Chapter 22. All My Love

A/N: I've barely edited, forgive me. I was a little excited to get this thing out there. And it's, like, an ungodly hour. Bad Mora. Bad..

The curtains were drawn, the noonday sun spilling through the window and into the small bed chamber. Outside it had begun to snow. The door stayed open throughout the day, but the nurse was strict about visitors and how many could be in the room at one time. Only one person never left.

Eren had been watching her for almost fifteen minutes now. He was leaning against the doorframe, turning over Armin's words in his head. She had her back to him, but no doubt she would have picked up on his presence had she been in a more wonted state. As it were, the entirety of her attention remained on the captain. He'd woken briefly yesterday morning, long enough to gripe about the "shitty-ass weather," but the sedative effects of whatever painkiller Hanji had him on soon put him out again.

Mikasa sat in the chair beside the bed, hands folded in her lap. There was nothing particularly unusual about the scene, the space between her and the captain remained decorous, and yet Eren couldn't help but feel like he was trespassing on a private moment. That, or he was filling in something Armin had alluded to. They've developed a connection.

He'd been angry. And he'd been angry at himself for being angry, because the nearest outlet for his rage had been Armin, and while some of that anger was—rightfully, perhaps—reserved for his friend, it was unfair that he'd withstood the brunt of it. He'd been angry at Mikasa, too. Was still angry. But this was all a mixture of his own shame; that she should think him so weak, so sensitive, and that she'd endanger herself on his behalf. Not a new practice.

She was following orders. Mikasa has had to bear an incredible burden, and it wasn't all for you, believe it or not.

Armin, for all his diffidence, wouldn't let Eren walk over the top of him. Even in the heat of the argument, Eren had respected that fact; and once the ire had cooled, once he'd had a few days to at least process the unfathomable, Eren began to entertain different viewpoints. He tried, for once, to place himself in her shoes—in Erwin's, Armin's, or even Levi's—and he found he understood their justification.

A war had been raging right beneath his nose; he'd barely had time to register it, to worry about its orbit, when suddenly it was won and the wounded returned. His initial relief had overridden the rage; it seemed like only yesterday that Mikasa had returned from the Underground with barely her life only to turn back around and do it again. And then there was Captain Levi. The man come back from the dead.

Relieved, yes. Still, it felt like his heart had been wrenched from his chest and cut into tiny, bleeding pieces.

There was no body, they said. And if it hadn't been for her brother, the undeniable blood of Rubie, with all that fiery hair and freckled skin, he would have thought it some continuation of the lie. It was easiest to blame the man, Rikard; to place all his anger upon the brother of the woman he loved, as if he were the embodiment of this new Rubie he'd been informed about.

There was a stain on him he didn't think he'd be able to wash out now, and it left him feeling used. Deep down, though, if he really faced that darkness, it made sense. She made sense; she'd appeared out of nowhere one day, and he—the desperate fool—had thought it his luck. Lucky indeed.

Mikasa gave a weary sigh, the sound pulling his mind back to the room. She was resting her elbow on the side of the bed now, her hand across her eyes, pale fingers tense. She was crying, he could tell by the swift rise and controlled fall of her shoulders. Eren stepped into the room.

"Mikasa."

She jerked to standing, the chair squealing back along the wood floor. They both looked at the captain. He remained unconscious.

Mikasa pawed at the tears clinging to her dark lashes. "What are you doing here?" and then, thinking better of her wording, "I mean, I didn't expect to see you. I…"

The trepidation was evident in her dark eyes. Her brow was scrunched in the middle as she waited for him to speak. He kept his hands in his pockets, his gaze focused on the captain's blanketed feet. "I should have come to see you sooner. I just needed time to sort through some things."

"Of course. I understand...I mean…" She twisted the ends of her sleeves, suddenly appearing very unsure and very young. It was not a manner he associated with Mikasa. "You must hate me. So much," she said in a small voice, eyes welling again. She blinked, lifted her chin.

