Chapter Text
Healing Hands, Harrowed Hearts
Act I: The Underground
Scene I: Through the Grapevine
Now is one of those moments where Levi really wished the Underground had more room on the streets for horses.
Farlan’s body lays limp across the haunches of the sturdy animal, strapped down to the saddle that Levi is straddling with rope and leather alike, moaning and bleeding into the streets. Every time the horse gallops over another hill of dirt, Levi winces at the gnashing of teeth from behind, and grips the reins tighter until his knuckles burn.
“Hang on,” he grits with a slight turn of his head, reaching behind him with one arm to rearrange the poorly dressed wound on Farlan’s side. He swallows the thick in his throat, praying to whomever might be listening that he can make it a few more streets over to the hospital with the nurse he’s heard so much about.
The small grey building comes into view after another sharp right turn, the action which elicits a new sort of animalistic wail from Farlan. Levi bites down hard on his lower lip, splitting the bruised flesh even further, until his own rivulet of crimson dribbles down his chin and stains his shirt. He makes a mental note to take it off later; the filth will have to stay for now, he does not have time for such niceties.
He slides down off of the steed, fingers already busy with untying Farlan’s restraints. Throwing him by the torso, Levi is able to situate him over his shoulders, carrying him like he’s seen the women carry water from the river.
Levi kicks the door in with the heel of his boot, drawing the attention of anyone not wrist-deep in the guts of someone else worse off. He inhales a breath, trying not to let it go too far before he smells the sulfur of burning skin and his nostrils singe with the scent. His eyes are drawn to a nurse who is too busy shouting at another woman to notice his presence, and he recognizes her features as the ones relayed to him by another band of thugs near this area that he once had a turf war with, years ago when he first started down this dangerous path. Unsure of whether it is the kindred spirit of ferocity, or the arousal he procures at the small vein protruding from her forehead when she shouts, Levi makes his way towards her station with little forethought.
“This one’s next,” he states plainly, a huff exhaled as he roughly tosses Farlan’s body onto the table. The way his teeth grind against one another at the sound of bone on metal makes the muscles in his neck flex, straining the wound near his shoulder.
Your eyes are partially sunken in, a trait he’s sure is due mostly to lack of sleep, given your profession. The expression on your face, one born of incredulous confusion, does little to deter his eyes from seeking out the puffed, bruised skin beneath your lower lids. You lick your lips, and he swears he must be under the influence of whatever fumes were released at the explosion he and his crew just endured, because his pupils dilate when he tracks the motion of your pink tongue running over the bow of your mouth.
“Excuse me?”
Levi nudges Farlan’s leg with the toe of his boot before leaning back against the wall, arms crossed over his chest. You note that his general disposition is expected to give him an air of blase confidence, but all it does is stoke the fire in your belly that begs you to breathe fire in his face and kick him in the ribs. Your hands turn to fists at your side, nails cutting crescent moon shapes into the innermost parts of your palm as he calmly speaks, “He’s your next patient. Don’t make me repeat myself again.”
“Oh, you won’t have to,” your voice is nearly as surly as his, with a slightly higher inflection. You stand to your full height, and peel the bloodied gloves from your hands, eyeing him as he sneers in disgust at the sight. You have half a mind to throw the dirtied latex directly at him, citing his rude intrusion as the reason for your outburst. Instead, you take a short breath and smile across the space that separates you, “Because you’re going to take his raggedy ass off of my table, and wait your damn turn.”
The blonde currently twitching on your makeshift medical table groans and blinks despite the blood seeping from his head wound and the gash on his torso, “L-Listen to her, L-Lev—,” and then groans one final time before succumbing to the drowsiness that is associated with severe blood loss. You chuckle, pressing your index and middle fingers to his jugular, verifying the status of his pulse.
You sigh from your nose, your shoulders dipping as you walk around his body, pulling on his legs and squeezing his fingers and toes. Levi waits impatiently, and you can hear the slight stamp of his boot on the ground as he shuffles his legs. There is a part of you that wishes you could drag this out, if only to make him suffer, but unfortunately for your conscience, there are lives on the line.
“Judging by his heart rate and body temperature, he’s still got some time. Nasty amount of blood loss, likely will require a transfusion.” Your hands are busy now, buttoning up Farlan’s shirt and pushing his body as best you can to the edge of the table. He teeters there, the weight of him threatening to throw his whole frame off the edge, but Levi is quick to support his shoulders, still finding time to cut a glared steel gaze your way.
You beckon for the young child at your feet to make her way up onto the table, ensuring that the surface is clean before you begin to inspect her wounds. After a short struggle that feels like it’s dragged on for eons, you dip down and help her up by stuffing your hands into her armpits and hoisting her onto the table. She laughs at the tickling sensation, but it’s broken into a series of coughs that you’re quick to inspect, grabbing up some sort of equipment off of your side table to listen to her breathing. Levi does not miss the wincing of your expression, even though it’s hidden from the young girl.
