Post-Rumbling Levi and Disabled Darling (AFAB)
When he sees you, he sees a reflection of himself.
He's worked hard in the years since the Rumbling to recover a modicum of strength and dignity. He uses a cane now, no longer bound to the wheelchair, so that's something. It took longer than he'd care to admit, the rehab to make the change.
You, on the other hand, seem far more delicate. He thinks you may have been born with a weak constitution. He doesn't know the cause to your mobility issues, but you seem so delicate, the way you take breaks whenever you've walked more than ten feet, how you need to sit, the dizzy haze that overtakes your eyes when you stand.
"Could I get some of the Silver Needle?"
You come once a month to refresh your tea supply. While you've bought your share of black and green and blended herbal teas, the pure white seems to be your favorite.
"An expensive tea," he comments in an attempt to create conversation. He's terrible at that.
You nod. "I like how lightly caffenated it is, and I've heard it's good for the heart." Your voice is soft, sweet, and almost hesitant at the end. "Oh, and the chamomile lavender, please."
That's another you replenish regularly.
"Have you tried Valerian root teas?" He wants to know more about your condition, and this is perhaps a socially acceptable way to do so.
You shrug. "It makes me a little too foggy, and it can cause problems with-- with my heart."
He's aware it can cause arythmia in some people, and it can slow heart rate. Based on what you've said, he assumes that's the main cause of your condition. There's nothing to indicate otherwise-- no twisted limbs, nor scars, no blown or uneven pupils, or other signs of head trauma.
You look through your purse, frown to yourself, then glance at him abashedly. "Maybe just the Silver Needle tea."
He eyes your appearance quickly. It's not difficult to discern your lower economic status. Levi wonders if you're able to work, given your limitations. You could have an office job, something where you sit the majority of the time, but he's learned by now that able bodied people hold a lot of reservations about engaging with those who are not.
And the war wasn't kind, still a looming presence in everyone's memories. Depending on your background, you might not have had it easy before, either. Maybe someone who has lived in Marley longer would be able to tell if you were raised inside the former internment zone or not.
Your clothing is clean, but thread bare, and you look tired. The handle of your cane is well worn by the palm of your hand.
Levi doesn't comment on your change of order, but he does add a small bag of loose chamomile lavender tea, a sample, he could excuse it away as. He packages up everything and bids you a good day, watching as you delicately tap your way out of the shop.
You're much more practiced with your cane than he is, undoubtedly using it most of your life. You take a seat at a little fountain in the nearby courtyard. He's still awkward with his cane-- or maybe that's in his head. He hates the damn thing.
Once Levi overheard you talking to someone. They'd asked if you resented having to use something to get around.
"No," you'd responded. "I appreciate my cane. It helps me get around better, to live a more full life."
"Wouldn't a wheelchair make more sense?"
And you'd laughed, a light, tinkling sound. "Sure, but it's much more expensive. And limited. Not everywhere can accommodate a wheelchair. The cane is fine, mostly."
You have such a pleasant attitude about it, brushing off the inability to afford something that could ease your way along with accepting its limitations.
He likes that about you.
He likes you.
"You should ask her out."
Levi snaps out of his observation and glares at the kid. Falco grins in response.
"You obviously like her," he points out. "She's nice. Just go for it."
Ask you out? He couldn't do that. He hadn't been with anyone since before the Rumbling, and always before it had ended in death. Sometimes death that he could have prevented.
"I don't like her," Levi gripes. "I'm... concerned. I think she's struggling."
That's it. He likes you well enough, but that's not why he stares. It's just that he's worried about you. You're clearly not doing as well as you could be. A girl like you, someone should be taking care of you. You should have a partner, someone to depend on when you need help.
He could just imagine taking over errands on your behalf, ensuring you saw your doctor, making you tea, fighting against the assholes who would trample on you...
