A/N: This is intended to be platonic RivaMika (which I ship so unbelievably hard right now), but interpreting it as romantic is perfectly fine too. It's just pure, angst-ridden Ackerman bonding. :D It's set sometime between the battle with the huge Reiss titan and the mission to retake Wall Maria.

I don't own SnK.

They Wield a Double-Edged Blade

The mess hall was doused in darkness, and empty save for a dark-haired figure who sat alone at a table in the corner. The walls of the building seemed to hold silence captive while in the deserted streets outside the occasional distant howl of a dog or the faint rustle of the wind breathed life into the sleeping city. Inside the air was thick and heavy, like that of a grave, hanging impassively over the hall's single occupant.

The door slid open, and Mikasa Ackerman looked up. Gentle light spread across her hands, which were folded in front of her on the wooden tabletop. The diminutive figure of Captain Levi stood in the doorway, one hand braced against the doorframe and the other holding a candle, his black hair stirred by the breeze. Their eyes met for a brief moment, and his widened fractionally at the sight of her. After an initial pause in which neither of them spoke, he stalked over, set the candle down and threw himself into the chair opposite her, slinging an arm over its back.

"Out taking a shit?" he asked, in a passably conversational tone.

"My bathroom habits are really none of your business, Captain." Her reply might have sounded insolent, except that her voice held no real hostility. To be sure, it wasn't precisely the answer she'd wanted to give, but she was cold and uncomfortable and on edge, and the effort it cost to appear nonchalant expelled any concern for civility from her mind. Besides, such terseness was, in the end, inevitable between them. It was common knowledge that humanity's two strongest soldiers were hailed for their fighting prowess rather than their social skills.

His grey eyes slid over her lazily. "What's the matter, Mikasa? Is it still stuck in there clogging up your system?"

Her lips twitched, but she refused to give in to the sudden urge to laugh that had bubbled up out of nowhere in her chest. Though she wouldn't readily admit it, there had been many times when she had been privately amused at him – at his rude comments, his manner of insulting people who deserved it, and probably above all his face when he was on the receiving end of the criticism and knew he deserved it. But it had always been an amusement she enjoyed in secret, moments when a grin would covertly flash across her face and fade in the blink of an eye. Somehow the idea of him, of all people, knowing about it made her uneasy. She recalled the image of Historia spitting his own words back in his face atop the Wall and had to suppress another wave of simmering laughter.

"I don't suppose it's any of my business, but . . ." she began. "Forget it. It's not."

He was silent for a while, fingers tapping absently on the scratched tabletop. "What insane pastimes do you imagine I enjoy? Sleeping is overrated. That's all there is to it."

"I . . . I see." Without warning, her stomach lurched at his words and her hands were suddenly slippery with sweat. She screwed up her eyes against a violent influx of nausea and had to swallow several times before she was sure she wasn't going to throw up.

When her vision cleared she realised he was leaning forward, his posture tensing instinctively from years of trained vigilance. "Mikasa?"

"It's nothing." She unclenched her hands and sat back in her chair, determinedly looking away from him. Hard, unyielding wood dug into her back, the discomfort keeping her grounded, fighting back the flood of dizziness that threatened to engulf her. She hated being seen like this. She was Mikasa Ackerman, who had topped her graduating class, who fought with ruthless precision, who could be trusted with the most difficult and dangerous of tasks. She was brave and focused, passionate and driven. She did not want to show weakness in front of her captain. In the past weeks they had developed something of an unspoken rapport – they had worked together and fought together, silently drawing on one another's strength, watching each other's backs and moving almost as a single unit. In their own strange, unfathomable way they understood each other, could communicate volumes through as little as a meaningful glance or a few succinct words. She wanted to continue to be that soldier he could rely on, the steady, blazing flame that could ignite even in the blackest darkness. Not the weak, trembling creature she was now.

She saw him withdraw, vanishing from her peripheral vision, and the silence stretched on. It was not an uncomfortable sort of silence, exactly, but neither was it pleasant.