"Never." Her eyes returned to him, and a fragment of his shattered heart restored itself. "I was angry...am angry...but not at you. At least, not as much anymore. I think I understand now." He averted his gaze to the top of the window frame, willing the lump in his throat to go away. "I think it will take me awhile to...overcome this. And perhaps some of it I never will. But I know that I'm not the only one suffering."

The silence stretched, a strange tension in the room, like something left unsaid. Eren finally took the other chair, the one beside hers, realizing he was probably making her uncomfortable by just looming there.

Mikasa, however, remained standing, looking between her hands, the captain, and then back to her hands. "It's strange seeing him like this," she said, voice a breath.

He had to concur. Not only did sleep remove a few years from the captain's already youthful face, but it also made him appear incredibly vulnerable. Despite the wan pallor of his skin, the gentle rise and fall of his chest that evinced he was very much alive. The man come back from the dead. "I owe you both a lot."

"You owe us nothing, Eren—"

He held up a hand, only mildly annoyed by her unwavering altruism. "I do. And let me. Please."

He wouldn't ask her about the bond; something told him it was a delicate topic, but he was also aware the conversation could quickly spiral, and all that feeling he was still wrestling with would undoubtedly funnel through it in the worst way possible. Armin would tell him to start slow, to cover the small things first and save the others for another time, another conversation.

"If…" she began, fingers working furiously at the ends of her sleeves. She took in a silent breath, steeling herself. "If you ever want or need to talk about...anything, I will do that."

A petty glimmer of irritation sparked through him, and he caught a vision of his younger self replying out of anger. So now you want to talk.

"Thanks," he managed to mumble. He caught the subtle way her shoulders sagged and added, "I think we should. One day. I'm sure there are things you want to talk about, too."

A curious blush spread across her cheeks. "Yeah, there are."

Eren, for once, didn't know how to act around her. The divide between them was palpable, hewed by time and events. It felt like waking from a dream, only to find so much had happened while he'd slept.

She was different; her indomitable poise was ever present, even if she currently worried her sweater to a bare thread, but there was a certain stillness about her that spoke of a newfound certitude. Mikasa had never tottered under the awkwardness of juvenescence, but only now could he recognize just how much she'd grown.

They weren't kids anymore. The thought made his throat tighten, and he had to pull his gaze from her. Looking at the captain was worse—a man whose springtide was, arguably, more barren than his own. The image of broken childhoods come broken soldiers was almost too bleak to bear, and he was quickly losing the battle with his emotions.

"Eren." She could see his plight, no doubt, and the gentle breath of his name only made his eyes swim.

"Why must you always be so strong?"

Not a real question—he knew why. He didn't need to elaborate either, because she knew too; he wasn't questioning her, rather, railing against what was fair and what was right. And she knew what he meant. Because she was smart. She was so smart, and fearless and brave, and it wasn't fair that she should have to carry it all.

"Eren." Her hand was warm upon his shoulder. "So are you."

A bitter laugh. "Not like you. Not like Heichou."

She carded her fingers through the hair at the base of his neck. "And I'm not strong like you." She took his face in her hands, and when he looked up he could see she was crying too. "But that's why I need you."

"I almost lost you," he breathed, a hot tear slipping down his cheek. He let her see the anger then, the kind he'd reserved for her death, the kind he'd held for himself for being blind. "I almost lost everything."

Mikasa choked out a sob, her dark eyes large with tears. "I tried to keep you safe. I only wanted you to be safe, but I hurt you all the same, and I'm sorry." Her pale chin trembled, and they were both nine years old again. "I would do anything for you, for Armin. And I'm sorry I didn't do enough. I'm sorry, Eren—"

The chair nearly tumbled as he shot to standing and pulled her into his arms. She cried against his chest, hands fisting into his shirt as her slim frame shook with emotion. He held her firm, would have pulled her into him if he could have. He let his own tears fall upon her dark head.

"I'm sorry, Eren. I'm so sorry," she chanted into his collar, voice breathless and muffled.

"It's alright. I've got you now." He pressed his nose into her hair, cooing softly and crying with her. "I've got you."

