The return from the forest was subdued. Sasha stuck close to me, offering mumbled thanks every few minutes, her usual boisterous energy replaced by a wide-eyed gratitude that felt slightly suffocating. Connie, too, treated me with a newfound deference that bordered on fear. While useful for establishing capability, this awe created distance, something I needed to manage carefully. My goal wasn't to be worshipped, but to be indispensable to Eren.
Eren himself was quieter on the walk back. The wild exhilaration of flying had been tempered by the stark reminder of the danger, both to himself and his friends. He walked beside me, occasionally glancing over, his expression thoughtful rather than his usual fiery impatience. He didn't thank me again, but the weight of his unspoken acknowledgement hung in the air. It felt heavier, more significant, than any verbal gratitude. He was processing it, internalizing my actions.
Armin seemed to bridge the gap, discussing Sasha's gear malfunction with Eren, analyzing potential weak points in the standard issue equipment. "We need to be meticulous with maintenance," he concluded, looking pointedly at Sasha, then giving me a small, appreciative nod.
Back in the relative chaos of the barracks, the dynamic persisted. Sasha offered me a portion of bread she'd somehow secreted away from dinner – a significant gesture from her – which I accepted with a quiet nod to avoid hurting her feelings, though the offering felt uncomfortable. I wanted reliance, not recompense.
Training shifted focus in the following days, moving indoors for theoretical lessons on Titan biology (what little was known), military strategy, and formation tactics. Shadis, surprisingly, yielded the floor to other instructors for these sessions, preferring, it seemed, the visceral nature of physical conditioning.
These classroom settings were Armin's domain. His hand shot up constantly, asking insightful questions, proposing strategic alternatives, absorbing information with an intensity that impressed even the instructors. Eren listened intently, though his impatience sometimes showed, his fingers drumming on the wooden desk, eager to translate theory into action.
I sat beside them, absorbing the information with Mikasa's efficient mind, but my primary focus remained observational. I watched Eren's reactions – the way his eyes lit up when discussing offensive maneuvers, the frustration that tightened his jaw when focusing on defensive formations (which he deemed delaying tactics). I noted Reiner, a few rows ahead, occasionally contributing solid, practical points that drew nods from the instructors, his 'reliable soldier' persona firmly in place. Bertholdt remained silent, hunched, almost invisible.
During one discussion on squad formations for Titan engagement, the instructor outlined standard bait-and-strike tactics. Armin immediately pointed out potential flaws if facing multiple Aberrants. Eren scoffed. "Just need to hit the nape faster. More aggression!"
"Aggression without strategy leads to casualties, Jaeger," the instructor countered tiredly.
Before Eren could retort, I spoke quietly, my voice carrying in the focused silence of the classroom. "Perhaps a modified pincer movement, using faster elements to draw attention while heavier hitters approach from shielded angles, adapting based on the number and type of targets Armin mentioned?" I outlined a variation, incorporating Eren's desire for speed with Armin's strategic concerns, delivered in Mikasa's calm, concise tone.
The instructor blinked, surprised. "That's… an advanced concept, Ackerman. Well-reasoned."
Armin looked at me, impressed. "Exactly! That mitigates the risk I was worried about!"
Eren stared at me, his usual argumentative stance momentarily forgotten. "Yeah," he conceded slowly. "That… could actually work." He looked less confused now, more thoughtful. He was starting to see my contributions as more than just physical prowess. Strategic alignment. That was crucial.
Later, during weapons maintenance, Reiner paused beside our bench where Eren was struggling with a stubborn piece of his ODM gear's trigger mechanism. "Need a hand, Jaeger?" Reiner asked easily, that friendly mask firmly in place.
Eren grunted in frustration. "This damn thing is stuck."
Before Reiner could offer further 'help' (and potentially gather more intel or foster reliance), I leaned over seamlessly. "Here," I said, my fingers deftly manipulating a small release catch Eren had missed. The mechanism clicked free. "It catches sometimes if you don't clear the pressure valve first." I demonstrated quickly.
Eren blinked, then nodded, taking the gear back. "Oh. Right. Thanks, Mikasa."
Reiner chuckled good-naturedly. "Looks like Ackerman's got you covered. She's got a knack for this stuff." He gave me another one of those assessing glances before moving on. My skin prickled. He wasn't just seeing competence; he was seeing my consistent intervention around Eren. File that away, Reiner, I thought grimly. Just don't figure out why.
The brief interaction cemented my role further. I wasn't just protecting Eren physically, but ensuring his independence, preventing others – especially suspicious ones like Reiner – from encroaching.
That evening, Jean made another attempt to reclaim some standing. During a light sparring drill meant for practice, not dominance, he deliberately chose Eren as his partner, clearly aiming to show off. He came in fast, aggressive, trying to overwhelm Eren.
Eren met him head-on, their rivalry fueling a more intense exchange than the drill required. Jean, perhaps fueled by resentment towards me, seemed particularly focused on besting Eren. He landed a glancing blow, puffing his chest out. "Getting slow, Jaeger?"
I was partnered with a reluctant Bertholdt again nearby. Without turning my head, without breaking the rhythm of easily deflecting Bertholdt's hesitant moves, I spoke, my voice calm but carrying clearly. "Focus on your own form, Kirschtein. You're leaving your left side completely exposed."
Jean faltered, instinctively glancing down at his side. In that split second of distraction, Eren saw his opening and executed a clean sweep, sending Jean stumbling back.
"Thanks for the tip, Mikasa!" Eren grinned fiercely, pressing his advantage.
Jean shot me a look of pure, unadulterated fury before having to defend against Eren's renewed assault. He knew I'd done it deliberately, using words as effectively as a physical intervention this time. He lost the bout moments later, storming off in a huff.
I finished my own 'spar' with Bertholdt, giving him a neutral nod. He scurried away quickly. Perfect. Jean was neutralized again, Eren got a morale boost, and my intervention was purely verbal, plausibly deniable as simple observation.
Later, lying on my bunk in the dark barracks, the sounds of sleeping recruits around me, I allowed myself a moment of quiet reflection. Progress was being made. Eren's reliance on me was growing, evolving beyond just physical protection. He was starting to see my value in different ways, accepting my presence and support as a constant. The distance with Jean was solidified into open animosity on his part and utter indifference on mine. Reiner and Bertholdt remained dangerous unknowns, but I was aware, watchful.
But the weight of it all… it was heavy. Maintaining this carefully constructed persona, constantly calculating, suppressing my fangirl reactions to Eren's mere presence, channeling my hatred for Jean and the original Mikasa's future into productive action… it was exhausting in a way Ackerman stamina couldn't prevent.
She just gave up, I thought, bitterness coiling in my gut as I pictured that hated epilogue image – Mikasa, older, with Jean and a child at Eren's grave. After everything he did, everything he sacrificed. Three years. She couldn't even wait three damn years.
My fists clenched under the rough blanket. No. Not this time. This Mikasa would be forged of steel and devotion. This Mikasa would understand the magnitude of Eren's sacrifice when it came. This Mikasa would never leave his side, not in life, not in memory. I would be the partner he deserved, the anchor he needed, the one constant in the storm. Whatever it took.