Chapter 3. Good Times Bad Times

A/N: Realizing I've been updating the chapters on A03 and neglected to do so here. Oops. Ah, well, here's chapter 3. The next 2 should be close behind. Also, anyone catching the theme with the chapter titles? ;)

Dennard no longer woke from the nightmares screaming. She'd mastered the art of turning into her pillow, letting the fabric soak the tears and muffle her cries. At least this way she could fool Papa into believing that things were getting better.

As much as she hated lying to him, seeing his face lighten in relief when she adamantly reassured him that last night's terror "wasn't as bad as the one before," made suffering in silence worth it.

For the first time in a long while, she missed her mother–a woman whom she'd never even met and had not even a picture of.

"They're just dreams, baby girl," her papa would coo as he'd rock her, holding her tenderly as she'd cry away her nightly demons. His words were always spoken so assuredly, but Dennard could tell he felt absolutely useless in those moments. That, and she could see how night after night of being awoken to his daughter's screams was starting to take a toll on him. Not that he'd ever complain about it. But the added burden of the tavern's upkeep was a difficult task and he wasn't a young man anymore–hadn't been young when she was born, in fact.

So she lied. Yes, they're just dreams.

Lately, he would wake in the mornings to find her already risen and starting at her chores for the day, all traces of her nocturnal sufferings erased with the help of several cups of tea. He would smile, she would smile back, and neither would question it. Everything was slowly returning to normal.

But it wasn't. And the dreams weren't getting better. If anything, they were clearer.

Dennard didn't know why, but she couldn't shake the fact that the nightmares had worsened ever since the arrival of the strange couple. The Schwartz kept to themselves, for the most part–they were polite–but she felt that there was something off about them. It was like they didn't belong, and she didn't know if it was due to the way they carried themselves or just the way they looked.

The woman's sable-black hair and striking features were unusual, and Dennard found herself captivated by her. She wasn't the only one; She'd seen many people, mostly male, regard the strange woman with interest. But no one dared approach her, for as beautiful as she was she was just as equally intimidating. And then there was her husband.

He was slightly shorter than his wife, but no less intimidating, and Dennard could see the power in his strong shoulders and hands. His gaze was perpetually bored, almost sullen, yet just as intense as the woman's. Together they cut quite the image. Dennard was always hesitant to visit their room to deliver their dinner or laundry for fear of never making it out alive.

Sometimes they met with the tattooed man, and the three of them would sit huddled in a corner of the tavern and visit silently. Their conversation would always halt abruptly whenever Dennard would approach their table with food or drink or to take any used dishes. She liked to pretend that they were assassin's discussing their next target, or perhaps outlaws on the run.

The tattooed man was visiting again today. They sat in their usual corner booth, heads bowed slightly as they talked and gestured. They were the only ones in the tavern save for a middle aged couple eating dinner at one of the tables in the middle of the room. Dennard was wiping down the bar, halfway hidden behind a tall stack of clean dishes, and she used the vantage to casually observe the trio.

"Spying again?"

She jumped in surprise at her father's voice and nearly collided into the tower of plates. "I wasn't," she began, but couldn't hide the guilty look on her face. He only smiled and chuckled softly.

"Interesting folk, aren't they?" He mused, grabbing a few plates from the pile and placing them on a shelf below the bar.

"Who do you think they are, Papa?" She was too curious to not ask.

He put away the last plate before sighing and giving her an unreadable look. "I don't know, Deedee." He placed a hand on her shoulder and turned her away from the strange people in the corner booth. "And there are some things that are better off unknown."

She wanted to ask him what he meant, couldn't understand why he wasn't curious about the Schwartz and their tattooed friend, but she knew better than to argue.

"How are your dreams?" He asked suddenly. Dennard shrugged and resumed her task of wiping down the bar counter.

"Fine." It was the usual response. A poor lie. She could hear him sigh, but thankfully he didn't press it.

She wanted to tell him desperately about the recent changes in her dreams, how they'd become more vivid. Wanted to tell him how real the dirt beneath her feet had felt as she ran through the dark tunnel, how she could smell the dank and cold of the air around her.

