Let me tell you, baby, I love

You, baby, to my heart

You keep on mistreatin' me

baby , oh, we've got to part

I hate to let you go, baby

But oh, you got to move

No matter what might spring out of this decision he's made, Armin insists he hadn't wanted it to come to this. This is the last sort of upheaval he'd wanted to shove into Mikasa's life, to have men she doesn't know show up at her door with grim looks on their faces and ask if they can pull their whole house apart, looking for the smoking gun or bloody fist that would give Eren away. He imagines fear on her part, maybe a suspicion that Eren's been up to some other sort of sordid activity, robberies or infidelities that'd provoked the visit. Good lord, is she even capable of understanding what's being done to her? That it is the crime? Maybe she thought this was just her cross to bear for the privilege of being a Paradis citizen. Surely this isn't how women are treated in Hizuru. He hopes not, even if it would explain why she's so quick to accept Eren's punishment with little more than meek obeisance as the slaps fly and the suburban night is sullied. He hardly knows her, and she must be barely twenty herself, but . . .

Oh, thank God. Eren answers the door. It's a two-pronged satisfaction. Mikasa will have no reason to be confused, and– there it is. The twist of concern on his face, the confusion etched into those powerful eyebrows as the MP officers stare him down.

There's been so much red radiating from the Yeager household, so he'd figured they could use an injection of blue. Apparently, with the world going crazy abroad and cells of Marleyan spies lurking at home, a gentleman could scarcely find a phone line in his neighborhood that wasn't tapped, so the local precinct hadn't gotten his name. An anonymous tip. He's armored against any repercussions. Everything might just work out alright.

No, Armin hadn't wanted it to come to this. But it has, and now that that thing of rage inside him might just be sated, he finds he's just fine with this end result.

They chat inanely on his front porch for a moment. Armin does his best to look innocuous on his own step. The lemonade and book really tie the image together.

"Afternoon, Jean. Who's the new second you've got here?"

"Eren. This is officer Bodt."

"Pleasure to meet you, sir!"

"Marco, you're not saying hello to a puppy. You don't have to be that cheerful."

"Hey, kid, it's alright. I'm Eren."

"Sorry, he's new."

"I'm not worried about it. What's this about, Jean?"

The taller, sallower one, Jean, darts his eyes from side to side with a dark look on his face, both brows hooded by his hat. On his breast rears the turquoise MP unicorn, and he fiddles with its stitches as though he'd been dreading this conversation. Armin eyes them peripherally as best he can, a sweet-sour sizzle on his tongue.

"We got a tip from someone, don't ask me who, saying there've been some awful things going on in this house since you moved back home. All this racket at night, cashes and screams and the like. Personally, I've got no problem with you, but as an MP, I'm going to have to insist that Marco and I come inside. We'll need to talk to Mikasa, as well." If this has Eren reeling at all, he doesn't show it in the slightest. Worry has no beachhead on any of his features as he cocks his head.

"You sure, boys? She can't speak much Eldian yet. Can't be much worth to questioning her. I've been teachin' her, but . . . I'll admit, I could be better at it."

"We'll be speaking with her, regardless." Jean's hand is already on the doorknob. Eren props himself against the inside of it, like it's his shield. One he promptly discards, as if he already knows he's doomed, and lets the two officers slip into the house. It's here that Armin loses track of them; just in case anybody down or up the street is watching him, he waits a few minutes before going back inside while the officers make their rounds through Eren's yard. The TV switches on, some nonsensical game show crunching through its black-white, static surface. Crank the volume up, and perfect. They'd all think he's downstairs, not in his bedroom where an overhanging part of the house gives him the perfect view into Eren's kitchen.

It's through the same window he saw Mikasa bleed, where that fucking frying pan crashed into his yard, that Armin can see two blue slacks-covered legs and a pair of milky calves festooned in a hem of flower-embroidered cloth. Where Eren went, he couldn't say.

"Howdy, Mikasa. You remember me?" That's Jean, scratchy, a voice used to yelling.

"Kirschtein. Your name." Her hands are balled at her sides again. Is she scared of the lash from these men, too? He wishes he could tell her he's trying to help her. It's all been to protect her, stranger though she is.

"Yeah, there you go. I'm an acquaintance of your husband's. This here's Marco, my partner. We just have a few questions for you. Matter of fact, most of them are about Eren. Is that alright?"

"I answer." This might be the most Armin's ever heard her speak. Jean's legs untense a little and he steps closer to Mikasa.

"Tell us how he's been to you, since you came to Paradis. Is he a gentle man, an affectionate husband?"

"A-fec-shun-ate?"

"We mean, does he love on you. Does he like to be close with you, and show off his love?" There's Marco. Jean pulls a notepad out of his back pocket and starts to scribble away on it.

"Sometimes."

"Sometimes? What's he like when he's not feeling that way?"

"Sadly. Angry. De-pressed."

"Has he ever made you feel unsafe? Ever scared you?"

"No. Good to me, always."

"Well, Mikasa, I'm right glad to hear that. It's just that we have some information that conflicts a little bit with your testimony. Someone called us and told us all sorts of horrible things were going on in this house. Not to mention, we talked to Pastor Nick and some of the other church ladies, who you've been around a lot as the fundraiser gets closer. They were talkin' about bruises on your arms, your neck being all purple, hell, one of them said you had a welt on your cheek the size of a goose egg when you came in last Sunday. What's been going on?" A shift in her stance, weight nervously redistributing.

"We made dinner," Mikasa says. "Hit my face. Fridge-door."

"And the rest?" Marco again.

"Eren wants children. Rough in bed."

Marco stammers for a moment, and then there's a splat of flesh on flesh. Jean must've smacked the back of his head.

"Alright, we'll keep that in mind. Forgive me if I'm being overly direct, Mikasa. We just need to be sure." Jean takes a step closer. "Has Eren been beating on you, darling?"

Mikasa doesn't back down as he approaches. "No."

"Has he been threatening you in any way?"

"No."

"Did he promise to hurt you if you gave us a different answer?"

"No."

They don't get much further than that.

The 'no's continue until the officers leave, resigned, and Eren lumbers back for revenge. Armin listens to them, hoarse and panicked and absolutely hopeless, and has no idea what to do.