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Spilt Milk [Levi | Hitman! Reader | Modern AU!]

Sins couldn't be washed away - they weren't just a red spot on a car window and even if they were your own would be too big to scrub off in a single lifetime. You couldn't be cleansed of your countless mistakes or allowed to turn back time to the first of numerous crucial moments when you'd decided to take a road that put you further down in God's eyes. You were a person who, though an atheist, believed once something was done there was no coming back.

What was it that put you in your 'no coming back from' position? It was yourself, of course. You were all alone and oh so weak and puny; and that kind of self-hatred was what prompted you to make the wrong choice every time a decision came knocking at your door. In your most vulnerable moments, you would sit alone in your bedroom with a steaming cup of tea on the nightstand and wish for a miracle that would wash away your sins. The strongest bleach in history that would erase it all and leave space for something new for you to build.

But that would never happen and you knew it so well it sometimes embarrassed you to wish otherwise. Because your crimes kept piling up and the little things you did no longer mattered. Forcing yourself to believe in God wouldn't make a difference. Helping an elder cross the street wouldn't make a difference. Making a kid beam at you after you've rescued its cat from a tree wouldn't make a difference. Giving a homeless person money wouldn't make a difference. Taking in a street cat wouldn't make a difference. Nothing you did would make a goddamn difference but you kept doing all kinds of things because---

Why, actually? Why did you help an elder cross the street this morning? Why did you give the only money left in your wallet to a homeless man? Why did you take that cat from its carton box last week? Why did you pray before going to sleep?

Such an abnormality in your line of work you were - an atheist forcing themselves to pray and believe in God. Murderers were rarely bound by such stupid make-believe rituals and you thought yourself no different because, whether you went to church weekly or not, you still slaughtered people with families just to get a thick wad of cash later. At the end of the day, guilty conscience or not, you never stopped working because sins couldn't be washed away and once your own life came to an end God's nonexistent eyes wouldn't distinguish one from one million.

Your line of work was a one-way street leading straight to what most believers called Purgatory. Would spilling your own blood, however, work as some sort of half-assed redemption? You would surely come to understand once you died, which had a chance of happening sooner than anticipated. You heard yourself chuckling hoarsely as the splash of the downpour made your hair stick to the sides of your face. You were taking deep breaths as your lungs wheezed painfully, about to start spurting smoke and rubble. The story of how that came to eventuate was quite marvellous.

Your morning started as per usual - a dry toast and a cup of black tea after a quick shower. You dressed and left for work, arriving at the planned rooftop less than an hour later with your target making its way out of the opposite building. A hindrance showed up when you'd least needed it - in the form of a baby in the woman's arms, and then another one - this time in the form of a rival colleague of yours atop a neighbouring rooftop. You had two personal rules: to never directly involve a family member in the target's disposal and to never let anybody get to the target before you.

The first thing you did was remove the bigger obstacle - so the clueless idiot on the neighbouring rooftop who dared think of snatching the cash that belonged to you. It was quick but it wasn't soundless and, in the early hours of the morning in the middle of an empty parking lot, nobody could mistake it for a firecracker or a nearing thunderstorm. It was discernible and specific, and what was worse - it managed to alert your target. The mobster's wife's initial instinct, fortunately for you and unfortunately for her, was to protect her baby and that was exactly what she did by running to her car and hurriedly placing it in the backseat.

Her appointment for the meeting with her husband was scheduled for after half an hour so - you contemplated whilst reloading your rifle with a small huff - the baby would be found safe and sound when she didn't show up in time. You didn't wait for the woman to slam the backseat door shut, knowing the baby would suffocate if left inside the car and you didn't want to have to go down to the parking lot and leave evidence of your presence by opening it. So you fired your shot and it hit the target, as per usual. You let the woman's body bleed out on the asphalt as her baby's cries sounded in the empty parking lot, only to be greeted by a booming voice once having stepped onto the street.

A fucking witness had caught you sneaking out and, judging by the sound of his gun's safety clicking, he was probably a goddamn police detective of all things possible. Not having time to reload your rifle, you lifted your collar as high as possible and fled the scene but not before receiving an official introduction to his gun's quick operational system. The bullet flying out of the muzzle grazed your thigh and almost made you stumble but you didn't dare fall over because it would mean not only the end of your brilliant career but your life as well.

You ran hastily and made as many turns as possible though you doubted the man had started chasing after you. Turning into a relatively narrow alley and feeling your wounded leg finally give out, you found yourself clumsily stumbling through a random doorstep and falling face-first into the shiny floor. The only person in what had turned out to be a small shop started cursing at you in a deep voice but not before telling you to get up from his newly-cleaned floor. After figuring you were wounded, he helped you bandage yourself and told you he could call the police if you so wished, making alarms start blaring inside your mind at the suggestion, which you refused using the first story you could think of.

You thanked the shop owner twice while sipping from the tea he'd made for you and observing the glass door you'd fallen through for any suspicious movement. Not allowing yourself too long a stay out of fear you might endanger the shop owner's life and possessions, you watched him narrow his eyes at your limping form as it made excuses to leave earlier than necessary. On your way home you were thinking about whether to call your boss and tell him of the complications that had eventuated when a shrill scream attracted your attention elsewhere. Down the street, to the right, a small house was burning and its occupants had gathered outside, huddled together despite the heat and panicking.

When you approached them and asked if somebody was still inside the house, a woman almost choked on a sob whilst informing you her baby was still in its crib on the second floor. Fucking great that was - another baby. You told who you supposed was her husband to call the fire department immediately before sprinting inside the small building. Flames creeping over doors and steps flicked their nasty tongues at you but you reached the second floor just in time to hear a muffled cry from the left. Door ajar with smoke pouring in and out of it in waves, you coughed and pushed your way inside through some rubble that had fallen on the floor.