Mostly she wanted to tell him how horrible it was to see him die in every dream.

The bell on the door chimed and her papa kissed her head before going to greet the new customer. She watched him go, observing how his limp appeared to be worse and his hair grayer than it had been even a few days ago. No one lived long down here in the Underground, but Dennard couldn't bring herself to think about what would happen when her papa was finally gone.

She had no other family but him and the thought of making it on her own was unbearable. What would happen to the tavern? She practically ran The Black Dog by herself, given her papa's age, but he handled all the business and money aspects of the establishment–things that were still too daunting for a ten-year-old girl.

She allowed herself another glance at the three assassin-outlaws in the far corner. She almost dropped her washrag when she saw that the woman was staring right at her. They held each other's eyes for a moment, onyx on amber, before the woman did something quite unexpected.

She smiled.

It was a strange expression for her, Dennard thought, but not unsuited to her face. In fact, it made the dark-haired woman appear suddenly much younger, and accentuated her lovely features. A ray of sun peering through the clouds.

Dennard nodded at her before looking back down at the bartop. She counted to fifty before furtively peering back, but the woman had already resumed her conversation with the men. The sunlight had passed behind a cloud again.

The tattooed man said something that made the woman smirk–a very different expression from the smile she'd given Dennard. The shorter man scowled at his wife, which only made the smirk grow.

They weren't very affectionate, Dennard noted. Not that she was familiar with the typical interactions between couples, but these two seemed less demonstrative than most. Perhaps they were just very private and preferred to keep even their affection for each other to themselves. Dennard blushed despite herself.

Bar finally clean, she carelessly tossed her rag into the bucket at her feet, forgetting how full it was. She scowled as water sloshed onto the floor and over her bare feet. She bent down to clean up the mess just as a loud bang resounded through the room. A carafe of wine exploded beside her and she dropped to the ground in shock. A woman began screaming. Another bang and her voice went silent.

"Watch your goddamned aim, Galen! Not the fuckin' girl!" A man's voice. The sound of a struggle and a chair being upturned violently. A third bang.

Dennard had knocked the bucket of water over unknowingly and she watched frozen as the liquid spread across the floor and mixed with the wine from the shattered carafe. A gun. Someone had shot a gun and it hit the back of the bar. She'd almost been shot.

She realized she was crying, silently, but the tears were streaming uncontrollably down her cheeks. She wanted her papa then. He had gone to greet the patrons at the door, but she didn't see him come back, and this was all feeling dreadfully familiar.

Her dreams suddenly seemed foolish–because this was real, this was actually happening, and it felt more vivid than even the worst of her nightmares. Despite this, she felt she was somehow outside of herself, like she was witnessing everything that was happening to her and not really experiencing it. Everything was happening so quickly, but it seemed like an eternity between each droplet of wine that fell from the counter. A sob escaped her mouth unbidden.

Drip.

Another crash. Not a chair, but something had been thrown. She heard several grunts and curses–people were fighting. Her mind was reeling, unable to focus on just one thing, and she wondered if this is how those frightened horses felt when they pranced about all wall-eyed. She should move, she needed to get out of here. She needed to find Papa.

Drop.

Large, foreign hands grasped her arms firmly and hauled her upwards. She hadn't even heard him come up behind her. She tried kicking against the man's grip, but he only shook her roughly and lugged her over his shoulder.

She was weeping openly now, hysterical. She hardly recognized her own voice. She scrabbled against the man's grip as he carried her away from the bar, where she finally got a good look at the rest of the room.

The middle aged couple were dead, their bodies collapsed around the wreckage of their table and uneaten dinner. The sight that shocked Dennard to silence, however, was the dark-haired woman squaring off with a man much larger than she.

But the way the woman moved, she was clearly an experienced fighter, precise and deadly, and suddenly the notion of her being some kind of assassin didn't seem so far-fetched.

Dennard didn't get to see anymore of the scene–her captor had now taken her out of the tavern completely. The cool air hit her like a slap, like a reminder, and suddenly she was struggling again to free herself. The man holding her was saying something, but she couldn't hear him. She finally managed to arch her back, lifting herself up from his shoulder, but she paused instantly when she looked up at the tavern.

