Jigsaw: Bertholdt/Annie:

It's not that I ship a lot of SnK pairings— I just don't mind/accept a good bit of them, and this pairing that I'm partial to just came to me while viewing some cute fan art.

He would ask himself numerous times over whether or not this was wrong, like a puzzle lodged in the incorrect place. Could he fit with someone so different from himself— someone so much more intense? When he'd wonder that, he would ponder over what Annie thought of them, why she would settle for him, someone so much weaker in comparison, someone so lacking in backbone until he remembered what she was like.

Lax. Indifferent. She went for what was easiest. She did what was easiest. While she was a challenge herself, she didn't particularly fancy them.

He'd catch her staring at Eren Jaeger sometimes, the passionate guy who wasn't one of them with a loud mouth and eyes of emerald that burned like fire. He'd catch her facial during one of his rants, the way her gaze would soften, the way she'd bite her lip, and when he stood from afar— suffering from Reiner's taunts and prods because he didn't know— the way she appeared to think: I want him, I want to be like him.

Have a resolve. Take challenges.

But she couldn't have Eren because she merely wasn't like that. He knew. Eren was too much. Eren was too difficult.

Sometimes, he'd almost think, You have only as much spine as I do, Annie, before he would catch himself, remember the passionate ferocity within ice blue, remember her hands on his chest, pushing him against something, her lips ghosting over his . . .

He definitely was not that courageous.

When faced with the regurgitated body of someone he knew inside the walls, an even-voiced apology would be the least of his reactions. During the instance what he would have to abandon his gear, would he even think to pick up someone else's? He wasn't a soldier like they were becoming.

She was all steel, wasn't she . . .

But sometimes, during dinner, he could see an expression. She could see the furrow in her brow, the grimace in her mouth, the cogs turning, turning, turning in her head. He could hear where her thoughts went, what they have to do, when they have to, why they have to, and could hear her: This is too hard, this is too hard, this is too hard, dammit, this is too hard . . .

And she'd rise abruptly to her feet, nostrils flaring, snagging him by the sleeve of his shirt only to lead him outside. The night air would feel refreshing on his flustered skin if not for the constricted look in her eyes then, and he would feebly glance away, until she steeled herself, standing on her toes.

With a hand much too forceful, she'd grip him around the jaw, yank his face down, and then they'd be kissing against the building, but it would be softer, so much tenderer than her previous roughness.

Her hand would rove gently through his hair, and the one on his jaw would relax, cupping his cheek, and she would let him hold her close; let him feel her small frame against his.

In moments like these, he would remember an Annie in what would seem like a different lifetime, an Annie whose eyes had somehow been bluer, whose smiles were just as rare, but more playful than cynical, and an Annie who carried herself straight— didn't stand like she had the world on her shoulders.

This Annie, while her eyes were still considerably electric, while her smiles still made his face flush— while she most definitely bore a powerful presence, was all rigid corners in his arms. She was hard.

When she'd pull back, she would be hardly breathing, whereas he would be hot, and bothered, and panting, and maybe even a little lost, maybe feeling a little like when they set out on this mission— a little what is this all for?

She would just coolly gaze up at him, just wipe the corner of her mouth with one knuckle, expression unreadable, and still unreadable when she'd smile that indecipherable smile the next second, that grin that didn't reach her eyes, was merely all teeth.

That smile would hit him somewhere, somewhere underneath his ribcage when he could understand at least one aspect of it: It was her I've prevailed smile. Her I've overcome smile. He'd watch her smile it back home during training and he'd watch it here, that It was child's play smile.

One time, he'd actually clenched his fists in some sort of burst of exasperation— bared his teeth even though his eyes were squeezed shut, and shouted, "Am I just something easy for you? Something easy to accomplish to make you feel good about yourself?"

"Bertholdt, what are you talking about?" She had asked him slowly in return, voice level, smile unfaltering although it had altered to something a little more melancholy. "You think I find this easy?"

He had blinked then, and recalled something that was harder than her body in his embrace— when her fingers would begin to snake up underneath his shirt, across his abdomen, only to stop short. When her lips would freeze on his, and she would retreat with a tired sigh, resting her forehead on his chest. This was much harder.

"I'm trying, you know." The way her head had tilted and the sincerity present within those eyes, though her face was impassive, had his breath hitching. "Taking on this challenge . . ."

"If you can take a challenge, why not just take Eren?" He'd spat with a bitterness that had startled him, a bitterness he hadn't known himself capable of.

Her snort was dry, yet, for some reason, doused with fondness. "Maybe because I want you?" She'd banged a teasing fist on his chest, although he had sensed the underlying weight of it. "Stop asking questions and stop doubting yourself, Bertholdt." After a pause, her expression had darkened to something somber. "Honestly, between the three of us, I think we have enough of those . . ."

Questions and doubts. How right she was.

Even so, he'd begun to realize that most times, the pieces one tries to fit into the puzzle are the right ones if you flip them ninety degrees.