The burning carpet blocking your way was the first thing that got your attention before you pinpointed the crib in the corner of the room. Telling yourself you did more dangerous things for an everyday living, you wrapped yourself in your jacket and rolled over the floor before stripping yourself of it and tossing it on top of the carpet. The deafening sound of beams creaking and cracking filled your ears as you coughed again and took the crying baby from its crib. Squinting at the doorway, you ran over your favourite jacket - now burning with the intensity of a wildfire - and made your way down the hallway with limping steps and an excruciating kind of pain in your leg.

It almost gave out as you avoided a falling beam that was inches away from crushing you and the crying baby but you made it out of the door into the sunlight, safe and sound. The relieved mother rushed to grab her child from your hands as you coughed and blinked at the sun, eyes stinging from all the smoke that had been in contact with them. Weak and coughing still, you moved away from the scene before you could receive the gratitude you didn't deserve as the fire truck drove past you down the street less than a minute later.

After twenty minutes of walking, you felt a raindrop fall at the top of your head. You looked up with a relieved sigh as the rain calmed the burning of your skin. Your vision was blurry but you dismissed it as your eyes not having returned to normal just yet. You were walking times slower than usual and your leg felt like it had been amputated where the bullet had grazed it. The comparison was overdramatic but you didn't dare think of it otherwise. You made a short break to put a hand to your forehead. Maybe the painful throbbing in your temples was something you deserved, along with the burns adorning the length of your forearm, the miserable limping and the feeling of your lungs being full of melted charcoal.

Suddenly the empty street feet away from your apartment wasn't so empty anymore. A person was making his way toward you from round the corner, a bright red umbrella looming over his form. Your breaths were coming out ragged as you squinted at the blurry silhouette up front but you never saw his face. What you saw was your whole world fading to black as you lost consciousness and blinked away the confusing murk only to scrunch up your nose at the horizontally placed street. A raindrop hit the sclera of your eye, making you groan as a warm hand captured your wrist and tugged on it with urgency.

A muffled phrase you couldn't understand echoed in your pulsating head as you coughed and tried to stand up, prying the person's slender fingers from your wrist in the meantime. You were standing up, your lungs were on fire in the middle of a downpour and you stepped past the person without looking at his face. You noticed the bright red umbrella rolling in the mud a foot away from you when something in your ribcage clenched, refusing to function with an intensity you'd never felt before. You didn't have time to cough before your body hit the ground and you blacked out completely, no warm hands and no raindrops bothering you.

Sins couldn't be washed away. They tortured your guilty conscience until you became so fanatic it no longer looked sane. It was a normal occurrence for a murderer to dream of their first time, but not you - you'd dreamt of it only once and it hadn't left you as traumatised as you should've been. So dreaming of it now - dreaming of that dark alley and of your reckless eighteen-year-old self beating that drunkard to death with a metal pipe - it was strange.

You saw the little details like it had happened yesterday. The hazy glint in his hues as he approached you on your way home after a date gone bad and the sound of his husky voice as he promised you time and time again how good you'd feel with him; the stench of the garbage can that got pushed over as you tried to run away. The paralyzing fear in your system as you tried not to tremble and the cold soothing feeling of the metal in your clammy grasp; the sound of his skull cracking as the pipe hit it over and over again, until it wasn't cracking anymore - it was squelching; the disgusting smell of his blood at the tips of your fingers and the racing of your heartbeat as your whole body slumped against the fallen trash can.

You laughed hysterically and cried rivers until you were so numb your fingers weren't even twitching. Then you stood up and heard the clanging of the metal pipe as it finally left your grasp and hit the ground. And you ran. You ran until you could no longer breathe and your feet could no longer hold you. You ran until you stumbled and dirtied your palms with your own blood. You ran miles before you blacked out and woke up in a hospital - bathed, clothed and confused. A handsome face was there to greet you, eyes so blue and deep you were immediately smitten. Immediately and ever so hopelessly because, instead of becoming your lover, the handsome blond who saved you put himself in the role of your boss and guardian.

The current situation reminded you of that - the same white ceiling and smell of disinfectant, the same uncomfortable pillow and the same blinding sunlight. You closed your eyes and attempted to remember what had brought you under the care of the local hospital. The fire and all the coughing came to mind, alongside the obvious blood loss the earlier wound had caused. Only if that dumb cop wannabe hadn't seen you.

You doubted you'd been out for more than a day since the forecast predicted a sunny rest of the week and you also doubted you'd be let out soon. There would be questioning and you'd have to annoy Erwin again when he had enough to deal with. Your eyelids fluttered open and you sat up after removing the oxygen mask from your face only so your lips could let out a raspy hiss. Hurried footsteps approached your hospital bed and you prepared yourself for the arrival of a nurse only to blink in bewilderment at the familiar figure at your bedside.

"Don't move and drink up. No talking before you've finished the glass." You tried to vocally refuse the glass of water he was handing you but the unfamiliar kind of miserable scraping noise that exited your dry throat instead scared you to a point it made your twitchy fingers accept the drink. You drowned the glass and he took it from your hand with a claw-like grip before taking a seat by your bed. "Do you remember what happened?"

"You got me here after I fainted. Your umbrella..." The insignificant detail bothered you more than your current condition, like a child worrying over spilt milk instead of the fact it'd pricked its finger on the glass shards whilst collecting them. The male, though mildly surprised you'd decided to address such a stupid thing, was obviously unaffected by the act's childishness.