It was rich to see Rikard Flanagan in cuffs, tucked away in a spartan cell. No less than he deserved.

At least, that's what she told herself.

Perhaps the events of the past few months had weakened her resolve—because she sure as hell didn't owe him anything, and they certainly weren't even—but the red-haired man looked utterly pitiful.

"Figured it'd be you," he croaked, voice dry from disuse.

"Did you, now?"

His green eyes caught the light, teeth glinting in the shadows as he cast her a fiendish grin. "Aye. Levi and I already had our talk. In the Underground. If he ever did decide to pay me a visit now it would be to put a blade through my eye."

"How do you know that's not why I'm here?"

A chuckle. "Don't get me wrong, you terrify me a lot more than he does. How is the Black Dog, anyway?"

The thought of him sent a pang of mixed emotions through her chest, the foremost being guilt; she hadn't seen him for nearly a week. What was more, he'd been conscious for a better part of that time.

Then again, it seemed that everyone and their dog wanted to catechize her about the events of the past few months, so her time wasn't really her own anymore—she'd spent countless hours with Hanji and Erwin in the latter's office prepping for said interrogations. Somehow, she never ran into Levi during those meetings.

"He's fine."

Chains clattered as Rikard rose to standing and shuffled toward the bars. "But you got some things you want to say, don't you. Woe betide the man who doesn't listen to Mikasa Ackerman when she speaks, and I mean that with the utmost respect." He grasped the bars, wiping his chin against his shoulder, brow furrowing. "One thing my sister never understood. She commanded respect with the business end of a blade. You...you just command it."

"I didn't come here to get my ass kissed."

Another chuckle, this one a little more genuine. "No, I don't suppose you did. Doesn't mean I don't mean it. So what do you have to say, she-wolf?"

Mikasa, sent a glance down the hall from whence she'd come, looking for the guard. He was away, just as she'd requested. Emboldened, she stepped up to the bars to better see the Redeemer's face. He could reach out and grab her from here if he so wished. "To ask you a question."

Green eyes narrowed. He was listening.

"Why did you do it?"

Silence lingered. Rikard dragged his jaw against his shoulder once more, scratching at the red stubble coming in. "I don't rightly know."

"Bullshit."

"I did a few things. Gonna need to be specific."

"How about you explain them all?"

It was he who glanced down the hall this time—to the best that he was able, given the bars. "How long do I have?"

She shrugged. "Trial's at three. But they'll probably come get you before that."

"What time is it now?"

"Nearly two, I believe."

Rikard nodded, a brief expression of pain flitting across his face. "I wasn't under the illusion that I could somehow atone for what I've done," he began, brow drawn. "Maybe you could call it selfish on my part, helping the two of you. Helping the kid. Because it did make me feel better, like I wasn't playing every bad card." He pushed away from the door, keeping his back to her as he churned his thoughts, hands flexing and unflexing. "When we were kids, me and Rube, it was only us. I'll spare you the couple of orphans in the Underground sob tale, but that's how it was. It was my job as the big brother to keep us alive. To keep her alive."

In the dark, the shadowed outline of his shoulders sagged. For a moment she thought he might be crying, but then he straightened again and turned to face her. His face was composed.

"You and I have something in common. We both love very deeply. Once we commit ourselves to it, you'll need to put us down to get us to let go." He approached the bars again but kept a respectable space from her. "I should have killed my sister a long time ago."

The memory of the Red Woman's grim demise was a perdurable stain on her mind, and a familiar roil in her gut surfaced. "Don't fool yourself, Rikard. It won't do you any good now." The words were blunt, but spoken gently—the closest to comfort she would come.

"How did she die?"

The question, so abrupt, conjured another flash of his sister's death. Time had not served to palliate the trauma of the incident, and she saw the cruel and fortuitous spear just as bloody in her dreams—it seemed that sleep only augmented the scene's morbidity.

Something bleak passed across the the red-haired man's face. "Perhaps I don't want to know, then. Which one of you did it?"

