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Chapter Text

As the soldier fell lifelessly at her feet, Manuela huffed and brushed a damp lock of hair from her brow, the crackle in her left hand dimming with one final spark. She hissed when she felt a sting in her shoulder as it moved, and she pressed her fingers to the small wound. The incantation was spoken in a singsong voice, and a golden glow pulsed against her arm. The small healing magic was enough to dull the pain, and as she rotated her shoulder to test it, her eyes scanned the battlefield rapidly.

Dimitri stalked the field like a wounded wolf, his lance lashing out and his horse weaving back and forth in a deadly dance. Dedue hacked through bodies in his wake, axe flashing in the fog.  Byleth barked orders to the soldiers as she led the charge, and at the moment the battle seemed as if it was swaying in their favor. However, Manuela's breath hitched in her throat when she spotted Hanneman at the bottom of the hill, struggling to stand in the mud as he clutched at his shoulder.

Hanneman, though skilled in offensive magics, often struggled with healing spells. Instead, he kept a vulnerary in a flask at his hip to dull any pain until he was able to see a healer. He often avoided seeing Manuela for his ailments, however, and Manuela suspected he didn't trust her to take care of him. The idea irritated her, but she didn't press the matter because she didn't want to have to deal with him more than necessary anyway, and would hand him off to one of her assistants. Be that as it may, Manuela began to scurry down the muddy hill to aid him.

She didn't see the mounted soldier until it was nearly too late, the horse and rider rising from the fog above Hanneman like some terrible beast, and Manuela shouted his name in terror. There was a moment where he looked up, locked wide eyes with her, and that's when she noticed the rider's lance had buried itself in Hanneman's back.

The soldier withdrew the lance, his horse reeling back as Hanneman crumpled to the ground and Manuela felt a spell rise savagely from her throat as she lifted her hands. The powerful bolting hit the rider squarely in the chest, launching him from the horse and he laid motionlessly as Manuela scrambled down the rest of the hill.

"Hanneman!"

It was shocking, how shrill her voice sounded to her own ears. Manuela slid to her knees at Hanneman's side and lifted him from the muddy ground. When she realized he was still alive, she felt an intense wave of relief wash over her heart, but immediately she swallowed it down, her clinical mind overtaking her emotions as she looked at the severity of his injuries. The wound was deep, blood gushing with each beat of the man's heart. He cried out when she moved him to get better access, his hand grasping at her arm weakly, but he had no scathing remark on his tongue.

"Shh, stop moving," she said, biting back her own mockery, and pressed her hand to the wound. She hummed the incantation gently, and the golden pulse flashed beneath her palm. It wasn't enough. The blood continued to seep out from between her fingers, and she tried to remain calm as she recited the spell again. 

Hanneman's skin was becoming paler, his grip on her arm was becoming more fragile, and his breathing was becoming more shallow and rapid. She recited the spell again, more frantically this time, and the golden pulse flashed again. "Manuela," he said, but didn't continue.

Again she shushed him, her brow furrowing as she tried again, the blood continuing to gush from beneath her hand, warm and sticky, and she felt tears beginning to sting her eyes. "Come on, come on," she muttered between incantations, blinking rapidly. Fumbling, she reached for the vulnerary at his hip, pulling the cork with her teeth and tilting Hanneman backward, "Drink this too," she said, holding the bottle to his lips. He lacked the strength to take the bottle, so she tipped the liquid into his slackened mouth and begged him to swallow it.

It helped somewhat. As she went back to muttering incantations she felt the flow of blood slow and eventually stop seeping through her fingers, the wound finally closed. Manuela let out the breath she didn't know she had been holding, and turned Hanneman's head to face her. His eyes were closed, but she felt the weak pulse at his throat and breathed in deeply, leaning her head forward lamely against his shoulder. He had lost consciousness, and a concerning amount of blood, but she believed he would live.

Manuela heard a swoop of leather wings at her side, and Seteth dismounted the wyvern swiftly. "Are you alright?" he asked, taking in the sight of a shaken Manuela with Hanneman in her arms.

"I'm fine, but we have to get him to the infirmary," she said, and Seteth bent to hoist Hanneman's body onto the wyvern's back. Steadying him, Seteth mounted the creature. "I will send for Flayn to transport you back to the monastery. Byleth and the others will be able to handle the remaining stragglers." He looked her over for a beat, "do not worry Manuela."

