MI CASA
written by A. E. Stover
this version is not edited

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No, this is not a coffeeshop AU.

Sorry, not sorry.

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"You said you're feeling well, is that correct?"

Mikasa nods her head.

The doctor gives her a dubious look.

She knows she doesn't look very convincing. She's paler than usual, and the red scarf wrapped around her neck and half her face doesn't persuade the good doctor anymore than her scratchy voice asking to see Annie did. Part of her is glad the man is actually doing his job. The other half is annoyed.

The doctor sighs. He lifts his clipboard and slides his glasses down from atop his balding head. "Who are you here for, again?"

Speak only when necessary, Eren had told her. This is necessary. But she knows her voice is hoarse. There's also an itch in the back of her throat that she wants to clear out. She's afraid opening her mouth will let it out, triggering the doctor into banning her from the hospital for the next week or so. So she suffers. She clamps her mouth shut and suffers.

The doctor's sharp eyes stare down at her. He's probably judging the pallor of her skin and assessing the croaky voice she'd used before.

The doctor opens his mouth to speak.

"Ada, you're here," a gentle voice politely intercedes. "I'm sorry, Dr. Anderson. Ada doesn't speak English fluently, so she's a little nervous."

It's Bertholdt, who's smiling quietly down at her from behind the good doctor. Mikasa doesn't really know him very well, but she decides in that moment that she likes him.

The doctor seems to trust Bertholdt with unwavering faith. Suspicion melts off his face like lingering spring snow. He gives the young man a smile, then turns the smile towards her. "Oh, I see. Ada, was it? I apologize, Ada. If you'd like, you can follow Mr. Stromoski to visit your friend."

Ada. The name sounds familiar in her ears. Mikasa realizes that's her — Ada, I'm Ada — and she follows Bertholdt, who is now supposed to be called "Mr. Stromoski." The doctor scribbles something on his clipboard and walks away.

Mikasa is being led down a quiet corridor, hearing snippets of care and laughter from the rooms she passes by, and finally comes to a stop at one of the doors. Bertholdt enters the room first, holding the door open for her. She walks in.

Light streams from the wide windows on the wall opposite her. Annie is sitting on the bed in front of the view. Exhaustion is evident on Annie's face and her hair hangs messily in her eyes. Annie is tying it back with a black band while Connie hugs the squirming infant to his chest.

"Connie just got here, too," Bertholdt explains. "He was held up by train traffic. I hope your commute wasn't troublesome."

Mikasa shakes her head and Bertholdt just walks to take a seat beside Annie.

"I... I'm an uncle," Connie announces when he sees Mikasa. His eyes are bright and wide, and he turns to look back down at the infant in his arms. "Mikasa, look! I'm an uncle!"

Mikasa feels a pang of something in her heart, but she doesn't know what. She smiles instead.

Annie leans back to sit against the pillows. "Jean?" Her inquiry is like a sigh, almost missed, but it catches in Mikasa's ears.

Mikasa pulls out her phone. She taps on the screen for a moment before holding it out for Annie to read.

[He's a mess. He'll come soon.]

Annie is amused; a barely-there cough of a laugh tumbles from her mouth, and a knowing glimmer reaches her eyes.

"What's keeping him?" Connie scowls, rocking the infant back and forth. "He's always late, that jerk." He holds the child in front of him and grins. "Sorry that your uncle Jean's a loser. But at least you've got the greatest uncle and aunt in me and Sasha!"

"You proposed?" Bertholdt asks, sounding surprised.

Connie's grin turns sheepish. "Ah. Not yet. But I will! Soon!" The baby whimpers in her uncle's arms.

"You're still young," reassures Annie, who takes back her child. The whimpering ceases once Annie holds her baby close to her chest. She smiles down at her new son's face. Beside her, Bertholdt tucks a loose strand of her hair behind her ear and stays close to hold her hand.

The subtle intimacy doesn't register comfortably, and Mikasa looks away. Realization slowly dawns upon her, breaking the awkward barrier that has suddenly taken form. This is the most Mikasa has seen Annie smiling, and the most of Bertholdt she's ever seen (and heard). This is also the closest she's come to see Connie crying — and, she realizes with a sudden skip of her heart — this is the closest she's ever been to a baby.

Her fingers twitch at her sides as an urge begins to take root. She wants to pinch it out before it sprouts, but it is too late. The urge blooms into desire, and manifests in her thoughts .

I want to see the baby.

She wants to see what it looks like, if it carries her father's placid face and her mother's vibrant eyes. She wants to know if it has Jean's fussiness and Connie's passion. She wants to know what its first word will be, and what it will grab at its erabitori. She wants to know everything. Who will be his first friend? What will he like to eat? Will he cry at his first day of school? Who will be his first love?

Will he live?

Her fingers twitch at her sides again, and she clasps her phone tightly in both hands.

"Would you like to see him?"

It is Bertholdt who asks. Annie looks on with a neutral gaze, but Mikasa sees the change in Annie's hands on her child — she's preparing to hold her son out.

Mikasa stares at the mysterious bundle that is alive in Annie's arms. It breathes and eats and makes noise and defecates. It knows to fight for safety with soft whimpers, flailing arms, and ear-piercing cries. It knows it must fight to live.

"Just support his head," Connie says, jumping around the bed to get to Mikasa who has all but frozen to the floor. "I'll show you!"

Mikasa shakes her head. "I'm sick," she says, and she hears the hoarseness in her voice that is stuck deep in her throat. She lifts her scarf to her nose again and takes a step back. "It's not good for the baby."

Connie is already holding the child, but pauses and looks over his shoulder at his sister and brother-in-law. Annie and Bertholdt share a quick glance.

"We are stronger than you are," Annie says quietly, and she's nudging Connie forward.