He thinks back momentarily to the rumors of the Underground, about how the Military Police had released some sort of poison into the water supply of the poor district to help naturally thin out the population. Of course, there had been no official transcript released, and there likely never would with the way the royal family had been treating all of the citizens lately. Even so, Levi could tell with the way bodies were dropping that there was at least a partial truth to the lies that were spreading throughout the entangled grapevines of the Underground.
Levi’s belly burns with the insatiable need to put his fist through someone’s face, deserving or not. He grabs Farlan by the arms and turns him so he can lay flat on the table with little issue, and pushes back the hair from his face to inspect the wound that is nestled in his hairline. If his friend were awake, he’d tease him about the scar that would likely form after the fact, and how Isabel would probably tease him for it. He can’t help the way his fingers reach for his handkerchief hidden in the inside pocket of his jacket; how his thumb, wrapped in the cloth, seeks out the bloodied section of his friend’s face. Levi rubs at it until it’s clean, rotating to new parts of the handkerchief until it’s bloodied all around.
Your eyes cut to him, now, impeccable gaze unable to be read even from this short of a distance, “Hope you’re the same blood type,” and he detects something softening in your voice, “Hope he makes it until I’m done.”
There are a dozen nuances to your simple words, and Levi contemplates them all while you busy yourself with the child on your table. Still, he narrows his gaze, leaving Farlan’s side in exchange for your own, disregarding the small child still held tight in your grasp, her tiny fingers wrapped around your dress.
“Do you know who the fuck I am, asshole?” Levi feels his own blood thundering in his ears, and there is an errant thought that plagues his mind, a reminder that he is a universal donor . His fists tighten, knuckles paling under the strain of his own stress, and he has half a mind to run his balled up hands through your skull. He tampers his temper with a slow exhale, closing his eyes so he does not have to focus on your face, which is equally as infuriating as Farlan’s pale body bleeding out six inches from his waist. Through his teeth, Levi seethes, “I’m not going to tell you again, you half-witted bitch . Fucking tend to his goddamn wounds, or—“
“Or what ?” you sneer, nostrils flaring as you continue to tend to the child in favor of glaring a hole into Levi’s skull. “What’ll you do? Kill me?”
Your incredulous tone does little to quell the burning rage turning his stomach acrid, and Levi swears the words he wants to spit next will come out laced with venom. He parts his lips to send your snide ass straight to hell when you interrupt him again, turning your back to reach for a bandage on your cart beside the bed.
“Then what will you do, hm?” Levi does not care for your patronizing tone, but some invisible tether is tying his line of sight to your precise motions as you work on a stint to set the child’s arm in place and staunch the bleeding. It is obvious your attention is barely distracted by the man brooding in your peripherals, and he's unsure of whether to feel fury or shock. “None of the other jackasses here can handle an injury like that. You kill me, and you’ll be stuck hauling his ass to the shithole across town, and by then he’ll be dead.”
The gaze you spare him is cold, and Levi’s neck bristles at the sight of your eyes so devoid of sympathy. He does not care for the way you look down your nose at him, as if you have some sort of moral high ground that he could never even begin to hope to achieve.
If there is one thing that Levi despises, it is dirty disrespect.
His jaw flexes under the pressure of his molars as he grinds his teeth, gearing up for another round of belligerent back and forth, when you part your lips to speak. At first, he’s unsure of how to react to the way you softly coo at the child in front of you, singing her a lullaby of sorts to distract from the way you have to scrape at her throat and stitch up her arm. And then, after a few minutes of painstaking silence, you raise your voice so he is aware you’re addressing him again.
“So, yeah, Levi Ackerman , I know who you are — heard it through the grapevine that you’re a thug with a piece of the Underground under your thumb,” your tongue peeks from your throat as you lick your lips, cocking your head to the side while you consider him through half-mast lids, “But this is my hospital , so sit the fuck down, and wait your fucking turn.”
Steely eyes gaze across the child’s shoulder, and for once in his life, Levi wants to back down as he hears your setaceous words settle in his spine, “Don’t make me repeat myself again.”
If you were anyone else other than a stranger that Levi is staking his best friend’s life on, he’d gut you like an animal. Mocking him is not something he tolerates, let alone the language you’re using when you speak. But, he requires you alive for at least the remainder of the day, and the rigidity to your backbone is both arousing and infuriating, so he thinks he might let you live a little longer.
After a moment’s thought, Levi surmises that he truly has no choice, much to his begrudging disappointment. All of your sentences spill nothing but the bloody truth — he already wasted enough time bringing Farlan to this medical facility specifically because he had heard stories of your nimble fingers and swift stitching, and Farlan’s injuries are of such severity that he needs more than basic care. And Levi knows that if he were to waste even more time trying to kill you, his metaphorical hourglass would already be on it’s last grains of sand by the time he would be able to load Farlan back up on the horse and start the ride across town to search for another place that dares to call itself a hospital.
On the positive side of things, Levi likes how clean your station is.