"Neither of us. It was...it was unexpected."

He chuffed a laugh, brows drawing together in a brief expression of agony before smoothing again. It was only then that she noticed the fading bruise blooming down the side of his cheek. He rubbed at it with his shoulder again, noticing her gaze. "Save the pity. Your MP pals enjoy a little blood in their debriefing."

"I don't pity you."

"Do you hate me?"

The short answer was yes, but there was more to it than that. She hated the idea of him, mostly. "Something tells me your mind torments you enough."

He sneered, fingers curling around the iron. "How generous of you. Should I thank you for your clemency? Or is the thought of my suffering balm enough for yours?"

Whatever concord they'd maintained up until that point had evaporated, and Mikasa had no intention of reclaiming it. "Children!" she raged. "You know, if I stretch, I can bring myself to understand your sister's fucked up fantasy, why she sought out the surviving members of the Ackerman clan. I understand your hate for those with power who abuse it." She took in a breath, angered by the sudden tears threatening to choke her. "But children." Rikard had his head bowed, lank, red strands falling across his brow. He wouldn't meet her eyes, and that angered her too. "The irony of seeing you in a box isn't lost on me." She bent, finding his face through the shroud of his hair. "But I didn't come here to gloat, and I sure as shit don't derive succor from your suffering."

"Why are you here, then?" He spoke in a whisper, the choler from before having left him. "An apology would be fruitless, let alone insulting."

Yes, it would, and that he hadn't offered her such was one thing she could commend him for. "None of us are innocent, Rikard. Maybe that's why I can't understand what you did." He looked up at her, eyes red. "Especially you. It doesn't fit. I don't understand how the man who helped us could hurt those children."

There was regret in his gaze, shame too, though she'd noticed both before; and she realized she'd lied, that she did pity him. Part of her wanted to say so, to attack his already decimated pride.

"We're all monsters, Mikasa."

The clang of a door unbolting echoed down the hall. Rikard's head snapped to attention, and the look on his face made her gut seize in vicarious anticipation.

"There will be others." He spoke in a whisper now, something desperate in his tone. "Those loyal to my sister who would seek to pick up from where she left off, and those completely unrelated to her cause, with intentions all their own." He pressed his pale face into the unforgiving cradle of the bars, eyes large and viridian. "But they all want the same thing, she-wolf. They all want a piece of that power you and your captain carry."

Something in the way he spoke, the perturbation in his gaze, sent a very cold, and very keen sense of apprehension down Mikasa's spine.

"It's not safe to bear the name of Ackerman."

"Is that a threat?"

"No. That's a warning." He glanced down the hall, where the sound of multiple footsteps ricocheted across the stone. Back to her. "You're smart enough to heed it."

"Who are these people?" She kept her face near his to better whisper her words, ignoring the stale smell of his breath. "Do you know any of them?"

He shook his head. "I have no reason to lie to you. Wouldn't do me any good at this point, anyway." A bitter smirk curled his mouth. "We both know the outcome of this trial."

Yes, she did. Better than he, in fact. And they were both out of time.

Erwin Smith rounded the corner first, followed by Nile Dok and three more MPs. Mikasa had had the foresight to put a few feet between herself and the cell.

"Lieutenant," was all Erwin said. An order laced into a greeting. Polite, but resolute. Time's up.

She saluted. "Commander Smith. Commander Dok."

Erwin nodded once, another command disguised as acknowledgement. She took her leave, feeling the weight of Rikard's gaze upon her back as she went.

It had stopped snowing.

The window was frosted, minute crystal designs lining the panes in hoary little halos, making it difficult to view the white landscape beyond. She was close enough to the glass that her breath thawed the rime, and she watched with unfocused eyes as the winter scene blurred and melted.

Voices drifted down the hall—soldiers and civilians alike making their way to the courtroom for the impending trial. Everyone wanted to see the Redeemer meet his judgement.

For a moment, it was eerily still in the large hallway, and Mikasa was alone. It was the first bit of quietude she'd had in...a while.

