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The book on Levi's lap was full of photographs of Hange.
Most of them were ridiculous. Hange could not sit still long enough to have a decent picture taken; it took too long and she had too much energy—and, on occasion, a certain someone might have sabotaged her attempts to have a serious picture taken by saying something inappropriate at just the right time.
Most were taken for nearby newspapers; Hange didn't seem to mind that many of the articles would paint her as eccentric (and that was putting it nicely); what she wanted, she said to him, once, was to get the information out there. Maybe everyone would think she was crazy, but maybe some people would listen, would understand, would care.
He supposed it made sense. So he went with her to the interviews. The photographs rarely came out well when he was present, and she claimed it was his fault for making her laugh. He was probably trying to make her look even crazier than usual, she told him, once.
Those photographs were often blurred, but he liked them more than the clear pictures where she sat still as a statue, her mouth drawn down and her eyes looking blank. If nothing else, the blurred photographs captured the spark in her eyes and the amused cat-like smile she did when she tried to contain her laughter.
He flipped through the book sometimes. For reassurance, maybe, that they were making a difference, that there was more to their existence than expeditions and dying and surviving. Other times he just wanted to look at her, to see her looking healthy again after a trip outside the walls ended less than ideally.
He didn't jump when his door slammed open, but he did look up, eyebrows drawn together in annoyance.
"Guess what, Levi?" It was Hange standing in the doorway, the side of her face bandaged up; he could see the bruise peeking out from the folded linen cloth.
He traced the bandages down her right arm with his eyes before he said, "You escaped."
"Naturally!" She flashed him a wide grin. "There's work to be done. I can't stay in bed forever. What are you doing?"
Without her glasses on, she couldn't see anything in detail, not so far from her face, but she moved into the room and peered over his shoulder. He resisted the urge to slam the book closed and shove it in his desk. If nothing else, it would make her suspicious and she'd find out about it on her own time, probably by searching his room when he was busy elsewhere.
"Looking at photographs," he told her.
"Of me," she said, sounding surprised.
Shit. He scrambled for the first excuse he could think of. "I had to look at your swollen face for two days before we made it back inside the walls. I wanted to see if you've always looked that shitty."
"And?" she asked, but before he could answer, she clapped her left hand over his mouth. He resisted the urge to lick her palm as she said, "Hold that thought."
And then she was gone again, out the door, boots thumping loudly as she ran down the corridor.
Levi had no idea what it meant, exactly: her leaving so suddenly. Maybe she thought he was a creep for keeping a bunch of pictures of her in a book. But she was back again before he could contemplate it too much, slamming his door closed behind her and flopping unceremoniously onto his bed.
She had a book in her hand.
"Well?" she asked. "I can't believe you didn't even ask me if I wanted to join you."
Confused, he stood from his desk chair and sat on the very edge of the bed. "You're supposed to be resting."
"You could have visited me in the medical wing at least."
"Tch. What do you want?"
"To look at photographs with you," she told him. "See?" When she opened her book, there he was: pictures of him, articles. "Humanity's strongest. Hey, remember when that title first ended up shoved on you? Well, no, let's start at the beginning first. It's only fair." She flipped to the first page. "Okay, it hasn't been that long, but here you were during your first year. I think this was the first photograph you ever sat for, right?"
It had been. He hadn't liked looking at his own face enough to keep it. He wondered why Hange had salvaged it. He distinctly remembered throwing it away.
"I take decent photographs," he told her. "Unlike you." He flipped back to the first page of his own book and pointed to a yellowing article that featured a blurry Hange. "You're snorting like an idiot in this one."
"It was your fault," she told him, flicking his leg with the index finger of her good hand. "You were completely silent until the very last second, where you said, so casually, that I looked like I was constipated."
"No. I said it looked like you were trying hard not to shit."
"And then they ran the article with that picture because they didn't have the time to take another!"
"It shows the real you."
"I don't look like that."