☆ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ:⠀ *⋆.*:･ﾟ .: ⋆*･ﾟ: .⋆
Hours later, after Farlan has nearly bled out twice and bemoaned in pain until his throat has gone numb, you finally have his wounds cauterized and cared for.
Tilting your head, you focus on the cracks and crevices in your hands, scrubbing at them until they are free of bloodstains, “Shit ain’t free, jus’ so you know.”
“I know,” Levi’s face is pale from the blood transfusion, the crude tube protruding from his arm and stuck into a similar place on Farlan’s body. He glances up at you and you have the audacity to feel sorry for him, the pity reflected in the swimming colors of your irises. He chooses to ignore it, instead focusing on taking short breaths and sitting up straight without passing out from pure exhaustion, “Don’t worry, I’ll pay. I’m good for it.”
Your voice is breathless when you echo his sentiment, “I know.”
He wonders if you know him, really. He mocked you for it earlier, but do you know what souls mar his hands, demons riding on his back as he remembers every life that has flashed before his eyes. The knife in his pocket weighs more than the world itself, and he’s thankful that he’s sat down or else he might topple over.
At this hour, the majority of the hospital has been cleared of both patients and nurses. In the north corner of the building, Levi can hear small choruses of grunts and groans and his thoughts go on a tangent of curiosity of their injuries. Outside of the shifting and other small sounds from a few remaining patients, the room is quiet. He licks his lips and intakes another short breath, his lungs burning from the strain, and turns to watch as you wipe down the parts of the table that you can get to with Farlan’s body still occupying the small space.
“I am sorry,” it is barely audible, but you catch it, “for earlier.”
The sentence startles you from your concentration, stealing your breath as you try to inhale, as if he’d poached all of the oxygen from the room with five simple words. You blink slowly, allowing yourself the small shutter to recollect your thoughts and assemble your facade once more.
“S’okay,” you manage to choke out the word, slurring two together, “I could’ve handled it better, myself.”
It is not the most specific verbal apology, but it will have to do. You are still simmering with anger at his display of hubris upon first meeting, and you wonder if the stories that you’ve heard of Levi Ackerman are as true as those who tell them claim them to be. There is such conviction in a shaking man’s voice when he tells another in the streets of how Levi has killed more people than can fill up an ale house on an eventful Friday night, or how he’s able to hold his blades in such a way that you would never see them coming. The only ones who have lived to tell their tales after coming face-to-face with Levi Ackerman, are those that he sends with a message.
And at least one less finger than they started with.
“No,” and Levi is waving at you now, using what little strength he still possesses to project a confident persona. He slumps down further in his chair and with his sleepy disposition, his half-lidded eyes are even more hidden.
If he weren’t as menacing as you assumed him to be, you might have thought he were handsome, beautiful even. Between his steely irises and sloped nose and sharp jawline, he’s truly a marvel to behold. Your slender fingers ache by your sides to frame his cheeks and inspect his features. If you were to meet him prior to knowing his history, you might have suspected he was never from the Underground at all, at first glance. But there is a layer just beneath the surface that proves his conflict-addled soul has been molded into something much more rigid, unyielding to the ways of the world.
Levi reaches for the hilt of the knife in his pocket, the wooden curve meshed with metal to reinforce the handle. He runs his thumb along the blunt side, like it were something special, and then blinks slowly, “Status don’t get nobody nowhere, I know better than that. I was angry that Farlan’d gotten himself into this fucking predicament. Should’ve seen the bastards coming in the first place.”
“Military Police?” your voice is quiet, now, soft and sweet in the afterglow of the moonlight filtering in through the open window across the space from your table. You swallow and he hears your shaken exhale, and he wonders if you aren’t as strong as you project yourself to be, “Is that who was chasing the two of you tonight?”
Shaking his head, Levi sits up straight again, wincing on the incline. His eyes search the table for something that isn’t really there, hands itching in his lap to reach for an invisible object to busy his hands with. He licks his lips and wishes more than anything that he could get a cup of tea to warm his frozen fingers. Has he always been this cold natured, or is it only because of the blood draining from his system and filling his friend’s?
In crossing his calf over his opposite thigh, his restless body chooses instead to focus on the intricacies of the bottom of his boot, “Damn trafficking ring running out of the East Side. Bad intel, went sideways.”
You take the insinuation that he can’t say much else about it all from his clipped, vague sentences. The way his eyes dip downward leaves little of his stormy irises left for you to study. There is an odd tugging in the back of your mind, like a string wrapped around your subconscious, and it begs you to act on your impulse and reach out to rest your palm on the top of his knee. Your hand hesitates by your side, freshly cleaned and smelling of lavender, and after another inhale, you deny yourself the urge. Instead, you choose to lean back against your table to watch him from your heightened angle, hands now gripping the metal surface so you cannot lose yourself to your yearnings again.
“How old are you?” you find yourself asking, unable to fill the silence with anything else other than silly questions.