"Is muddy as fuck and the least of my problems." He finished for you, graphite orbs shadowed by a pair of knitted eyebrows. "I'm not going to be the one interrogating you, but if you tell me the whole story maybe I can change some details in your favour." His face was frowning and ever so impassive but the austere glint in his hues told you he was being serious. You pondered the risk of trusting a complete stranger with your life and career, and the inward conclusion you drew, in the end, was obvious.

"There is no story. It was an accident." Your painfully thin voice said otherwise but you believed the guy would give up on trying to understand what had happened and resume doing whatever he'd been doing until now - being handsome and uninvolved with you and what you did for a living, selling his tea and mopping the floor of his shop. To the curt denial on your side, the male's frown hardened and he looked at you like you were a complete retard. His glare made it seem as if he was more likely to kill you one day instead of the other way around.

"I don't think I give off the vibe of a fucking vegetable, so start cooperating and stop bullshitting me or I might consider giving the doctors your purse after twenty-four hours of persistent refusal." He spat ever so condescendingly, like the mere act of you breathing had underestimated his intelligence. Maybe you had, only a bit. He was a normal citizen after all, it went without saying you didn't think he would: first - refuse to give in your purse, second - threaten you after having found the gun inside, third - insist on knowing what had happened so he could protect you. It was strange, this uncanny kindness you'd encountered.

"It's complicated. Give me my phone. I need to make a call." You sighed before locking gazes with him pleadingly. His eyes narrowed at you in mild annoyance but he gave up, knowing he couldn't refuse something as simple as giving you your own phone. You took hold of the device after he handed it to you and immediately dialled the first and only person you could think of. The only person you'd ever truly relied on. "Hey, boss." Erwin picked up after exactly five seconds so your hoarse voice could grace his eardrum.

"What is it this time, (Y/N)?" You could hear paper shuffling around and muffled voices in the background, so you knew he was busy yet he'd picked up. As per usual, Erwin was living his businessman life with you as the all-time favourite idiot he had to take care of.

"You have to get me out of the hospital." You stated dryly, knowing he wouldn't take well to the news. This would be the third time for the month and the tenth for the year. The ebony-haired male next to your bed stood from his chair and grabbed the empty glass from the nightstand in that strange claw-like grip. You observed him move to the door and take his leave, letting you have your privacy during the phone call.

"Again?" The blond's eyebrows were furrowed, you were sure of that. His voice hinted at the mild disbelief he felt on the topic of your recklessness but the pinch of tiredness in his tone made you understand he'd known something like this might happen sooner or later.

"Yes. Please. I'll be in top condition in no time but there are a few complications you might want to hear about at a later date." You explained pleadingly, making your voice as soft and small as you could without having it sound like your throat was full of sand and thorns. The door of your hospital room opened and in walked the handsome shop owner with a glass of water in his hold. You watched his build as he closed the door behind himself, shoulders flexing and movements fluid and nimble.

"A witness or a fatal wound?" Erwin's brief inquiry made your eyes leave the ebony-haired male's broad shoulders only so you could then pinpoint the sudden decrease of muffled voices in the background. Great, the other superiors now knew you'd fucked up major time and they had to take care of it. Ten points to Erwin for being more of a father in this situation than he would ever know he'd been.

"A little bit of both." You squeaked out in uncertainty, sure he wouldn't really like the whole story. The ebony-haired male took his seat next to your bed and you briefly eyed his hand as it left the glass of water on top of the nightstand. You caught a glimpse of a scar starting at the back of his hand, going down the length of his wrist and disappearing under the fabric of his button-up's sleeve. That, added to the surprisingly soundless steps he had, made the gears in your mind start spinning.

"I'll make sure you're out in a day. Don't go dying on me the moment you're allowed to work again, though. I need more people like you." Erwin's deep voice was rarely more than one thing but now it managed to be gentle, warm and strict simultaneously. It made you chuckle dryly as you contemplated where you'd be now if it hadn't been for him. On the street dying maybe. Or six feet under. Plausible - that was what both options were.

"I know." The smug phrase would certainly not go unnoticed by your boss, as it didn't by the shop owner at the side of your hospital bed whose eyebrows twitched ever so lightly in confusion. You hung up right after, knowing Erwin had nothing else to inform you of and you had nothing else to share over the phone. You put the device next to the glass of water on the nightstand before locking gazes with the graphite hues of the man in the chair. "I'm thankful for everything you did for me but I don't need a babysitter and I have a cat to feed so I can't deal with the police right now." You explained with a sour expression, fearing a certain reaction of his.

"So it won't be a big deal if I give the doctors your gun?" He asked nonchalantly, almost boredly so, making your teeth grit spitefully at all the threatening he was performing. Had you less of your sanity you would've pinned him as a mafia boss on a vacation. Your eyes were glaring but he and the firmness of his visage wouldn't buckle a single millimetre, it was as if he'd been through way worse and you were just a stubborn child glaring over a stolen lollipop.

"I have a permit." You stated with as much composure as you could muster but the retort slipped past your pursed lips too quickly for it to be as calm as you tried to make it seem. The ebony-haired male recognised your words as a weak excuse but decided to humour them nonetheless, like he was just playing around to test how much you'd refuse prior to giving up officially. 'Officially' because somewhere deep inside your mind you already knew you'd lost this argument. He did, too. He was just waiting for you to admit it.

"For a gun, not to get shot by somebody else." The grey in his hues flickered under the sunlight, making it seem like they were two little flames laughing at you and your obstinacy. He crossed his arms, leading your gaze away from his face for a brief moment so it could trace the creasing of his shirt over his chest. "I'd appreciate an explanation." There was something naturally imperative about his voice - dark and demanding - that made your thoughts momentarily dart towards a memory you had of a colleague of yours interrogating a target. It was years ago and you'd almost forgotten the questions asked but you'd never forget the sound of the imperative, almost authoritative, tone he'd used.