There at the door, slumped over himself and bleeding out, was her papa. A scream tore itself from Dennard's throat and she reached for him in vain, her tears blurring the image of his form. She called out for him in desperation. Her captor pulled her off his shoulder and clamped a damp cloth over her mouth. She gagged and wailed against the rag, a caustic scent overwhelming her senses.

And as her world went black she realized that they had never been dreams at all.

••••

She really did hate him, she was sure of that now. Killing Titans was more enjoyable than this. At least Titans didn't talk back or order her about.

As inscrutable as the captain was, she knew he deeply enjoyed pissing her off. As they had to maintain their outward appearance, getting into a physical altercation was out of the question. Still, she entertained herself by fantasizing about the various ways she could upend the midget in a fight.

He wouldn't be easy to best, she knew. But that was precisely why she itched to fight him. Because it would be difficult. A challenge.

Unlike with Kirstein, who had one of those punchable-looking faces, she wouldn't derive satisfaction from injuring the captain, per se, but rather from witnessing the look on his face when she'd finally defeated him. Because until then he'd think she wouldn't be able to.

Cocky son of a bitch.

"Oi, brat," the man himself barked. He didn't even bother to look up from the letter he was writing as he addressed her. "If you make that sighing noise one more time, I'm gonna roll up a pair of your socks and stuff them in your mouth."

Mikasa silently cursed herself for getting too caught up in her thoughts. "Sorry, I was getting bored waiting for you," she replied smoothly, studying a knot in the wooden table and feigning nonchalance.

"I get that you're a child, but it's not my job to entertain you."

"I just didn't realize how long it took you to write a damn letter."

This was usually how their conversations went; If punching each other in the jaw was out of the question, then they would have to settle for verbal jabs.

"And here I thought it was usually the husband who was ready first," she added under her breath but loud enough for him to hear. She knew the spouse thing was usually a trump card. And she enjoyed watching the twitch in his jaw.

He was silent for a moment, the scribble of pen across paper the only sound between them. Finally, he murmured, "and here I thought it rude if the man finished first."

It took her a second, but his words eventually caught up to her and she could feel her face burst into flames. He chose that moment to look up and she knew he could see her scarlet complexion. He'd won this round and he knew it, judging by the spark of triumph in his slate eyes.

She quickly rose from her seat, the room suddenly way too hot for her liking. He'd made some low blows before but had never pulled anything like that. And what made it all the more worse was how effectively it had worked. She would have expected a quip like that to come from someone like Conny or Jean, but never him. He'd basically just roundhouse-kicked her flat onto her ass without even batting an eye.

"I'm tired of waiting for you. I'll be downstairs," she huffed, unable to meet his gaze. She would surely smack him if she had to look any longer at his conceited expression.

"Finished. I'll come with you." He rose from his chair while tucking his completed letter into an envelope. "Ladies first," he added, but she was already out the door, not even bothering to hold it open for him. She could have sworn she heard him chuckle.

Arrogant bastard.

When she arrived downstairs, Efran was already seated at their usual corner table. The tattooed man was clearly deep in thought, his full brow drawn as he glowered into the depths of his ale.

"Sorry to keep you waiting, Efran," Mikasa sighed, slipping into the chair across from him. He looked up at the sound of her voice and smiled warmly, furrowed brow softening into a kind expression.

"Hello, lovely lass." He pushed one of the tankards toward her and she accepted it with a nod. "Was His Majesty powdering his nose?"

As much as she had been initially hesitant to trust this man—the plethora of tattoos and his solid build made him appear rather formidable—he had quickly won her over with his sense of humor. Especially his cracks at the expense of the captain.

They both tried desperately to control their mirth as Levi joined the table, but he just scowled at them and shook his head.

"Sorry to interrupt your little klatch," he grumbled as he sat down beside Mikasa. He pulled his finished letter from his pocket and passed it across the table to Efran. The man immediately sobered and took the proffered envelope.