The transfusion is nearly done, and Levi is on the verge of passing out due to blood loss. Before he can answer, you reach down under the curtain of your table and produce an oblong loaf of bread, peeling a piece small enough for him to hold in his wobbly fingers. Your fingers brush his knuckles, split and bloody still, and you offer the chunk of bread to his twitching digits.
Begrudgingly, he takes the offering, convincing himself that it’s not out of pity, but necessity. If he does not eat, he will likely end up unconscious in this uncomfortable chair, with you able to turn him in to the authorities on the unlikely whim that you believe you can hide once you’ve exposed him. In the back of his mind gnaws a particularly nasty train of thought that reminds him of a time when he could not fend for himself, and suddenly he is thrown back in time nearly two decades, a shivering figure clutching onto a makeshift knife he carved from the leg of a table. Levi knows he could go to the market if it really came down to it, but he does not wish to be captured in his fatigued state, rendered relatively useless with his boneless limbs and limp gait.
Logically, it all makes sense, and yet he still winces when he takes the first bite.
“Twenty-one,” he answers after he’s swallowed. “You’re younger than me.”
“So, you’re as perceptive as they say.” You take a rip of the bread for yourself, keeping quiet as you chew. He’s able to see as the lump of food rake its way down your throat, and his eyes follow the motion until they rest on your collarbones. Levi notes how perfectly the swoop of them frame your neck and shoulders, how the small dips between your bone and your muscle leaves the right amount of space for someone to do something sinful. Your voice provides a welcome distraction, “I just turned eighteen.”
Levi chastises himself for not pinning you as anything younger than twenty, but your eyes tell stories of the ages and he swears your soul speaks like that of an ancient when you bare your teeth. The Underground has a way of aging even the most foolhardy of children, so he knows that he should have been more aware, more perspicacious of your age. Even though you carry yourself maturely, that does not accurately depict the number by which you define yourself, or how many cold and desolate winters you’ve been able to survive. Still, young people do not tend to have such a short fuse when he is present, and he likes the lack of doubt that emboldens you to speak your mind.
He thinks that he would be lucky to have someone like you in his inner circle, joining Farlan and Isabel in keeping him company, helping him to run the show. And yet, there is a piece of him that is hesitant to invite you, not out of anything selfish other than the thought of keeping you as pure as he can in spite of how hard the Underground is trying to drag you through the muck.
The thug knows there are times when you stop asking questions, rather to keep to yourself, but you have less of a filter, and cannot stop yourself once you get started. You lean forward, your hands steadying yourself on your knees, and ask, “Do you ever dream of the surface?”
“I don’t know you well enough to tell you about my dreams, kid,” Levi barks, forcing himself to sit up with his newfound strength thanks to the carbohydrates in his stomach. He looks annoyed with you, silver irises gone dull when he looks you in the eyes.
And still, you ignore his disinterest in favor for pressing him further, sharing your smile as you look towards the door of the hospital, “I think it would be beautiful, even with those uglies roaming around,” a dreamy sigh interrupts your sentence, and you sound wistful when you part your lips again, “Anything would have to be better than this hellhole.”
Levi is more than aware how the government and subsequent agencies are cutting down on citizenship application acceptances, and raising the price of the entrance to the Surface from the Underground. Those who are blessed with the gift of freedom outside of the dirt that keeps those of the Underground trapped have been working diligently to keep the Underground suffocated but placated. They feed them just enough hope to hold them still, and then steal it away to leave nothing but the right amount of despair to keep their mouths closed and their tears dry.
“This shithole where you live?” Levi asks instead, throat burning from the dry bread and lack of water. He offhandedly wonders if you know how to brew tea. The thought allows himself a distraction from the dysphoria of the reality in being trapped, like a rat in a cage.
You scoff, shaking your head at his brash words, “I turn the table into a bed most nights, since I never had enough padding to justify sleeping on the floor.” A shrug pulls at your shoulders and you turn to look down at your shining metal table, “Besides, I can keep my station clean. Can’t do nothing about the dirt floor.” Your gaze drifts to the hem of your dress, where your fingers are meticulously plucking at a stray string on the bottom.
Your eyes find his and you feel like you’re on display for the whole world to condemn with the way he intensely considers you, so you fill the void with another question, “Where do you call home?”
“Nowhere,” he is quick to answer, “everywhere.”
Standing to your feet, you roll your eyes where he can see, earning a huff that sounds akin to a laugh from his throat. You admire his disinterested expression as you walk to the opposite side of the table to tend to Farlan’s transfusion tube and check his remaining injuries.
“You’re full of shit,” you spit, but there is no malice in your tone.
“Not right now,” Levi’s wit does not disappoint, and you roll your lips together as you soak in his next words, “haven’t eaten today. But, I appreciate the concern.”
The laugh bubbling in your chest cannot be concealed for long, and you press your fingertips to your lips in a last ditch effort to soften it, as not to wake the other patients. Shaking your head, you check Farlan’s bandages and then start to undo his transfusion equipment. Your hands are dainty and Levi is closely watching you with a narrowed gaze, monitoring your careful movements, masking his curiosity as concern for his friend. Your shoulders shake when you think about his comment for too long, his naturally dry humor giving you pause. You tilt your head to view over your shoulder, fondly looking at him as he busies himself with the ripped sleeve of his shirt.