Then came the muted press of approaching boots upon the flags.

It said something that she could recognize who it was by the footsteps alone, that she knew it was he by the steady heel-toe, the even gait. She envisioned his stride, how he always moved with purpose and never lumbered. It must also say something that she could tell his mood by his approach—could tell he was wary, reticent. Still, there would be no indication of this; he'd be the picture of equanimity.

It said a lot that she could discern all this just by the sound of his damn boots.

Mikasa's gut seized at the prospect of talking to him, of facing him, but she tapped down the girlish urge to flee.

His pace slowed, until he stopped a few feet behind her.

Best to launch straight in, no beating around the bush. "I should have come to see you when you were out. I'm sorry." No chance for any awkwardness to brew, right to the point.

"I don't expect you to play nursemaid, brat."

He couldn't see her smirk, and she knew him well enough at this point not to rankle at his coarse tongue; yet she could tell by his subsequent sigh that he regretted his choice of words. She'd let him have that.

He spoke again, voice deliberate, softer. "I know you've been busy. I have too. I think it would have been difficult to meet even with a concerted effort." He shifted, moving closer to her. Goosebumps spread along her right arm as he came to stand cater-corner to her elbow, leaving only a few inches between them.

"I spoke to Rikard."

"I heard. How did that go?"

The unspoken why clung to his words. Erwin hadn't scrupled much when she'd first requested to see the Redeemer, but he'd made it clear in so many words that there were things she should and should not say; he'd let her have her visit, but she would keep her ear alert for anything of value said.

Not that she'd been expecting a particular outcome, but the man's parting words left her further perturbed than before.

"In short, I foresee a few meetings between us and Erwin. Possibly Hanji, too." The hallway remained blessedly silent, but she didn't know how long it would stay like that. This wasn't the place to talk.

Levi carded his fingers through his hair, sighing through his nose. "Not out of the woods yet, then."

Silence again, and she was once more left without something to say. She peered down at his shoes, the military-issue leather boots that he kept immaculately polished.

"How are you feeling?" The softened timbre of his voice made her chest clench. It was a tone he rarely used, and yet one she'd grown accustomed to.

"I'm alright." A labored lie, and he, no doubt, saw straight through it. He kept silent, however, which was a rebuttal all its own. "Nightmares, mainly."

He made a short hum in the back of his throat. "I know what you mean."

She knew it was odd—obvious, really—how she refused to look at him even as he addressed her, and the absent way she traced her finger along the damp windowpane wasn't fooling anyone. "How about you?" Weak. That was weak. He'd nearly died. They'd both nearly died.

"Better." He sounded resolved enough, and she relaxed a little. "A few new scars, but that's neither here nor there."

He would see her smile this time, and she almost, almost achieved the courage enough to turn her face to him. "Yeah, I know what you mean," she parrotted.

His eyes burned into the side of her neck. She wanted to run away. She wanted to throw her arms around him. She wished he would stop scrutinizing her.

"You jumped." He didn't need to elaborate. "Why?"

Leaping into the river had been instinctual. Impulsive. She turned her head to him but kept her eyes averted—if she looked at him now, there was no telling what would break inside her. She was balancing on the edge of some foreign precipice, and it was both thrilling and terrifying. "You know why."

She was aware of his breathing, could sense the controlled rise and fall of his chest, and even without a bond the tension radiating off of him was palpable.

"I missed you," he murmured.

The words stole her breath. She scrambled for a reply, for something that wouldn't sound hollow or contrived. I missed you too. I thought you were dead. I can't stop thinking about you…

"Mikasa." Her name was a rumble in his chest, barely uttered. "Can I touch you?" His hand was moving in her periphery, flexing but not reaching. Waiting.

Something stirred inside her, and she finally let her eyes drift to his. It was like she was seeing him for the first time, and like he'd been there all along, and yes she did know why.

His hand lifted to the side of her neck, just below her jaw. His touch was gentle—cautious, as if he were handling a frightened horse. She let herself be pulled into him, all the tension leaving her as she tucked her nose against the crook of his shoulder.