"To the big guy it goes," he said with a curt nod, tucking the letter into a pocket inside his coat. "Any verbal messages you wanna relay?"

Levi shook his head, taking a gulp of his ale. Mikasa stared thoughtfully down at her own drink, wishing not for the first time that she could pass on her own message. She knew Erwin was probably keeping Eren and Armin informed on the state of her mission, at least as much as secrecy would allow him, but she still wished to convey to them directly that she missed them.

Her goodbye hadn't been enough. Whatever excitement or pride they'd expressed upon hearing of her promotion to lieutenant had quickly been overshadowed by her impending departure. The closest any of them had been to the Underground had been that failed attempt long ago to trap Annie at one of its entrances, yet any description they'd ever heard of the subterranean city painted it as a bleak and dismal existence. This, coupled with the covert nature of the expedition itself, was enough to make both her friends extremely reluctant for her to leave.

But orders were orders.

"We've reason to believe that the Redeemers are using the tunnels," Levi muttered quietly. "That's how all these kids keep disappearing."

Mikasa instinctively glanced around the room to count its occupants. It was practically barren, aside from an older couple who sat in one of the dining tables, oblivious to anything outside their own conversation. Mikasa's eyes passed over them and to the bar, where she noticed the waifish serving girl, Dennard, speaking with the tavern owner. Her father, Mikasa recalled.

"The tunnels? The ones leading to the unfinished cities?" Efran kept his own voice low, but she could hear the interest in his tone. Levi nodded in affirmation. "Sweet Maria, how did you find that out?"

"It's all in the letter." Levi nodded at Efran's jacket where the document was safely stowed. Levi had no qualms about their courier perusing his parcels before they reached their intended destination. "Let's just say that this past month wasn't spent idly twiddling our thumbs."

Mikasa nodded absently. The weeks had blurred by it seemed, consisting mainly of being in the right place at the right time and talking to the right people. Levi had once referred to the Underground as a "colony of thieves and rats," and she supposed it was true. Then again, the extent of corruption a person was willing to go for the promise of a few coins wasn't exactly unique to the Underground.

Efran chuckled and shook his head. Mikasa didn't know the history between the two men, but it was obvious to her that they had known each other before Levi joined the Corps. While friends may have been too strong a word, the two men obviously held a certain level of respect and trust for each other.

She hadn't once asked Levi about his life in the Underground. For whatever reason, she got the impression that it was a subject he preferred to keep to himself. Occasionally he'd let slip a bit of information or a certain memory he had about the place, but she never pressed it further.

She could hear it in his voice when he spoke to the people here, even to Efran. It was subtle, but something about him changed. No, revealed itself, perhaps. In those moments she found herself wondering what a young Levi looked like. She thought of Sasha, how the girl's accent came out when she spoke of her village.

Mikasa looked again to the young serving girl at the bar, who was now alone, and let the conversation between the two men beside her fade into the background as she studied the waif.

She was incredibly small, both in height and weight, and her skin was so pale. Mikasa found this strange; Though living conditions in the Underground were far from ideal with most of its inhabitants going years without seeing a ray of sunlight, some people managed to make enough of a living in order to afford food on a regular basis. By the Underground's standards, The Black Dog wasn't exactly a struggling or decrepit establishment. And she'd seen the girl eat.

As if aware she was being watched, the waif's eyes suddenly connected with Mikasa's. There was a familiar pain in her amber eyes, a weariness found in soldiers. Not little girls. Dennard wasn't the only child with haunted eyes, Mikasa knew, but there was a quality to her honey-colored gaze that reminded her of someone. Eren, most likely, or maybe even herself.

For perhaps this reason, Mikasa smiled at the girl. A look of surprise flitted over Dennard's face, yellow eyes widening ever so slightly. Then, she nodded—which Mikasa thought was a rather adult-like gesture for one so young—before resuming her wiping of the bartop.

"Oi, quit fading out." Levi snapped his fingers underneath her nose. Both men were regarding her now, Efran with an amused expression on his chiseled face.

"Do you usually address your wife like this?" He sent Mikasa a wink and she smiled back at him. It had become somewhat of a treasured past time of theirs to gang up on the fractious captain.