When you return to Farlan, there is a silence that settles over the lot of you that exposes and heightens every intricate sound that you make as you change the cloth covering his bloodied wounds — the tinkling of metallic instruments on the tabletop, the ripping of the fabric covering the gaping hole in his side. You ponder if he can hear the loud gushing of your heartbeat, or if it is only ringing in your own ears. Otherwise, alone, the sound might be able to drown out any other distractions.
Levi watches you carefully as you step closer to him, your knees between his as you reach to unhook the rudimentary transfusion tube from his arm. Your finger is quick to press down over the small intrusion, a clean swatch of white cotton just beneath your touch to assist in staving off the blood flow. Blue-grey eyes follow your every motion, lashes sweeping against his cheeks when he blinks. You lick your lips and cock your jaw so you can look across the inches of space separating you from him, and you swear you hear his breath hitch when you wet your mouth.
“You’ve got a couple’a nicks yourself,” you murmur, voice low. You refrain from using his name because you fear it might stumble out affectionately, which you blame on the sleep deprivation and lack of personal touch. You nod your head over your shoulder at the blonde now lying still on your table, heavy breaths giving his chest a steady rise and fall, “Farlan will be out for a little while longer. Let me tend to them.”
It is abnormal for Levi to allow anyone else the privilege of touching his split skin. Usually, he is the one to doctor his own injuries, too preoccupied with someone else’s level of cleanliness to bother them for a bandage. It has led to many jagged scars and a few incorrectly healed wounds, but he’ll be damned if he’d let someone’s disgusting paws near him without proper sanitizing. He swallows the growing lump in his throat and starts to prepare his rebuttal, but you’ve already wiped down your hands and your instruments, and you give him little leeway to argue.
Regardless of your state, Levi is not prepared to hoist Farlan over his shoulder and carry him back to the horse just yet. His head drops back against the wall, eyelids drooping as you tend to the scattered scrapes and bruises around his body. He notes the meticulous movements of your fingers, how they methodically and intricately cleanse and disinfect each wound, and he wonders aloud how many years you’ve been taxed with the burden of fixing others’ mistakes.
“My father was a drunk, and my mother liked the company of unsavory men.” Your voice is plain and dry when you deliver the details, and he has to assume you’ve told this story to too many people to have any emotional attachment to it any longer. Your dissociative tone would make him laugh if he had any air in his lungs left, but he is uncomfortable with the proximity of your body to his. He’s not sure if he should blame you or the lack of human contact he’s had since his childhood for the sudden burning flush that starts at his neck and blooms up to his ears and the tops of his cheeks.
A dry laugh makes your throat burn as your shoulders shake, “I, uh, fought for my life on more than one occasion when I was young, and since then it’s all life has ever been — fighting.”
Hooded lids part and you’re met with that now familiar steel blue of his irises once more, dark pupils dilated as he considers you closely, “The Underground is a hell of its own, sucking everyone’s soul dry from the day we draw our first breath.”
“You ain’t kidding,” you let out a chuckle and tape down the cotton over the small slit in his arm where the tube was slotted prior. After soaking a rag in warm water, you lean in closer, voice huskier than you intended, “We just have to make the best out of each day, and pray that one day we’ll get to see the sun.”
Levi has the strange urge to divulge his heart to you, to talk about how he so desperately wants to feel the grass and smell the sunshine. There are rivers in the Underground, but they do not compare to those rushing ocean waves that he’s seen in books about the Surface. He bites his own tongue, praying the pain will jolt him out of any alluring visions of grandeur.
Your thumb runs along the length of his collarbone as you take in the bleeding gash on his shoulder, muttering under your breath something along the lines of, “ not sure if it warrants stitches ,” before you grab a new cloth to start cleaning the area.
“This might burn,” you offer apologetically, a warning as you soak your rag in something other than water. Levi nods, wordlessly thanking you, and steels his body for the onslaught of pain that comes next. You expect him to grimace or let loose a groan of some sort, but he merely stares at the wall while you scrub relentlessly at the wound with the antibacterial wash.
Once the wound is no longer crusted with blood and sweat, you reach for your suture kit and start preparing his skin for the stitching process. You pull a set of gloves over your fingers and catch his jaw in your grasp, “This needs stitches, but only a few. Do you want a numbing shot?”
You don’t have to tell him that it would cost extra, you’re sure that he knows. Numbing cream, let alone liquid numbing medication, is hard to come by, and expensive. Normally you wouldn’t offer it, but there is a gnawing in the back of your mind that peels your filter to the bare minimum when you’re face-to-face with the criminal in front of you.
“I’ll be fine,” his answer is clipped, emotionless irises flicking upward to meet your gaze. “Just do it, doc.”
