure, on the surface, none of this sounds too suspicious. After all, you live together in the same base. He’s your captain, you’re his subordinate. It’s perfectly logical that your paths would cross — sometimes more often than you’d like. 

If only it had stopped at that... everything would have been fine.

But it didn’t stop there. That was just the beginning.

You went to town once — just to shop, a moment of peace away from the base. And there, among the noise, the smell of fresh bread, and playing children, you ran into him. Just like that, on the street. As if he just happened to be walking the same path. It ended in a very awkward stroll through the city, with him a few steps behind you, stopping at the same stalls at a certain distance. You knew he was there, and he knew that you knew, but neither of you said a single word.

And over time, he starts being everywhere.

And in places where Levi Ackermann simply has no business being — but he’s there, breaking every law of nature.

A boutique? Levi walks in, silently glancing over the clothes as if he were inspecting a weapon collection. A haberdashery shop? He’s there too, standing between shelves full of lace, as if he were planning to sew himself a new uniform with embroidery.

But you obediently keep your mouth shut, not daring to question your superior, afraid that pointing it out would either get you kicked out of the squad or deepen his obsession with you.

It’s not like you’re forbidding your captain from spending his day off browsing stores — but he’s never done it before.According to Eld, who’s known the captain longer than any of you, he swears he’s only ever seen him take a day off once. A quick trip into town to buy tea.

Now, it’s practically a routine.

After a training session, with your face as red as a ripe tomato and sweat pouring off you (your default state after every session with the captain), you barely drag your feet toward your favorite spot under the old tree.It’s not your tree in any legal sense, but after spending so many hours in its shade, you’ve developed a sort of sentimental attachment to it. It’s your place to rest quietly.

The first time you saw him sitting under your tree, your heart stopped for a second.

Leaning against the trunk, arms crossed over his chest, staring ahead. If it had been anyone else, you might’ve written it off as a coincidence.

But not him. Not Captain Levi — who, upon first laying eyes on that tree, had made a snide comment that it looked like it was about to collapse. He stared at that poor oak with such hatred that you honestly don’t understand how the tree didn’t wither and die on the spot.

Never in your life have you turned around so fast to run away, nearly tripping over your own feet.

It’s the little things. The small details that slowly start making your mind spin.

Like footsteps at night. Soft, rhythmic steps just outside your door, when the entire squad is already asleep and the hallways should be empty. Of course — theoretically — it could be anyone. But only a few people wouldn't get into trouble for wandering around the base after curfew.

Or your tea. Always refilled. Always fresh. Not once have you caught anyone who might be leaving it there. You asked. No one admitted to it. And Eld doesn’t drink tea, Gunther can barely tell tea leaves apart from boiled weeds, Petra is so in love with coffee she could probably marry it, and Oluo would sooner eat his own tie than do something nice for you.

And then there are the glances.  Silent, fleeting. Too quick to catch, but enough to feel the shiver down your spine. As if your existence were constantly being examined under the microscope of a perfectionist with a control obsession. You know that feeling. You know someone is watching. You don't have to turn around to know who.

You have no proof. Nothing tangible. No catching him red-handed, no "aha!" moment. But deep down, you know it can only be him. Because who else could be everywhere, appearing out of nowhere and disappearing without a sound?

Oluo, of course, thinks you're being oversensitive. "Fucking paranoid," to quote him exactly. He also adds that you shouldn’t "slander their beloved captain," which is a nice reminder that Oluo would lick Levi’s boots and probably thank him for the honor.

Petra, on the other hand, has that bright-eyed look, like she just finished reading the hundredth volume of "the forbidden love in times of war". She keeps trying to convince you that the captain is smitten with you and that, in this weird, completely antisocial way, he’s trying to get closer to you. You swear that if she says it one more time, you’ll burn her entire book collection, because it's doing nothing good for her tiny brain.

As for you… well, you’re at the point where you’re considering writing a will.

Because if you die under suspicious circumstances in the next few weeks, you know exactly who you’re going to haunt first.

Because honestly, are you not scared?

Every time you catch a shadow out of the corner of your eye, a flash of ebony hair, or hear the distinctive click of his boots, your heart leaps into your throat. Cold sweat breaks out down your back, your hands start shaking, and your tongue works like a piece of wood fighting against gravity — you babble nonsense, like you’re trying to cast spells from an illiterate dictionary.

Tonight, once again, you’re not sleeping.

You lie motionless, staring at the ceiling, while from above you can hear Petra’s soft, almost soothing snoring. Sweet, delicate sounds of a person who either has no worries at all, or is dreaming about Levi holding her with the passion worthy of the climax of a dramatic romance novel.

Meanwhile, you’re not dreaming.You’re waiting.

Because you know exactly what’s about to happen.

