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No matter how much he tried, Adawolf didn't sleep.

His eyes had closed, his breathing evened, but his mind just wouldn't turn off. Every creak of wood, every cough from across the room or distant footstep had him pulled back into consciousness, awake and searching for Angela. Throughout the whole night, his hand had stretched towards the space Angela usually took to sleep (between the wall and him). None of those times, his hand found her wrist or her form.

Dawn arrived without ceremony or comfort at first, pale and indifferent slipping over the rooftops of Wall Rose and into the narrow alleyways between the shelters. The drizzle from the night before had settled into the dirt, bathing the world in a comfortable and familiar smell of dampness and mud.

Inside the warehouse behind the church, bodies were huddled together. The children slept on, unaware.

Armin's cheek was pressed Mikasa's should, holding onto her sleeve. Eren had shifted during the night, turning on his side, knees drawn upwards, pushing against the wall. They all looked smaller in their sleep, softer – kinder.

Tired of pretending to rest, Adawolf sat up, reaching over to cover Mikasa's legs completely with the blanket even though her long skirt had not budged.

The warehouse's door creaked open.

Adawolf looked just as Angela stepped inside.

He breathed out in relief as he saw her, because for a moment nothing seemed amiss. Upright, breathing, unharmed. Alive. The faint morning light caught in her light-brown hair and turned it red at the edges.

But then he saw her properly.

Her dress was the same she had left in, but now it hung over her like it swallowed her, creased, hastily straightened, twisted around the waist. Just at the edge of the sleeve, above the collarbone, there was a mark that would turn darker in a few hours – perhaps a disgustingly remarkable shade of purple. There was some redness along her wrist, thin and uneven. Her bottom lip looked swollen and tender.

Angela met his eyes.

She raised her right hand, showing him the carefully folded paper that she gripped on a bit too tightly.

"Got it," she said quietly.

There was no triumph or pride in her expression, but he was surprised to see no devastation either. She seemed exhausted in the same way a soldier would be after a battle or a worker after a shift, but nothing other than that.

Adawolf stood up at once, his joints screaming at the movement, but he crossed the short distance between them without hesitation. He took the paper from her without a word, hands trembling.

"It's signed," she whispered.

He unfolded it, looking. The handwriting was uneven, written by a much older hand, and the ink was smudge at the very corner, but it was official.

Adawolf couldn't look away from it.

"Angel," he finally said, not looking away from the paper. "How did you even –" he stopped himself, not finding the correct words to continue.

Finally, he looked up from the page in his hands, blue eyes finding hers.

Angela had turned slightly away from him, smoothing her hair with her fingers gently, trying not to tug at the obvious knots that had appeared there. The motion was automatic, borderline mechanical while her gaze was glued to the sleeping children.

Understanding came in waves, drowning him in the inevitable knowledge – ignorance couldn't protect him from what the young woman had done for him.

"No," he whispered.

It was loud enough for it to be sharp.

She turned to him.

"Pa –"

"You didn't," he continued, shaking his head in denial, words leaving his mouth before he could stop himself. "You said that man liked to talk, that he was much older and... Angel, you said that he –"

"I said I'd bring you the paper by morning," she said, looking away from him again.

"Did it have to be like this?" he asked, shaking the paper in his hand until crumpled at the edges.

Angela turned to him, seemingly apologetic for a second before she pushed that away. There was no defensiveness or self-pity in her voice as she continued with one simple undeniable fact.

"It worked," she muttered.

The simplicity of her answer made his stomach churn.

She didn't want to make him indebted to her or like she had done something outrageous in his name. Angela had gone what she needed to do to make sure he would survive; what she would've done for anybody else that had helped her and cared for her like a daughter after everything she had been through.

In her first life, she had looked the other way and pretended hands weren't raising her skirt in work dinners, smiled at men that were touching her bottom while taking pictures, pretended to be anywhere else but in a bed when producers requested her to. All of that for herself – for her own career, for the money she put on her parents' table. Why would it be any different when she could get the survival of someone she had come to love?

But Adawolf didn't know that.

He just looked at the bruise in the base of her throat again. She crossed her arms and watched as his face turned into a red grimace of anger.

"That bastard," he muttered, saliva jumping from his mouth.

Fury that she had never seen before in somebody's eyes looked back at her, searching for someone that she couldn't give: an explanation.

