Without a real objective, she found herself drawn here on instinct. She did not like Levi personally; the image of limbs wailing against Eren's helpless body, sunlight edging their blurred silhouettes like beautiful, awful sculptures, the gallery silent save the terrible cracking of leather against skin—it was difficult to overcome. After some convincing on Eren's part she was able to appreciate the true function of the act, which she might have seen at the time had she not been blind with panic. And when he reminded her that the nature of his power had been a complete unknown at the time, she even acknowledged the courage it took for Levi to stand unarmed in front of that audience and risk the appearance of an intelligent titan in a den of idiots.
And still her reaction to the man was uncrontrollable. Like an animal she tensed when he came near, poised to attack—though her predator never went on the offensive, his glances only grazing her dismissively. Her disposition had softened in the weeks they'd spent at Survey Corps HQ, settling into their new teams; merging with the veterans offered another, less conservative perspective on the captain, and almost unwillingly she began to believe that he really was the strongest among them.
But in those few weeks, Levi had changed—undramatically, but she had spent such time warily awaiting his every move that she was sensitive to changes within him. His confidence had declined, worry causing deeper creases around his eyes. In passing she mentioned this change to Eren, who of course hadn't noticed, feebly offering the upcoming expedition outside the walls as an explanation. The boy's lack of concern irritated her. She had already come to accept Levi as a kind of safety barometer; his now wavering persona frightened her, and she felt an irresistible urge to know what was on his mind. So here she was, standing next to his closed door, back and fingertips pressed against the wall of a night-dark hallway.
Knowing he'd never answer (or at the least, never let her in), she decided not to knock for permission. She grasped the handle, allowing it to rattle just a bit, and rapped lightly to announce her presence before cracking the door. Tentatively she peeked around the edge to see him still, hunched on his mattress. He didn't look up. "Heichou?"
"What do you want?" he breathed, motionless.
Widening the gap in the door, she gripped the knob hard for support, stood up straight. "I don't want anything."
"By that I mean, no visitors." His voice teetered low, strained and insistent, and she could hear the beginnings of bared teeth.
Pretending that hadn't scared her, she silently closed the door. "You're sitting in the middle of the bed with your head in your hands."
He shook his head, barely disturbing the fringe of his hair. "Please leave."
"Why?" Her heart jumped up in her throat, astonished at her own boldness.
Finally he lifted his eyes, unseeing in their sternness. His tone was calculated, lilting, making damn sure she swallowed every syllable. "Because you're pissing me off, and it's causing me terrific distress."
She sank down next to him, somehow maintaining a semblance of control. Too near him, clearly; the air around him buzzed kinetically, as if set aflame. "I wanted to see how you were faring."
"Dandy." His eyes pinched closed, and he pressed his fingertips around the bridge of his nose. Was it a headache, or was he ignoring her?
Since she'd begun this journey of impertinence, all reservations had fallen away and what remained were only those unknown tasks her heart had set out to accomplish. Brain decided to trust body—and at the instant of that performative thought, divorcing movement from reason, her body thought it best to take Levi into her arms.
He didn't jump, didn't lash out at her; he was just still. Her chest pounded, the blood it pumped through her certainly audible above her shallow breathing. Too dumbfounded to divine his mood, she could only observe the limp arms at his sides, the cool skin of his neck under her burning, anxious hands. Was he displeased? Angered? Alright? Was his heart freezing over? Would he just say anything damn it? Frustrated at his indifference she said, "At least yell at me—" but at the same time his back weakened and he slumped into her, cheek cushioned exhaustedly against her shoulder.
Her arms tightened around him.
After a precious few moments he sat up again, loosening her grip on him, as he rubbed at his eyes for want of sleep. Mikasa was relieved at his lack of expression but wanted desperately to know what he was thinking. She did not see his face as a whole, but as parts that flitted in and out of her vision: the corners of his downcast eyes, the curve of his cheeks, the hidden ridge of his hairline behind loose bangs. As she was beginning to come to terms with the sensations in her gut, her impatient body pressed her lips, unbidden, against his, sending a shock of nerves painfully through her center.
He didn't seem surprised, which was aggravating, but she couldn't stop herself; lightly at first, several soft, small kisses that barely made contact, gradually prolonging without encouragement or refusal from him. Her skin was on fire but he wasn't moving and it made her mad. "Don't be so cold to me."
For a moment her heart stopped as he looked at her with that unemotionally pensive face. His eyes were still on her as his lips caught hers, and she positively jumped at the ambush; his kiss felt neither dispassionate, nor was it executed without care or unfeelingly. Mikasa pulled back, because even in the dim candle light, he would know by the heat of her skin how she blushed.
"Why?" he drawled.
She watched the lines of her palms, undulating nervously in her lap. His question could have been in response to any number of things she had said or done; she came with no concrete reason to begin with, so there was little to tell. Why? "I think . . . I'm the only one who can understand you."