And like clockwork — you hear it. Soft, barely audible footsteps, slow and careful. They approach, gliding down the corridor with a regularity that should be calming but only makes your skin crawl even more.

They stop.Right outside your door.Time freezes.

Silence. The kind that hurts your ears.

You can only hear your own breathing and your heartbeat pounding like a warning: you’re being too loud.

You wait. You wait longer than you should.

And then the floorboards creak softly again. He’s walking away.

Only then do you allow yourself to take a deeper breath. Your chest rises sharply, like you’ve just broken the surface after being underwater. But it doesn’t bring relief. Only more exhaustion.

All of this is so completely, undeniably fucked up.

You can’t live like this — in constant tension, your mind spinning itself into knots. You look over your shoulder more often than you look ahead. You avoid shadows like they’re alive, like at any moment one might split apart and reveal him — short, pale, and armed with a gaze sharp enough to crush a soul.

And the worst part?

Lately… You’ve genuinely, seriously been afraid to open your closet. You stood in front of it for a good five minutes, staring at the doors like you were facing a firing squad. Hand on the handle, the only image running through your head was a stupid, irrational one: him, sitting inside, arms crossed, in total silence.

You’re done with this. Enough of the whispers, enough of the guessing games, enough of the footsteps creeping through the night, the glances over your shoulder, the refilled tea, the tree that should have collapsed but didn’t dare to in his presence.

And you’re scared that even if you ran — he would still find you.

You stare into the darkness with determination, right where Petra’s bed is supposed to be — although, at this point, it might as well be a potted plant for all you’re able to think straight.

Your jaw clenched tight, heart pounding against your ribs like a terrified rabbit, and one unwavering decision taking root: this has to end. You can’t go on living like the main character of some cheap psychological horror novel, where the monster has no claws, no sharp teeth — just a perfectly ironed uniform and a gaze that robs you of your appetite and will to live. Levi Ackermann — a nightmare in premium edition.

The decision is made: either the Captain finally gets bored of haunting you and ends things with a “tragic accident while washing dishes” scenario, or you will gather hard, undeniable proof of his sinister intentions and stop him once for all.

Yes. The mission starts. Tomorrow.

Lying in bed, wrapped in a blanket and your growing paranoia, you listen to Petra’s peaceful breathing from the top bunk.

And suddenly… a thought creeps in.

What if she’s right? What if all of this — the tree, the tea, the footsteps, the glances — isn’t a murder plot at all, but... his way of showing interest? What if he’s actually have a crush on you? Maybe he just doesn’t know how to confess his feelings like a normal person.

Your eyes widen in horror, but not because of the Captain — because of yourself. No, you tell yourself firmly. Absolutely not. Don’t go down that road, girl.

Petra’s brain has been completely rotted by cheap romance novels, which apparently cause permanent reality distortion. You, on the other hand, are a realist. You keep your feet firmly on the ground. Besides, you’re too exhausted to think straight, so no — not a love-struck capitan Levi. Definitely murderous capitan Levi. That’s the only rational option.

The captain wants you dead. For some reason — maybe because you once accidentally tracked mud into his office, and he’s been plotting his revenge ever since.

Too bad for him — you’ve seen through it all.

And that's why tomorrow you begin your mission: "Take down Captain Levi before he takes you down and buries you in a wooden coffin under his window so he can sip his tea every morning over your grave." (Working title. Needs shortening. Maybe an acronym? Something catchy. You’ll think about it later.)

For now... you allow yourself a smile. A small, sarcastic smirk worthy of a paranoid hero in their own twisted story.

You already know the first step. The plan is taking shape.

And sure, maybe you’ll die. Maybe he’ll kill you.

But at least you’ll go down fighting if you have to.

With that thought, you close your eyes, cocooned in your blanket and the shredded remains of your sanity, trying to catch a few hours of sleep before those damned footsteps return to haunt your door.

Chapter Text

The first step is to throw your opponent off balance, to confuse them, to make sure they don’t know where the attack will come from.

And Levi Ackermann, your personal nightmare, is like dust under the wardrobe, always there, even if you can’t see it, and impossible to get rid of without a full set of tools and a bit of physical violence and cunning.

Your plan is simple in theory, and like all things that are straightforward and potentially stupid,  brilliant.

It has to be the perfect blend of apparent infatuation with your superior (with the proper filter, of course not too much, you don’t want to come off like Petra after a few glasses of wine, but just enough to seem emotionally conflicted), a dash of cluelessness about his alleged murderous intentions, and a truckload of behavior so suspicious that Commander Smith himself would order an interrogation on suspicion of treason. All of it designed to keep him on his toes. Maybe even throw him off his game.

Luckily, you’re a great actress. After all, you played the queen in your school’s King’s Day performance. You were 11, wore a crown made of aluminum foil on your head and a scepter made of a stick and some sequins in your hand.

