Levi x Reader Oneshots 2

Smooth (Injured Levi x Reader)

Author's Note: Hello, lovelies! Please be advised, this story contains some spoilers for the end of the manga. 

You leaned against the doorframe and watched as Levi began shaving his face with the razor in his left hand. Because of his natural abilities, he was doing better than anyone else might have done with their non-dominant side. However, he was noticeably shakier than he had been with his right.

With time and practice, you were certain he'd be able to do it as well as he had before. But in addition to being in the learning phase, his body as a whole was still weak from the explosion. Moreover, because of the injury to his leg, he was now bracing a hand on the sink to hold himself upright in front of the mirror. Having to avoid all the stitches in his face wasn't easy, either.

Levi released a quiet hiss as he nicked his skin.

A few seconds later, another hiss followed.

With a sigh, you pushed off the wall and stepped to his side, holding out a hand. "Let me," you instructed gently.

"Tch," Levi grumbled, his eye narrowing as he turned his face away from you. "I need to learn to do it myself."

"You will," you murmured, placing a reassuring hand on his arm. "But you should give your body time to heal first. Once you're out of the hospital, you can start figuring things out. For now, will you let me help you?"

Slowly, hesitantly, Levi dragged his gaze to yours. You could see the frustration there, but beneath that, there was a vulnerability he'd never let show before – one that betrayed how deeply he was hurting. He'd lost too many friends and comrades throughout this war. He didn't want to lose anything else, and that included parts of himself – his strength, his independence, his pride. He was fighting so, so hard to hold on.

Yet, having a bunch of cuts on his face from where he'd nicked himself shaving wasn't exactly good for his pride, either. The doctor, the nurses, other patients in the hospital – everyone who saw him would instantly know he was having trouble. They would know he was weak.

Moreover, Levi had always been particular about having a clean appearance. A clean shave. Clean-cut hair. Clean, well-pressed clothes. But he was losing his grip on all of that.

"Just until you're out of the hospital," you repeated quietly. A second later, you added, "You've been so brave, Levi. Let me take care of you for a little while."

Within the stormy grey sea of his good eye, you watched another chink appear in his armor. A part of him wanted to relent – because that part of him was tired of being strong, tired of fighting, tired of the pain and the loss and the heartbreak. That part was desperate to let it all go, to disappear into your embrace, to close his eyes and allow you to take care of everything. To be held, safe in the hands of someone he trusted, so he could finally have a chance to rest and heal after too many decades of bottled-up agony.

His gaze dropped to the floor. Then – slowly, wordlessly – he held out the razor.

You carefully took it from his slackened grip, your chest tightening as you did so. After everything he'd been through, you understood how difficult it was for him to let himself be taken care of. You just wished it didn't have to be.

With all the gentleness in the world, you slid your hand over his cheek, cradling it. You felt the slight brush of stubble beneath your palm – a little scratchy, but not unpleasant. In a different time and place, you might have slowly brushed your fingertips across it, or pulled him close and rubbed your cheek against his, just to marvel at the difference. But such lighthearted moments were a world away.