The mission had been brutal. Not because it was long. Or because it was bloody. Those were constants by now. But because the weight of command was heavier when someone was waiting for you.
Levi returned with mud crusted on his boots and titan gore slicked over his uniform. His shoulder burned where it had been wrenched out of place and half-popped back in during the fight. His knuckles were scraped raw from dragging a comrade's corpse out of a forest they weren't supposed to enter.
He was alive. Still breathing. Because she was here.
He didn't stop to clean up. Didn't rest. Didn't even report in. His body screamed at him with every step down the hall, but still—his pace quickened as he neared the infirmary.
It always did. Every time. Because she was there. He pictured her already. Head tilted toward a book. Brows furrowed in concentration. Or maybe sleeping, a blanket drawn up over her waist. Her face—calm. Present. Still here.
He turned the corner and stopped cold. The door to her room was ajar. Inside, voices—muffled. He caught Hange's first.
Rapid-fire excitement, clipped and half-manic, the way they got when science consumed them.
"Let's try a controlled variable on skin response. Just a surface reaction—don't worry."
"Okay," Beatrice replied, calmly. Soft. "Go ahead."
Then—slice. A faint sound. Flesh. Scalpel.
Levi moved. He didn't think. Didn't call. Didn't question. He moved like a weapon fired at point-blank range. The door slammed open, the force of it snapping against the wall with a bone-rattling bang. Metal clattered. Hange jerked back, mid-motion. The scalpel gleamed in their hand.
Beatrice— Beatrice was awake. Sitting upright. Strapped loosely to the bed—just as precaution, Levi would learn later. A small, barely bleeding cut at the inside of her forearm. No panic. No fear. Only mild discomfort. And complete trust in the people around her.
"Hange—?" she said, glancing up, startled.
But Levi was already there. Violence incarnate. He was on them in seconds. The tray of tools went flying. The scalpel was torn from Hange's hand and hurled across the room, hitting the wall with a sound like steel against bone. Before Hange could even register what had happened, Levi's hand was at their collar, slamming them hard against the nearest wall. The plaster cracked.
"WHAT. THE FUCK. DO YOU THINK YOU'RE DOING?!"
Hange gasped.
"Levi—wait, WAIT—!"
"You CUT HER!"
"It's a test!" Hange wheezed. "Just a dermal reaction—we agreed on the parameters, she consented!"
"You strapped her down and put a scalpel on her!"
Levi's voice had dropped into a growl. It vibrated beneath the skin.
"You cut her—while I wasn't here."
Beatrice finally found her voice.
"Levi, stop. I said yes. I told Hange it was fine."
Her voice was soft. Gentle. But he didn't hear her. Not yet. He was past reason now.
His fists trembled where he held Hange. His teeth clenched so hard that the muscles in his jaw twitched.
"I come back from dragging corpses through the woods, and the first thing I walk into is you slicing open her arm like she's part of a fucking experiment?!"
"She is helping—" Hange managed. "We needed a control subject with her resilience level—she offered!"
"SHE'S NOT A FUCKING TEST TUBE!"
He let go. Abrupt. But the rage didn't dissipate. It settled, lower, darker—a slow-burning fury that hissed under his skin. He turned to Beatrice. She was blinking, trying to process. There was no fear in her. Only confusion. Concern.
"I told you I agreed," she said again, quieter. "It wasn't dangerous, Levi. Just a surface test."
He crossed the room in two strides, kneeling beside her and reaching immediately for the restraints. They weren't tight. Not cruel. Just meant to stop reflexive movement.
He unbuckled them with hands that shook, not from anger. From relief. And something darker.
"You don't let people strap you down," he muttered, voice hoarse, "not again. Not ever."
She frowned. "It wasn't like that. Hange—"
"It doesn't matter."
His hands slowed. Then stopped. He sat on the edge of the bed, staring down at her bandaged arm.
"I came in and I saw red. That's all I needed."
He met her eyes finally. And she saw it. Not rage. Not madness. But grief. Fear. The kind of fear that didn't scream—it clawed.
"I thought I lost you," he whispered.
"I saw that blade and I—I didn't know if you were okay."
Beatrice exhaled. Softly. She reached for him, her hand brushing his jaw. "Levi… I'm okay."
His eyes fluttered shut at the contact. He leaned into it—just barely.
As if too much might break whatever strength he had left. "Don't say yes to things like that when I'm gone," he murmured.
"You're not my keeper," she teased gently.
"No," he agreed.
Then:
"I'm something worse."
Her fingers curled at his nape.
And Hange, who had silently retreated to the door, watched them with wide, humbled eyes.
They had seen Levi Ackerman kill Titans with ease. Had seen him laugh (rarely), and bleed (often).
But never like this. Never this human. Never this protective. Never this in love.