The room was packed, your mother cried, and the teacher said you had “significant dramatic potential.”

The first step in your grand plan is, therefore, breaking the routine.

Because nothing unsettles someone obsessively in control of everything quite like disrupting their predictable cycle.

So you force yourself to get up before dawn. That hour when even the sun is still rolling over to its other side. Quiet as a shadow, you grab your towel, a change of clothes, and soap (because even on the brink of madness, hygiene matters). You gently close the door behind a snoring Petra - sleeping like a child dreaming of Levi cooking dinner in an apron (and preferably nothing underneath) — and head out.

But you don’t walk down the hallway quietly.

No, as you pass by the captain’s office, you stomp. Your feet strike the wooden floor with the fervor of a military parade. You even cough. Twice

Why?

Because everyone knows Captain Levi doesn’t sleep. Sleep is for cowards, morally spineless people, and those who don’t clean up after themselves. He doesn’t sleep, he occasionally shuts his eyes out of pure frustration. The bags under his eyes are so deep you could lose your stable keys in them. He probably doesn’t even know what REM means

Your march results in exactly one thing,  complete silence. The office doesn’t creak, it doesn’t groan, but you feel it. You feel that he’s aware of you on the other side of that door. That right now he’s sitting bolt upright in his chair, hair mussed, staring at the door with unsettling precision, already trying to predict your next move in his head.

That's good.

The plan is working.

The upside of your insane tactic is that you get a bit of privacy in the showers. The water is warm, no one’s shoving into the stall next to yours, no one's stealing your soap. You get a moment of peace to gather your strength and mentally prepare for the next phases.

The downside is that in about two hours, you're probably going to fall asleep face-first into your oatmeal,  and not only will the captain notice, he'll point it out and say you're behaving like a pig.

But that’s the price of war.

And you're ready.

When you return to your room, feeling smug about your little victory, you bump into him - as usual. Before you can even react, his office door swings open with such violence that if you'd been one step closer, you'd probably have a broken nose. You jump back, barely swallowing a quiet curse before your eyes meet.

It’s the first time you’ve seen him like this.

Levi looks more disheveled than you’ve ever seen him outside the field. His hair is sticking up in every direction, like someone ran an electric brush through it. No tie, no straps, and the collar of his shirt is curled up at the back like he literally sprang out of bed and threw on whatever was nearby, just to maintain his tradition of running into you every morning.

Oops. You may have just ruined the one time he was actually getting some sleep.

But that fleeting feeling of sympathy (and maybe a small twinge of infatuation, because for once he doesn’t look like he has a stick up his ass,  more like someone who just woke up after a one-night stand) vanishes instantly. In a split second, it disappears the moment he looks at you with that piercing gaze, the one that reminds you that this man, the one now standing in disarray before you, is the same person who’s turned your life into hell. And just like that, he’s himself again, the psychopath you battle with on a daily basis.

- Captain, good morning- you snap off a salute, hoping your hammering heart doesn’t betray you.

He stares at you blankly, like he’s trying to process what the hell just happened, then his gaze sharpens.

- What are you doing at this hour? - a question that might as well be a warning.

You work to restore your mask of total indifference, returning his stare with just as much confidence, like this is just any other morning. But in your head, a thousand scenarios flicker past. On one hand, it feels like an interrogation where every word is a trap. On the other, the fact you caught him off guard gives you the upper hand. Maybe not a decisive win, but enough to tilt the scales slightly in your favor.

- Taking a shower, sir.

The tone you use when you say it is calm, as if showering at four in the morning is the most natural thing in the world. Who doesn’t shower at 4 a.m., right? Everybody probably does it.

- At four a.m.? - he repeats, looking at you with clear disbelief, as if you just told him there were titans living inside the walls. He stands there like a statue, betraying nothing in his expression, but his gaze stays fixed on you, like he’s trying to decode your entire life in a single glance.

You nod, damp hair bouncing slightly with the movement. - Yes, sir

You meet his gaze, doing your best to show nothing, no hesitation, no guilt, no flicker of the truth. Just blank neutrality.

Levi grimaces, as if he just swallowed something incredibly sour, and the next word out of his mouth sounds like it causes him actual pain. 

-Why?

And now you start to worry.

You can feel your heartbeat speeding up, a pulse of panic beginning to spark in your chest. Did he catch you? Has he figured out you’re trying to manipulate him, throw him off-balance, derail his maybe probably definitely evil schemes? You know you have to answer, and it can’t be too neat, too well-rehearsed. The whole operation can’t crumble here.

You force yourself to swallow and quickly avert your eyes, hoping he doesn’t notice that brief, flickering pause, the one second where your acting falters.