Maybe they are, maybe they're not. She's never seen Eren sick, and she's watched the many times Eren's healed after his more difficult jobs. She remembers the crackling of bones and the stitching of muscle. She remembers the hot, steaming flesh hissing noisily as open wounds closed and whole limbs regenerated. Eren is strong. Strong enough to survive, in ways Mikasa knows she can not.

Connie is still looking at her steadily. Mikasa knows he won't move until she does, so she takes a step forward.

And then, Connie is pressing the baby in her arms, chatting excitedly about how to hold him — "You put your hand here, and hold the little guy there with that hand..." — and, in the blink of an eye, she finds herself standing in a cramped hospital room with three pairs of eyes watching her, two with patience and one with bubbling enthusiasm, as she holds a tiny form wrapped in soft cloth in her arms.

The baby is warm and heavy, the weight awkward in her arms, and she focuses on keeping her hands in the exact position Connie has showed her. The baby squirms. Her hands and arms don't move, but her heart does. Her heart shakes at the sight of the red-faced baby, its small grey eyes squinting as if it were scanning her. Its pudgy arms reach out toward her, and she instinctively pulls away. She remembers she shouldn't do that — then the pose is off — so she reshapes her arms the way Connie had molded them and lets the baby reach out with its flailing limbs. One squishy hand comes to bumps against her scarf while the other stretches far back. Its squinting eyes are suddenly joined by tight, pursed lips, and the baby starts to whimper.

Her heart pounds erratically in her chest. "What do I do?" she asks, looking at Annie, at Connie, at Bertholdt.

"Rock him, like this!" Connie insists with an elated grin as he mimes the motion with air. Bertholdt at least has the decency to look on with patient understanding and apology, and Annie lifts the corner of her lips in a visible smirk.

Footsteps clonk noisily in the hallway outside their room, coming suddenly to a thundering halt. Mikasa hears the door being torn open before a familiar shout — "Annie!"

Annie's face is wiped clean of her amused smirk. "Jean, you're in the maternity ward." Her invisible frown is audible in her tone.

Jean mutters apologies and rushes forward to stand beside Mikasa. "Is that— Is that him?" he asks breathlessly, staring down at the squirming newborn with an unfamiliar light in his wide eyes. He doesn't seem to pay attention to Mikasa; he only has eyes for the child in her arms. "Can I hold him?" he asks in a hushed whisper, still watching the child.

Bertholdt and Annie respond in unison. "Of course." "Don't be an idiot."

Jean scoops the baby from her without warning, and cradles the infant close to his chest. "Oh, he's beautiful, Annie," he says softly, his voice wavering at the end. He pats the back of his nephew's head gently and rocks him. "His eyes are grey — I think they'll be blue. Oh my god, he's beautiful, look at him...!"

"Are you — Are you crying?" Connie asks. "You are, you big baby, aren't you? Ha!"

"Sh-Shut up! I'm experiencing the delicate cycle of life, you balding little shi—"

"Jean."

"Sorry, Annie."

Mikasa watches as Jean protectively cradles the child to his chest until it finally has enough and cries for its mother. Jean returns the baby but remains at his sister's side, kneeling on the ground and watching as the child squints at his older uncle with his cheek pressed firmly to his mother's breast. Connie stands beside, pulling faces and making ridiculous noises and lights up when he is rewarded with a gurgling giggle.

Mikasa feels something warm fitting into the curve of her palm, and looks down to see that her arms are still curled in the position Connie had showed her, long after the baby was taken from her.

There is also a cup of tea being pressed against her right hand.

"It's tea. For you." Marco is standing beside her. "I'm not very good with kids, either," he says in what she thinks is supposed to be a consoling tone. He laughs lightly and looks sheepish. "I don't really know what to do with them."

She takes the offered cup and slowly peels the lid off. The smell of hot, paper pulp hits her at the same time that burnt green tea leaves and jasmine petals do. Mikasa wrinkles her nose. "This is not tea," she says with a revolted stare she knows Levi would be proud of.

Marco laughs again. "Sorry. It was the only thing I could find."

Mikasa gives Marco a sidelong glance before relenting. "For you, it's acceptable." She doesn't take a sip though.

They stand forgotten in a corner of the hospital room. The not-tea warms her hands quickly, but unlike how the squirming child did. The baby warmed her hands, her arms, her chest. It was a slow warmth that built up — from deep within herself. Remembering that warmth has her earlier sprout of a desire spreading rapidly in her mind, tearing out old roots to make room for the new, and before she can stop it, another thought blooms.

"I want kids one day."

It was Marco that spoke, but the words startled her in a way she didn't expect.

Marco sighed. "I talked with Jean about it a few times before. He's good with kids, you know? But me... Not so much. Not that I don't like kids. I do. I just... don't know how to take care of anybody." Marco takes a sip of his not-tea; Mikasa can smell the not-black tea from where she stands.

"You take good care of Jean."

Marco laughs again. "Thank you."

Mikasa looks down at her cup of not-tea. She blows lightly across the surface, and takes a small slip. The acidic taste clings woefully on her tongue. For Marco's sake, she does not cringe.

"What about you? Do you want kids?"

Marco asks her something she hoped he wouldn't. But the words are out and an answer is needed. Mikasa takes another sip, forcing the scalding liquid into her mouth as she mocks a pensive look.

The thought of having a child — of possessing the authority of raising a living human — numbs her. She doesn't deny the deep warmth Annie's son had lit inside her heart; rather, she embraces it. But that warmth also brings a numbing sensation that wracks her soul as quick as lightening and as lasting as a fire-hot burn.

She is afraid.

But she doesn't say it. Instead, she swallows the horrible taste in her mouth and lies.

"No. I don't like children."

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