Chapter Text
When the cat's away (the mouse will play)
WARNING: This is an English translation of one of my older fanfictions. You can read the original Italian version (full story) at this link.
note: Note: This fic can be considered a sequel to my "Never Forget We Were Built to Last," but it can also be read as a stand-alone story.
Chapter 4
"Just a moment of patience, we're almost done."
It's the last gauze soaked in medication that Squad Leader Hange applies over the stitches between the vertebrae, the last torment, at least for a few hours. In that spot, the wounds don't have the same redness as elsewhere, but it's wise not to lower their guard, they keep telling him, and Jean knows it's true.
Marco knows it too; well – he would accept any treatment without complaint regardless, but when Jean feels his forehead furrow and his breath catch against his shoulder, he'd gladly tell Hange to skip those unnecessary gestures of care.
To stop; to just do the bare minimum and leave him in peace for once.
But he doesn't. Like all the other times.
"I've changed the formulation recently, but if it keeps burning this much, I'll work on it some more," she says apologetically, placing a hand on his side before unrolling the covering bandages.
And Jean can't help but wonder if it's just a hasty attempt to console him, to avoid dealing with a terrified patient who'd make everything harder during the next treatment.
But then he sees it—the tenderness with which Squad Leader Hange draws Marco close; the careful way she bandages his chest and face after wiping his cheeks with her wrists, and he feels ungrateful for even thinking it.
"This doesn’t hurt—" she says, showing him a tool that had already sent a shiver of terror through him.
"You remember it, don’t you? It’s a stethoscope – I’ve examined you with this before, and it’s never hurt, right? It’s just a device that runs across your chest—"
Marco lets out a sigh of relief when he realises it’s true. Or perhaps, Jean is the one who sighed.
For the same reason.
But Hange doesn't sigh.
"What’s wrong?"
Sometimes, Jean wishes he hadn’t learned to read the lines of her face so well.
Or her silences.
"Squad Leader Hange?"
Hange pulls the earpieces out of her ears and slips her fingers under her glasses; pressing against her eyelids as if something had gotten into her eyes.
"He's caught a chill," she says after a pause, in which she likely tried to find the right words to translate what she heard in his lungs. "His lungs are fragile. He might catch… a cold in the next few days."
From the way she hesitated, Jean knows that's the best-case scenario.
He sighs bitterly, lowering his eyes: Marco is watching him.
He doesn't know why, but the expression he recognises on his face is one of guilt, leaving him baffled.
"So you administered the painkiller—" Hange distracts him (and herself), more helpful than she could ever know.
"Y-yes, Squad Leader," he stammers, a tingling sensation flooding him for no clear reason. And just as inexplicably, he feels the need to take on a formal air; straightening his back and pushing out his chin. "I filled the syringe halfway like I saw you do, Squad Leader. Three millilitres from that vial on the bedside table, to be exact, and I injected it into his buttock—" he explains hurriedly and awkwardly, all in one breath.
Hange listens calmly, unaffected by his agitation, then turns to retrieve the syringe and vial from the bedside table. She holds them up to the light, adjusts the arms of her lenses to better read the faded label, examines the needle and how it’s mounted on the syringe.
"And you injected it into his buttock, you said?"
"Yes, Squad Leader."
Before he can reply, Hange is already inspecting the mentioned buttock.
She runs a finger over the mark left by the needle—as Jean had imagined, it had created the worst bruise.
She covers it a few seconds later without a single comment.
"What do you think, Marco? Was Jean good at it?" she asks with mock seriousness; Marco lifts his forehead, moving his lips in response, and Jean takes it as a hint of a smile.
"I could make you my new nurse—"
"I'd rather not, Squad Leader."
Her hand is still on Marco’s forehead. It started as a clinical gesture but has turned into something else.
There’s regret in the way she scrutinises him, her fingers combing through his hair.
She looks away as she remembers to check the large pendulum clock behind her.
"Lunchtime passed long ago. You must be starving." She states, standing wearily from the stool and heading towards the door. "I’ll have something brought up for you to eat here."
She pauses just before passing Jean: the hand she places on his shoulder is a silent request for understanding. "Make sure he eats. He'll need to take some important medicine tonight," she confides quietly, nodding toward Marco.
"And the morning medication?"
Hange sighs, her face darkening: there’s still a lot of anger in her, suggested by her clenched jaw. "It’s too late to fix that. He’ll take his medicine tonight. With a bit of luck, missing one dose won’t have any consequences. In the meantime, I’ll give him something to bring down the fever and clear his chest—"
At those words, from her corner, Lia begins to sob again. She does so quietly, as if it were something forbidden that she just can’t hold back.
"Lia, stop it."