You twist your face into something that hopefully resembles embarrassment and hesitation. You feel like a kid caught red-handed in the cookie jar. Finally, you glance up at him from beneath your lashes and murmur,

 - I just… couldn’t sleep.

Your words are technically true, sleep was your enemy tonight.

Levi watches you for a moment longer, like he’s still scanning for hidden weapons, some concealed trick tucked behind your neutral expression. Then something shifts in his face. His lips twitch into something that could almost be a sneer, or maybe a grimace of irritation, as he says:

- So you decided to wander the halls in the middle of the night?

It’s not really a question, it’s a trap. The kind that requires a perfect answer, the kind where even a hesitation could get you court-martialed and launched from the building head-first. You always want to snap back at him, your reflexes screaming for sarcasm, but not now. Not with this much on the line.

So instead, you drop your gaze. Your shoulders fall. You try to look like a scolded puppy.

It’s not hard. You often look like you’re on the verge of whimpering when someone scolds you - it’s not something you do on purpose. You wouldn’t even know it if Gunther hadn’t pointed it out. "Look at yourself. You look like a kicked puppy."

Of course, that never actually helped. Not in the military. And certainly never with him . Levi Ackermann, immune to guilt, shame, and puppy eyes alike. A walking dead zone for any form of emotional manipulation.

And yet you swear his expression flickers. 

His face doesn’t soften, not exactly,  it never does ,but you catch the way his brow eases, just slightly. That constant furrow, the one that seems permanently carved into his skin, disappears for a fleeting second, like something inside him, something tense,  finally let go.

And you can’t stop staring.

Because even you, damn it, have eyes. And though you’d never, ever, not under torture, not on your deathbed, admit it out loud, your captain is… kind of handsome.

Short, sure. Pale like a chalkboard that’s never seen sunlight. Radiates the energy of a reanimated corpse who was given a second life only to waste it screaming at people over improperly folded sheets. Completely mad. Domineering. As courteous as a feral alley cat. A tiny, iron-fisted dictator.

But still...

There’s that shape of his mouth. Delicate. A mouth that could be the subject of poetry if it ever twisted into a smile instead of another insult. And his hair, black as a starless night, catching the candlelight in a way that makes it shine. You know people who would kill for that thickness, that natural gloss.

And then - the eyes.

Those gray eyes.

Most of the time, they send chills down your spine, cold, sharp, dissecting you like he’s calculating your uselessness on a scale from one to go drown yourself in a pond.

But sometimes… just sometimes, like now, they’re different.

They pull you in. Dangerous like the sky before a storm, and yet, strangely calming. As if there’s something behind them. Something more.

- Captain…-  you begin, not having any idea what you actually want to say. The words spill out, as if your body and mind have detached from each other.

A wave of his hand interrupts the moment like shattered glass. Everything breaks apart—the atmosphere, the tension, the potential thought. You feel like a child who just dropped an antique vase.

- Never mind. Do whatever you want- he says, glancing at you from top to bottom, as if evaluating whether you're competent enough to do something stupid. The corner of his mouth twitches in mockery. You want to punch him in the face. Even knowing that a military court would be waiting for you with open arms, it would be fucking worth it . - Just don’t be late. If you’re late, you’ll be running laps around the base until you puke like a cat

Die, you think, looking at him with pure hatred. Burn. Spontaneously combust. Break apart into atoms along with that delicate curve of your lips and those polished boots that shine brighter than my future.

- Yes, sir!-  you salute, doing your best not to growl. You're about to turn and leave with the last shred of dignity you have, when something catches your attention.

Before he can disappear behind the door, you extend your hand toward him. He stops. Turns. Looks at you, furrowing his brow, a mix of confusion and utter, deep frustration that you dare even breathe in his vicinity. He releases the doorknob and straightens up sharply, almost instinctively assuming a combat stance. It looks like you're about to pull a knife on him.

It’s honestly kinda funny, because you know he could knock you to the ground in five different styles before your neurons even fired the thought to attack him.

You step closer. Slowly. With clothes slung over your shoulder, you reach out your hands toward him. His gaze follows your movement, fixed on your fingers.

- Wait…- you say quietly, as if speaking any louder would ruin everything.

He doesn’t pull back. But he doesn’t relax either. He’s ready for anything, and you... you only straighten the collar of his shirt.

Your fingers reach behind his neck, gently smoothing the fabric that had folded awkwardly at the nape. Your movements are calm, careful, almost mechanical, as if you’ve done this a thousand times before.

You try to smile as you step back, though you suspect what lands on your face is more of a nervous twitch than anything else. You move away slowly, like dealing with a wild animal, still feeling the warmth of his skin lingering on your fingertips.

