levi ackerman brainrot

Well, yes. You've certainly caught a bit of a flu. If the heat radiating off your body wasn't a telltale sign, then the sneezing fit at six this morning was the giveaway—one that had Levi's palm pressed to your forehead before you'd even fully woken up, his frown deepening with every cough you let out. 

Still, you don't see the big deal. You're working from home today so you're not going to get anyone sick, and you can easily power through the day. It isn't like you're truly sick... and you hate to dump your workload on colleagues already drowning in their own. 

You tell him as such. The effect is somewhat undercut by the rasp in your voice. 

"Would you go into the office in this state?" he asks, crossing his arms again.

"No—"

"So that's that. Sick is sick. And you're not going to get better by standing around arguing about it." 

"Honey, be reasonable," you say, taking on that sweet tone of yours, the one that works on him more often than he'd ever admit. "I can do this, I promise." 

"Don't think that tone's gonna get you anywhere," he mutters, nose scrunching in displeasure—a sight that would be endearing, if it weren't aimed at you. "You're going to bed. Now."  

"Levi—" 

And then, having had enough of your protests, Levi swoops in and gathers you up, bridal style. Your protest dissolves into a cough halfway out of your mouth, which does nothing to help your case. In fact, it only makes Levi tug you closer, one hand splayed at the back of your nape, carrying you from one room to another like you were something precious. 

"Stop," you complain meekly. "M'gonna get you sick," 

"I highly doubt it."

"You're not invincible, Levi."

"No, but my immune system seems to be."

"Still…" 

"Just focus on getting better so you don't drag this out."

That's the thing about living with a germaphobe: getting sick under Levi's roof means rules. Quarantine protocols, for one. Every surface disinfected. And always: your boyfriend standing like a sentinel over your shoulder, making sure you get your mandatory rest. 

And so, begrudgingly, you accept your fate. You text your boss telling them you won't be working today and, under Levi's watchful eye, you're tucked into bed—covers pulled to your chin, pillow adjusted twice. 

"Here." Levi returns once, then twice more after that, ferrying supplies in careful trips: ginger tea, still steaming. Medicine and a glass of water. The book you've been reading. Your orange cat, Zeke, deposited at the foot of your bed—a feat Levi seldom allows. 

Everything within arm's reach. Everything accounted for.

"D'you really have to leave for work?" you mumble, watching as Levi now adjust his tie in the mirror's reflection, briefcase already packed and ready to go.

Levi's eyes meet yours through the mirror, and that's when you catch it: a crack in his usual composed expression, something quiet and unhappy passing over his face. 

He doesn't want to leave, either. 

"I'll be back early tonight," he promises, and delivers a kiss to your forehead—lingering a second longer than necessary, like he's taking your temperature one last time.

You sigh, watching him leave, and settle back in your warm, soft bed. 

Only, you're awakened by the sound of your boyfriend just a few hours later. You've just finished having lunch, having tucked yourself back into bed for a nap.

That's when Levi comes in, looking less put together than he did on his way out. His hair is slightly disheveled, and he's pacing.

"Levi?" you mumble, sleep in your voice. You sit up, rubbing your eyes with a yawn. "What're you doing here?"

Levi is already undoing his tie as he answers, "I'm sick."

You blink, lines of worry now etched on your face, as you attempt to discern signs of sickness. You don't catch much; already, Levi disappears inside your bathroom, and you listen to the shower run—knowing he's busy doing the full decontamination ritual—before he reemerges in a change of clothes several minutes later.

For a moment, you just watch him move with measured actions, moving to refill your water glass and medicine tray.  

"You don't look sick," you point out, watching him carefully.

"It's early stages."

You raise a brow.

"Scoot over," Levi mutters.  

You do, because you know better than to argue with him at this point, and your head still hurts too much, anyway.

And so, Levi slides in beside you, one arm coming around your waist like it belonged all along, promptly kicking Zeke out of the bed with a gentle shove of his foot, earning him a hiss as the cat lands on his feet. 

"Levi!" you protest. "Pff... this is why Zeke hasn't warmed up to you since we moved in together, you know." 

"That orange monstrosity is lucky I let it on the bed today. His nasty paws touch litter every day."

You shake your head. Some things, you suppose, will never change, despite your best intentions.

Still, you turn in his embrace, eying your boyfriend with a smirk.

"So you're sick, huh?" you say.  

Levi's expression stays blank.

You open your mouth to continue to tease him— 

"Quiet," he grumbles at once, flipping you over and tugging you against his chest. "You're supposed to be resting." 

You laugh, despite yourself.

Maybe sick days aren't so bad.

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