Chapter Text
Levi Ackerman was a product of the underground.
A cold, commanding captain was an important persona to keep the brats in check. A calculated wall between the squads he was assigned was a necessity. Beneath the cold surface, he was a self deprecating man— he had seen the horrors of the battlefield, of his squad mates, of his life. He had no person to shoulder this burden with him, and that was by calculation; he couldn't afford another loss. He was a man running on pure spite and willpower as he watched every other comrade around him meet a gruesome end.
This was Levi Ackerman, for better or worse.
He sat quietly in his quarters, attention far from the tea he was brewing in his antique set. His mind was on the massacre only a month earlier— the sight of Petra, of Oluo, and the countless others taunted him ruthlessly in the corners of his mind. It was his fault, wasn't it?
That was the role of a Captain. He hated the title as much as he hated the feeling of guilt eating away at his flesh. He had painstakingly returned to the location of the massacre, meticulously finding something, anything for families to cherish, to bury, to mourn. Nothing to mourn meant there was no moving on. It's not like there were bodies left; the titans took care of those.
Levi hadn't kept anything for himself. If he did, his quarters would be a mess of mistakes and missed opportunities to save comrades, a funeral ground for both the deceased and Levi himself. He would call it frivolous to others; to himself, it was an early grave dug by guilt.
He settled into the unassuming armchair in the corner of his quarters, his tea producing ghosts of steam to calm him. It was ritualistic at best, a reminder of his human tendencies at worst. He stretched his neck, the tension ever present. He had burdened himself with the task of delivering those items from his fallen squad today, mouth creasing into a frown at the word that floated to mind.
Burden. It wasn't the word he wanted— to deliver was his duty— but it was the sinking feeling that bubbled to the surface that a sip of tea couldn't wash down.
It wasn’t your fault.
Erwin’s words had felt like a calculated strike and an excuse wrapped into a disgustingly sweet candy. It was tempting to believe, but it only irritated him. The commander knew this, as he was attacked with sharp words of insult from the captain himself before he excused himself silently. He knew better; that was not how a commander was to be spoken to. But the damage was done, Erwin left in his office with a slight frown. The commander couldn't afford a broken soldier.
Levi watched his tea steep. He had to have control over something– this was it. He gently lifted the cup by its rim, the intention to keep it intact a trauma response in itself. He couldn’t afford more broken glass, more pain. On top of this, it’d be a mess to clean, and Levi didn’t like messes.
I’m a mess.
The thought was unwarranted, the softer man within warring with the utmost need to remain constant, to remain cold. A controlled hand sat the cup down to cover his eyes, tears beginning to flow unbidden. He needed rest before his mind could spiral farther. His body guided itself to his meticulously made bed, his mind racing as he attempted to ease into sleep.