The bond was gone, but something hummed between them, something intrinsic and unspoken, and soon she was clutching at his jacket, inhaling his clean scent with a shaky breath. "Levi."

"I saw you die." His words were steady, voice betraying nothing, but his hands gave him away—firm against her, like she might drift away if he so much as lessened his hold. "And then you were just there. Like a fucking ghost."

The memory of his face that day as he'd turned to her was just as haunting as the image of Rubie's death. And then there was the sound of the blade as it cut through the air, of its dull impact with his body…

He'd gotten lucky, according to Hanji, and Mikasa had to agree. Though, she supposed the luck lay in Rubie's inaccuracy with throwing knives. She pulled back to see his face. They remained in silence, speechless, seeking the other's gaze for some kind of answer, for meaning.

He spoke first, voice a breath. "I don't know what to say to you sometimes."

She hid her face against his shoulder, smiling at his candor. "You don't need to say anything."

Again his fingers clutched at her, restless against her. "I think that I'm…" He paused and swallowed thickly. She pulled back to look at him, watching something profound pass across his features. For a moment she wondered if he was about to be sick.

"What?"

"Never mind," he mumbled, barest hint of a smile on his face. He looked to the window. "Almost said something foolish."

The door at the end of the corridor gave a screech, and they stepped away from the other with startling synchronicity; the windowpane received her mindless fingers again, and he turned to the view as if it actually held something for him.

Hanji's deep voice came down the hall, tone somber. "Oi, Levi."

He turned at his name. "Time yet?"

The scientist nodded in answer, giving Mikasa a subtle smile. "Let's go before they close the doors on us."

Rikard was well aware he was currently gaping like a fish. To say he was stunned would have been an understatement.

Darius Zackley's voice faded into an unintelligible murmur in the back of his mind, the rapid strike of his gavel sounding like it came from miles away.

The inquest lasted just short of an hour, its brevity of no consequence to him; not like there was really much to inquire into, anyway. He was confused why they didn't just take him out back and shoot him in the head.

"Rikard Flanagan, you are found guilty on all accounts."

It was in the remaining five minutes of the trial, however, that things deviated from the libretto in his mind. At some point, his eyes found the onyx stare of Mikasa Ackerman amongst the assemblage. Her stoicism was expected, but the way she remained so unmoved through his adjudication was a feat even for her. She knew.

"You are hereby sentenced to life imprisonment."

No noose. No bullet to the head. No death sentence. The court was pandemonium, voices clamoring to express their confusion and rancor. They wanted his head, they questioned the trial and Zackley himself, and not even the bang of the gavel could call order.

Rikard searched the sea of impassioned faces before returning to the she-wolf. She was a boulder in a raging stream, the eye of a storm. He regained control of his own features.

So they would keep him in their basement, locked away until they needed him. Zackley called him "useful," but that was only a pale truth and served as a cover story more than anything. People would buy the macabre justice of him serving as the government's plaything, a toy for Hanji Zoe's experiments and his rightful punishment for sins committed. But he knew better.

No, he had a feeling that if his services were to ever be called into play, it would have more to do with his knowledge. Still, though he loathed the prospect, wasting away in a cell was an ironic comeuppance. No death today, then.

His sister may have been the sore loser, but Rikard had never felt so defeated.

A/N: Sooooo. Long time no see. Man, even my friends were getting worried, both irl and virtual (looking at my gurl Madam, ily bb, thanks for checkin on me.) Just work stuff, sorry for the delay. I'm not dead. I also have this bitch in my head, her name is meta!Mora, and she derails me and plants insidious seeds of doubt about stupid, stupid factoid shit that suddenly seems desperately relevant to the plot. Just gotta write the gddddmmnn thing, and stop wringing my hands. Oh, and work. Work is a biotcch. Anywho, this thing is almost over, and I'm kinda in mourning? You have all been so amazing and, as always, I look forward to hearing your thoughts on this (very late, the tardiest yet) chapter. Oh, and smut to come...