Manuela nodded weakly, and Seteth took flight.

Chapter Text

The battlefield began to thin out not long after. Flayn had arrived in a flutter of pegasus wings to whisk Manuela back to the monastery where she was to tend to the wounded, including Hanneman, whom Seteth assured her was stable for the moment. For a while, she busied herself with the soldiers' wounds, but eventually she found herself at his bedside.

She didn't look at him directly. "He... He will need a round of regenerative healing spells at least once a day, it will allow the blood to regenerate, and he should be up and back to his cantankerous self within the week," Manuela instructed to her assistant, who nodded and began her work. Somewhat relucantly, Manuela tore herself away from Hanneman's bedside to continue her duties as head of the infirmary, and occupied herself again with the soldiers. But as she worked, her mind was clouded, thinking of her... her colleague. Yes, her colleague.

She was looking over an injury to Byleth's leg when she said "How is Hanneman? I saw you looking after him in the field."

Manuela looked distantly toward the floor, "I'm not sure. I haven't been able to see him for long. There's... There's much to do."

"Your assistants look like they have things under control here. Manuela, I think you should go look after him," Byleth said, her eyes glimmering with a small sparkle. Did she know something Manuela didn't? The professor was always acting so coy. "That's an order," she added.

Manuela scoffed, "You can't give me orders in my own infirmary!" But her smirk faded quickly, her expression betraying her feelings. She was worried. The blood regeneration magic was complex. If the assistants were to apply the magic too weakly, Hanneman could slip further away, perhaps never to wake again. Part of her would be glad to be rid of his constant badgering, but another part of her-- a surprisingly large part-- cared about his recovery. It was her duty as a physician, she decided, pushing the feelings down.

"Go. Everything's okay out here now. You've taken care of... almost everyone," Byleth said, standing up and testing her weight on her healed leg.

"... Alright, I will. Thank you, professor," Manuela said, bowing slightly and taking her leave.

It was strange, to see Hanneman lie so quietly, draped in silks. The man was always bustling to and fro, running between his office and the library, cleaning his shelves and devices, and it was unusual to see him at rest. So unusual in fact, that it was a little disturbing.

Before beginning her task, Manuela touched his hand briefly, to make sure it was still warm.  She sighed thinly, satisfied when she felt the warmth of his skin, and holding his hand in her own, she pressed two of her fingers to the vein at his wrist. Blood regeneration magic required access to the bloodstream, and this vein was the most effective and accessible spot to concentrate the spells. Her song was tired, weakened by the day's events, but the golden glow pulsed up Hanneman's arm before dissipating. After a few of the pulses, she placed his hand back on the silk sheets. Only a small amount of magic could be applied at a time, to avoid causing shock to the body, so she would have to wait until morning for the next dose. She wasn't sure how long it would take -- she had not actually had to regenerate lost blood before -- but would try her best. Hanneman may be irritating, she mused, but he didn't deserve to die for it.

Despite her exhaustion, she found herself unable to sleep that night. The moment his eyes had locked with hers kept playing in her head, and she was only granted the luxury of sleep once she had downed the contents of a bottle by her beside.

When she woke on the first morning, she half expected to hear Hanneman's knuckles rapping at her door like he had done on so many other mornings, scolding her for not being awake yet, telling her that "class was in fifteen minutes and she needed to pull herself together for goddess' sake! " She almost threw her shoe at the door like she often did. But there was only the sound of the midday church bell, so she dragged herself from her sheets to make herself halfway presentable.

The infirmary was quiet, most of the patients of the battle having been dismissed, all that remained were a couple of younger students, including Felix, who had taken an arrow to the arm during the fight and had been stubbornly trying to escape the infirmary all morning. Manuela chatted with him for a moment when she had arrived -- not for too long, though, Felix wasn't known for being the best conversation partner -- and she dismissed him once she checked the wound for any infection. Afterward, she sat in a chair by Hanneman's bedside and took his hand again.

He still looked pale. Sure, Manuela thought, Hanneman always had a... well, a pallid complexion due to his indoor lifestyle, but this was a different sort of pale, devoid of any colour, lifeless and dull. Nearly deathlike. It was unpleasant, and she tried not to think of the many lives she couldn't save, the many faces who looked so pale in death. She inhaled sharply, steeling her resolve once more, and sang the incantations to his lifeless form. She wondered if he could hear it. 

