Chapter Text
You’re smoking the first time you see her, blue eyes meeting brown through the thick white cloud in front of you. She is standing on the corner, wearing a thick pea coat and a red scarf to keep out the chill and waiting for the crosswalk light to turn green so she can get to the other side of the street. You are a few feet away, holding a cheap cigarette up to your lips and trying not to shiver when the wind passes through your thin dress and fishnet tights. You have never been ashamed of your trade, but something about the way she stares you down makes you wish you had brought a jacket, if only to hide your pale skin.
A man passes between the two of you, and you subconsciously crane your neck to keep her in your line of vision. She does the same, and you wonder why. This isn’t like you, you think briefly, but you shake the thought away as she steps forward. She approaches you with wary steps, as if you’ll bite off her pretty, upturned nose if she gets too close. You hope she doesn't try to force her pity on you, that gets old pretty fast these days. You chose this line of work, you weren't one to accept condolences for it.
She doesn't force her pity on you, much to your surprise. Instead, she rubs her hands up and down the sides of her arms, even though you’re sure she couldn't have been cold underneath that expensive-looking coat. Her fingers fiddle with the scarf, pulling it tighter and loosening it again. Her expression is passive and her voice is halting in the cold air as she speaks. “Got a light?”
Interesting. You hadn't pegged her as a smoker. Either way, you nod and produce your nicer Zippo lighter from your purse as she pulls a pack of clove - fucking clove, you think to yourself - cigarettes from her pocket and pulls one out. She presses it between her lips with gloved fingers as she puts the pack away, and you hold the flame up and light it for her. It’s weirdly intimate, and you briefly remember that you sell sex and this shouldn't seem intimate, but it does regardless. You’re suddenly assaulted with a desire to keep her there with you, even though she hasn't shown any signs of leaving. You grind out your cigarette beneath one high heeled shoe and resist the urge to pull out another one.
“Annie,” You say, not reaching your hand out to shake hers but waving your fingers the smallest bit so you don’t seem completely devoid of courtesy. You’re not sure if she saw or not, but something in your stomach tells you she did, so you decide not to press it any further.
“Mikasa Ackerman,” she replies, and you catch the faintest hint of an accent when she says her last name. Her name is pretty, like the rest of her.
“Mikasa,” you drawl, and you decide that you like the way her name rolls off your tongue. She reaches into her pocket and offers you one of her fancy clove cigarettes. You accept with a polite thank you and light it quickly, sighing contentedly at the sweetness and spice that fills your lungs. You realize why people like these so much.
A honk startles you both, and you begin to walk towards the car - you’re sort of accustomed to responding to honks by now; after all, it’s what pays your bills - but Mikasa puts a hand on your arm. “That’s just my brother,” she says, stepping away. The front window rolls down to reveal an angry-looking boy (who doesn't, in fact, look anything like Mikasa, and you’re hard-pressed to believe they’re related by blood), probably not even twenty yet. You’re reminded again of how young you are, and your fake ID seems heavier in your purse despite you only being two years away from legal drinking age. Nineteen seems a hard burden to bear, not for the first time. You wonder how old Mikasa is.
She has one foot in the car when you run to the curb and call after her. “I come here Wednesdays,” you shout, before stepping back sheepishly. Your outburst earns you a few glances, just enough to make embarrassment redden your cheeks. She looks back at you, expression unreadable, and nods.
Then she is gone, and the tail lights of her brother’s Nissan are fading in the distance.
You leave with an older man who reeks of expensive alcohol, and return to your dingy shared apartment later that night, seventy-five dollars richer.
She comes again the next week, unlit cigarette placed neatly between her pursed red lips, and you pull out your lighter again and light it for her. Absently, you wonder if this will become a Thing between you two. You've never had a Thing with someone before. She hands you a smoke as well, and the two of you stand there in silence until your cigarettes have been burnt down to stubs. She grinds hers out with the heel of her - probably designer, if you’re honest with yourself - boot, and you do the same with your department store stiletto. She opens her mouth then, her accent more pronounced with every word she says. You still can’t place where her accent is from.
“Do you only come on Wednesdays, then?” Her syllables are clipped, and she leaves her words sounding unfinished. You like it.
“I've got a better job than this, most of the time,” you say, nodding. “But that just barely pays tuition. I need this one to pay the bills.” She nods, understanding.
“Where else do you work?”
