[ Transfers? He certainly gets her attention when he grabs her like that, though his words sound almost bizarre and nonsensical. She hadn't seen the announcement yet, not having wanted to keep November and Eren waiting, so it's not immediately obvious what Eren's talking about.
But it doesn't take too long to piece it together. They hear about these transfers with enough frequency that it's what her mind shifts to first, and as excitable as Eren may be, there's not too much that would get him all up in her space like this.
[ A small part of him is disappointed Eren had dropped the proverbial bomb. But, it's waved away– he can't blame the younger man at all. This was dealing with someone they were close to. It's only natural that he'd have a strong reaction and that he'd want to get Mikasa the knowledge as soon as possible. ]
Armin was reassigned. [ His tone's a little quieter, trying to soften the blow (is that even possible, here). ] I'm sorry, Mikasa.
[His fingers pull tight in her sleeve when she asks. November beats him to the punch, and his jaw pulls tighter. Chest constricting, blood up and already edging again toward angry, he unhinges it.]
Connie, too.
[November couldn't have known they were comrades. Mikasa would want to know he was gone. And—]
Annie's dead.
[And Mikasa won't return the sentiment, she was a titan and a traitor, but there's a grim edge on his voice that says he is mourning her anyway.
The loudest absence, though, is Armin. By miles. And while it's some small relief to get confirmation that he'd made it off the planet before it blew, the edge on his voice only gets sharper—]
We'll get them back.
[Connie and Armin. And the Commander, Isabel. (Sasha, if what Gliese had implied to him was true, and not wishful thinking, false hope.) Armin. The people the CDC kidnapped away with them and then torn away from them. They can't do anything but trust them to survive until they do. And he hates it. He's more helpless in this than he was in the forest, during the lockdown. It's almost enough to choke on.]
Armin is gone, transferred and like the others they have no way to contact him, not assurance on how he's faring. Had he even woken up? And if they could transfer Armin... She can't help but clench her jaw, watching carefully the tension working in Eren. He's swallowing his anger, turning it into resolution (hopeless) rather than rage, and at least that she can appreciate.
Carefully, she raises a hand to cover Eren's, letting it rest there until he no longer needs, and she answers him with a ] Yes.
[ But she doesn't believe it. Though, even if she doesn't - Armin is smarter than the both of them, quick to survive and pick his battles. He's strong, and it's likely that they need him more than he needs them. (And they want him here, they need him. Need the reassurance that they, at least, will remain together. That they won't be broken apart one by one.
She misses him. It's lonely.)
And she glances over at November, quiet while in mourning. ] Thanks for coming to tell me.
[ As they list off the names, he realizes how much they've lost. How much they continue to lose. Sure, he'd known Armin and Annie. Had seen Connie around camp sometimes, but that pales in comparison to their loss. This was personal and close. Emotional.
November doesn't have a horse in this race whatsoever.
So, he waits it out, letting them have their time. Letting Eren and Mikasa say their piece, because hearing their resolve is important. He'd already known neither of them to give up easily, but the verbal reassurance is helpful. ]
Of course. If either of you need anything, please let me know.
[ He can't promise emotional support in that way, but rationale and logic can be useful in moments like these. Talking it through can give perspective. However, right now isn't really the time for it. Standing, he goes to take his leave– the aftermath was a private affair between the two of them. ]
[It's unsurprising and incredibly impolite, but Eren hardly seems to notice November taking his leave of them. Head bowed and teeth grit and fingers wrapped tight in Mikasa's sleeve as if he can keep them together this way. (Lost Armin to the whims of the CDC's control, and all he can do about it is grind his teeth down and swallow his anger until it eats away at him instead. Make promises that he would pay out in blood but can't yet begin to follow through on no, matter how badly he wants it.) It's not that he doesn't trust Armin to look after himself. They've been separated before, most dramatically when Eren was taken away after Trost. But he'd always known where they should be, that they were among allies, that they were safe. Now—
He knocks his forehead against Mikasa's. Gently, if firmly, just enough force to lean into her as he works himself up and then back down again. Quiet, but breath coming short and harsh. He hates them. For blackmailing, kidnapping, lying. Taking advantage, taking away. A familiar feeling flaring back up over months, chastened and chased in circles by the newer and sobering reminder that they cannot act against an overwhelming enemy with the information and power they hold now. That they cannot risk the rest of humanity for a selfish gain (or an act of revenge.)