She stayed by his side a little longer than she thought she would, monitoring him for a reaction to the magic, before taking her leave to wander through the greenhouses. The flowers always made her feel a little more calm, more peaceful, and she often visited when she was feeling troubled, which was more often than she'd like to admit. She became lost in thought, the daylight faded and the evening came unexpectedly, and she retired to her room for the night.

That night Manuela was plagued by hopeless nightmares. She watched her colleagues fall, her friends perish, and she was left alone in the world. The very vivid image of Hanneman's lifeless form swam to the surface, laid in his bed and covered in blood. You can't save him, a voice whispered in the back of her mind, you can't save anyone. When she stirred, the sickening feeling remained in her heart no matter how many times she told herself that it was not real, and she made her way to the infirmary slowly, her heels clacking on the stone. 

The infirmary was empty that morning, save for Hanneman's bed in the far corner near the window. Manuela set down a tray of tea on the bedside table -- bergamot and lavender, an interesting blend of aromas that filled her with a sense of tranquility she had been having trouble achieving without the blissful aid of alcohol. With trembling fingers, she took his hand, and hummed the incantation softly. 

This time, the golden pulse did not manifest, and she took a deep breath through her nose and resolved to try again. She was just distracted the last time, she assured herself, and sang once more. Again nothing. You can't save him. You can't save him, he is going to die and it will be your fault, you can't save him. She took his hand in both of her own, pulling it closer to her heart, and tried to sing the notes again. The words choked her, the magic sputtering and dying in her throat, and she felt tears sting her eyes. Why wasn't it working? 

"Manuela, you really must treat yourself more kindly," Hanneman had said to her once. She had been nursing a painful hangover that afternoon, and told him to keep his judgment to himself (although the exact words she used were less polite.) Ignoring her, he went on to explain that she was punishing herself for no reason, and although she was annoyed by his sanctimonious preaching, she knew there was some truth to his words. She had been punishing herself, in a way. She had little faith in herself, and the drink allowed her to forget that. The drink burned away her mistakes. The drink allowed her to forget about those she could not save.

"You don't know what it's like," she had said, "to hold a life in your hands, and then drop it."

It was rare to see Hanneman stunned into silence. He always seemed to have something to say, always some opinion he needed to make known to the world. But he was silent, staring at her with eyes that looked softer than usual, his moustache twitching as he searched for something to say.

 "Don't look at me like that," she said, scowling, her voice wobbling dangerously as she crossed her arms and looked to the window. "I'm not looking for your pity. Leave me alone."

He stepped forward for a moment, a hand reaching out toward her, but then he thought better of it and stepped back. A part of her was pleased to see him so unsure, to have some power over him. But she knew he was just trying to think of some high-any-mighty advice to give to her, since he was so damn smart and knew just how she should be living her life. She didn't want to give him the satisfaction, so she left the room abruptly, leaving him dumbstruck in the middle of his own office.

Looking down at his silent form now, though, she knew he was right. She did need to be more kind to herself, more forgiving to herself. She needed to have more faith in herself, not only for her own sake, but for the sake of everyone in her care. For people like Hanneman; people whose lives were in her hands, and she could not afford to fumble. She took a deep breath, closing her eyes and squaring her shoulders and she lifted his hand to her chest and placed her fingers on the vein of his wrist. Once more, she sang the incantation, praying the goddess would take pity on her and the old man.

To her relief, the faith magics heeded her song, and the golden pulse flowed once more through Hanneman's veins. Manuela felt her constricted heart release powerfully and she closed her burning eyes, slackening in her chair with his hand clasped between hers. 

"What are you doing to me, you old goat?" she laughed tearfully toward the ceiling, her thumb running across the back of his hand. This time she hoped he could not hear her.

Chapter Text

The next morning, after an uneventful night's sleep and a mildly satisfying breakfast, Manuela made her way to the infirmary with a tray of tea and cakes. The cakes were largely for herself, but perhaps Hanneman would be enticed to waking by the aroma of the bergamot.

"You're looking a little better today," she said, taking his hand again. Indeed, he did look better -- the colour had returned to his cheeks, and his beard was beginning to grow in a little, leaving a stubbly shadow around his jaw that made him look... well, rather handsome. Manuela shook her head, trying to banish the thought. She was, however, beginning to feel optimistic enough to needle him slightly, "we'll be plagued by your nagging again soon enough, won't we? We've all missed it, Hanneman."