“The university library,” you say, wondering why it matters to her. You’re probably reading too much into it, though. “I can usually get some studying done there if it’s a slow day.”
“Major?” She asks, and you think this is starting to feel like a game of 20 Questions. You can’t really ask for more from a girl you just met, though.
“Psych.”
“My brother’s majoring in Psych,” she says, and you remember the angry-looking kid from the week before. So he is in college. You rack your brains for any memory of the name Ackerman in any of your classes. Nothing. Still, she says he’s in college, so that counts for something. “Mine’s business.”
And apparently, so is she.
She pulls out another cigarette from her - new, you’re pretty sure - pack and brings it up to her lips. You light it for her, commenting dryly on the fact that she smokes almost as much as you. She just laughs it off, her quiet chuckle enough to make your throat go dry and your chest tighten up. Everything about her is so pretty, and you wonder why she wants anything to do with a street corner prostitute like you.
Her brother pulls up then, and before she can leave you’re hastily pulling a pen out of your purse and pushing up the sleeve of her coat. She gives you an odd look, but lets you scrawl out your number on her arm along with ‘Annie’ (though you omit your last name in case things go tits up). She smiles at you and climbs into the car. Her brother gives you a funny look as he drives off, but you couldn't really care.
Your work tonight earns you over two hundred dollars, and you excitedly run home to Bertholdt and Reiner with a case of beer and cash in hand. The three of you drape yourselves over the couch and each other and pop in a movie that Bertholdt had rented, some B-grade action movie that was in the bargain section. About halfway through, your phone buzzes against your skin from its place in your bra.
One new message.
You open it excitedly.
From: Unknown Number
This is Annie, I’m assuming?
-Mikasa
You can’t help the happy little noise that escapes your mouth, and Reiner raises his head from its spot in Bertholdt’s lap to give you a questioning look. You dismiss him with a wave of your hand, willing your face to settle back into the bored expression you normally wear, and type out a response.
To: Mikasa
In the flesh. Didnt think you’d actually use my number.
Not that im complaining though.
She answers in seconds, and suddenly you've lost whatever attention was on the movie in the first place.
You meet her for coffee the next day, as per her request. The place she chose was fancy, and you were sure it was just as expensive as it seemed. You had brought some of the extra cash from your pay last night, you weren't about to make her cover you for this. Even if she was the one who invited you.
As she opens the door for you, you realize that this is her first time seeing you in anything other than your work clothes (you called them that, probably out of respect for yourself). You know that you clean up well, your makeup is lighter than it usually is and your hair is pulled back into a loose ponytail, but you knew that your sweater and jeans look shabby next to her winter coat and boots. You pull off the harrowed college kid look nicely, but it’s nothing next to this girl who screams elegance with every fiber in her body. You feel a little awed.
She makes her way to the counter and ordered something with about seventeen different ingredients, sliding a twenty casually over the counter to the cashier. She only gets a dollar in return. You don’t know why you didn't expect it, after all the girl wore designer coats and smoked clove cigarettes. She must just be one of those rich, pretentious bitches that tormented you throughout high school. You wonder again why she invited you out for coffee. She takes her ridiculously expensive concoction from the counter and retreats to a booth in the back of the cafe, and you follow her a few minutes later with your four dollar latte.
You reflect on how weirdly easy this all seems, sitting across the table from a girl - a very pretty girl to boot, but you’d never tell her that unless you were sure you had at least a bit of a chance - you’d only met on two other occasions. Both of which happened to include you standing on a street corner trying to get laid for money.
You mentally shrug. You chose this job after all, don’t start regretting it now.
She starts up an easy conversation about school, and you learn that she’s a junior and recently turned twenty-one. You wish her a half-hearted belated birthday, and feel the presence of your fake ID burn through the side of your purse. You don’t mention it. Mikasa doesn't seem like she’d condone underage drinking, anyway, and you don’t want to try your luck.
She mentions her brother, and that gives you an opportunity to have a few questions about him answered. You jump at the chance, leaning forward ever so slightly and asking her, “What was his name again? I don’t think you said.”
“Eren Jaeger.” The name sounds familiar, you figure he must have a class or two with you. Still, you’re a bit confused.
“Not Ackerman?”
“Stepbrother,” she answers simply. “More or less.”
“More or less,” you repeat lamely.