A smile tugs on the corners of your lips, and you hold the needle in one hand, and use the other to steady yourself on his body. With the way he’s seated, you have to straddle his knee to get a good angle on his shoulder, and your thighs tense as you lean down to get a better view of the flayed skin.
“You can sit down,” Levi is still looking away from you, silver-blue eyes borderline annoyed to match his tone, “I don’t want you fucking up my stitches because you’re shy.”
“I’m not shy!” To prove your point, you plop down unceremoniously on his knee, and the force of it all rocks the chair he’s sat in. Levi’s hands immediately seek your hips to steady you, ensuring your body sits flush with his thigh instead of tumbling to the floor. He clicks his tongue against his teeth, fully intent to retort something bitter, but you beat him to it with a giggle and a grin, “See!”
Levi rolls his eyes, using the momentary distraction to keep his attention from drifting too obviously to your smile. He thinks he feels the room grow warmer when your hands settle again on his chest and shoulder, and he thanks the powers that be that he forgot to take off his shirt when he was preoccupied with Farlan on first entry to the hospital.
Your fingers dance over his skin, pushing what tattered remains of his shirt lay near the injured area. Levi’s lashes flutter before he decides to close his eyes altogether so he does not give away the thoughts searing in his mind. It does him no service when you whisper, “You can squeeze me, if it hurts too much,” against the shell of his ear with that soft voice of yours that sends a drip of liquid fire straight to his gut.
“I’ll keep that in mind,” he grimaces as you press the start of the first stitch into the corner of the split flesh. He feels a new trail of blood begin to drip down his shoulders, and it itches but he keeps his hands buried in the fabric of your dress.
Luckily, your clothes are tucked under your thighs, thanks to the way you shifted before you sat on his knee, and Levi does not have to be distracted by the warmth of another person so close and so desirable. He licks his lips and the fatigue winds him, beckoning his head to your shoulder. Still, he does not move, instead only inhaling when your needle pierces another spot along his injury.
“So,” you are incapable of quiet, despite the rest of the world being asleep, “why did you come here? I didn’t know your cronies bled into this territory.”
Levi inhales shortly and when he exhales, it sounds more of a chuff out of annoyance, but you pay him little mind, “Heard about you,” he admits, like he hates that he’s saying it but can’t stop the words from billowing forth, “ through the grapevine .”
You chuckle, a smirk overtaking your lips as you roll your eyes. Focusing on his wound is easy — it’s a large gash, one that doesn’t require much effort to see. The stitches slide easily through his skin, thanks to the ointment you used prior to the procedure.
“Wasn’t aware my reputation precedes me,” you admit, pride swelling in your chest like a flower in bloom, “good to know.”
It only takes a few minutes for you to seal his skin from the outside world and it’s threats, but those moments span what feels like an eternity that Levi was not prepared to endure when he stepped over the threshold this morning.
“There,” you lean back to admire your work, and your hips swivel over the chord of his thigh, and Levi is unable to stop the instinctual way his palms accommodate your movements. Another smile works its way onto your lips, the small indention of dimples carving into your cheeks the higher it goes, and you pat his healthy shoulder, “You’ll be back to normal in no time.”
When you turn to look him in the eyes, your line of sight catches a wound that has long since stopped pouring blood, but still remains crusted and unfortunate nonetheless. It is tucked into the top of his hairline, the edge of it just behind the natural swoop of his currently unruly locks. Your fingers are drawn to it immediately, like Icarus to the sun, and you push back the strands of hair that are in the way in favor of viewing the wound in its entirety.
“Do you mind?” your heart bruises your ribs with how intensely it is beating, your eyes barely able to lock onto his gaze. You chastise yourself internally for allowing him to affect you in such a way in so little time. Usually, you would bark and snarl at anyone under your knife, but this boy masquerading as a man has you mesmerized with minimum effort.
“It’s your job, isn’t it? Or am I paying you just to stare?”
A huff parts your mouth and you roll your eyes, “Are you always this rude, or am I just special?”
“I think the blood loss has made me slightly more irritable,” and you’re not sure if it’s an admission or an apology, but you take it all in stride, “but I don’t think I’m well-known for my kindness.”
You chuff, “Bold of you to assume you’re well-known.”
There is a sound that grates against his throat, and you think it’s something that could be considered laughter, but Levi composes himself quickly, sitting up straighter and digging his fingers into your hips until your dress bunches up underneath his hold. You resist the desire to rock your hips against the top of his knee, busying yourself with the cleaning of the wound in his hair.
It only requires a butterfly stitch, but the attention to his face can no longer be ignored. The true medic in you seeks out every scrape and bruise that litters his cheeks and brow and forehead just alike, sparing him of no offense. Your thumbs drag along the curve of his jaw, settling near his chin as you use the leverage of your knuckle to bring his attention back to you.
You’re not sure what possesses you when you murmur, “Can I touch your face?”
