#rivetra aot

Her head shoots up, causing her to sit back on her knees. She didn’t even know it was him!

“Captain—I just slipped. I’ve gotten a new personal best!—So—really, I’m fine. I just need to walk this off.”

“Do a handstand, and maybe I’d believe you. You’re injured, Petra,” he states tonelessly. “If we were really out killing Titans, you’d be in a stomach by now.”

She bristles. “I was—”

“You were reckless, one. Two, your excuses are pathetic. Now, walk it off.” He motioned with his head. “Get to the san.”

Reckless.

But she wasn’t the only one. He sensed it as soon as he finished talking. Petra is way too strong to show it, but she was hurt in more ways than her injuries by his words.

They spewed from him without a search of a better way to express his worry, not enough time to look through his anger and see that he was actually confused and upset that she’d make such a mistake. The look of her oddly-bent arm. Maybe he’s seen too many broken bodies. Maybe because it’s Petra.

Training went on for the remainder of the day. Soldiers get a few scrapes, or have slip-ups weekly at least, but that’s unheard-of for Levi’s squad.

It’s not an injury to his ego. It’s Petra. She pushed herself too damn hard. Why?

Frustration and imaginings of what he should’ve said boiled inside him, and so he wasn’t done training before the sun was sinking below the horizon. He barely noticed until Nanaba appeared in the yard to wave him back.

“By the way, Petra left the san a bit ago. She shouldn’t be out of commission for more than a few days.”

A debrief shouldn’t have made him bristle so much. Maybe it was foolish to imagine he could tire himself out too much to think. He’s always thinking, always too much in his head.

A bit of relief met him though. Her arm wasn’t broken, it’s just that her shoulder was dislocated on top of a bit of heatstroke and minor bumps and bruises. Nothing some generic pain medication couldn’t solve.

Except it’s not solved.

He has a shower about it, clinical in-and-out like usual, and though it’s good to be clean, it’s hard to look at himself in the mirror. He runs a towel through his dripping hair as he wonders, yet again, what to do. Nothing isn’t the right approach for this, not taking into account the way she looked at him, like he tore down her whole world. Even if they weren’t together, she looks up to him.

All that’s left on the official docket is dinner in the mess hall. Part of him wants to skip it, but, it wouldn’t be a bad idea to bring Petra dinner as a peace offering on top of scones he had been saving for his squad after the nearing expedition. It’s an investment more than anything. He would sooner make himself sick than waste food, making it another goal to make it back alive for.

He wraps two for her in thin cling-wrap, and heads downstairs.

The problem now presents itself, conveniently enough, next to the big double doors that feed into the mess hall. A few soldiers file in and out—most are probably eating by now.

But evidently not Petra and Miche stood outside, talking. She’s not in uniform. Miche is unmistakable by height alone compared to her, and Levi would spot her by her hair in any crowd. By the way he’s gesturing, he’s giving gentle suggestions that are going in one ear and out the other.

He’s not too near when she raises her head and sees him. What is worse, feeling confused, or feeling resigned? Well, she looks like both.

Miche follows her gaze, and gives a wave. Levi is looking at her when he returns it, though. With a motion of his head, he turns back. The steady scrape of dirt behind lets him know she’s following.

When he gets up the steps and to the doors, he holds one open as she steps inside, much like a kicked puppy.

“Levi,” she acknowledges quietly. Her arm is pinned across her chest in a sling, impossible to hide, but it seems she’s making efforts to.

He sighs silently. “Come on.”

He gives her hair a fleeting pat as they approach the stairway. The walk is crammed in with tense silence.

He lets her into his office, where she idles awkwardly before he goes to the adjoining door as well, to his personal quarters. This is one of those times where he reminds himself to find time to take Petra up on her suggestions to decorate a little. All he uses them for is baking and sleeping, and only one of those things is very relevant.

He stops in the kitchen, and awkwardly holds up the scones.

She blinks. “Why?”

He pulls out a chair. “You know why.”

She deserves more than that. Don’t be so useless.

Apparently that’s asking too much, because everything he should and wants to say gets crossed in his mind, stuck in his dry throat.

I want to protect you. Those words should be simple. They aren’t.

Petra takes them from his hands gratefully, a little slower than necessary, testing what he’ll do? His fingers brush hers, and then they’re gone.

“Th-Thank you.”

She sits, placing them down on the table. Just when he’s putting the right reassurances together, her expression contorts to grimace.

She’s about to cry. She’s sitting there with her arm in a sling, banged up, and he’s making her cry.

“I know I messed up today. But… I succeeded, and you just… I just want to protect you!” she squeaks out, fighting fiercely not to sob. “Why. Why can’t I be g-good enough to?”

“Is… that what earlier was about?” He thinks he understands even less than before. “I don’t need to be. You don’t need to wear yourself out—you’re perfectly capable as you are.”

“I don’t care,” she says, glaring sharply at the floor. “Aren’t we a team…? Don’t we take care of each other?”

She’s not referring only to their squad when she says that.

At first, he thought she was naive. Maybe she is just a bit, but that’s far from what matters. She wants to look after him, and he… He’s been selfish.

He kneels down in front of her, taking her hand, placed upon her knee, and matches her soft gaze, made glassy by tears.

“Don’t cry, because you’re right.”

“Maybe it is pointless, but…”

“It’s not pointless,” he argues. “How do you give a shit about someone and not want to protect them?”

She relaxes a little, which allows him to do the same.

“You’re…” He stares at their intertwined fingers as he finds the words. “You do a fine job at doing the same. I am… proud about back there. But you can’t protect someone without protecting yourself. I don’t want to see you take a fall like that again with me as the reason.”

She nods, and then seems to realize something. “Wait, you are? Proud?”

“And it wouldn’t be a bad thing if you surpassed me, either.”

She laughs at that. “Yeah, right. But still… thank you.”

She puts her arms—arm, around him. He returns it with enough strength for the both of them.