"Brat," Levi sneered under his breath, sending her a glare that only made her grin.

She looked back at Efran, prepared to further their little game of mock-the-captain but the words quickly died on her tongue when she saw his grave expression focused on something behind her. "Efran?"

He spoke without meeting her gaze, his voice almost inaudible. "Something's not right."

She felt Levi tense beside her, but they both refrained from turning to look behind them. Efran's right hand slowly left his tankard and slipped under the table, most likely to grasp the knife he kept buckled at his hip.

"The innkeeper went to greet some people at the door—I couldn't see who—but he hasn't returned."

"So?" Levi drawled, but his finger tapped a soundless beat against the table.

"So, now there's this big motherfucker standing in the foray looking like trouble." Efran's face suddenly changed to a broad smile and he locked eyes with Mikasa. The man in the foray must have glanced in their direction. "Something's definitely not right," Efran repeated through his teeth, forced grin still in place as he pretended to nod at whatever interesting thing Mikasa was saying.

"Armed?" Levi pushed his ale away from him.

"Can't tell. Probably." Mikasa heard the dull slide of steel against leather. "Fuck. Four, maybe five other guys, now. Not nearly as big, but still bad news. I think—FUCK!"

Suddenly, Mikasa was on her back, the fall from her chair so sudden that it took her a moment to register that Efran had kicked her onto the floor. A loud bang sounded from behind her, adding to her confusion, and she scrambled to right herself from her turtled position. She heard Levi's voice–strained, like he was struggling–shouting something incomprehensible. Her name. He was saying her name. Her real name.

"Ackerman! Move!"

She looked up at that moment to see one of the men looming over her, a vicious sneer on his face, knife raised above his head and prepared to strike. The shock that had frozen her limbs quickly evaporated, and years of training suddenly kicked in. She waited for the man's knife to begin its deadly arc forward before she rolled back onto her shoulder blades, striking out with her foot and knocking the blade free from his hand. She didn't wait for him to recover, following through with her other foot and driving it into his stomach. The man bent forward with an oof, and the heel of her palm slammed upward into his nose.

She felt more than heard the crunch beneath her hand. His head whipped back with the impact and his eyes glazed over, blood pouring freely from his ruined face. She knew he was dead before he even hit the ground but she didn't wait to see him fall, leaping to her feet and quickly assessing the room.

Someone had begun screaming—the middle aged woman, her hands fluttering uselessly about her neck like a panicked chicken as she glanced between the bar and the men. Before Mikasa could even call out, one of the men lifted his gun again and shot her in the face.

"Watch your goddamned aim, Galen! Not the fuckin' girl!" a very large man roared. Mikasa was sure she had never seen a man so giant before. He could probably tear a two-meter class apart with his bare hands. Definitely the big motherfucker Efran had described.

Mikasa turned to the bar again; He was talking about Dennard. Oh, God, they've shot her. She's not there.

The husband of the dead woman leapt out of his chair, sending it skittering across the floor as he backed away from the sight of his dead wife. The man named Galen didn't hesitate to shoot him in the head, ignoring the protests of the giant man. Efran roared from across the room and sent his knife flying through the air, where it planted itself firmly between the gunman's eyes.

Weapon. She needed a weapon. The knife she'd kicked away from her assailant had disappeared somewhere under the tables, and she didn't have time to search for it. She rolled the deadman onto his back roughly with her foot and crouched down to rifle through his person for any hidden weapons. She almost gave up–she was wasting time–when her hand coursed over something cold and metal. Not a blade, but a thin wire wrapped around two small, metal bars that were clearly meant for holding.

It was a garrote.

Dennard screamed in that moment, the sound sending a simultaneous rush of both relief and fear through Mikasa's body. She whipped around in search of the girl, pausing in horror as she saw a tall man with oily-looking red hair lifting her over his shoulder. Dennard was wailing, voice broken and raw, and her tiny fists beat uselessly against the tall man's back. Big Motherfucker was laughing at the sight.

