Chapter Text
It's 8AM. Levi Ackerman marches into the office, shuts the door behind him with more force than absolutely necessary, and glowers at the man lounging serenely in the overly opulent (at least by the university's standards) chair.
The man in question is the crown jewel of Sina University's psychology faculty. At the shockingly tender age of thirty-eight, Prof. Erwin Smith has somehow, through a potent combination of intellect, determination, and an almost unreasonable amount of charisma, ascended to the position of Academic Dean, Graduate Affairs.
Inconveniently, that lands him right in the middle of Levi's previously-untroubled graduate school life.
"Erwin," he hisses. The professor raises an eyebrow, looking quite as charmed as if the other man had arrived with a smile and a bottle of cabernet sauvignon. It's enough to make Levi feel an urge to choke the composure off his perfectly-proportioned face.
"Levi. To what do I owe this pleasure?" he says, spreading his arms wide, as though requesting a hug.
Levi does not oblige.
"Don't even bother. I received my transcript with your advisory note." His lip curls at the word, like it's poisonous. "Erwin. What the fuck?"
"In case you haven't noticed," he says dryly, "I'm your faculty advisor. I give you advice. It's my job, and it has been for your last two years of graduate school." Erwin gestures towards the chair. "Won't you have a seat?"
"I'd rather stand, thanks."
"Suit yourself." Slowly, deliberately, he pours himself a cup of tea. Earl grey. Steaming-hot.
He's out to get him, he really is.
"Give me that." Levi pulls up the chair and grabs the proffered teacup. The faint citrusy notes of the earl grey manage to calm him, if only marginally.
Erwin smiles at him from across the desk. Bastard, this was exactly what he'd planned.
"Now that we're being civilised," he goes, "about your transcript. I presume you're referring to my recommendation that you conduct some fieldwork?"
"Accompanied by your comments that I don't have any practical skills, have never proven myself in the field, and would essentially be deadweight to any business organisation!" He's gripping the rim of the teacup far too tightly, he realises, and forces himself to relax.
Erwin frowns. "I'm sure that's not what I wrote."
"That's what you meant, do you think I'm a fucking idiot?" Levi resists the urge to throw the teacup at the professor's unlined forehead.
"Fair enough," he concedes. "But it is true. I don't know how you managed to get through undergrad without a single work attachment – unrelated to research," he amends, when Levi opens his mouth to protest. "But you have no demonstrable skills in psych, and you know it."
"That's bullshit."
"No, it's not." Erwin flicks through his transcript. "I've never seen a setup like this, not even on the academic track. Perfect grades in every theory module. Perfect reference from a research attachment. And don't think I didn't notice that you marked your Intro to Psych class – the one and only in your four years of undergrad with any practical component at all – as pass/fail."
Levi scowls. "Plenty of people do that. It's a tough fucking class, and it throws you into the deep end without warning."
"Please, Levi. Don't insult me." Erwin sighs. "Besides, it doesn't really matter now, does it? Weren't you planning to go into an research position, anyway? You still have a perfect transcript, you could enter any academic field you want. You could probably oust me in a couple of years, if you put your mind to it. Although I will miss this office."
He gazes wistfully around the lavishly decorated office. Feeling his blood pressure rise, Levi forces himself to breathe and take another sip of the (gratifyingly, excellent) tea before replying. "That's not the point. Thanks to your shitty comment, I couldn't get into a practical position now even if I wanted to."
A shrug. "That wasn't an accident. Like I said, you don't have any demonstrable skills. I can't have you going into a practical position, performing poorly, and inadvertently sullying the name of my faculty. This is a very good school, after all."
Breathe, Ackerman. "Fine," Levi grits out. "You want proof? I'll get you proof." He stands up abruptly, draining the last dregs of tea before setting it carefully on the desk (he's an asshole, not a monster). "I want next semester set aside for a fieldwork assignment. And if I get a good reference, I want you –" he jabs an accusing finger at the professor, "– to write me a recommendation. Personally, not that shit where I do the writing and you just sign off at the end."
Erwin smiles serenely. Getting up, he holds his hand out. "I do believe we have a deal." They shake, and the professor promptly offers him a bottle of hand sanitiser.
Fuck, the bastard really does know me.
Just to set the record straight: for the most part, Levi doesn't like kids. The fact that an eight-year-old girl is his most frequent houseguest is completely irrelevant to that equation.
He flips another pancake and suppresses a sigh.
"Mikasa," he calls, "get your ass here, you little brat. Pancakes are done." Perking up at the mention of breakfast, the girl pads over and climbs obediently into the chair, with only the smallest amount of struggle. Brat's gotten taller, Levi notes with a mix of pride and wistfulness.
He piles her plate high with the pancakes, and she digs into them with a predator's practiced efficiency, and only slightly less ferocity. Her long, dark hair flops over her eyes.
"Oi, your hair's going to get to get into your food." Walking over, he produces a hair tie from his pocket – he's learnt to keep a constant supply of them, since the girl refuses to get a haircut – and begins to braid it.
Her hair is softer than he remembers, he notes with approval. She must've started using the conditioner he bought for her. Or at least, Carla must've forced her into it.
"How was your week?" he asks absently, still focused on the braiding process – he's gotten a hell lot better at it, but the kid just has a lot of hair – when she finally stops to take a breath. Mikasa glances at him.
"It was okay." She pauses. "Eren made Ms. Ral yell at him, though. And then he cried."
Levi snorts at the mention of her foster brother. Eren is the Jaegers' only son, and despite looking positively angelic – all wide green eyes and gap-toothed smiles – he's the most intensely hyperactive eight-year-old he's ever had the misfortune of interacting with. The memory of the one time he'd allowed Eren over at his apartment for a playdate is still fresh in his mind; the carpet, despite his best efforts, has never been the same.
Still, Levi knows better than to say anything negative about the boy. The Jaegers had taken her in after the accident two years ago, and she'd immediately latched on to Eren, becoming fiercely protective over him and following him around like a lost puppy. And he's grateful, he is – he'd been fresh out of undergrad at the time, and far too young and broke to raise her himself, despite being her only living relative. He hadn't even known he had a cousin before he received the call from the hospital.
"Who's Ms. Ral?" he asks instead. Mikasa answers between bites of pancake, and Levi resists the urge to admonish her for talking with her mouth full.
"Our new –" chew, swallow, "– teacher. She's really nice, but Jean dared Eren to eat a stick of glue, and Eren tried but almost puked, and then Ms. Ral yelled so much that he started to cry. She's actually pretty scary," she adds as an afterthought, looking pensive.
He shakes his head. "Good thing she's not a pushover. Your daycare is full of real weird kids." Mikasa just shrugs, looks sadly at her rapidly dwindling stack of pancakes, and then back at the pan. Rolling his eyes, he scoops a few more onto her plate, making her light up.
Seriously weird kids. Of course, it's not unexpected – he knows that her class in particular is a bit of an experiment by the daycare. The centre itself is pretty high-end and fancy, but sometime last year, it'd launched a trial class catering to kids from special backgrounds: including foster kids, like Mikasa, and kids with ADHD, like Eren.
It'd actually be pretty interesting to observe, he thinks absently to himself as he finishes up the braid. And then it hits him.
Or, maybe, to get some fieldwork done.
"Hey, kid," he says. Mikasa looks up warily, maple syrup dripping from her chin. He grabs a napkin, and asks, as casually as he can:
"What's the name of that daycare you attend again?"