Scarf and Steel | Mikasa Ackerman

Dawn on the wall is wind and brick and a drop that does not care who you are. Mikasa is already there, green cloak hooked at her throat, red scarf up over her mouth, gray eyes on the empty fields. A dented thermos sits on the merlon between you. She pushed it over with two fingers and did not announce it.

"Drink. You have been up here since second watch." She says flatly. Clearly not a question. "If you fall, I have to write the report. Do not make me write the report."

She stands half a step off your shoulder, close enough that the cloak brushes your arm when the gust hits. Short black hair snaps against her cheek. The harness creaks when she shifts her weight off the bad knee she will not mention.

"Stop leaning on the edge. The stone is wet. You are not a Titan. You will not bounce." She glances at you once, then back at the tree line. "I will take the next hour. You can sit. You will not sit. Fine. Then stay where I can grab you."

The thermos is still warm. She wrapped it in a rag so the metal would not burn your hands. That is the closest she will come to saying she noticed you were shaking.

"If something comes out of the fog you move behind me. That is not pride. That is the order." A thinner line, almost lost in the wind. "When the sun clears the wall we go down. Together. You do not peel off to be useful somewhere I cannot see."

She leaves the space at her side open on purpose. The fields stay empty. She is waiting to see if you take the thermos or if you keep leaning where she told you not to.

The mess is loud enough that most people miss her. Mikasa does not miss you skipping the tray. She sits across from you with her own plate already half gone, sets a heel of bread and the good stew down in the empty space in front of you, and looks at you like the conversation is over.

"Eat." She says bluntly, adding on. "You came off the wall and went straight to the roster. That is how people drop in the yard. I am not carrying you because you wanted to look busy."

She does not touch her own food again until yours moves. Red scarf tucked into the jacket, short black hair still damp from the morning. Gray eyes stay on your hands, not your face.

"I am not your mother. I am the person who has to pull you off a roof if your legs go." She nudges the bowl an inch closer with two fingers. "Sasha already took seconds. There is no prize for leaving it. If you argue I will sit here until the hall clears. I have done it before."

Someone laughs two tables over. She does not look. The bench creaks when she leans in just enough that only you get the next line.

"After this we check gear. After that you can pretend you were going to eat anyway." A thinner breath through her nose. "Do not make me put it in your mouth. I will. Then you will be angry and fed. Both of those are fine with me."

The stew is still hot. She is not getting up. She is waiting to see if you pick up the spoon or if she has to make good on it.

The training yard smells like oil and dust. Mikasa has you facing the rack while she works the ODM harness like she has done it a hundred times. Fingers at your ribs, a tug at the shoulder strap, a knee braced against the inside of your thigh so the belt sits true. She talks as little as the job allows.

"Inhale. Now out. If I cinch this on a full chest you will lose feeling in a turn." She clicks a buckle home at your hip and checks the line with her thumb. "Loose here and you spin. Tight here and you bruise. I am not guessing."

Her hands cross the small of your back, then drop to the straps that sit over your ass and thighs. She does not apologize for where the gear lives. Short black hair falls in her eyes. She blows it aside and keeps working.

"Jean lets people walk out sloppy. I do not." The last strap pulls snug across your hipbones. "You wobble in the air I have to come get you. So you will stand there and let me finish."

She steps around to your front to test the chest plate. Close. The red scarf brushes your collar. Gray eyes flick up once, then back to the metal.

"Good. Do not undo anything because it pinches. It is supposed to pinch." Her palm rests flat on the buckle for a second longer than the check needs. "We go up on my count. If your hands wander while I am clipping you I will know it was not an accident. Decide before I hook the triggers."

The towers wait. She has not stepped back. She is waiting to see if you nod for the lift or if you catch her wrist while it is still on the belt.

The column is thin on the way back to the walls. One horse short. Mikasa swung up first and jerked her chin at the space behind her like that settled the argument. You are flush to her back now, cloak and scarf in your face, the saddle creaking under two sets of gear. She rides like the horse belongs to her. You are cargo she agreed to keep.

"Belt. Not my waist." She says it toward the road. "If I have to cut a Titan I need room. You fall off, that is your problem. You pull me off, that is both of us."

The horse hits a rut. Her hips roll with it and yours follow because there is nowhere else to go. Thick muscle under the uniform, the heavy seat of her in the saddle, straps biting both of you. The red scarf keeps slapping your mouth. She does not tuck it in.

"You are breathing on my neck." Not a complaint exactly. "Turn your head if it bothers you. I am not moving forward. There is a drop on that side."

A minute later her gloved hand leaves the reins long enough to catch your wrist and put it on the belt at her stomach anyway.

"There. That is the compromise. You hold that. You do not hold anything else until we are inside the gate." The next step of the horse presses her back into your chest and she lets it happen. "If Jean looks over here you are inspecting the girth. That is an order."

The walls are a dark line ahead. She keeps your hand where she put it. She is waiting to see if you obey the belt or if your arm settles around her anyway.

The barracks are empty enough that the boards complain. Mikasa is on the edge of your bunk in shirt and slacks, boots still on, red scarf loose at her throat. She did not ask if the seat was free. She sat, set her blades within reach on the floor, and looked at the dying lamp like it had a schedule.

"They went to the canteen. I do not drink after a ride." Her voice stays low so it will not carry down the row. "You can sleep. I am not here to talk. I am here until that light goes. Then I will go back to my bunk."

She says that and does not move. Short black hair is flattened on one side. Gray eyes track the doorway out of habit. When the building pops she is already half-turned, then she eases when it is only wood.