She didn't look, but she could hear Levi wrestling with one of the remaining thugs, could hear them grunting in exertion, but she had to trust that he had the situation under control. Over near the foyer, see could see Efran landing the final blows to his own opponent, fist raining down on the man's face without mercy.

"Care to dance, Princess?" The big motherfucker. She would have laughed at the irony of being stuck with him if her veins weren't currently ablaze with adrenaline. She caught a glimpse of Dennard slumped over the red haired man's shoulder just before they exited the tavern, Dennard's screams echoing all the way outside.

Eyes back on the big man–who was watching her like a cat observes a mouse–she called out, "Efran!" She hoped the man had subdued his adversary by now and could hear her. "The girl!"

"Good luck catching Rikard," Big Motherfucker sneered. They began circling each other slowly. "He's one of the fastest. And that little girl looks like she weighs less than a sack 'a grain."

"Mikasa!" Efran, his voice agitated, a question. What should I do? He was torn, she knew. Leave her here severely outmatched with this man, or pursue the girl?

"The girl, Efran!" She repeated. A command. Her back was now to him, but she could hear his swift feet take off across the foyer and disappear out the door. Levi was now in her periphery, grappling with not one but two men. How had this all happened? They'd been so careful. And why take the girl?

"Sorry for all the violence, Princess. My boys can get a lil' excited on a job. There's a more civil way we can do this." The large man looked her up and down, a dark purpose in his eyes. "Sucha pity to damage a lovely body like yours."

Speed was her best tactic. He was much larger and much stronger than she.

"Of course...maybe you like it a little rough."

Mikasa bared her teeth at him, deepening her crouch and preparing for the fight. He was toying with her, trying to rile her up. She tightened her grip on the garrote in her hand.

"I bet ya get loud, don't ya." He grabbed at his crotch in a lewd display, his demeanor way too confident. She needed to flip the tables, work him up and use his rage to her advantage. "I like it when they scream."

Without warning, he was racing toward her, barely affording Mikasa time to spin under his meaty arms and out of his way. The man was like a charging bull, roaring and stomping across the room, and she was the flag. The thought of Eren's scarf came unbidden to her mind.

They repeated this dance a few more times, and each time she slipped through his fingers he became more frustrated. Pretty soon he was throwing chairs and knocking over tables just to get to her.

In a particularly close call with a flying chair, she slammed backwards against the bar, hands grasping blindly for something—anything—to use as a weapon. The garrote was useless at far range. The timing needed to be perfect...

Her fingers found purchase on the neck of a wine bottle and she smashed it over his head before diving away. The blow didn't seem to slow him down but only angered him further, his nostrils flaring in rage.

"Wretched little cunt!" He screamed, lunging again.

Mikasa was ready this time. She ducked as before under his outstretched arms, but instead of rolling away she planted her foot against his hipbone, using his upper arm to haul herself up and around so that she straddled his shoulders. He floundered briefly, obviously confused, which allowed her barely enough time to whip the wire loose. She grasped the metal rods at each end firmly and brought the center of the wire to meet his neck.

And she pulled.

The gurgling, hacking sound he produced only made Mikasa tighten her chokehold. She'd never used this weapon before and the rods felt clumsy and foreign in her hands, the wire too long. He slapped and grappled at the wire and at her thighs with desperate hands, careening forward as if he could run away from the assault, only to then stumble backward again.

He was panicking. He dove toward the wall to try and rid her from his shoulders but she steered him away with her garrote-reins, inching her grip higher on the filament and foregoing the rods in favor of better leverage.

Finally, senseless with pain and clearly losing focus, the man practically fell backwards onto the bartop in a last-ditch effort to remove her from him. But Mikasa's grip never faltered. If anything, the position sealed his fate.

Her thighs were now soaked with his blood, the noises he made nearly inhuman as he continued to pat desperately at his throat. But he was still fighting. She shimmed her back along the bartop and lifted her feet to his shoulders.

She ignored the biting pain in her hands as she pulled up on the wire as hard as she could while simultaneously pressing down on his shoulders. The wire was slick with blood, her grip dangerously close to slipping. Finally, with one last gurgling squeal, the man fell limp against her and she felt the wire slice through his neck.