You turn and walk away, doing your best to keep your stride steady, no rushing, no running. The silence that falls behind you feels unnatural. Even the wind outside seems to pause tugging at the branches, as if the world itself is holding its breath.

You don’t hear him close the door behind him for a long, long moment.

After all… you’re fairly satisfied with the morning encounter. It’s absurd, really, because technically speaking, nothing major happened, nothing that would significantly advance your plan. You just touched his collar, fixed it like you were his mom or a personal stylist.

It doesn’t particularly affect the rest of the day, except for the fact that around six o’clock, you’re nearly falling asleep over a steaming cup of tea.

The captain still sits next to you like it’s nothing. He doesn’t nod in greeting, doesn’t look your way, doesn’t make a sound beyond the soft slurp of tea, which seems to be the only thing he needs to survive the day. 

And that, that complete indifference,  is the only sign that anything happened at all. Because he doesn’t spare you a single glance. Doesn’t comment on your appearance, doesn’t say you look like you rolled through a manure pile. Doesn’t mutter a single sarcastic word.

Just silence and calm.

It might not be the effect you expected, but… it’s nice. A small break from being passively-aggressively mocked. Even if it lasts only a few minutes.

You smile into your tea. It’s a soft, nearly invisible smile, more for yourself than for anyone else. But Eld, sitting across from you, catches it immediately. You see it in his eyes, the slight furrow of his brow, the way he tilts his head, as if trying to decode whether you’re smiling because the tea is that good or because you've officially lost all your marbles.

You catch his gaze, raise an eyebrow in silent question: What?

- You look unusually happy today - he says, and his voice instantly draws the attention of everyone at the table. In one second, you feel every pair of eyes on you, including the one you least want.

You freeze with the teacup in your hands.

- Don’t I usually look happy?-  you ask with a crooked smile, trying to turn the moment into a joke. But that little internal spark of triumph that had quietly bloomed in your chest just moments ago now shrinks back.

Eld only shrugs, like it’s something so obvious it’s not even worth discussing further.

- Most of the time, you look like you’re about to cry-  Eld says with complete nonchalance, shoveling another spoonful of oatmeal into his mouth like he didn’t just drop an emotional landmine in the middle of the table.

- Or like you want to hit someone -Gunther adds from the other end of the table, not even looking up from his plate.

And it’s only the fact that he’s sitting so far away that saves him from getting kicked in the shin.

You shake your head in disbelief, feeling utterly betrayed and disappointed,You drain the rest of your tea, because rules are rules: never waste good tea, even if the whole world just laughed in your face.

You rise from the bench with what remains of your dignity, fingers digging a little too hard into Petra’s arm as she tries not to choke on her own laughter.

- So that’s what you’re all like-  you say coldly, throwing a look sharp enough to burn everyone at the table — at least, in your mind’s eye -I’m leaving

You spin on your heel, not even completing your first step before his voice cuts through the air like a scalpel:

- Where?

You freeze. Your entire body turns to marble, every muscle locking up. The air in your lungs suddenly feels weighted, like someone tied you to a bag of bricks and tossed you into a lake. The hairs on your neck rise. Shit .

You turn slowly, offering a polite smile.

- Squad lider Hange asked me to come by- you reply evenly, trying to sound like a clerk reading from a memo -She has an idea for a new experiment she wants to discuss.

You clasp your hands in front of you almost penitently, like a student who is about to ask permission to go to the bathroom.

Come on, let it go, please just let it go , you plead internally, offering silent prayers to Maria, Rose, and Sina alike.

The captain doesn’t respond immediately. He merely narrows his eyes, clearly measuring you, dissecting you,  as though trying to determine whether you’re lying. That look of his - cold, penetrating, like he’s using a ruler to measure your soul and finding it lacking.

He’s never liked your collaboration with Hange. He’s never said it outright, but you’ve seen it in his eyes, in the way his jaw tightens, in those small, seemingly insignificant comments that always carried just a bit too much venom.

Why? You don’t know. Maybe it’s just another one of his quirks. Maybe it’s his personal dislike for the madness that Hange spread around herself like perfume. Or maybe it’s… something else. A strange possessiveness you don’t understand — and that scares you a little more than you’d like to admit.

- Just don’t be late for training.

- Just don’t be late for training-  you mutter to yourself with mockery, rolling your eyes as you turn to leave. But of course, as always, luck isn’t on your side.

- What was that?

You freeze.

- Nothing, sir! Just talking to myself, sir! See you later, sir!

You salute so quickly it’s a miracle your arm doesn’t fly off and you rush off like the building is on fire behind you, desperately hoping that your dignity can somehow keep up with your legs.

The truth is, you didn’t lie. Hange really did want to discuss a new experiment with you — something about nerve conductivity in titan limbs, or something equally disgustingly fascinating. But let’s not kid ourselves: you also wanted to see her.