Subsequently, his voice drifted out of it, soft, but with an undercurrent of something she couldn't quite identify. At first she was bemused; there seemed to be no sense of connection in the words and phrases she heard, but slowly, like an impending avalanche – little rocks, little clumps of snow slipping down a bank, before the full power of the torrent was unleashed – it dawned on her. It was a scene so familiar she could have been listening to voices inside her own head.

"Your friends. Family. Comrades. Everyone you've ever known, falling prey to titans. Swallowed, crushed, ripped apart. There's blood spattering everywhere, you're choking on it, it's coating your hands, your boots, your gear. And you can't move because it's so slippery, you can't see because it's in your eyes, you can't fight and you can't save anyone. And all you hear is screaming. Endless screams of the people you'll never get to in time." He said all of this quite calmly, as if he was merely commenting on what he'd had for dinner, but he wasn't looking at her. "Isn't that right, Mikasa?"

Her hands were shaking under the table. Everything he had described, every precise detail . . .

"Yes," she whispered. They both knew it all too well. That the blessing of superior speed and agility bestowed upon them came at a terrible price. The deadly blows that missed them by a hair's breadth struck them with tenfold force as they witnessed the demise of those less fortunate, and the weight of responsibility they carried on their shoulders was a burden they bore alone. "And it doesn't stop, even when you wake up."

He let out a long breath and turned to face her. The candle's fluttering flame lit up his features from below, painfully emphasising the dark circles under his eyes. "See? I told you it was overrated."

It was the last thing Mikasa expected of herself, considering the circumstances, but she felt her dry lips cracking as they struggled to curve into a smile. Again, the words spilled out before she could check herself. "You . . . really are abnormal, aren't you, sir?"

Levi's expression remained unfazed, but his gaze was distant, as though he wasn't looking into the shadows of the mess hall but into those of some faraway, unreachable place – into the elusiveness of the past or the hazy vision of a utopian future. He was not exactly handsome, she reflected – he had the face of a child who had grown up too quickly, and in spite of his strong physique acquired from years of combat training, he still retained the slightly pinched look of someone who had never had enough to eat. For the Survey Corps, he was a symbol of strength and hope, a hero in equal parts respected and feared. And yet, strangely, Mikasa's most vivid recollections of him were not glorious images of his superhuman feats in battle, but brief, random snapshots with no correlation to one another, an odd mix of the mundane and the profound – Levi sitting alone at dinner, sipping tea . . . Levi walking into the Corps headquarters with a strange look in his eyes, his face splattered with dried blood . . . Levi shoving her forcefully out of the path of a giant fist corded with muscle, teeth gritted in pain and desperation . . . Levi glancing at her in the courtroom, momentarily startled by the way she was glowering at him . . .

"Mikasa." It was nothing more than a low murmur.

"Yes?"

Perhaps it was because of the darkness, or perhaps it was due to something else entirely, but his face looked so different from usual – so open, so unguarded. "Do you think it's possible, then? For an abnormal person to live a normal life?" He half-closed his eyes. "After everything's over, that is. If we goddamned stupid humans don't slaughter what's left of our race before that ever happens." The last part held a trace of his usual cynical, drawling tone.

The thought of a life without bloodshed sent a raw pang of homesickness through her. She thought of Shiganshina, of the smell of pine in the air while gathering firewood with Eren, of Armin's excited chatter about the natural wonders outside the wall, and she thought about the Jaegers' kind words and warm embraces and Hannes' inebriated laughter, and finally, she thought about her parents. She swallowed and tried to speak past the tightness in her throat. "I'm not normal either, Captain. I killed a man when I was nine." Her voice was flat. "None of us are normal. This is what the world has turned us into." As she spoke, the terror and unease that had gripped her all night loosened their hold and evaporated into nothingness, and in their place warm, sweet relief seeped through her exhausted body. "I don't know if it's possible to live an ordinary life. But I hope it is." She sighed. "It would be nice."

Levi looked at her for a long moment, before turning away so that his face was hidden. "Yeah . . . it sure would." She thought he might have half-smiled, but it was too dark to tell.