To any other, it may seem an odd request. And, as Levi stated mere moments ago, it’s your job to heal injuries. Your touching of his face, where wounds are present, would be nothing short of your job . However, now this feels more intimate than any other patient you’ve ever had on your table, and there’s an intrusion of you into him with the way you’re seated and how hot your hands are against his skin.
Oh and to Levi, it should be such a simple question that requires a swift reply. He could snark something at you about do you always as permission in your line of work or he could roll his eyes and threaten to leave a skinny tip. But he feels the fragility of the moment, perhaps louder than he should, reality of how sweaty his hands are and how heavy his tongue feels making his usual retorts rather scarce. And now, it does not feel like a doctor asking a patient, but something more asking something less.
In a heartbeat, he’d be able to tell any other scoundrel no, because he hasn’t allowed anyone else to clean such intimate wounds since he had enough agency to utter the words of denial. Filthy hands do not belong near his face, and grime and dirt are the last things he would ever want to have smeared against his skin.
And, if it were anybody else, he might dirty the hidden blade under his cloak with their blood.
You are lucky that there is something comforting about you, and so he finds himself muttering a soft, “I guess so.”
The way your face contorts reminds him of someone desperately trying to hide their enthusiasm, and the action alone makes him bare a mirthful smirk. You feel your chest swell with pride, but you do not let it affect the meticulous nature of your fingers.
You wrap the rag around your fingers so you can individually tend to each patch of skin. You start near his hairline and work down, shifting the rag around to cleaner spots as it starts to accumulate crimson splotches. It is mostly dried blood at this point, but you still want to scrub his skin until only the base of the wound is showing.
Levi’s eyelids shutter closed after a few minutes, after he learns that he can trust you with himself. He evens out his breathing and begs his lungs to stop burning. You note that he does not flinch at even the harshest of actions, and something new stirs within you at the knowledge. You have to hold yourself back from an involuntary sigh that begs to bleed from your tongue. Between the sweep of his thumbs on your hips and his breath puffing out over your exposed collarbones, you’re surprised you haven’t gone mad in a matter of minutes.
There is a butterfly bandage in the thatch of his undercut just behind his ear, along with two small bandages of cloth on his cheek and his jaw. Your thumb brushes against the rip of skin in his brow and you wince at the contact of your smooth fingerprint along the jagged edges.
“Shit,” Levi’s knee bounces, and you with it.
You giggle out of impulse, your eyes squinting shut as you attempt to keep yourself balanced on his leg, your free hand clutching his uninjured shoulder as an anchor. Levi seethes through his teeth, glaring up at you through slit lids, “Something funny, brat?”
“No,” you breathe, your thumb finding his cheek now, “I just find you refreshing.”
Levi offhandedly thinks that it’s an odd choice of words, but he does not dwell on it. Especially not when you’re starting another round of sutures in his eyebrow. Your fingertips are hot against his cheeks, conscientiously avoiding the smattering of bruises along the skin of his face and neck. You murmur apologies as you shift yourself around on his thigh, your muscles tightening to help brace yourself on the chord of muscle beneath your hips.
You bite at the inner corner of your mouth until it is raw, the flayed skin burning when you lap your tongue against it afterward. A slow inhale expands your lungs and your chest is so close to his when you breathe that you can feel the excess heat radiating from his skin. One of your palms spans the thick of his neck to angle his head the best way for your suturing, and you notice that your thumb is dangerously close to his lower lip.
Once you’ve gotten him to look towards the window, watching the smog that stains the air that you breathe, you’re able to flit your hand back to his temple, digging your fingertips in just enough to hold him in place while your opposite hand works at finalizing the sutures. Your breathing is slow and steady now, eyes narrowed to shade the majority of your irses from his skewed line of sight.
“There,” you breathe against his cheek, and he’s thankful you can’t see the pin-pricking gooseflesh that scours his neck and shoulders at the closeness of your frame. You pat his cheek and lean back as if to admire your handiwork, “The way I did those should leave minimal scarring, and the stitches will fall out in a couple of days once the skin has healed.”
Levi has to force himself to release you as you turn to stand back to your full height, your hands preoccupied with Farlan’s check up process to notice his reluctance. He pushes his sleeves back down to his wrists and runs his thumb over the stitching of his shoulder and the bandage in his hair. Rolling his neck, he stretches the muscles there and prays you don’t notice how he falters.
“Levi?! Levi !”
The brunette’s head turns and he seeks out the voice of a well-known friend. You are skeptical, giving the girl who ambushes the front door a pointed look before returning to re-dress Farlan’s bloody bandages.
“Lower your voice,” Levi barks, glowering across the space that separates the two of them. The girl hardly cowers at his glare, and you think that she might not be so bad after all, even if she is quite boisterous. He takes a breath, testing the strength of his lungs, and sighs, “We’re alright, ‘bel. A little beat up, but we’ll be okay. Did you get the bastard?”
The blood on her blade that she swings in front of his nose tells the story well enough.
“Good job,” he praises plainly, his sullen tone not matching the phrase. Another inhale, another exhale, “Did you bring a horse?”