Mikasa lay there for a few moments, panting, covered in blood and sweat. The large man slid off the bartop with little assistance from her, his heavy body hitting the ground with a crash. She let the garrote join him as she inspected the damage it had done to her hands, which were now smarting like mad.

"Mikasa."

Her head snapped up at the sound of Levi's voice. He was standing across the room, a knife in his hand—she recognized it as the one belonging to the first man she'd fought. The bodies of his two adversaries lay at his feet. She met his gaze and was startled to see the look of horror in his eyes as he took in the sight of her.

She glanced down at herself, at her bloodied hands and stomach and thighs. Perched on the counter like this, covered in gore and panting from exertion, she probably resembled some kind of wild animal.

"I'm fine," she muttered, voice surprisingly steady. "You?"

Levi glanced down at her bloodied front before visibly collecting himself. He nodded curtly and bent to wipe the bloody blade in his hand against the pant leg of a dead man.

"The girl. Dennard," Mikasa scrambled from the bartop as she spoke, stepping over Big Motherfucker's lifeless form. "Efran went after them."

"Did you see which way they went?" Levi asked as he followed her to the foyer.

"No, but I think…" She trailed off when she rounded the corner of the foyer and saw the innkeeper slumped against the wall near the front door. He was alive, she could see the shallow rise and fall of his chest, but the knife wounds in his gut were critical.

The man shifted, hand sliding from his lap to land in the pool of blood below him with a sticky thump. Mikasa rushed to his side, fingers gingerly assessing his wounds even though she knew he was beyond saving.

"Denn…ard," he wheezed, ashen face lifting with effort to look at Mikasa.

"We'll get her." She gripped the man's hand in her own, ignoring the sting of his icy fingers against her injured palms. The innkeeper opened and closed his mouth repeatedly, like he was trying to say something but the words just wouldn't come out.

Levi knelt beside them. "What is it?" His voice was soft, gentler than she'd ever heard it before, and she lifted her face to him in surprise. His expression was as stoic as always, but his eyes lacked their usual edge. He leaned forward at the dying man's beckoning. His words were merely a breath in Levi's ear, too quiet for Mikasa to catch. Then, he gave a final, shuttering sigh and went still.

"Fuck," Levi breathed.

"What? Captain, what did he say?"

Levi didn't answer immediately, reaching up to close the innkeepers eyes with a gentle press of his fingers. "We have to find that kid."

"What did he say to you?"

Levi looked up at her then, and the look in his eyes made Mikasa's stomach drop.

"Dennard. Dennard's the Titan shifter."

••••••

Eren was pretty sure he'd never seen someone laugh so hard before.

He failed to see exactly what was so amusing about what he'd just said, and yet the sound of her adorable ta-ha-ha giggle was so infectious that he couldn't help but join in himself.

"What is so funny?" He wheezed, still flummoxed as to why they were currently clutching their stomachs in hysteria.

She looked up at him with tears streaming down her rosy face. "B-b-because...it just is!" She barely managed to squeak out the words before she was consumed by another bout of laughter.

After they'd wiped their eyes and sighed with half relief, half discomfort, Eren inhaled a shaky breath and spoke again. "Ok, maybe it's a little bit funny, but c'mon, Rubie."

The redhead chuckled but thankfully didn't dissolve back into another fit. "Eren, it's hilarious enough to think of the corporal married. But the corporal and Mikasa? To each other?"

"But they aren't, really!" Eren smirked; it was pretty odd to think of those two individuals getting married, and near impossible to think of them marrying each other. It did make sense, however, in context with their current mission.

Needless to say, he hadn't burst into laughter in Erwin's office when the commander briefed him about it. He could only imagine how it would have gone down had Rubie been there…

"I feel bad for them a little bit, actually. They're kinda the worst people to be paired together. Alone. No buffer." She grimaced slightly and rolled onto her stomach, the bed sheets tangling around her bare torso.

Eren shook his head and scoffed. "I really hope they don't end up killing each other." He was only half joking. "I mean, it's not like I don't trust Erwin's judgement, and Mika and Captain Levi are two of the most competent people I know, but I just think they were the wrong choice to send out for this. Together, I mean."