"And I'd appreciate the reasoning behind your risky behaviour. You hide my gun even though you know perfectly well it might get you in trouble and you bandage my wound without once mentioning you were aware it was a from a bullet? You're not a vegetable, but you are just as suspicious as I am." Your attempt at rebuking his command wasn't entirely childish or undeserved. Nor was it nonsensical. None of those qualities, however, managed to stop the scornful snort he let out.

"Also less obvious, Miss Hitman." You blinked at the unexpected turn of events but didn't hasten to deny or confirm his words. He might've been bluffing. Or, judging by the way he reclined in his chair in the most relaxed way possible, he was aware of the truth his words held and the impact they would have on you. "I'm not sharing my story soon but I might as well hear yours now." The dismissive snort he let out prior to voicing his demand was borderline annoying for a person like you, who wasn't quite used to receiving such attitude from anybody who wasn't Erwin. Seeing as you had nothing else to say to defend yourself, a sigh of defeat slipped past your parted lips.

"A burning building and a job gone wrong. You can't let the cops in for questioning and I'm guessing you won't with that low moral level of yours, Mr Shop Owner." You underlined with a haughty huff, making one of the male's brows quirk in mocking doubt, like he knew something you didn't. You grabbed the glass of water he'd left on the nightstand and shot him a glare. "I'm in awe of your observational skills but you can piss off now, maybe go and hide at home so I don't shoot you." Playing his words off as a joke, you took a few sips from the water and left it back on the nightstand, only to realise he was making no movement to get up, much less leave the room.

"I'm not going anywhere because your stupid ass needs my testimony to stop the cops from barging in here. They've been going on about the double homicide on Edward Street for a whole day now and my presence is the only thing that has shooed them off so far." He reasoned calmly - albeit in a frustrated manner - and the sight of his austere countenance was truly something to behold. Under a whole set of different circumstances, you could imagine him fiercely commanding you to get your ass out of the hospital bed so you could go do your job, you could picture yourself admiring that austere countenance with awe-filled eyes and little imaginary hearts floating about above your head and you could almost see him as somebody in your line of work. That train of thoughts, of course, ran across the surface of your mind for the briefest of moments before you processed the information he'd given you.

"So that bastard was a cop." You snorted spitefully, pieces coming together as to why the police would want to question you. Their main objective would be to identify you as the woman the cop had seen exiting the building but they hadn't been able to do that without your documents, laying securely in your purse which the grumpy shop owner had refused to give in.

"I'm guessing you mean Detective Floch Foster. He's been a pain in my own ass for quite some years." The exasperated tone behind the nonchalant statement made you quirk a doubtful eyebrow in his direction. The reaction you got in return almost made you scoff at him. "Interrogations and the like on the topic of local homicides." It was a calm kind of sentence that sounded by no means suspicious. You didn't know what had prompted you to believe it was a lie right off the bat - maybe it was the glint in his graphite hues challengingly questioning your intelligence or maybe the concussion you might've gotten was just now starting to act up.

"I would've guessed a small shop like yours is too discreet for you to witness anything." You subtly called out his excuse's logic, slyly tossing the ball in his court and waiting for an appropriate reaction, which he stubbornly refused to offer. Instead, he decided to use your own bad luck against you as a way to officially put an end to your cheap mind games.

"Yet your dumb ass still stumbled inside with a bleeding-ass bullet wound." The click of his tongue, the twitch of his thin brow, the scrunch up of his nose - annoying little particles you found somewhat fascinating in the face of this new kind of attitude you were receiving. It was almost like a rule - how prior to knowing you were a hitman most people would regard you with obvious condenscension, which usually made a one-hundred-and-eighty-degree turn when the shocking knowledge was handed to them. This was a peculiar case where that universal rule didn't seem to apply.

"It's a wonder you even helped me when you're so sceptical about it." Your retort was childish and nowhere close to having been perfected beforehand in your mind, but your occasional spontaneous decisions were the only thing that had never changed since you took up the job of a hitman as a way to repay Erwin. They were something engraved in your DNA or at least it seemed like that was the case, since both you and your boss had tried to put them on a leash many times with no visible success.

"The only thing I'm sceptical about is the blood I had to clean off my floor. I believe in second chances and shit like that." He got a pale hand through his ebony locks, vouchsafing your orbs another glimpse of the scar on the back of his hand. You curiously eyed the impassive expression on his face that seemingly contradicted the sound of his voice prior to scrunching up your nose in offence.

"Second chance? I wasn't fucking dying." You spat with a glare, unable to hold your haughtiness back. You were a goddamn professional and you sure as hell wouldn't die from a dumb bullet wound - moreover when it was caused by an even dumber police detective. You wouldn't die a miserable death at the hands of the doughnut-eating institution on how to fuck everything up and never catch anybody and that was for sure. The next words out of the male's mouth, however, told you in their own way you'd hastened to jump to a conclusion on what this 'second chance' had meant, leaving you mildly embarrassed as a result.

"I meant a second chance to rethink what you're doing. You could stop. You could be better. Wash the shit you think you've done like I mopped the mud from my floor." He explained with a firm gaze and an unreadable kind of expression - simple handsome features hardened in a mask of stoicism you couldn't decipher. Strange how easy it would've been to read anybody but him in this kind of situation - even the all-time mysterious Erwin Smith. This supposedly ordinary shop owner spoke of things he shouldn't understand, in a voice a smidge too knowing.