“I was adopted,” she continues without missing a beat. You wonder how many times she’s had to do this. It does clear up a lot of confusion, though, especially the question of why Mikasa looks like a walking china doll while her brother is very clearly Turkish. Or at least partly, anyway. Bertholdt’s half Turkish, you know what it looks like and Eren fits the bill. Mikasa looks more oriental. A lot more oriental.
You sip your coffee and nod, trying to stare her down with your icy blue eyes. It usually works on most people, but something about her almost apathetic gaze makes you look away. It’s unsettling, to say the least. It almost feels like she’s studying you, trying to find something that you’re hiding from her. Good luck with that, you think, focusing on keeping your expression as bored as possible. To anyone walking by, it would probably seem like the two of you are fighting. You don’t really care as you stare at her mouth, still unwilling to meet her eyes.
Later you think that might not have been a good idea, as sweat beads across your forehead at the memory of those pink lips wrapping around the lip of her coffee cup. You dig your palms into your closed eyes and down two of the sleeping pills you keep next to your bed, chased by three long gulps of water. Bertholdt and Reiner sleep soundly on, curled up together on the other bed in the single bedroom. You don’t want to wake them up, they work hard enough as it is.
You fall asleep to the thought of clove cigarettes.
You don’t expect her to show up that Wednesday, seeing as she has other ways of contacting you now, but she’s there all the same. Her and that stupid cigarette between her stupid soft lips. You pull out your lighter and light it for her. You could definitely see this becoming a Thing between you two, and you smile inwardly at that thought.
“So, are you only a prostitute on Wednesdays?” You flinch a little at the casual use of the word, and wonder why you’re doubting your decisions so much now.
“I mean, there are a couple regulars who have my number, but for the most part it’s just Wednesday.” Thankfully, you almost add. You had decided to go into this because you liked sex and you liked money, and it made sense to put the two together. You didn't factor in how much it would wear you out. There were days you only barely made it to class, only to fall asleep halfway through the lecture. You were almost never sore, though. You figured anyone that needed to take home a prostitute didn't have the best sex life, and that theory was confirmed every time you went home with someone. But of course, you leave all that unspoken.
Mikasa does that weird thing with her eyes where she strips you of all your defenses and just stares, like she’s reading a goddamn book or something. There’s a flurry of movement, and then her pack of clove cigarettes is in your hand, minus the one currently between her lips. It’s heavy, and you briefly wonder if it’s actually heavier than normal packs or if it’s just some dumb trick your mind feels like playing. You glance at her blank face and she nods, so you shove the cigarettes into your purse without a word. She looks like she’s about to say something, but then her brother pulls up and she just waves goodbye. Your heart does a funny little thump-thump-pang thing inside your chest as Eren drives off with Mikasa in tow.
You light up one of Mikasa’s cigarettes and take a long drag, blowing the smoke out in little rings. A girl comes up to you, asking you something about prices. Her hair is not dark enough and her skin doesn't look like porcelain, but you suppose she’s pretty in her own way, so you pay attention.
“You get what you pay for, honey. What you feel like paying isn't really up to me. We can always negotiate later.” She nods, walking away and gesturing for you to follow. You shrug and obey, it’s been a long time since you had a broad in bed and when she opens her purse for her keys, you catch a glimpse of hundred dollar bills.
She later comments that your mouth tastes like cloves, and you wonder if Mikasa’s does, too.
“What’s your last name?” She asks, as the two of you sit on one of the university benches. Smoke drifts from her mouth as she speaks, and you can’t help but think of how fucking pretty she is and how much you’d like your tongue to be between those lips instead of that fucking clove cigarette and you have to pull the metaphorical brakes on your train of thought because that is dangerous, do not enter, big red signs territory. Instead, you swallow down the lump in your throat and reply.
“Leonhardt,” You say smoothly, inwardly applauding yourself for managing to sound so normal despite the growing obstruction in the back of your mouth. She nods in reply, bringing the cigarette back to her lips and taking another drag. You realize that this is the first time you've told her her your last name, and you can’t help but mentally kick yourself for not telling her sooner.
“Annie Leonhardt,” she says, and you love the way her accent twists your name. You could drown in her voice, as sweet as syrup, and you wish she would talk more often. “Come home with me.”
You almost miss the last part, it was said so quietly, but you nearly choke nonetheless. You stare at her, waiting for her to explain further. She simply repeats her earlier statement.
“Come home with me.”
You don’t refuse.