He paused, brushed her hair off of her cheek, let his nose crinkle a little as if he were thinking hard. "You do. Except you're missing your shitty glasses right now."
"They're broken. I guess they complete the crazy look or something, though."
He turned to the next page, where there was a photograph of Hange with the sunlight glinting off the lenses of a pair of glasses that had broken years earlier. "In this case, yes."
She scooted closer and peered down at the picture. "I don't remember what you said that time."
"I didn't say anything."
"That was the problem, then. I expected you to, and then you didn't. The whole time I was waiting for you to say something stupid, and then I imagined what you might have said and made myself laugh."
Levi pointed over to her book. "I look the same in every picture."
"Because I never tried to sabotage your photographs."
"Yes you fucking did."
She grinned. "That was once. You sat on that sponge and didn't even flinch. Humanity's strongest. If only they knew that your ass was wet the entire time you had to sit for that photograph."
"Shut up, shitty-glasses," he said, even though she wasn't wearing them. "Here's another one of you looking stupid." And by stupid he meant cute. It was a photograph of some of the oldest Survey Corps members, most of whom were still alive. Everyone looked stoic and impressive except Hange, whose face was half ducked against Levi's shoulder, her glasses slipping down her nose.
"You almost look like you care in that one," she said. "It's my favorite." She turned the page in her book, and there on the next page was the same picture. "Look. Your cravat's wrinkled."
"Because you're grabbing it."
"Well, what's your favorite picture, then?"
"I don't play favorites."
"Yes you do," she insisted, and leaned closer to him, batting her eyelashes.
Levi pushed her away, one finger on her forehead. "Don't do that with your face swollen. It looks creepy."
"I want to know your favorite."
"Why?"
"Because. Can I guess which one it is?"
He shrugged, and she reached over to flip to the back of the book, where there were two photographs, they were the most recent that he had of her; one was from a newspaper article and other was something she'd had taken to send back to her family.
"I'll guess this one," she said, and pointed to the latter of the two; it was one of the few serious pictures he had of her; he hadn't bothered to mess it up for her. It was a nice picture, he supposed. Her hair was down and neat and she wasn't wearing her glasses—she had explained to him once that before she had joined the Corps, she hadn't worn them. She was dressed nicely, too, in civilian clothes: a plain blouse and long skirt.
He had never asked how much of that picture was the real Zoë Hange, but he was fairly sure that very little of it was.
"Look how neat and clean I am in it," she said. "Am I right?"
"No."
"Really? Well, which one, then?"
He pointed to the other picture on the same page. It had been taken a few weeks after she had been approved to begin her titan research, and she was trying way too hard not to laugh.
"I look constipated in that picture," she said.
"Right. It's you. You make that face at least ten times a day."
Hange was silent for a long moment, but then she leaned back on his bed, against his pillows, and grinned. "You're such a sap, Levi. If only the others knew it."
He hated it when she was right. Sometimes. "Shut up shitty-glasses. At least I didn't sabotage that picture."
She just grinned wider. "That's right," she said. "You didn't. And you still picked it as your favorite."
"Go back to the medical wing where you belong."
"Levi?"
"What."
She sat up, still smiling as if she thought he had shared a big secret with her. "Thanks."
"For what?"
"You know," she said, and only the faint outline of a blush on the unharmed side of her face told him that she was embarrassed. Or maybe flattered. "For liking me."
"I never said that." Who thanked someone for liking them? It was weird. She was weird. But he supposed it made her charming in a really strange sort of way.
"You don't have to." The fingers of her left hand brushed his where he was holding onto the book. "The fact that you have this tells all."
"You have photographs, too, idiot."
"Well, duh," she said, and leaned forward, pressing her lips against his cheek. "Because the feeling's mutual, obviously."
It's more the way your eyes are
Laughing as they glance
Across the great divide
"Wishing (If I Had a Photograph of You)"—A Flock of Seagulls