"You make it sound easy." Your snort was a deliberate action to get you out of your thoughts and focus your mind elsewhere - preferably on the suspicious ally you'd allegedly found in the face of the ebony-haired male by your bedside. Shaking his head in mild frustration, the pale man held back a sigh as his sharp eyes intentionally avoided meeting yours for some unknown to you reason. You only knew it wasn't out of empathy or guilt. It was for his own sake - so as to not let you see something he was trying to hide.

"I know it's not." The statement was curt and no longer as calm as supposed to be. Realising the mistake he was making, the ebony-haired male rose from his chair with a last stern look thrown towards your helpless form. "I'm going to the shop to cover for your ass. I'll be back in an hour so try to sleep. If a nurse comes in while you're awake I'm your boyfriend. They wouldn't let me in unless I was a close friend or family." His hand was on the door handle by the time he'd finished talking and you were lying in the hospital bed, eyeing the oxygen mask with complete and utter disinterest in spite of the fact you'd long realised he was talking about your rifle - the murder weapon you'd come to drop on your way into his shop.

"Should've told them you were my cousin." You informed casually, not sparing his figure as much as a glance. You heard the soft thud of feet coming in contact with the floor and you knew he'd turned to face you. The inward urge to look at the scar on his hand was immense but you didn't do it - knowing you would get another chance very soon.

"I'm afraid our relationship based on the quality of our appearance wouldn't have been plausible enough. A hunk dating an idiot on the other hand passed with flying colours." The witty remark left you stupefied to the point you could only blink at the oxygen mask by your side and think of the indolent way in which he'd hidden zero of his emotions whilst saying those two sentences in a voice so smug yet bored. Amazing how the only time he'd let you detect an emotion of his besides annoyance his face had been out of sight and his eyes had been nowhere close to looking at you.

Voices were a strange thing. You could have the harshest countenance and the scariest glare but people would find you soft as a marshmallow as long as you talked in a soft soothing tone. Your voice was the first thing you'd been taught to manipulate during your brief hitman training and to say it wasn't your greatest weapon besides your favourite rifle and oh so dear gun wouldn't be a lie. Knowing that, you also acknowledged the male had purposefully let you hear the different tone of his voice as a way of convincing you it was there and he wasn't all stoicism and glares. Why he'd want to do that you didn't know but you would come to understand and you cared not whether it'd be the easy or the hard way.

Erwin had sent a messenger to bring you some clothes for when you got out of the hospital and once you were done getting dressed you prompted your fake boyfriend to make his entrance from outside the room where he'd been waiting, respecting your privacy despite the fact you'd told him a man seeing you half-naked was nowhere near as embarrassing nowadays as it would've been when you were still a stupid teenager. He'd come in, all frowns and glares, and his scarred hand had placed a cup of tea on the nightstand by the hospital bed which you took as an invitation not to hasten in your leave.

"Am I by any chance going to learn my boyfriend's name?" The curious question put an end to the seemingly peaceful silence filling the white room. The ebony-haired male's face looked like he hadn't heard the inquiry - his eyes didn't even move from the window at the sound of it, but you knew he was pondering the answer. Your nimble fingers wrapped around the cup he'd brought and lifted it to your lips with the elegance of English royalty as your fervent hues watched the expression on the male's visage with cold-blooded calculation.

"Levi." It left his lips calmly as you observed him stuff his hands in the pockets of his pants. He was wearing another button-up shirt today - this time in grey that closely matched his graphite hues - but its sleeves weren't even rolled up in spite of the stuffy air in the hospital room and the sunny weather outside. You pondered the two syllables forming his name with despondent interest. The restless night spent in thoughts of him and the suspicious aura he oozed might've been just your next giant spontaneous mistake, taking into account that the sound of his name was completely unfamiliar to your ears.

"Just Levi?" You asked after taking a sip from the tea and scrunching up your nose at its taste. He hadn't been the one to make it, that was for sure. Dismissing the horrible tea with a click of your tongue, you looked at Levi prior to noting the obvious pause between question and answer your oblivious curiosity had caused. Something wasn't right in the picture and you had to figure out what. His countenance had remained austere and his orbs were glued to the scenery on the other side of the window - the green trees swaying with the wind and the blinding sun on its way to hide behind a puffy white cloud, the skyscrapers in the background and the bright blue covering every inch of the sky until the eye got tired of looking for a missed spot. Then you noticed it - the clenched fists inside his pockets and the minimal tension along his jawline - and you knew this was going to be interesting.

"Ackerman." At the forced equanimity in his voice, your mind went back to a drawer in Erwin's office - full of case files that were, in turn, filled with the word Ackerman; it went back to muffled conversations during training and discussions overwhelmed by frustration round the big table in the meeting room - the name Ackerman bouncing back and forth from mouth to mouth like a ball nobody seemed able of handling properly; it went back to the praise Erwin had once given you in the company of your mentor at the time - and the surname slipped from his lips to the reserved compliment ("A good shot? She's almost as good as that Ackerman boy.") your boss had spoken. You'd let something slip onto your expression - you didn't know if it was surprise, shock or distaste - but he'd noticed it. "Is there a problem?" His cold voice was back to being nonchalant.

"No, just thinking about the tea you made for me. Kinda miss the quality already." Your eyes regretfully circled the cup you'd left on the nightstand as the half-lie was voiced, successfully deceiving the ebony-haired male. Hands still in his pockets, he turned to face you when you stood up and deftly pocketed your phone. You armed yourself with the purse Levi had been watching and locked gazes with his orbs before they briefly visited the door. Precaution was needed despite the fact he'd told you yesterday after returning that the cops were no longer circling the building. You concluded that had been Erwin's way of giving you a pat on the back for the good work.

