AOT ONE SHOTS.

Misguided Ghosts (Jean x Reader) (Angst/Fluff)

"How was work today, Y/N?" Jean's nurse set down a tray of food for you.

In most cases it was the patients that were getting the food, but seeing as the patient had been in a coma for five months, you were the one who received the food. You had become accustomed to the taste of the Luke warm chicken nuggets and corn. It was almost comforting when you had a hard day at work.

"It's been the same," and by same, you meant the same sympathetic glances, the gentle pats on the shoulder. People acted like he had already died, that you should be mourning the loss of your fiancé. He was still alive, even if it was with the help of some machines.

"Just keep your head up," she offered an encouraging flash of her teeth, "when people don't understand what's happening, they resort to being overly sympathetic. They think those little gestures will help."

"I know their intentions are nothing but pure. It doesn't make it any better, though." The tip of your spoon scarped against the bottom of your jello container, the red dyed juice splashed over the rim when you dropped the empty plastic onto your table.

The conversation seemed to evaporate into the air as she moved around Jean's bed. It was quite the elegant dance of checking his vitals, reading over the chart to make sure the day nurse hadn't left any notes, and adjusting his bedding to make sure his body temperature didn't drop for any reason.

"He's all comfortable, and set up for the night. I'll be back to check in a few hours. If you need anything —," she stopped mid-sentence when you gave her a knowing smile. It was the same, well rehearsed, script that all nurses told you. Except she actually meant it, "Tell Armin I said hi," she teased, all to knowledgeable of the goings on in your life.

You watched as she shut the door behind her, leaving you in the room with Jean. You sat for moment, listening to the steady beat of his heart monitor, and the machine that helped him to breathe. You looked over his face, all the outward wounds had healed, if it wasn't for his life support, he would have looked like he was just sleeping. Some days, you imagined that he was, you pretended that in a few hours he would wake up, like he had been napping. You knew better though, and make believing only made things worse when he didn't actually wake up.

You wouldn't allow yourself to dwell too much on it, or else you'd send yourself into a spiral, so instead you took the doctors suggestion. You reached into your bag, digging around to find the poetry book that sat at the bottom of your purse. "Where were we," you said softly, flipping the pages till you found your bookmark - a picture of Jean smiling at you from across the table at your favorite restaurant.

You held the book in one hand, your thumb expanding over the middle of the spine, stopping the the pages from folding over on to one another. Your other hand was occupied by your chin resting against your palm, being propped up by the chair you were sitting in, "Okay," you breathed, peeking over the edge of your book, secretly wishing that one time you did that, his eyes would be open.

"For Katrina's Sun Dial, by Henry Van Dyke -

Time is too slow for those who wait, too swift for those who fear, too long for those who grieve, too short for those who rejoice, but for those who love, time is Eternity." The words held no meaning pressed into the paper of your book, but as they hung in the air, you felt the weight of them all too heavy on your chest.

You shook you head, swallowing the lump that had started to build in your throat. It was a sob that you refused to let surface, it was the cry you reserved for the very worst possible outcome, a cry you never hoped to feel. You closed the book, you couldn't read anymore, afraid that another poem would set you over the edge.