Birdie (Levi x OC)

sixty-four

A/N

Content Warning - Pregnancy loss/description of a miscarriage

My life settled into a grim, predictable routine. The sickness remained a constant companion in the early hours but the worst of it always lifted once the afternoon arrived.

I was desperately exhausted, yes, but lately, I had been steadily keeping down the evening broth Levi insisted upon, and the relentless tremors of fatigue seemed to have retreated from the constant to the acute. The fragile sense of normalcy had allowed my days to move beyond total confinement, granting me small increments of work in our adjacent office and a few rare afternoons in the workshop.

My body, once constantly fighting itself, had achieved a tense truce with the illness. The weakness was a low hum, not a scream. But the stability was a dangerous lie. Every minor shift—a sudden scent, a loud noise, a missed meal—was met with a raw, protective surge I didn't recognize. The terror was there, yes, but it was now coupled with a fierce, unexpected tenderness. I hated the timing, the danger, and the weakness, yet I found myself instinctively guarding the secret change within me.

Levi, however, remained unchanged. He barely left my side. He maintained a quiet, permanent presence. We lived in a state of meticulous, mutual silence, never referencing the condition directly, as if giving it a name would break the protective spell. I didn't know what his silence meant—whether it was fear, acceptance, or pragmatic patience—and I dared not ask.

I'd often wake in the night to find him motionless, wide awake, his hand resting heavy on my abdomen; a silent, perpetual vigil of thought and worry.

"Are you okay?" I'd whisper, sitting up and taking his hand that rested so gently on me.

"Yeah," he whispered back, his voice rough. "Just thinking. Go back to sleep."

I'd give him a disapproving glare, but I never argued. Sleep found me quickly; I was too exhausted to fight the deep pull of my body's new demands. The quiet, shared hope had become a dangerous, delicate habit we both relied on.

It happened one evening. I was reviewing the latest supply requisitions at the small table in our quarters, dressed in a simple shift. I was feeling good; normal almost. Levi was at the opposite end polishing his vertical maneuvering gear blades in the armchair. He always did his cleaning here now.

A sudden, sharp cramp seized my lower abdomen. It was nothing like a stomach pang; it felt cold and hard, a deep, internal tearing, like fragile glass being violently shattered. I sucked in a sharp breath, instinctively clutching the edge of the table.

Levi's movements stopped instantly. The methodical shing of the sharpening blade ceased. Silence fell like a heavy, suffocating shroud.

"Birdie?" His voice was a low, immediate warning.

I tried to stand, to walk it off, but the pain intensified, driving me back down into the chair. It felt like my very center was being ripped out. "Just a bad cramp," I gasped, trying futilely to keep the panic out of my voice.

But the pain was quickly followed by a cold, alarming sensation: a stream of wet warmth flowing down my inner thigh. I instantly slammed my hand against my leg, stopping the damp run. I didn't need to look down to know.

Levi was across the room in a blur. He didn't speak. He simply shoved the table away, ignoring the papers and pens that scattered with a loud crash, and dropped to his knees in front of me.

My hand lifted automatically from my thigh, trembling violently. We both stared at it; it was coated in dark crimson. The meticulous control that had shielded his expression for weeks instantly shattered, replaced by a look of stark, terrifying certainty; the realization of a devastating conclusion he had secretly expected all along.