"If you happen to visit the shop soon I might make another cup for you." Levi's graphite hues had their way of rooting your feet to the ground despite the fact you were used to far more intimidating gazes, far more murderous glares. That was the thing - you didn't feel intimidation or fear when he looked at you - it was something you were yet to identify. It was warm and cold and it made you feel strangely accepted when you should've been feeling like a complete stranger covered in blood. I've gotten my hands way dirtier than you can ever hope for yours to become, the grey spoke boredly, so you can stop worrying about it. There's little that can shake me.

"Great, then I'll be coming tomorrow to take my rifle." You piped with a confident smile - wide and cheery in spite of the leftover rubble smouldering in your lungs - but the male found a small part of your sentence he didn't like the sound of. You saw him cock a thin eyebrow but you knew what kind of question to expect.

"Not today?" Levi's composure was by no means shaken or even pushed a millimetre to the side but the same couldn't be said about the logical step-by-step list of actions he expected from you. You smiled and headed for the door, knowing he would follow since he was good at picking up on unvoiced words. You could barely distinguish his dress shoes behind you but you still spoke, warily checking both sides of the corridor just in case.

"I have work today. Might hold me back and I love being on time." You threw him a smile as you walked towards the elevator, getting inside the moment it arrived. In your heels, you were a whole inch taller than him which brought you some weird feeling of undeserved superiority. You were smiling to yourself whilst standing next to him - short, handsome and frowning - as the catchy tune of an annoying song from a decade ago sounded in the small elevator. "You know, tea goes really well with cake. I'm going to buy one for us. Preference?" You threw him a brief glance, knowing very well he wouldn't return the gesture. As expected, he kept his eyes on the elevator door before it opened and you walked out, heading for the exit with the knowledge Erwin had handled the standard documents for the hospital before the cops.

"Chocolate." The disinterested tone of his voice drawled once the sun hit both your faces and your shoes' contact with the pavement sounded equally loud. You raised your hand to attract a nearby taxi's attention as the corners of your mouth curled upwards. The taxi drove up to you and stopped, waiting for you to get in as you faced Levi and grinned knowingly at his frown.

"I had a feeling you might say that. See you tomorrow, Mr Shop Owner." Your nimble fingers performed the briefest of waves as you seated yourself inside the taxi and slammed the door shut whilst informing the driver of your destination. Levi didn't wave back and he certainly didn't have time to respond but you could see his motionless silhouette send the taxi off with its graphite hues up until the moment he lost sight of you round a busy street corner. Your gaze departed from the wing mirror as you thought of the lonely cat you had waiting for you at home and the misplaced sigh sitting at the bottom of your healing lungs.

"We're closed." The cold voice snapped the next day as the setting sun made way for the milk-white moon and its silvern sheen. You watched his firm gaze not lift a single inch from the pages of the book he was reading behind the wooden counter, not until the very moment he heard your voice sound in the space of his pristine shop.

"Then the cake stays for me?" The long cut on your cheek stung as it bled but it certainly didn't stop you from smiling as widely as possible at the brief widening of Levi's eyes. Be it because of the fact that the left side of your visage was covered in blood or because that same blood might just drip onto his shiny floor you didn't know. Funny nonetheless, seeing that look on his stoic face. You stepped into the shop this time - not stumbled - and placed the box you were carrying on top of the polished surface for his hues to observe.

"What happened?" Slender fingers tucking the bookmark between the yellow pages, Levi left the book by the box and immediately pulled the first aid kit from behind the counter as you hopped on top of it and threw your legs over to the other side where he was. Such rude indecency would've normally annoyed him but he was too preoccupied with wiping the blood off your face before it could drip anywhere to point that out. You sat still, knowing you could earn yourself an earful if you moved, and your eyebrows furrowed in exasperation as you recalled the situation.

"Another dumbass trying to get to my target like, again." You rolled your eyes as Levi started disinfecting the cut but not before getting rid of the bloody paper towels he'd finished using. "Fucking bitch threw a shitting knife at me before I shot her dead centre in the forehead." You ranted angrily as the ebony-haired male folded some bandage into a long rectangle and put it over the cut with the help of two band-aids. He observed the result with narrowed eyes before standing back and putting the first aid kit whence he'd taken it.

"Peppermint?" He cocked an eyebrow as you hopped down from the counter and took a seat on the chair he'd been occupying before you'd made your entrance. You scrunched up your nose in disagreement and shook your head ever so lightly whilst draping your purse over the back of the chair and watching him get two cups from a cupboard on the wall behind you.

"Earl Grey. I'm in the mood for a long chat." You crossed your legs with an angelic smile that didn't really go with the cut on your cheek and the gun in your purse, but Levi paid that no attention whatsoever - his focus was on the water he started warming up and the tea leaves he was searching for in a different cupboard. His response, however, went out sharp and a smidge too harsh to actually be welcoming, but you didn't mind it.

"I hope you're also in the mood to be chatting up the wall because I'm not feeling talkative." He spoke, probably with his lips in a pout, as his hands worked on the tea. Your eyes weren't on him but you could occasionally feel his on you as you observed the shop's insides. The glass door polished to perfection, the squeaky clean floor you'd been careful not to dirty, the shiny counter and the strict exact order in which everything stood inside - from the tables and chairs to the different kinds of tea put up for sale. The air in the shop wasn't fresh but it smelled pleasant; different aromatic scents lingered about the space and underneath them, all the smell of cleaning products hung from the ceiling. You liked it. Not exactly a cosy setting but the atmosphere was peaceful and you liked peaceful.

