Chapter Text
The mess hall buzzed with raucous energy, its wooden beams vibrating with laughter and off-key singing. Lanterns swung overhead, casting erratic shadows across flushed faces as the latest victory celebration reached its peak. Another successful expedition, another night of temporary reprieve from death's constant shadow.
Mikasa Ackerman sat at the edge of the revelry, her usual rigid posture softened by two glasses of surprisingly decent wine. The heat of so many bodies packed into the room had persuaded her to loosen her scarf - an uncommon sight that didn't go unnoticed. More strikingly, she'd left her hair down for once, the dark strands cascading past her shoulders in smooth waves that caught the lantern light when she moved.
Jean whistled lowly from across the table. "Damn, Ackerman. You clean up nice when you're not covered in Titan guts."
Mikasa merely raised an eyebrow, the ghost of amusement touching her lips as she sipped her drink. The reaction - or lack thereof - was typical Mikasa, but the overall effect was decidedly not. Without her usual severe updo and with the high collar of her scarf loosened, she looked... approachable. Human. Beautiful.
Eren Yeager noticed the change the moment he entered the hall, though he'd never admit to staring. His gaze snagged on the unfamiliar sight before he forcefully looked away, telling himself it didn't matter. Mikasa was Mikasa, hair up or down. It wasn't like it changed anything.
Until Floch Forster, emboldened by liquid courage and survival euphoria, decided to test that theory.
Floch had been watching Mikasa all evening with the single-minded focus of a man who'd recently stared death in the face and lived to tell about it. What was the worst that could happen? A broken nose? Worth it.
He slid into the empty seat beside her with exaggerated care, nearly spilling his drink in the process. "You know," he began, voice pitched just loud enough to carry over the din, "I always thought you were terrifying. In a good way! Like, impressively terrifying."
Mikasa turned her head slightly to regard him, her expression unreadable. "Is that supposed to be a compliment?"
"Absolutely," Floch grinned, leaning in closer than most sane people would dare. "But tonight? You're just regular terrifying. It's an improvement."
To everyone's surprise - especially Eren's, though again, he wasn't watching - Mikasa's lips quirked. Just slightly. Just enough.
Jean choked on his drink. Connie's eyebrows disappeared into his hairline. Armin's eyes darted between Mikasa and Eren with dawning realization.
And Eren? Eren's grip on his tankard turned white-knuckled.
The provocation began in earnest when Floch produced a wildflower from somewhere - had he been carrying that all night? - and with theatrical flourish, tucked it behind Mikasa's ear.
"Suits you," he declared, as if he hadn't just committed an act of either supreme bravery or stupidity.
Mikasa didn't remove it. She didn't break his fingers either, which was practically an invitation by Mikasa standards.
From the other end of the table, a loud crack sounded as the handle of Eren's mug snapped.
"Oops," Connie said, not sounding sorry at all. "Looks like someone's drink betrayed him."
Eren ignored him, his gaze fixed on the scene with unsettling intensity. "She's going to kill him," he muttered, more to himself than anyone else.
Armin hummed noncommittally. "Doesn't look like it to me."
Indeed, Mikasa was allowing Floch to refill her glass now, her expression as inscrutable as ever but her body language relaxed. Tolerating, if not encouraging.
Jean smirked into his ale. "Face it, Yeager. She's not gonna do your dirty work for you this time."
Eren's jaw worked. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"Oh please," Connie crowed. "You've been making that face since basic training every time someone looks at Mikasa for too long."
"That's not- I don't-"
Armin patted his shoulder with faux sympathy. "It's okay to admit you're jealous, Eren."
"I'm not jealous," Eren snapped, too quickly. "I just think Floch is an idiot who doesn't know when to quit."
"And yet," Jean drawled, "Mikasa seems to be enjoying his company just fine."
As if on cue, a rare laugh - short and quiet, but undeniably genuine - escaped Mikasa's lips at something Floch said. The sound hit Eren like a physical blow.
The breaking point came when Floch leaned in to whisper something in Mikasa's ear, his hand brazenly settling on the back of her chair. Mikasa didn't shrug him off. Didn't so much as tense.
Eren was on his feet before he realized he'd moved.
The walk across the room felt both instantaneous and agonizingly slow. Every step ratcheted up the pressure in his chest, the roar of blood in his ears drowning out the party's noise. He didn't have a plan. Didn't need one.
"Mikasa," he ground out when he reached their table, "we're leaving."
She looked up at him, dark eyes glinting with something he couldn't name. "Why?"
The simple question stalled him momentarily. Why? Because Floch's fingers were too close to her shoulder. Because her hair was down and she was smiling at jokes that weren't his. Because the flower was still tucked behind her ear and it looked wrong, all wrong, seeing her wear something someone else had given her.
"Because I said so," he finally managed, sounding petulant even to his own ears.
Floch had the audacity to smirk. "Jealous, Yeager?"
The room seemed to hold its breath. Mikasa's gaze never wavered from Eren's face, waiting.
Then, with deliberate slowness, she reached up and removed the flower from her hair. For one heart-stopping moment, Eren thought she might give it to him. Instead, she placed it back in Floch's hand.
"It's late," she said simply, pushing back her chair. To Eren: "Let's go."
The mess hall erupted into whistles and catcalls as they left, Eren's ears burning, Mikasa's expression giving nothing away.
Outside, the cool night air did little to calm the storm inside him. "What the hell was that?" he demanded as soon as they were out of earshot.
Mikasa tilted her head. "What was what?"
"You know exactly what! Floch was all over you and you just- you just let him!"
Her eyes gleamed in the moonlight. "I didn't realize I needed your permission to speak to someone."
"That's not-!" Eren dragged a hand through his hair, frustrated beyond words. "Since when do you like attention from guys like Floch?"
"Since when do you care?" she countered softly.
The question hung between them, heavy with implications Eren wasn't ready to examine. He stared at her - really looked at her - taking in the way the moonlight caught in her loose hair, the faint flush of alcohol on her cheeks, the knowing look in her eyes that suggested she'd orchestrated this entire scenario.
And suddenly, horrifyingly, he understood.
"You did that on purpose," he accused, voice rough.
Mikasa didn't deny it. She merely adjusted her scarf - a habitual gesture that somehow seemed more intimate now that he'd seen her without it - and started walking toward the barracks. "Goodnight, Eren."
He watched her go, equal parts furious and awestruck, realizing two things with crystal clarity:
Mikasa was far more dangerous than he'd ever given her credit for.
He was so, so completely fucked.