It is paralyzing, infuriating, it runs against the grain of him to be stuck reacting and unable to do anything else. They're not the same helpless and haunted children they were in Shiganshina. (Sometimes it feels like nothing has changed anyway.)]
[ He's angry, that much is evident. And though she's grown a bit wiser over the years, her attempts to negotiate with Eren, to read him when he's in a state of distress is still usually a hit or miss; their approach to things are too different, their beliefs too separate. Right now however, she imagines that he feels the same as she does: helpless, frustrated, lonely. Anxious that they too could be separated at any time, without any guarantee of being reunited or ever hearing from each other again.
She imagines that he's angry at himself, placing the blame on his shoulders for not being able to deliver on the impossible promises that he makes (even though they're all so full of wonder, of what he's accomplished already).
But the point is that he's lingering, close enough that she can sense his tension, and he needs some reassurance, some confidence to be instilled in that still fighting form, but she doesn't know what to say. They both already know that they need to keep their heads down, that stirring trouble or acting out against injustices would do them no favours. But that's the problem and there's just no way around it.
One of her hands finds his shoulder, resting there, strong and unmoving. ]
[Helpless, frustrated. Lonely and angry and afraid. His throat works. He blinks hard. He bows his head as if to hide the evidence, muffles his words into the curve of her neck.]
I know that.
[There's more audible bite in it than he means, less force than there really ought to be. A vicious venting that sparks and dies as quickly as it comes, that fractures in midair and sounds thin and petulant and false at the edges, like a child making himself out to be bigger than he really is. Because he is not as certain as he wants to be, and that is frightening to admit to himself. (Because Armin is gone and Connie's gone he is afraid for them. The whole might of the Corps could not kill Annie and yet she'd vanished without fanfare here, like smoke.)
He doesn't have it in him to give up. (He doesn't have it in him not to take it hard when things go wrong.)]
Good. [ The word is murmured, close to his bowed head. And she knows what Carla would do here: wrap her arms around Eren, cradle him close, just softly enough, just tightly enough. She'd run her hands through his hair, and chastise him gently, and encourage him fiercely. (Like she had, when Mikasa had first wandered into the Jaeger home after Eren.)
And as much as Mikasa admires and respects Carla Jaeger, she makes no move to bridge the gap between her and Eren—theirs is ultimately a different relationship, though they're family all the same.
She focuses on his hurt, not about how strange they are without Armin; not about how much harder it is to struggle on without him. But what can she offer but her words: ] I'm here. They're not going to separate us.
[Mikasa is not his mother. He's told her so often enough. She's not his keeper, or his guard dog, though she tends to look like it more often than not. She's not his sister in the traditional way, but their bond had been written in blood from the start anyway. Something deeper and fiercer, centered in an understanding that the world is a cruel one.
(It's probably cruel in its own way, that they seem to understand each other best when things are at their worst.)
He could breathe useless and seething promises into the air until he drives himself hoarse. Until the spectators still milling around them leave the hall. He stays as he is for a few long and solid minutes, neck tense and shoulders shaking, hissing harsh breaths through his teeth. Jaw clenched tight against all the things he wants to say (but knows better, now, than to risk,) caging them back behind his teeth to rest sour and poisonous in his chest. Eventually he shakes himself loose from her. Blinking hard, raising a hand to swipe it roughly over his eyes before looking back at her. And with a voice that comes out equally rough—]
Come on.
[Punctuated with a tug at her sleeve, a faint echo of the first time he'd done it. Lets go. (There is no home for them to head back to, this time. They can't afford not to move forward.)]
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no subject
But it doesn't take too long to piece it together. They hear about these transfers with enough frequency that it's what her mind shifts to first, and as excitable as Eren may be, there's not too much that would get him all up in her space like this.
Which means: ]
Who's been sent?
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Armin was reassigned. [ His tone's a little quieter, trying to soften the blow (is that even possible, here). ] I'm sorry, Mikasa.
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Connie, too.
[November couldn't have known they were comrades. Mikasa would want to know he was gone. And—]
Annie's dead.
[And Mikasa won't return the sentiment, she was a titan and a traitor, but there's a grim edge on his voice that says he is mourning her anyway.
The loudest absence, though, is Armin. By miles. And while it's some small relief to get confirmation that he'd made it off the planet before it blew, the edge on his voice only gets sharper—]
We'll get them back.