As she monitored him after administering the spells, she stirred her tea and hummed a bittersweet waltz.

Ah, the last grand ball before the academy fell. The students had badgered the pair of them all evening, urging them to partake in a dance. "Professor Hanneman, you should ask Professor Manuela to dance, you haven't left this corner all evening," she heard Sylvain say, elbowing Hanneman so that his drink spilled over his knuckles and he grumbled and shooed the young man away. Manuela snorted inelegantly. She was a few drinks in, of course, and chatting animatedly with some of the girls, who had been urging her to do the same.

"Hell, it might loosen up the old geezer," she laughed in a bubbly sort of way, placing her empty glass onto a passing tray and proceeding to sashay across the dance floor.
Hanneman had been staring out toward the dance floor with a faraway look, but when he felt her presence at his side, he nodded toward her in acknowledgement. "Good evening, Manuela. Enjoying the festivities?"

"Oh, I'm enjoying it well enough," she said dismissively. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Mercedes and Annette hovering nearby, and the moment she glanced at them, they hurriedly looked away and pretended they hadn't been looking.

"The girls have been after me all night, telling me to dance with you," Manuela said, trying not to sound interested. She saw Hanneman's eyebrows raise slightly but he didn't react further. Ugh, typical stone-faced emotionless--

 "Is that so?" he said with a short laugh, which surprised Manuela slightly. He then held his hand out to her, "Perhaps we should give them what they want, yes?"

She took his hand and raised a brow herself, a smirk teasing at her lips, "Very well. Try to keep up, old man."

"Yes, yes. Try not to trip over yourself, my dear," he replied with a matching smirk of his own, and she made a halfhearted unamused sound in the back of her throat as he placed his other hand upon her waist and began to lead her in a majestic waltz. Despite renouncing his nobility many years before, the man still knew his way around a ballroom, and Manuela couldn't deny that she was a little impressed with his graceful steps as they breezed across the floor, weaving between the other couples effortlessly. 

She found herself breathless as he sent her into a spin and pulled her back toward him in one uncomplicated swoop, and when she looked at him she was surprised to see him smiling brightly. 

A smile? On that stony old face?

Even more surprising was the realization that she was smiling, herself.

She stayed by his bedside longer that day than she even had the last time. The tea had gone cold and the sun was hanging low in the sky, and she retired to her room early. She slept more peacefully that night, her dreams draped vaguely in fine embroidery, a waltz, and the scent of bergamot.

--

Manuela woke a little later than usual despite remaining mostly sober, only stirring when she heard a knock at her door that roused her from her dreams. She threw her shoe at the door out of reflex, and there was a shocked sound from the other side. It sounded like Seteth.

"Manuela, are you awake?" came his muffled voice from the other side of the door.

Manuela made a noncommittal noise. She wasn't sure if she was awake. "What is it, Seteth?" she whined, sitting up in bed and scratching at her cheek.

"I thought you might want to know," it sounded like there was a smile in his voice, "Hanneman is awake. And he is asking for you."

--

Manuela stopped in front of the infirmary doorway, suddenly a little nervous to see Hanneman again. It had been, well, a difficult series of days, and she didn't quite feel ready to speak with him, or -- goddess forbid -- have to endure one of his lectures about how she really did look tired, and how she should try to get more sleep instead of staying at the tavern so late into the night. She sighed, smoothed out her dress, ran a hand through her hair, and tried to walk into the room with an air of grace.

The warm morning light poured in through the windows, dust motes shimmering in the air. Hanneman was sitting up in bed, reading a well-weathered book, and when he heard the clacking of her heels on the stone, he looked up quickly and actually smiled. "Manuela," he said, closing the book gently and placing it on the nightstand. His hair was ruffled and he hadn't yet had a moment to shave and trim his beard, giving him a slightly rugged look she wasn't used to. He was dressed in a loose linen shirt -- something much plainer than his usual garments -- the buttons near his collar loosely undone so that she could see the fresh bandages underneath, and she felt a small pang in her chest. She gathered her thoughts, and walked forward.

"You're looking well," Manuela said when she reached the foot of the bed.

"I'm feeling much better. Seteth told me that I have you to thank for it," Hanneman said, and Manuela didn't detect any sort of sarcasm in his words.

