Cheater!Levi X Reader Oneshots

==> PART TWO.

After your little marathon into the child-like paradise that we call the PG 3 Channel, you get bored out of your mind and check the phone for a second before deciding that the battery was decently charged up. You power up the phone after setting the tray on the table beside you and fumble a little bit with it, impatiently running your index finger over the deeply-imbedded cracks in your phone. They spread like spiderwebs on your black-cased phone and you wondered how it survived if you yourself got this fucked up. Because that's clearly the most important question here, obviously. Silently, you pray to whatever God is up there in the atmosphere and hope that this thing doesn't have a password. And wow, would you look at that! There is a password!!!!

Just great.

Well, you suppose you're going to just have to drop your hopes and dreams of finding out who you really are after all- because you can't access your own phone. Well... you wouldn't exactly leave the phone around and easily unlockable, either.

You sigh and put let the phone fall back into the bag, opting instead to look around for more clues as to who you are (and probably are supposed to be). You take a look look at the darkness the mouth gave way to annnnnd- there! There's a wallet. Finally... We're getting somewhere. You lay back down on the bed, well, as much as you can with the bed propped up so high (customary after having watched so many Peppa Pig episodes) and open it up. The first thing you're met with are some credit cards... Subscriptions to different supermarkets and gas stations, and, yeah you're kind of surprised you know all these things but can't seem to remember who the fuck you're supposed to be.

This is useless. Getting worked up over it is completely useless.

Instead of overthinking and consequently frying whatever's left of your brain again, you simply thumb through the plastic encasing on the left side of the wallet and pull out the photo you were after.

It looks... Like you? With someone else. It's a him? A very small him. You briefly wonder if it's just a woman and if you're a lesbian.

Are you?

While letting that thought simmer you turn the little Polaroid around and see the names jotted down, followed by a date. It looks pretty worn out, too; so it must've had one hell of a ride until it reached your hands. Nope; it looks like that was a man, and you just happen to be several inches taller. Well... It's not like you particularly give a shit.

Maybe you should? This looks like your husband, after all. Issue here is that the names seem to be different on the back of it. Did you get married after this photo? Oh well, it at least looks like you have/had a committed partner. You quickly shove the photograph back inside the wallet and decide to look for some sort of ID card. You find this damning piece of plastic a moment afterwards and look at it.

YOUR NAME IS [UH, NAME] ACKERMAN.

That's an improvement compared to when you first woke up. You connect the dots as quickly as your muddled brain allows you to and blink blarily when you realise that you should probably not get so worked up over your identity when you're very clearly running on fumes.

You reach the mere conclusion that you're not a very smart person that thinks ahead.

You flip the ID card, only to be met with nothing of use (just a stamped back, really) and take a look at the door that's sitting in the corner of your vision to your far, far left. Maybe... You should take a stroll? In this state? Who knows, maybe you're slowly dying after all and no one hasn't bothered telling you quite yet.

Quickly, you throw the card and wallet back into the dusty bag, kicking it aside once you managed to switch from laying down to sitting on the bed with your legs dangling off of the side. You stare at the Metal Bar of Health that holds all your necessary perfusions and grimace a little bit. On one hand, you don't want to drag this thing around with you, and on the other, you're not really willing to pull out the needle that's currently residing in your left arm. For now, you simply get up shakily and grasp the fucking thing like an old lady with stage three cancer (who knows what you really have at this point) and continue advancing.

You stand, barefoot, in front of the door. There are people chattering outside. Most of it is unintelligible, however... You're quite sure there's some right beside your door and you're not too sure what to do about that. What are they going to do if they see you up and about? Call the on-the-loose patient police? What, are Doctor Cops going to arrest you? Just open the door already.

That's what you do. The creaking of the sliding door alerts whoever's nearby and you don't make an effort to pretend that you didn't have any intentions of getting up and about, instead opting to use the "my brain hurts" as an excuse in case they try to force actual responsibility (for your actions) on you.

The previous nurse is there, looking over her shoulder slightly and probably more relieved to see you move about without any external bleeding evident, while her conversational partner seems to have shut their mouth in favour for boring holes into what's left of your body. You briefly squint back, non-verbally asking the midget that you saw in that photo of yours- wait. He knows you. You know that he knows you. Realisation hit him and he now knows that you know that he knows that you know him.

You're overcomplicating everything again. His sleeves are neatly rolled up and his arms lay crossed against his chest, his white button-up apparently tucked in his black pants. What is he, an extremely fancy waiter? His hair barely seems like actual hair- or maybe he just used enough hair gel to keep the whole thing in one unmoving place? You truly don't know.

What you do know is that he's eyeing you incredulously and with apparent worry tinted in your eyes.

Well, fuck.