There’s something between you… something almost like a friendship.

She loves to chatter about titans, their anatomy, how different they are from humans, even though they resemble them at the same time. You listen — sometimes with interest, sometimes with slight disgust — but never with boredom. You’re glad to be around someone who doesn’t judge you for how often you ask questions or how deeply you dive into the details.

You, on the other hand, like hanging around her lab not for the titans, but for the science itself.
You love that quiet moment when the world under the microscope becomes smaller, but somehow more understandable. You love making slides, organizing notes, drawing sketches of biological structures, washing pipettes, and wondering what the new stain on the glass might mean.

Sometimes you get the feeling that if life were more fair, you could’ve become some kind of scientist. Not a soldier with chronic sleep deprivation and the constant belief that her superior is currently plotting her murder.

Unfortunately, science and research in this world mean one thing: titans. Because they are the biggest mystery, the worst nightmare,  the most tempting subject, etc.

And even though you’d rather study the flora beyond the walls, fate decided your life would revolve around decaying muscles and smeared experiments with fragments of napes.

And on top of all that… there’s one more small detail.

Hange is the only person who takes your concerns about the captain seriously.

Maybe because she’s eccentric enough herself not to write off your words as paranoia. Maybe because she still holds a grudge that Levi recruited you into the special operations squad before she got the chance. It’s funny  how she reminds you that he “ took you away from me ,” as if she forgot that you agreed to it yourself.

Yes. Hange is strange. But it’s a good kind of strange. A funny kind of strange.The kind of strange that sometimes smells like formaldehyde, but never sends chills down your spine.

With her, you’re safe.

In her company, you can breathe. Think.

You don’t have to check every three minutes whether the shadow in the corner moved by a millimeter.

- Hey, Moblit - you greet as soon as you cross the threshold of the laboratory, and the young man in front of you is the only constant, logical, and coherent thing amidst the chaos.

Moblit, as usual doing ten things at once, just nods at you, torn between sorting documents, putting away the microscope, and shouting at the commander to be careful.

Hange seems not to hear him, or more likely completely ignores him, being completely absorbed in what she’s doing, if the loud metallic bang is any kind of answer.

- I’ll take care of it - you assure him with a light sigh, you exchange short, tired smiles and carefully walk past anatomical sketches drying on the floor.

Captain Levi would have a heart attack in this place. His small, furious heart would burst before he took more than three steps in this mess. Four might already be too much, strongest of humanity or not.

It’s a complete mess.

Everywhere you turn, you see piles of books stacking on every available surface, beakers with not entirely identified substances—one is probably full of coffee (Hange has the unpleasant habit of making coffee in anything but a mug, which ended with more or less funny situations), various documents, still wet from ink, full of chaotic notes.

That smell of dust, ink, formaldehyde, and something burnt.

You love this place.

You, Hange, and Moblit are probably the only people who can find their way in this mess. In this chaos, there is logic. Peculiar, unintuitive, but still logic. And you are the only ones who understand it.

You know exactly where that one crooked nail is—the one no one remembers to hammer in all the way, the one you once caught yourself on and had to get very unpleasant injections for.

You know which cupboard holds the spare lab coats—in the third drawer of the dresser next to the fireplace, and which one holds the drying, found dead spiders—the second drawer of that same dresser next to the fireplace.

You have your little spot by the window, where the evening sun falls at just the right angle to light up your notes, the chair has already bent to your shape, and the floor has worn down in the spot where you have a habit of tapping your foot in thought or frustration.

You’ve spent more hours here than in your own home.

You lift the oil lamp from the table and lean over Hange, who is hunched over some kind of metal box.

- Good morning, Hange.

She turns around sharply, her ponytail whipping your cheek like a lash. She yells your name, surprised—you wince at the sudden loudness, Moblit at the other end of the room drops something to the floor, pigeons flap off the windowsill with the sound of beating wings, and your team probably hears the echo of your name carrying across the whole courtyard.

-What are you doing here? Not that I’m not happy to see you!-  she straightens up immediately as if she thought she might offend you. Sweet Hange, if only she knew half the insults your daily interaction with the captain brings you - But you never come here in the morning. Did you finally leave that gnome?!

-Unfortunately not- you smile at her - I’m plotting against him and I need accomplices

You barely finish your sentence before Hange drops everything she was doing—literally. Her tools hit the floor with a dull clatter, and she leaps over her notes to get to you. Her hands, completely smeared with something that looks like grease, immediately land on your shoulders, leaving messy marks on the brown fabric of your jacket.

- Goddammit, Hange…-  you mutter.

- Of course we’ll help you! Right, Moblit?- Moblit mumbles something, probably No, squad lider, don’t plot against the captain, it’s dangerous. Typical Moblit. The guardian of common sense. A man who’s like a “do not touch” sign next to buttons that just have to be pressed - What’s your plan?