Rubie shook her head. "I disagree."

Eren was momentarily distracted when his lover untangled herself from the sheets and stood from the bed, the light escaping through the drawn curtains illuminating the pale skin of her bare backside.

She turned and smiled impishly, red hair like fire in the light. "Eren," she intoned.

"Yes, my love…" Very distracted.

"Did you hear me?"

"You disagree. Why?"

Rubie sighed, mildly exasperated, and began to dress. "The Captain and Mikasa are the only choice for this mission."

"But they're so…different. Mikasa hates him. I think she still resents him for knocking me around in the courtroom all those years ago, despite the fact that it wasn't really—"

"Eren." She arched a red brow at him, an expression he'd become quite familiar with over the course of their relationship. It always shut him up. "They may have their differences, but for the most part I think the reason they don't get along is because they're too similar."

Eren opened his mouth for a rebuttal, but stopped as he considered her words; she had a point. "They both have...strong personalities, I suppose."

Rubie giggled and nodded, climbing fully clothed back onto the bed and sitting beside him.

"Rube, I wasn't actually supposed to tell you all of this," Eren muttered, fidgeting with a corner of the sheets. "It's supposed to be...confidential."

Rubie placed her pale hand atop his much larger tanned one, her soft fingers tracing gently over his roughened knuckles. "You worry a lot, Eren Jaeger."

It wasn't a jab, merely an observation, her tone hinting at sympathy. Eren looked up at her face, green eyes meeting green. He saw the deepness in her gaze, the understanding. She was no soldier, but she understood his anger, his burning need to protect the people and things he loved.

She understood him. And that's why he loved her—why he trusted her.

"You don't need to worry about this."

He didn't ask her if she meant not to worry about Mikasa and the Captain, or that he'd confided in her. Both, probably. And she was usually right about a lot of things.

"I love you," he breathed. She must have seen something in his eyes, because her breath hitched and her mouth parted. That mouth…

He leaned forward and captured her soft lips with his own, enjoying the familiar dance they'd long since perfected with each other. She sighed softly and traced his tongue with his own. Perfected, indeed.

Eren gasped suddenly when her small hand maneuvered to cup his crotch through the thin sheets. "Little minx," he growled, and she captured his lower lip between her teeth with a throaty chuckle.

He was about half a second away from ripping away her clothes and getting her naked again when an urgent knock sounded at the door.

They groaned in unison. Eren glared at the door, half tempted to ignore whomever was outside and go back to kissing Rubie—whose hand was still cupping him—but the knocking turned into a banging.

"Eren! Open up!" It was Armin. He recognized the note of distress in his friend's voice. Couldn't ignore this one.

Rubie needed no word from him before she was leaping from the bed and making for the door. Eren frantically pulled his pants on, zipping them up and grabbing for his shirt just as the door opened to reveal an agitated Armin and Hanji.

"Commander Hanji. Armin. What's wrong?" Rubie asked, moving aside so the two soldiers could step into the room.

Armin faltered for a moment, looking between Eren and Rubie and their messy bed with a flushed face. Hanji was the one to answer, turning to address Rubie with a manic sort of gleam in her bespectacled eyes. "I'm gonna need your expertise on this one, Flanagan."

The redhead narrowed her emerald eyes at the woman, concern etched into her brow. "Why? What's going on?"

"Well, we found one of the missing kids," Armin added quickly, seemingly recovered from his discomfiture. He shared a look with Hanji that made Eren's stomach drop. "The body, that is."

Rubie gasped, hand flying to her mouth. "Dead?" They nodded in unison. "Why do you need me? How can I help?"

"Given your experience with herbs and traditional forms of medicine…" Hanji trailed off, and Eren thought he'd never seen the woman look so at a loss for words. "…well, I don't even know what I'm saying. I haven't even seen something like this before—"

"Just say it already, Hanji," Eren barked, the words harsher than he'd intended.

Hanji hesitated and looked at him with that same manic expression, which Eren realized now was more a look of desperation. "I think it would be easier if we just showed you."