Failing to look at him directly, still she was sure his eyes narrowed in condescension. For an instant she hated him, but then, gently: "So it's pity."
"No. . . ." Now she felt control truly slipping. What business did she have here if she couldn't explain herself? "It's just that . . . I think you're the only one who can understand me." Was that right? Did she really think that?
He just sat there, his body expressionless. "I don't understand you."
She shook her head without looking at him; her hands circled his wrists as she kissed him again. In this imprisonment he became more aggressive; she felt him come alive, electric in his skin, and her viscera melted when he wrested her mouth open with his to slowly, softly, let his tongue inside. A plaintive moan escaped her throat but she broke away, needing to breathe more heavily than she actually breathed.
"Something wrong?" he asked monotonously. This was evidently the most considerate thing he could manage, but she appreciated it nonetheless.
Mikasa stared into the blackness of her closed eyes, grasping desperately for composure. Her skin tingled when a rough hand tenderly brushed her hair aside. She forced herself to stand, away from him, for breathing room. "You're just . . . really good at that."
Quietly and absent of accusation, he said, "How would you know?"
Her eyes went wide. Was it that bad?
He frowned. "Just an assumption." This displeased her. How did he always know everything? "You cleave yourself so strongly to that monster that no one would dream of coming near you."
"You did."
"Not so. You invaded my quarters, if I recall."
She leaned before him again, threateningly pressing her palms against his thighs. The muscles twitched as his legs shifted slightly, and she imagined them pressed against her own. Without realizing it her fingers had slipped under the harness belts across those thighs, bringing her one layer closer to him. How was this happening? Could she do this and continue hating him? She went to kiss him again, and his hand came to rest thrillingly high on the back of her leg. In direct response her fingers began fiddling with the fasteners against his body, but in one motion he grabbed her hips, lifted her aside, and stood, fists at rest against his waist. "This is going to stop."
Slowly awakening from her daze, she wasn't confused as much as frustrated. Did he not understand what it took for her to come here, the feelings she had overcome? Could he not understand this expression of her forgiveness? "Why?"
"Let's count the ways," he said, clearly exasperated. "I'm your superior. I'm too old for you. I'm too old for this. And I don't believe you."
Belief? What was there to doubt?
"If you're serious, come back to me in a week." He thought for a moment; "Two weeks."
She stood up too, even at her height failing to feel imposing before him. "You need me to be serious? That seems irresponsible in this day and age."
Casually he ambled across the room and plopped down into a chair. "What a short-sighted thing to say." He sat with his hips lazily forward, one leg slung coolly over the other, and it took all her focus not to look not to look not to look and was that a grin on his face? "Give it some time. Three weeks. You'll cool on me by then."
What was he doing? What happened to the worry around his eyes? When had his confidence returned? How could he reduce her to a ball of hormones in a matter of moments, then just as quickly retreat? How could he be so disinterested? Did he not feel the pressure of impending death? "Who knows what'll happen to us 'by then'?"
"There it is. Why I don't believe you."
"So you think I'm just desperate?"
"I don't even think you know why you—"
"You think I haven't been looking at you for weeks already?"
He tilted his head quizzically; she again hid her face with her hair, embarrassed to have admitted it to herself. Now she had to face it: over time her observations had indeed transitioned out of a scholarly pursuit, into something more . . . selfish.
"I'm not looking for commitment," he said gingerly.
"Aren't you?" she challenged. "Not moments ago you said I needed to be serious."
"You misunderstand me. I would need you to be an adult." It didn't seem possible but her skin indeed flushed further, because she was indeed behaving childishly. "It's not that I want commitment. I'd like to be able to fuck someone freely, preferably without the threat of them getting offed right after." Hatred and sadness melded into disdain in his face. It struck her that losing friends, subordinates, hurt him just as badly as losing loved ones. "Can you blame me?"
She couldn't. Even in the absence of romantic feelings, sex was an emotional investment to him. "But you're not immune to death, either." She stood over his chair, slipping a hand into the collar of his shirt; that feeling in her gut returned as his eyes drifted closed in response to her nails raking gently across his neck. "And I didn't ask for commitment anyway."
"Yet you've waited so long to approach. Vetting, perhaps?"
"Apparently you would have made me wait anyway."
"I can't give you what you want," he said indifferently.
"I know I'm in no position to ask for commitment. Not from anyone, least of all you."
"What does that mean?"
"You're too fragile to just hand out trust like that, I know that."
"I'm fragile?"
She leaned down with a kiss, her only weapon against him, combing her fingers roughly through his hair. His head swayed slightly; objectively he was enjoying this, but he didn't succumb.
Or at least, she didn't think so. "One week," he said.
"I won't stand it that long."
"Four days, then."
She stood straight. "Fine. I'll see you in three days."
"Four," he called after her, but she was already out the door, pressing tears into her sleeves. Because she knew he lied.