[Connie and Armin. And the Commander, Isabel. (Sasha, if what Gliese had implied to him was true, and not wishful thinking, false hope.) Armin. The people the CDC kidnapped away with them and then torn away from them. They can't do anything but trust them to survive until they do. And he hates it. He's more helpless in this than he was in the forest, during the lockdown. It's almost enough to choke on.]
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Armin.
Armin is gone, transferred and like the others they have no way to contact him, not assurance on how he's faring. Had he even woken up? And if they could transfer Armin... She can't help but clench her jaw, watching carefully the tension working in Eren. He's swallowing his anger, turning it into resolution (hopeless) rather than rage, and at least that she can appreciate.
Carefully, she raises a hand to cover Eren's, letting it rest there until he no longer needs, and she answers him with a ] Yes.
[ But she doesn't believe it. Though, even if she doesn't - Armin is smarter than the both of them, quick to survive and pick his battles. He's strong, and it's likely that they need him more than he needs them. (And they want him here, they need him. Need the reassurance that they, at least, will remain together. That they won't be broken apart one by one.
She misses him. It's lonely.)
And she glances over at November, quiet while in mourning. ] Thanks for coming to tell me.
no subject
November doesn't have a horse in this race whatsoever.
So, he waits it out, letting them have their time. Letting Eren and Mikasa say their piece, because hearing their resolve is important. He'd already known neither of them to give up easily, but the verbal reassurance is helpful. ]
Of course. If either of you need anything, please let me know.
[ He can't promise emotional support in that way, but rationale and logic can be useful in moments like these. Talking it through can give perspective. However, right now isn't really the time for it. Standing, he goes to take his leave– the aftermath was a private affair between the two of them. ]
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He knocks his forehead against Mikasa's. Gently, if firmly, just enough force to lean into her as he works himself up and then back down again. Quiet, but breath coming short and harsh. He hates them. For blackmailing, kidnapping, lying. Taking advantage, taking away. A familiar feeling flaring back up over months, chastened and chased in circles by the newer and sobering reminder that they cannot act against an overwhelming enemy with the information and power they hold now. That they cannot risk the rest of humanity for a selfish gain (or an act of revenge.)
It is paralyzing, infuriating, it runs against the grain of him to be stuck reacting and unable to do anything else. They're not the same helpless and haunted children they were in Shiganshina. (Sometimes it feels like nothing has changed anyway.)]
no subject
She imagines that he's angry at himself, placing the blame on his shoulders for not being able to deliver on the impossible promises that he makes (even though they're all so full of wonder, of what he's accomplished already).
But the point is that he's lingering, close enough that she can sense his tension, and he needs some reassurance, some confidence to be instilled in that still fighting form, but she doesn't know what to say. They both already know that they need to keep their heads down, that stirring trouble or acting out against injustices would do them no favours. But that's the problem and there's just no way around it.
One of her hands finds his shoulder, resting there, strong and unmoving. ]
We'll find a way.
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I know that.
[There's more audible bite in it than he means, less force than there really ought to be. A vicious venting that sparks and dies as quickly as it comes, that fractures in midair and sounds thin and petulant and false at the edges, like a child making himself out to be bigger than he really is. Because he is not as certain as he wants to be, and that is frightening to admit to himself. (Because Armin is gone and Connie's gone he is afraid for them. The whole might of the Corps could not kill Annie and yet she'd vanished without fanfare here, like smoke.)
He doesn't have it in him to give up. (He doesn't have it in him not to take it hard when things go wrong.)]
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And as much as Mikasa admires and respects Carla Jaeger, she makes no move to bridge the gap between her and Eren—theirs is ultimately a different relationship, though they're family all the same.
She focuses on his hurt, not about how strange they are without Armin; not about how much harder it is to struggle on without him. But what can she offer but her words: ] I'm here. They're not going to separate us.
no subject
(It's probably cruel in its own way, that they seem to understand each other best when things are at their worst.)
He could breathe useless and seething promises into the air until he drives himself hoarse. Until the spectators still milling around them leave the hall. He stays as he is for a few long and solid minutes, neck tense and shoulders shaking, hissing harsh breaths through his teeth. Jaw clenched tight against all the things he wants to say (but knows better, now, than to risk,) caging them back behind his teeth to rest sour and poisonous in his chest. Eventually he shakes himself loose from her. Blinking hard, raising a hand to swipe it roughly over his eyes before looking back at her. And with a voice that comes out equally rough—]
Come on.
[Punctuated with a tug at her sleeve, a faint echo of the first time he'd done it. Lets go. (There is no home for them to head back to, this time. They can't afford not to move forward.)]