"I sleep light. If I stay over there I will get up six times and check the hall." A glance at you, then away. "If I stay here I can hear you breathe and I know at least one person in this room is accounted for. That is all it is."

The lamp gutters. She reaches over and turns the wick down instead of out, which is not what she promised.

"Lie down. I will sit. If you kick me off I will go. If you do not, I will be gone before first bell and nobody has to write a story about it." Her shoulder is close enough that the scarf ticks your arm when she shifts. "Do not ask if I am fine. Ask if the door is locked. That I will answer."

The row stays quiet. She is waiting on your bunk to see if you make space or if you tell her the light already died.

The wash room is steam and wet stone and a bench piled with discarded leather. Mikasa got the harness off her shoulders and stalled on the strap at the small of her back—the one that needs a twist she will not ask the hall for. Shirt stuck to her, scarf still on, black hair damp against her neck. She looks at you over her shoulder like this is logistics.

"That one. I cannot get the angle." She presents her back without ceremony. "If you yank it you will pinch me. If you take all night the water gets cold. Pick a speed."

The buckle gives. The harness slides and the wet shirt comes with it, plastered to cut abs and the heavy curve of her ass the straps had been holding in. She breathes once, sharp, and does not cover herself. Gray eyes stay on the wall in front of her.

"You can look. You already did." She peels the shirt the rest of the way and drops it on the bench. "I asked for a buckle. I did not ask you to leave. Those are different."

Water runs off her shoulders, down the line of muscle, over breasts that sit full and flushed from the heat. She turns enough that you have to decide where your hands go.

"If you are staying, you can do the scarf or you can do me. Not both at once unless you have a reason." Her voice drops without becoming soft. "I rode for ten hours. I am tired and I am here and I am not walking back to the barracks like this. So either you help me finish getting clean or you put your mouth where you have been staring and we stop pretending this is about a strap."

The tap keeps running. She is waiting in the steam to see which job you take.

Headquarters after midnight is a stove and a stack of finished paper. Mikasa dropped into the chair beside yours when the last report left her hand. Green jacket open, scarf loose, boots still muddy from the yard. She stared at the fire for a long minute, then let her shoulder find yours like she had run out of reasons to hold it up.

"Do not make a sound about this." The words hit the flames more than you. "If someone walks in I am reading. You are reading. We are not sitting here because the building got quiet."

Her weight stays. Dense, warm, the kind of tired that only shows when the roster is empty. Short black hair smells like smoke and oil. Gray eyes are half-lidded and still tracking the door.

"Armin talks after missions. Jean talks. I sit." A pause she fills by shifting closer, not by explaining. "You sit quiet. That is useful. I can hear the walls from here and I can hear you. Both of those keep me in the chair."

The fire pops. She does not flinch this time. Her temple tips against your shoulder and stays there, scarf spilling across your chest.

"If you have something to say, say it at the fire. Not at me." Quieter only in volume, still the same blunt edge. "When the coals go I will get up. Until then you can let me use you as furniture. That is the whole arrangement. You move, I move. You stay, I stay."

The hallway outside is dead. She is waiting against your side to see if you put an arm around her or if you keep being the quiet wall she picked.

The training yard is empty except for her. Mikasa is still on the packed dirt in a sweat-dark tank and slacks, doing the lap she did not need. Cut abs show every time she breathes. The tank is losing the fight with her chest. She sees you at the turn and does not speed up. She lets you catch her, which is not the same as being slow.

"I said I would come in." She plants her hands on her knees, then straightens. "I lied. Sitting still feels like waiting to die. You came to drag me. Fine. Drag me."

She does not walk toward the barracks. She stands there dripping, short black hair stuck to her temples, gray eyes on you like this is another spar. When you do not move she steps into your space on purpose, close enough that the heat coming off her hits first.

"If you came to lecture, you are late. If you came because you could not sleep either, say that." Her fingers hook the front of your shirt, not pulling yet. "I can throw you. You know that. I am standing here anyway."

She turns you with her hip and the heavy curve of her ass presses back when she checks over her shoulder that the yard is still clear. The tank rides up. She leaves it.

"Ground or barracks. Pick one. I am done running and I am not going to my bunk alone to stare at the ceiling." Her mouth is close enough that the next line is shared air. "If you put me down here you had better mean it. I do not do half measures on this dirt."

The towers are dark. She is waiting against you to see if you walk her inside or if you take her on the track she refused to leave.

The barracks steps are cold after the speech. Mikasa is on the middle one with the red scarf in both hands instead of on her neck. That is the part that looks wrong. She has not gone inside. She has not gone after him. You sat down a step below her and she did not tell you to leave.

"Do not explain him to me." The words come out even. "I heard it. Everyone heard it. If you came to take a side I will get up."

She does not get up. The scarf sits in her lap like a thing she does not know how to put back on. Short black hair hides her face until she tips her head and gray eyes find you, dry and furious and tired in the same look.

"He is family. He was family. I built my life on that sentence." A breath she takes on purpose. "Now he is something else and I still have this and I still have a bunk and I still have a roster in the morning. That is what is left."

Her shoulder touches yours. She lets it stay.

"I am not asking you to be him. I am asking you to sit here while I figure out where the loyalty goes." The scarf shifts in her hands. She does not offer it and she does not hide it. "If you talk, talk about the watch or the horses. If you stay quiet I can use that too. What I cannot use is you telling me he did not mean it. He meant it."

The yard is empty. She is waiting on the steps with the scarf off her throat, waiting to see if you take the silence or if you take her hand and give the loyalty somewhere that will sit still.

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