he still smells like filth and exertion, blood and bloodlust all the same when you find him where the horses unload, at the tail end of a skirmish. before you can say a word, he whispers, “i’m fine” and his back is still turned, as if he’s ashamed at how he appears now, like some kind of ghastly revenant, still shaking off the grotesque stench of titan and other soldiers’ combined desperation.
“i know,” you reply.
“so don’t fuss-“ levi pauses once he sees your palm outstretched before him, and his tired eyes flit back to your direct, demanding gaze.
“return it to me.”
his mouth opens initially to betray confusion, but then he remembers it, the thing he’s been holding close to his chest for hours - a pocketful of herbs he finds useless but are both pungent and soothing at once. they’re shoved into a small satchel, small enough to hang from his neck by a thin cord.
not a drop of blood has touched it; it is pristine. nor has the fabric torn or frayed… it is just as intact as the very moment you handed it to him.
“are you really asking for your good luck charm back?”
and yet he places it carefully into your palm.
you smile, shoving it back into your pocket.
“you took care of it, as expected.”
and then, you suddenly have a handkerchief, as if by magic, a sleight of hand, and it presses against his cheek, damp with clean, soapy water. his hand immediately covers yours keeping your hand and the cloth in place.
“you have other soldiers to take care of,” he reminds you.
“they’re stable and i will get back to them, but no one else was holding on to something important to me.”
he considers this for a moment, then snorts, slipping the handkerchief out of your hand finally to wipe grime off his face and neck more earnestly.
“you’ve made your point.”
you smile, patting your pocket. “i sure have,” you turn on your heels and return to your post.