"Well, I couldn't let anything happen to you."

"Ah... you couldn't?"

"No," Manuela laughed suddenly, strangely nervous, "I couldn't let you die and leave us down one professor!"

Hanneman made a "huh" noise, his moustache twisting to the right, but shook his head, "Be that as it may..." he held a hand out to her, "Come here."

Manuela looked at him with puzzlement, but stepped forward and placed her hand in his outstretched one. He pulled her closer to him, cupping her hand in both of his. "Manuela, I owe my life to you," he said genuinely, and brought the back of her hand to his lips in a gentlemanly kiss, his moustache tickling her knuckles. She was absolutely dumbfounded. 

"Had it not been for you, I would have surely passed on without ever completing my research. You've done a great service to me... Thank you."

Manuela tried to shake off the enchantment, "I..."

As she looked at him with her hand enclosed in his, something twisted inside of her and it was as if a lock had just been popped open, revealing what she had hidden over her many years at Garreg Mach. Something that had begun to resurface over the past few days.

She loved this stupid, annoying man. 

As if bewitched by some whimsical magic, Manuela slipped her hand away from his and sat down on the edge of the bed beside him. He looked at her with a bemused expression, and she then leaned in to kiss him sweetly, her eyes fluttering closed and her fingers resting gently on his stubbled jaw. It was quick, her head swiftly catching up with her heart and she pulled back. He hadn't flinched or turned away from her, but when she pulled back, she heard him chuckle incredulously.

"Manuela," Hanneman said, "Are you inebriated right now? At this hour?"

"Wh- What? No!" she hissed, swatting at his chest, her cheeks flushed with embarrassment, "I thought that maybe we could be-- oh nevermind!"
Manuela rose to rush from the room, but she was stopped by a hand on her wrist.

"Wait!"

Her face was hot with shame. She could feel it rising from her cheeks, she could feel it burning from inside her heart, and she dared not look at him properly. She couldn't bear to see the mockery in his eyes. To think that she had believed, after all this time, that they could be--- oh she was such a hopeless fool!

"I'm sorry," he said gently. Tch, the usual empty apology. However, she still didn't flee. His hand was pulling her back toward him tenderly, and she complied, turning to him at last. Her gaze met his eyes, and to her surprise she found only warmth there as he spoke. "I am just... perplexed. I never imagined... Most of the evidence supported the theory that you simply weren't interested in m--"

"Can your theories, I'm not an experiment!" Manuela snapped, and he fell silent. She sighed, sitting back down on the edge of the bed again heavily. "I've been a fool."

"I fear we've both been fools," Hanneman said, holding her hand between his. He sighed, his thumb rubbing across the back of her hand. "As I have to admit, I had considered it."

Manuela tried to mask her elation."Oh?"

"Of course," Hanneman said, suddenly appearing bashful, "you are, admittedly, very, ah... charming at times. And-- and beautiful."

"Hanneman, you old rogue," Manuela said smoothly, smiling in a way that seemed to make Hanneman dissolve before her very eyes, and she reveled in it. "If I'd known you were such a sweet talker, I wouldn't have told you to shut up so many times."

This made him laugh, which turned into a pained cough unexpectedly, breaking the spell. Manuela made a clicking noise with her tongue, pressing her fingers gently to his chest and guiding him to lie down again upon the bed. "Perhaps this is a little too much excitement right now, you still need to rest."

"I'm quite alright, I--"

Manuela shot him a look that silenced him immediately. 

"Of course, who am I to argue with an experienced physician?" he said with a small smile, lying back amongst the downy pillows and placing his hand upon hers on his chest, clasping it warmly. "I have one request, however."

"Yes?"

There was a nearly imperceptible blush on his cheekbones as he looked up at Manuela, "I ask that you share a meal with me this evening."

"You know I can't dismiss you until at least tomorrow morning," Manuela said with a chuckle, "But... well, I don't have anywhere else to be this evening, so I may as well meet you here."

Hanneman nodded, "I look forward to it."

Manuela patted his hand one last time and began moving to stand, but was stopped by his voice, "Ah, Manuela-- One last thing..."

She turned back toward him, "Yes?"

He reached up toward her face, and placing two fingers beneath her chin, he guided her gently toward him to press a slow, gentle kiss to her lips. 

"A girl could get used to this," she said, smiling against his mouth, and he laughed and kissed her again.