She tightened the scarf around her neck, her fingers stiff and clumsy from the combined effects of cold and inertia. But Levi's company had calmed her, his twisted sense of humour serving as an unexpectedly effective distraction from her panic and fear. Drowsiness was beginning to creep in, and the thought of her soft bed back in the barracks was suddenly welcoming. She glanced across at him uncertainly. "Captain – I think . . . I'll go back now," she said.

He said nothing, but his eyes flicked towards her once and darted away again, acknowledging her words.

Somehow, the notion of leaving so abruptly seemed horribly wrong, after what they had shared in this short space of time, in this cold, austere hall – all the intimate thoughts they had uttered by the wavering light of a single candle. She opened her mouth, and before her brain could process it, before the warning bells inside her head could interfere, she had blurted out, awkwardly but earnestly, "And Captain Levi . . . thank you."

Most of his face was cast in darkness, but she sensed his surprise. "What is this all of a sudden?"

Embarrassment made her defensive. "If I recall correctly, you weren't very clear about your intentions when you said those words to us, so I don't see why I need to explain myself."

And there it was again – as his head snapped around and light glided over his face, she almost smiled. He was frowning, but in a half-defeated, half-defiant way – the look of a man who knew he was beaten and still wanted to argue. The look that managed to sear a hole through his controlled demeanour on rare occasions, that amused her so because she was sure she had worn it herself more than it was wise to do so, because every time she witnessed it she could see a fragment of herself reflected in those flashing grey eyes.

But she knew she was right – there was no need for explanation. Silently, she reached across the table and took his hand in hers. His was warm, and hers must have been freezing, but he didn't flinch even when she clung on tightly, saying everything she needed to say through that simple gesture. He simply squeezed back briefly before she let go, telling her he understood.

Her chair scraped against the floor as she stood up. There was a shuffle of movement from the other side of the table, and she raised her head to see him wordlessly holding out the candle to her. Something in his expression made her hesitate, one hand outstretched in the air, indecisive, while a tug-of-war between two conflicting impulses played out in her heart. He had never been easy to read, even to her, and she did not know for certain what she saw as she looked at him now. A hint of loneliness under the jaded indifference, perhaps, and even a trace of longing . . . she remembered the warm pressure of his hand in hers, the way he had tightened his grip, quick and sharp – almost like a silent plea, as though he wished . . .

She pulled back her hand and swept her hair out of her face in one fluid motion, seamlessly making it look as if that was what she had intended to do with it all along. "I've just remembered something I wanted to ask you," she said.

"Oh? And what is that?" He regarded her with mild curiosity, eyebrows arched slightly.

"Well, it's actually a few things. About how you fight."

She could tell immediately that he didn't buy it, by the way his eyes narrowed and darkened. "Go back to bed, brat. You're tired."

He could have said anything else, and it would not have sparked her defiance as these words did. She sat down again, hard. "No," she said. "I'm staying here." There was a pause as their eyes locked, both of them mutely wrestling to impose their will on one another. "Besides, I'm not lying." She lowered her gaze. "It would benefit me to know. I weigh you down in battle, because I'm not as fast as you."

His voice was firm, but somewhat gentler than she was used to, when he replied. "Now is not the time, Mikasa. Save it for tomorrow."

But he let her stay, and at some point she stopped hearing the quiet, rhythmic ticking of the clock at the other end of the hall – and when she opened her eyes again sunlight was streaming in through the windows and the seat across from her was empty. She peeled her cheek from the rough tabletop, wincing, and sat up, and Levi's jacket slid off her shoulders and crumpled to the floor. She stared at it for a moment, before picking it up hastily and hurrying to join the soldiers pouring into the mess hall for breakfast.

It was the beginning of another ordinary day for humanity's most loyal and courageous warriors, who were not ordinary in the slightest.

Mikasa tightened her hold almost unconsciously on the coarse material between her fingers. Of course they weren't.

But they were human. They were human, undeniably human, and they were as fragile as they were tough, and they hoped and dreamed more fiercely than anyone.

And the bonds between them, when forged, were forged as strong as steel.

I actually had the most horrible writer's block in my life when I started working on this. I don't think I've ever cringed so hard reading over a draft before (except for when I unearth stuff I wrote when I was twelve lmao), but hopefully it turned out okay in the end.

Thanks for reading! :3