“And a cart,” she adds, stepping towards the opposite side of the table from you, her hands hovering over Farlan’s uninjured side. She looks to you, and you wonder what she is to Levi, although you chastise yourself for it soon after. A gulp rakes against the front of her throat, and her voice seems much smaller than her soul when she asks, “Is he gonna make it?”
You nod quickly, quashing any of her fears, “Levi is a universal donor, which can be hard to come by in the Underground. We did a transfusion to cover the internal injuries, but his external cuts and bruises should heal within a month’s time.”
She passes you a smile, and then her hand for a brisk shake, “I’m Isabel. Levi and Farlan took me in not too long ago. I owe them my life.”
“And they owe me theirs,” you laugh, “small world.”
Isabel shoots Levi a look as if to confirm your words, and the nod that he sends her way does enough to satiate her questionable nature for now. She exhales slowly, gripping Farlan’s hand in her own, and smiles at you, like she were a sunbeam incarnate, “Thank you, for saving their lives. I’m not sure what I’d do without them.”
It looks like Levi wants to come back with something snarky, but Farlan smacks his lips as he gets his bearings, peeling open his one good eye to take in his surroundings. You reach forward and press your fingers to his neck to test his pulse, and speak slowly so he can absorb all of your words, “Farlan, take a breath. You’re in the hospital, Levi and Isabel are here. How are you feeling?”
“Like I got stabbed,” his voice is rough from disuse, “and run over.”
“Pretty sure both of those are true,” Levi pipes up, kicking up one leg to rest over the other. He knocks his boot against Farlan’s that is stretched out over the edge of the table thanks to his height, “But at least you’re not dead.”
“Thanks to you.” Farlan blinks twice more before his pupils dilate to a point that he can make out your frame. He squeezes Isabel’s hand and turns his head so he can focus on your face, “I owe you my life.”
You shrug, echoing Levi’s words from earlier, “S’my job. No thanks necessary.”
Forcing Farlan to endure another round of check ups and diagnostics takes about an hour. You monitor his blood pressure and heart rate, and you sneak him some of the bread from beneath your table just as you had done for Levi. You volley stories with Isabel, and throughout your entire exchange, you cut your eyes to the brunette seated quietly in the chair at the end of the table.
Your thighs burn at the memory of being seated on his lap, nonchalant eyes tracking your movements as you repair him from the inside out. Your hands ache to feel his smooth skin again, sin coursing through your veins and seeping deep into your belly until lust herself whispers in your ear.
If you were any other woman, you’d beg him to bed.
But you are a healer, and Levi is the furthest thing from a baby bird in need of saving. His feathers stretch too wide for you to follow. So, you keep quiet, keep your desires to yourself. You have to remind yourself that you have only spent the latter half of a day with this man, and yet you are willing to risk your body and mind for his affections.
You scold yourself for such thoughts, and pray that he does not notice the change in your behavior. Your words are more clipped when you speak to him while Farlan downs another glass of water, and Isabel holds his hand and describes in detail how she slashed the man who put him on this table. Levi still marks your every move, and his overall demeanor reminds you of a fox, agile and aware.
“If you ever need anything,” you pat Farlan’s chest, smiling at him like the sun, “please don’t hesitate to stop by. I know how rough it can be around here.”
Levi thinks your words to be ironic, considering that he runs one of the most successful thug rings that could rival even Lobov himself. He does not speak his mind, though, rather smirking to hide the words that sit like honey on his tongue.
Farlan perks up when Levi does not, squeezing your arm in thanks, “That means a lot, doc. Thank you. I won’t forget this.”
“Not sure how you could,” a laugh bubbles up in your throat and all three of them find themselves distracted by it, “considering you’ll have scars to remind you.”
Isabel helps Farlan to the horse, and Levi stands to his feet, still slightly wobbly thanks to the leftover fatigue from the blood transfusion. You steady him with your right hand against his oblique, the other on his bruised cheek. Your thumb brushes along the swell near the apple, watching as the bruised skin enflames before your eyes, “Careful now,” and your eyes flash from his stitched shoulder to the steel blue gaze that is fixated on you, “don’t want to bust a stitch.”
He rights himself, a deep inhale helping him to steel his spine. His molars grind against one another and you laugh at his expense, although he knows it’s all with good intent, “Or else you’ll be right back here. Wouldn’t want that, would we?”
Levi leaves your question rhetorical for the time being, allowing you to help him to the horse where Isabel has lumped Farlan into the small cart that rides behind the hooves. He pushes himself over the wooden side and then holds onto your hand for one moment longer than necessary, eyes in an unyielding lock with your own as Isabel readies the horse. There is a sly smile that is just shy of a genuine grin that tugs on the corners of his lips, giving away his intentions when he finally gives you an answer.
“You assume too much, doc,” and then the cart has started wheeling him away, your hand desperately latching onto his fingertips as your feet carry you with him just long enough for you to hear:
“Maybe I would.”