"Don't worry about it, I'm good at monologues. But I do have a question." Two cups of tea clinked against the polished counter as Levi took a seat next to you with an emotionless frown that told you to ask away. "Why does the former hitman of the most feared gang own a tea shop and help idiots such as myself nowadays?" The inquiry made him scoff in self-reprimand, which showed why he hadn't been in a hurry to introduce himself to you. Of course, after hearing the familiar few syllables of his surname you'd spent yet another restless night in all kinds of research - from browsing the web and digging up old books and records from the archive to mentioning the name during small-talk with your colleagues and accessing every police file you could find on your computer on the topic of crime syndicates and hitmen.

It had paid off - Ackerman was the name few knew as something incriminating because most called him The Strongest Soldier. It wasn't a surprise his first name hadn't rung a bell - you doubted anybody in your line of work had knowledge of it, much less the chance to use it in your presence. The Strongest Soldier's estimated kill count was way over two hundred and he'd been the number one most wanted criminal in the country for three years in a row. Article after article you read, case file after case file until your eyes felt like they might start dripping from their sockets. No picture of him anywhere, only the very boss of the crime syndicate employing him allegedly knew his face. Such secrecy shocked you, moreover when you read the last article having him in its title: The Strange Disappearance of The Strongest Solider - Is He Finally Off The Market?. It'd come out in a newspaper three towns from here approximately two years ago. And that was the last information you managed to find - ending your research at about 4 a.m. this morning.

"I didn't retire so I could try and be a good person, I assure you." He drawled sarcastically with a glare, making you shrug as you drank up the tea he'd made. Your insides hummed in satisfaction and you held back a contented sigh out of fear it might show how unprofessional and untrained you were. Then you realised such feelings were useless and inappropriate - he was a retired hitman and you were in a casual setting - he wasn't your superior and you were supposed to be drinking tea as equals engaging in mindless conversation. But it wasn't like that because he was everything you longed to be and looked up to - both the relentless professional and the frowning shop owner having scrubbed the blood from his hands and the sins from his list of deeds.

"You're kind in your own way." You uttered quietly, voice just above a whisper as you both sipped from your drinks, pensive and thoughtful in your closed-off minds. You were torn between your bright career and the freedom its absence allowed - as presented in his case. But was that really what freedom looked like? Was it there at all? The fact he owned a tea shop and led a peaceful life didn't secure him peace of mind and it went without saying the latter was what you treasured more.

"I'm just helping somebody I would've once called a colleague, that's not kindness." His retort was curt and point-blank. He wasn't kind, no - you thought he was kind, you hoped he was kind, you envisioned him as kind. Idealising him like that because he'd accomplished everything you wishfully dreamed of didn't show maturity, quite on the contrary in actual fact - it showed the childish habit of a teenager inhabiting a worn-out woman's body as it blinded her.

"What about the whole you can be better speech then? Why assist a goddamn criminal if the whole point of retiring was to get some peace and quiet?" You blew up with a curse, making the male click his tongue as he took another sip from his tea. Your shoulders were tense and you felt the cut on your cheek sting but the look in your eye was feral and frustrated, constantly jumping from the scar on the back of his hand to his graphite hues.

"Because second chances. Because fuck what you do, judge people on who they are." He spat with unexpected calmness as you glared, each word out of his lips ripping holes in the motto you lived by, etched on every fibre of your being - you're disgusting and you don't deserve love or support or understanding, you kill people for a living and sins cannot be washed away, you've got to reap what you sow and that is a lonely life filled with an increasing kill count and guilt. You sat in your chair, breathing and seething, and hating yourself for wanting to spit the truth in his face because he didn't understand. But he did. He'd been through it, one way or another, and he was here now - saying all this bullshit you and the good lord above didn't even want to hear about, much less believe.

"Who they are doesn't matter as long as they kill." You underlined with a clenched jaw and a hopeless glint jumping about in your eyes, shoulders no longer as tense. Levi glanced at you shortly, abiding by everything he'd said with a mean frown and a flicker of empathy flashing across the surface of his graphite hues.

"Wrong. The little things are of most importance in such cases. A person can change what they do if they want to - look at a live example who got bored of the constant gangster bullshit and started selling tea. The job goes, the person stays. The little things stay." He explained slowly as his eyes left your profile to look at your surroundings - things he'd worked hard for, things he owned, things that had helped him start anew. Your gaze dropped to your feet as you silently contemplated the value of this shop. It was extremely valuable to him, you concluded - priceless even. And it was just a tea shop, nothing unique or expensive, nothing special. You realised you wanted something like that too - something to treasure not more than yourself but something that made you treasure yourself more.

"But they don't make a difference." The utterance was small and cold, devoid of emotions and humanity. It showed how worn out you were, how you truly thought of things. Levi clicked his tongue again, this time with more fervour, and you heard his cup sharply clink as it was left on top of the counter before it could touch his lips.

"Wrong again. They attract people you can trust. Attract that one person who's going to make your hands feel clean and your case file empty. Because he wouldn't care if you kill when he sees who you are." The angry voice spurting wise words softened at the end, not because of nostalgia after something he'd had the chance to feel but because of pity in the face of somebody who had brainwashed themselves to the point of such a sentence being completely unfathomable for them. "I suggest you put some sugar in there. Your face is more bitter than my attitude." He stated boredly whilst gesturing towards your tea.

It took you some time to make your face go back to your usual neutral expression - the tension in your facial muscles was enormous and not one but a few creases had appeared between your furrowed eyebrows - but then you heard a light chuckle ring in the closed tea shop. It was your own chuckle. Levi's eyes were watching you as he sipped his tea but you kept quiet and just smiled at the thought of finding somebody crazy enough to accept you. Where would you have to search for him - an asylum?