"I’m sorry, Squad Leader…" she cries, even more heartbroken than before, "it’s just that it’s my fault, I should’ve really insisted that Dr Hilbig follow the treatment and—"
"You’ve already apologised, and I’ve already forgiven you. There’s no need to go on about it." Hange cuts her off, perhaps too harshly. "Instead, go to the kitchen and ask them to bring something for Jean and Marco to eat. They already have Marco’s menu, tell them to stick to it without taking any personal initiatives as usual."
"I’m sorry, Squad Leader. I’ll go right away."
Jean knows that this bitterness isn’t directed at Lia, and he’s sure that Hange knows it too. He feels a shiver, aligning his arms stiffly at his sides in a new, dull demonstration of discipline.
"Squad Leader Hange, it’s not Lia’s fault. There was nothing she could’ve done—"
"I know—" Hange is angrier at herself: Jean only realises this now.
He watches her take off her glasses once more, rubbing her tired eyes.
"I should’ve contested Erwin’s proposed team formation, persuaded him to reconsider the decision not to leave any of my squad on infirmary watch," she admits, her tone heavy with the weight of responsibility.
"Anyway, it’s too late now. Dietrich won’t have it easy from now on. I’ll write a report on what happened, and I swear on my name that this time he won’t get away with it—"
But in the meantime, Jean sees her hand on the door handle, gripping it as if she feared she might collapse at any moment.
"Squad Leader Hange—" he continues before Hange can turn to look at him again, "It’s not your fault."
The silence that follows seems to stretch across a distant timeline, a place filled with heavy thoughts and anticipation: everyone seems condemned to listen to the sound of their breathing mingling until someone musters the courage to break it.
"I’ll believe it if you believe it too: it’s not your fault."
Jean sighs, closes his eyes, taking in the scent of camphor and various ointments as if he’d never noticed them until now.
"I couldn’t do anything."
"On the contrary, you protected him even against yourself," she acknowledges. "It was a chess match. Dietrich was just waiting for you to make a false move so he could lock you up. Or perhaps, lock you both up. It’s personal for him—he has it out for me and can’t wait to throw a wrench in my plans. But I kept telling myself he couldn’t be that petty to go this far..."
"Squad Leader Hange—" he interrupts, "You’re doing it again. Blaming yourself."
Hange pauses for a moment and exhales. "You’re right."
It’s a bitter smile they share, barely there.
Hange gestures with her hand before flicking the door handle.
"And I’d like to add," she stops again in the doorway, "Today you gave an injection without having the faintest idea of what you were doing. Not everyone is willing to take such a risk just to ease someone’s pain. You were brave." She tilts her head to one side, reconsidering. "Or perhaps Marco was even braver for letting you do it—"
Jean feels his sweat starting to boil beneath his shirt, letting his jaw twist into an awkward grimace. "Well—uh, I thought Marco might, you know—really need it…"
"Well, yes—I’d say he did need it." Hange smiles again, a different smile this time, and she shows it just for a moment before stepping out: "Look after your boyfriend now. Apply cold compresses to his forehead. I’ll come by later to check on him."
"Understood."
Marco is awake, even though his eyelid is closed.
Jean has learned to tell by the way his eye moves beneath it, which is why he dares to touch his forehead – otherwise, he would never disturb his sleep, risking the typical wrinkles of pain appearing on his face.
He does it because Marco’s face now has colours that he likes. It’s not just the freckles, no – those were there before. Nor is he fooled by the fever or the sunburned skin.
No, there’s something Jean can’t quite identify, but he likes it—it creates a softness, like watercolour strokes.
His lips have regained their rosy hue, and the smoothness of his forehead follows the rhythm of his breath, now gentle and regular.
“Don’t pretend, I know you’re not sleeping—”
Marco hints at a smile he can’t quite hide.
“Are you feeling better now?” Marco nods, and Jean hesitates slightly before lifting him from the pillow to rest his head on his lap. The painkiller has worked, that’s true – but Marco looks so peaceful that Jean doesn’t want to risk waking any dormant pain. Besides, if Squad Leader Hange were to return for any reason and find him sitting on the bed, probably—ah, to hell with it! He does it anyway!
Marco has that little face on that makes him look like a puppy in need of affection, one of those looks young children or very old people have. It’s something you lose as you go through life and regain when it’s perhaps too late, except for Marco: he never lost it. Not even after the jaws of the titans.
He looks at him; he watches him again – studying the corners of his parted lips, and he leans down to kiss him on his hot forehead, then on his cheek, and the tip of his nose.
There are still traces of salt on his skin, traces of things Jean wishes weren’t there, but it’s fine all the same. There’s the rustle of his fingers running through his dark hair, the glide of Marco’s knuckles along his cool skin, which now, with that touch, is almost warm.
There are breaths, and then sighs – there are fluttering eyelashes, and things that now seem to work better than before.
the end.
Thanks for reading! Hope you enjoyed it<3