For a split second, the two of you are like two oxygen molecules ready to explode in the presence of a spark. You return her smile, looking just as crazy, if not more.

- I’ll make him fall in love with me, and once he lets his guard down, I’ll get all the evidence and bring it to the commander!

Hange laughs at your face.

She laughs and laughs, until Moblit peeks in, worried. You stare at her like you’re seeing her for the first time in your life. Maybe Hange has reached a new level of madness.

Only after a longer moment does she calm down enough to catch her breath and wipe tears from the corners of her eyes, leaving behind black streaks from that cursed grease.

- Girl, you’re so stupid! - she’s still giggling, but doesn’t let you say anything before continuing - You’re the smartest person I know, but when it comes to people, you’ve got the sense of a beetle.

- Squad lider - Moblit objects, scandalized on your behalf. You can still only stare at her.

- What?-  she spreads her hands with an innocent smile - It’s true! Everyone sees that Levi’s completely lost his mind for her!

- No, he…-  you protest, but your voice is weak, like someone’s pulled the air right out of your lungs.

She throws an arm over your shoulders and pulls you into a sideways, surprisingly warm hug. Her face is right next to yours. She speaks directly into your ear, and a shiver runs down your spine.

 - That little neat freak is totally smitten with you.

You pull back slightly, turning your face toward hers in disbelief. She only shrugs.

 - Sure, he’s freakishly weird about it, but you can’t deny he’s got something for you.

You tear yourself from her embrace, staring at her in horror.

 - How can you say that? That man has turned my life into hell. Wherever I turn, he’s already there!

- Like I said—freak - but Hange, being Hange, remains completely unfazed - and apparently your freak

She turns away from you and leans over a table that probably once served for drinking coffee, but now barely holds piles of stained papers, test tubes, and strange tools.

 - Who knows…-  she adds suddenly-  who knows if one day he won’t just steal you. Just for himself.

- Hange - you say quietly, and right away you can tell she sees something in your face, because her smile vanishes immediately, replaced by concern.

 - Hey, hey, don’t panic -  she says quickly, raising her hands in a calming gesture- Every cloud has a silver lining, right? You wouldn’t have to work anymore! You could finally focus one hundred percent on your scientific career!

Somewhere in the background, near one of the shelves, Moblit sighs heavily in the tone of a man who’s heard it all and knows he’ll hear even more.

- Hange, I don’t feel well…- your voice barely audible and shaking just like your knees. And for a split second, you really are certain you’re about to pass out.

And it doesn’t even seem like the worst option.

If fate had decided to show you mercy just this once, maybe you would’ve cracked your head against the edge of the table and it would all be over.

But unfortunately—luck, as usual, chooses to avoid you like the plague.

Before you can crash to the ground, Hange swiftly wraps an arm around yours and, with a firm yet careful motion, stops you from falling. She helps you slowly slide down to the floor, as if you were made of glass and might shatter from any sudden movement.

Moblit, ever reliable, disappears around the corner, throwing something over his shoulder about getting water, though his voice fades somewhere in the background, as if through thick glass.

Hange sinks down beside you with a heavy sigh.

- Fuck, I really didn’t think you were taking it this hard - she admits, looking at you with a mix of guilt and concern.

You can’t bring yourself to look at her. Your gaze is fixed on your hands—pale and trembling. The panic that had briefly been quiet now seeps out of you again, like ink soaking into paper.

- I’ve had enough of him, Han -  you say softly, but each word weighs a ton - I’m not sleeping. I’m not eating. I can’t fucking do anything without looking over my shoulder. Wherever I look, he’s already there. And if he’s not humiliating me in public, he’s staring at me like he wants to take me apart piece by piece!

- Well, I suspect at some point he actually would like to take you apart, preferably in the bedroom - Hange throws in with inappropriate amusement.

You smack her arm immediately, face flushed with a mix of outrage and embarrassment.
She groans dramatically: - Ow, ow! Damn, stop hitting me, that hurts!

You breathe deeper, still shaking.

- If he doesn’t want to kill me, then he’s doing everything to push me to the point where I’ll do it myself - you say, and there’s no trace of a joke in your voice now. Just exhaustion.

That sentence makes Hange grab your face in both hands and pull your head so close to hers you hear a crack in your own neck.

And suddenly, you see her completely different. Not smiling, not scattered, not crazy. Serious.

You only see this version of Hange rarely, only after particularly failed expeditions, when even her scientific obsession can’t pull her out of the dark spiral of memories she falls into.

- Don’t say that. Never say that -  she presses her forehead to yours and sighs, her breath smells like coffee, you’re too disoriented to call her out on the lack of hygiene. - I’ll help you.