"Maybe I like bitter." You smiled with a newfound flippant tone in your voice as Levi raised a doubtful eyebrow at your words. In a second the cruel cynicism was no longer present at the corners of your curled mouth and the soft smile you showed made the ebony-haired male next to you purse his lips. "You can hand me the milk, though." You suggested airily, making the shop owner click his tongue as he reached for the mini-fridge by the counter and fished out a carton of milk from its insides. He handed it to you with a careless gesture and you grasped it with a steady grip, fingers settling in the crevices between his and making no movement to let go, much like his own.

You would've laughed it off and dismissed the whole thing under normal circumstances but something about this whole situation prevented you from doing it. Maybe it was the warmth of his fingers between yours, maybe it was the not-so-austere glint in his orbs, maybe it was the gulp that got stuck in your throat or the annoying lock of ebony hair that shadowed some of his features, maybe it was the unnaturally fast way in which your heart drummed in your chest or the strangely calm look on his handsome face, or maybe it was everything listed above. You felt his digits slip from inbetween yours but your mouth was as if sewn shut - you feared that doing as much as parting your lips would ruin everything.

Levi's soft fingertips gingerly brushed your hair behind your ear only so they could then caress your cheek with such gentleness you briefly considered telling him you weren't made out of foam. You raised your own hand as to remove that annoying lock blocking your full view of his visage and your fingers were trembling - you both realised it when they lingered hesitantly above his pale cheek - but what you knew and he didn't was that this was the first time they'd trembled since you were eighteen. Eighteen and going on a date, which ended in your fingers getting so bloody you never washed it off properly. It was probably what made them tremble now - the fear of getting his face dirty with all that dried-up blood that never went away no matter how many times you scrubbed yourself raw. Then his palm enveloped the back of your hand and you were cupping his face, digits still shaking against his skin.

Your eyes bore into his and you could almost hear him tell you to calm down because there was nothing on your hands. You looked again and he was right - there was no blood there, not now and not since the following morning at the hospital years ago. Didn't that lack of blood allow you something? Something like company, like acceptance... something like him? Were you allowed to kiss him - here, now - with the absence of blood on your hands and the substituting it warmth coming from his skin? You are, his eyes chanted soothingly, you're allowed to do anything you like because I'm touching you with my own hands and you aren't recoiling in disgust. Neither of you was.

He was leaning forward all of a sudden and your lids dropped as the gap between your parted lips decreased until it wasn't there and you were kissing him. The taste on his lips was pleasantly bitter and the feeling of them on yours was far more intoxicating than any addictive substance the world had to offer. You weren't one for romanticizing situations but this one kiss felt better than all and every hook-up you'd taken part in. You didn't know what made it so special - maybe the ardour with which his fingers tangled in your tresses, maybe the electrifying feeling of his lips perfectly moulding with your own or maybe the tragic touch of irony the whole thing was (two hitmen feeling like they could wash each other's sins away using something as simple and insignificant as a kiss).

Both of you were trying to control your haste and you moved your hand because you felt the urge to undo the first button of his shirt, but then it happened - that same hand that hadn't moved since the beginning of the kiss ceased its grip on the carton of milk and it dropped to the ground, splitting open and bathing the clean floor in its contents. Your shoulders jumped and you parted from Levi with a gaping mouth and a wide fearful gaze.

"Shit." The curse was loud and curt but the shop owner didn't seem to care. There was no shock or surprise on his face as he stood from his chair and brought a mop from the closet in the corner of the room only to start wiping at the milk boredly. He clicked his tongue whilst meeting your apologetic gaze after you'd tossed the split carton in the trash can.

"Better than blood. Lift your feet." You were quick to obey the command as he mopped under your chair with precision you slowly came to admire. You looked down, too ashamed to say anything. You were torn on the inside - panic over the kiss or admonish yourself for having ruined it by being a clumsy fucking dumbass. Even God, in all his nonexistent glory, would probably facepalm in shame at your immense idiocy. But Levi didn't - he was acting like it hadn't happened and you wondered if he'd be willing to give you some lessons on the topic. Taking his seat next to you, the former hitman reminded you of the cake you were yet to try, and you wondered whether this was what complete and utter oblivion felt like.

Two hitmen sitting in a small tea shop, eating chocolate cake and sipping tea like it was the most normal thing, like you were the most normal thing. Maybe it wasn't because of the cake or the tea, or even the preceding embarrassing actions having taken place, maybe it was because of him. Him and all that nonsense having spilled from his lips, much like the milk had spilled all over the floor of his shop. A person who would accept you for who you were. A person who wouldn't care that you killed others for a living. You eyed Levi as he ate from his piece of cake, not daring to compliment its taste.

Maybe I wouldn't have to search for him in an asylum because he's closer than expected. The naive and ever so ludicrous thought made you snort with laughter and almost choke on the tea you'd started drinking. Levi looked at you strangely and you felt your face get hotter as your gaze averted from his in mild shame. Or maybe I should go check myself out.

Sins couldn't be washed away or forgiven - they weren't a red spot on a car window and even if they were, yours would be too big to scrub off in a single lifetime. Unless, of course, you had some help. The notion was ridiculous but you couldn't stop it from crawling inbetween the many layers of the one-sided negative opinion you had on the matter. You were an atheist who forced themselves to believe in God yet kept sinning with every new day there was. Good deeds did nothing to help your situation because it was a dead end. It had been since the beginning and you believed in that unconditionally. Or at least up until the day you started worrying more over spilt milk than the murders you'd committed.

#and wise

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#and wise