Disclaimer: I own nothing.
Author's Note: First of all, thank you so much for all your encouraging words :D Also, thanks for the prompts! Most of them dealt with the infamous "first titan encounter" which hopefully should be showcased in the next update, which'll be rather titanic.
Please enjoy!


The tree branch groans as her gear digs into the bark. She can feel the tension and strain of her weight pull dangerously on the creaking tree limb, but within a microsecond, she withdraws the hook and continues her path. Anyone who weighs more than her would have plummeted to the earth.

She doesn't even think about the tree branch until a glint of blond and silver catches her attention behind her. The warning rises in her throat, but no words escape her lips as the boy's hooks dig into the bark. The branch snaps with a spine-splintering crack and he falls without a word.

The only sounds Annie hears are Eren calling out his name and the blood pounding in her ears.

.

Annie is the first to reach him—even before Connie, who had been twenty feet closer, or Eren. At some time during her descent, a branch scraped against her arm, but she forces the pain away and drops faster.

He is curled into an impossibly small ball by the base of the tree, his haphazardly strewn cloak concealing his face and much of his body. The branch is only feet from his impossibly still form. Annie kneels softly by his side and reaches towards the edge of his hood with hesitant fingers, dreading what gruesome sight awaits her. She pulls it back gently, watching the emergence of blond hair and maroon with bated breath.

Crimson stains the boy's pale temple and runs over his closed eye sockets, but he breathes.

She suppresses the bile rising up in her throat, feeling guilt for something that she didn't do.

.

Annie reluctantly relinquishes her close spot to the boy when Eren and Connie arrive. The two pull off the injured blond's cloak to assess further damage, thrusting the emerald and crimson garment aside. Annie mechanically bends down to pick it up, still feeling the warmth from where it had swathed the boy's prone body.

As they take the unconscious boy to the infirmary, she feels the weight of the cooled cloak heavy in her arms. The image of his tousled, weak form spinning through the air haunts her thoughts even after the nurse confirms his miraculous survival and recovery.

She rubs the thick, coarse material of the cloak between her fingers, marveling on how easily it could have become a funeral shroud instead.

.

Before she can stop herself, she reaches instinctively for the crisp, starch bandage wrapped around the boy's forehead. He blinks at her contact, but he doesn't shy away or flinch at the unusual, intimate act. Nor does he mention the slightly tremble across his temple as the girl's shaking fingers brush the fabric.

"I'm okay, Annie," the boy smiles weakly. "I'm sorry about your arm."

Annie jerks her hand away from the bandaging and rubs her upper arm subconsciously. Her injury is a mere scrape compared to his.

"Annie," the boy starts again, concern trickling into his azure eyes. "That branch snapping was just an accident—could have happened to anyone. It wasn't anyone's fault." He studies her downcast gaze a moment.

"There wasn't anything you could have done," he adds softly.

.

Fate, Annie discovers, is cruel and fickle.

Only a few weeks after the incident, Annie finds herself figuratively chained to an infirmary bed, nursing a sprained ankle. Although she refuses to divulge any details relating to her accident, rumors spread like wildfire.

Various sources claim separate causes for the girl's injury, including a legendary fight against Mikasa or an accidental kick from Jaeger during sparring.

Connie comes the closest in his claim that he saw Annie land awkwardly after elbowing a certain blond out of the way of another falling piece of debris, but the sheer preposterousness of his protective implication guarantees the boy's story becomes the furthest fetched of the rumors.

.

Few friends visit her while in the infirmary, but she doesn't mind the isolation. She always knew that the other recruits preferred to keep their distance, and she isn't surprised at the lack of concern. Mina checks up on her every other day, as do a sweaty Bertholdt and smirking Reiner. Eren shows up once, only if to ask about the status of their training matches. Annie supposes she has only herself to blame for creating such fragile alliances.

A hesitant knocking sounds at her door. The door knob turns and she wonders who might be here now. She sits up straighter, despite the ache in her ankle, and tries not to smile when the blond boy's head pokes through the door gap.

.

The next day, he brings the book.

He hopes she doesn't mind, he begins hesitantly.

He explains that he asked Mina where Annie kept his gift from all those years ago. He doesn't comment on the odd hiding spot—hidden amongst her last remnants of home and her life before under her bed—and he doesn't remark about the tattered quality of the once sturdy binding. If anything, he seems pleased at the book's obvious wear.

It proves to him that Annie was grateful for the gift in a way that surpassed the girl's terse thank you years ago.

.

She watches his delicate lips form each word and his faint eyelashes flutter each time he blinks. Usually she says nothing during these sessions, only enjoying the boy's honeyed voice as it transports the both of them to far away worlds.

A small part of her wishes that this could never end. Amidst the warm sun filtering through the window and his smooth, melodious voice, she dozes and dreams of an impossible life.

She hates waking, the jarring sense of reality that greets her in the form of his warm smile. Annie was not born for this life.

.

Once, she awakes to the glistening starlight and the glow of the crescent moon illuminating her room. As she struggles to regain her focus, her gaze alights softly on the sleeping boy beside her. His face takes on a waxy and lifeless pallor in the sick glow of the moonlight.

For a moment, Annie's disoriented mind tells her that he's dead. He's a statue. He's a figment of her imagination. In her desperation to prove this apparition is real, Annie longs to reach her hand out to touch him into her dreamlike, surreal world. She desires company in her hazy, disjointed world.

Annie waits in apprehensive terror until she summons up the courage to fling her cool fingers towards him and brush the boy's warm skin. A simple, superficial gesture, but Annie feels relieved to be anchored back to reality.

.

His hoarse voice—he has been with her for over a week, reading faithfully in a whisper no less beautiful—lowers to a tender murmur before growing silent. She feigns sleep, though she is acutely aware of his close presence that is growing closer. A shadow crosses over her barely parted eyelids. Annie resists the urge to open her eyes fully and waits with stiffened muscles for his next action.

He hesitantly touches her fair hair with curious, innocent fingertips. Despite his gentleness, Annie can feel the pressure of his action against her skin, but the sensation is oddly pleasurable. She waits for something else to happen, but the boy sits back down with a content sigh and resumes reading in his faithful, steady whisper.


Thank you! Yes, as much as I loved writing about their little misadventures while at training, I feel like I must progress in the story. So, onward we go!