- What?-  you blink at her. 

- I’ll help you. Me, Moblit. With whatever you need- she runs her hand through your hair, rubbing more of that damned grease into it, and leans back just enough so you don’t have to go cross-eyed trying to look at her. - I know it’s something you need to face on your own. To understand why he’s so fixated on you. But we’ll help you with that.

- Han… thank you -  you finally manage to say.

She waves you off like it’s no big deal, but you know better. You know she won’t say no problem because this is Hange, after all.

The same Hange who takes every opportunity to drag you into her more or less legal experiments. Like that time she stitched up the gash on your head after one of your first training sessions. You’d tripped over your own maneuver cables and slammed into a tree trunk so hard you saw stars.

You spent the next week up to your elbows in grease because she convinced you (or rather emotionally manipulated you) to help her build a reinforced cannon for destroying titan necks.

The end result?

One missing wall in the stables and Commander Erwin breathing down your neck for the rest of the week so intensely you were pretty sure he knew the exact number of hairs growing there.

But you’re saved. Finally.

Moblit returns, just like he promised but he’s carrying more than just water.

Because before you can feel any relief, before you can say anything, you see a shadow.

A shadow standing in the doorway.

And before your thoughts can catch up with reality, you already know.

Captain Levi.

He enters the room with that quiet, terrifying confidence of his, as if the laboratory belonged to him, as if the chaos and the stench of formalin were his natural habitat.

He doesn’t spare a glance at the sheet of paper his boot clearly leaves a print on. He doesn’t look at the piles of documents, doesn’t acknowledge the coffee in the beaker or the cobwebs on the ceiling.

No. His gaze is fixed only on you.

More precisely - on your face, still cupped in Hange’s hands.

You jerk back like scalded, legs tangling under you as you scramble to get up in one clumsy motion. A muffled, breathless - Captain! -  escapes your lips.

Only then, and far too slowly, he tears his eyes away from Hange who’s still sitting on the floor, a bead of sweat trailing down her temple and finally looks at you.

He says nothing. Just lifts a brow at you, as if asking what the hell are you doing now .

- Captain, what are you… what are you doing here, sir?- you ask, breathless.

He looks at you like you just asked if the sky is blue.

- Training starts in ten - he explains without really explaining anything, and your brain scrambles to make sense of his sudden appearance.

The threat of punishment drills races through your mind. Barely an hour ago he told you not to be late, and yet here he is, in the flesh, making sure you won’t be.

- Oh. You came for me. That’s… - Terrifying. Control-freak behavior. - …very kind of you, sir. 

He just scoffs, already turning on his heel.

He’s halfway through the door when he throws over his shoulder:  - What are you waiting for? Move.

Your body moves before your brain can process the command.

You throw one glance behind you. Hange is still sitting, giving you a thumbs up with a smile. Moblit stands in the corner, looking like someone just asked him to transcribe an entire library. Like he aged ten years. Maybe more.

Then the door closes behind you, and you follow your captain in absolute silence.

And as you gaze at his perfect undercut, the thought resurfaces. 

That little neat freak is totally smitten with you.

Captain Levi throws you the same kinds of looks he gives the politicians from Mitras, long, drawn-out, assessing from head to toe. But the looks directed at you aren’t fully hostile. They don’t carry the same coldness reserved for total idiots, though there’s no denying that your very existence annoys him to the core.

And though he doesn’t threaten you outright… you know very well that Levi can be very creative when it comes to threatening.

He can string a sentence together in such a way that you’ll spend the next two hours wondering if he just announced your death, or if you simply had a very unpleasant conversation.

He has something for you, something twisted, something broken, but he has it. Something in him doesn’t allow him to leave you alone. As if your presence in his line of sight were some kind of personal duty to him.

And considering your interaction this morning, your fueling of his paranoia, pretending to be just as fascinated by him as he is by you - this might work. At least long enough to buy you a few minutes of relative peace.

You still can’t rule out the possibility that he wants to kill you, but now it’s harder to ignore... the emotional context. A serial killer’s type of fascination.

But if you play your cards right, you might still win. Figure out exactly what he wants from you, and get something on him that will ruin him. If he thinks you’re falling into his trap, he won’t even realize when the fire burns him.

- If you were so kind – he suddenly interrupts your train of thought – I would like to start training today. 

It’s only then that you realize you’ve slowed your pace.

You quickly speed up, too hastily, almost tripping over your own shoes, but you manage to make up the distance.

This time, you walk beside him instead of behind.

He glances at you for a split second. You pretend not to notice.

He doesn’t comment on your dirty jacket. Or the streaks of grease on your cheek. Or the fact that you smell like oil and dust.

Maybe, just maybe, if luck is truly on your side, you’ll survive to see the reclaiming of Wall Maria.