She stepped forward immediately, closing the space between them before the sound could carry much further. She jumped into his arms because she knew the only thing he wouldn't hurt would be her – not when she had been hurt for his sake.

"Pa, no!" she said, urgent.

"That man touched you for a piece of paper!" he said, the words thick in disbelief.

She inhaled slowly, as if the next words were much heavier than she wanted them to be.

"I offered," she corrected.

The distinction was important in the eyes of the law, but it wasn't for a father. Still, it hit him like a slap across the face, making Adawolf stare at her.

"Why?" he asked, voice cracking.

"Because you're 'Pa'. You are staying," she said gentle, but firm. She looked at the kids again. "I did this for us, and I'd do it again, if needed. I'd do so much worse if that's what it took for us to be together."

Adawolf closed his eyes, shaking his head.

No matter how much Angela wanted to, the anger didn't vanish.

When she first arrived, lost and scared of something that nobody seemed to be able to understand, Adawolf had hated a nameless and faceless men. Now that he knew the truth (to some extent) he hated the world he lived in that required something like this from her; hated himself for not being able to stop it.

"You should've told me what you were going to do," he said.

"You would've tried to stop me, and I'd have to go anyway," she replied.

He had no answer to that, because she was right.

Carefully, approaching something precious and fragile, Adawolf reached for her and touched her shoulder gently.

"Please, never do that again," he whispered.

Angela held his gaze a moment too long. Then gave him the smallest of smiles, unrepentant of her actions.

"Let's hope not," she answered softly.

It wasn't sure or certainty. It wasn't anywhere close to what Adawolf wanted to hear, but it was more than nothing.

There was a heavy feeling of dread to the few survivors left as the government officials collected names and stories to create new documentation, after all, it wasn't like they had time enough to get their papers before running away from their deaths.

Well, Angela didn't even have any papers. Though Adawolf told her not to mention that part as their turn started to get approach.

The day was warm and many of the survivors stank. They hadn't been allowed any sort of privacy for long enough to wash themselves, though Angela had managed to convince a kind woman to let Eren, Armin and Mikasa use a little room of her inn for no more than an hour for a bath – she even allowed Angela to pay half the price of the hourly stay.

Still, the unlucky adults that held no money with them, smelled like sweat, blood and horror. Angela's stomach was churning, so she mostly stayed silent, trying not to breathe through her nose as they waited.

"My name is Abigail, I'm here to get your information for new paperwork. Name, age and last job or school name," the young woman in front of them said, trying to find a position to write everybody's information.

"Adawolf Arlert, 69, professional hunter and fisher," Adawolf answered. He reached for the kids, putting a hand on Armin's and Eren's shoulder. "My grandson, Armin Arlert, 10, Shiganshina District School. And my wards, Eren Yaeger, 10, same school; Mikasa Ackerman, 10, same school."

The woman wrote everything down, looking at Eren and Mikasa for a second longer than Angela would have liked.

"And your parents?" she asked directly to the kids.

"Dead," Mikasa said.

She had been purposefully cold, staring at the woman's eyes with some fire behind her eyes. She narrowed her whole face, inviting the woman to dare ask another question over such a personal and sad matter.

"And – And yours?" Abigail tried again, stuttering a bit as she turned her eyes to Eren.

The boy looked down, not allowing his tears to come, but looking so utterly devastated that Abigail had to look away. Her hands slowed down, writing 'orphan' beside Eren's name with obvious compassion.

After a second to recover her breath after her feelings were hurt, she turned and looked at Angela, taking a deep breath and preparing for another wave of questioning.

"That's my daughter," Adawolf said before Angela or Abigail could talk. "Angela Arlert, 25."

She had to use everything in her to not look at Adawolf with the same surprise she felt deep inside, her stomach jumping in startlement. Angela had never expected to be adopted while past her twenties – she had been so taken aback that she didn't even have the energy to correct her age. After all, twenty-four and twenty-five aren't that different.

Abigail wrote it down. "Last professional venture?"

"Barmaid," Angela managed to answer, voice small and shaky.

Apparently, that was the wrong thing to say, because the young woman gave her a look filled with judgment before looking down at the kids. Then, Abigail gathered her things and walked away, searching for the next group of survivors, waiting for food or help from the usual channels.

"Pa –" Angela started, turning to Adawolf.

He smiled without much concern.

"Just made it official now, eh?" he said, lighthearted.

Armin smiled as well and Mikasa cocked her head to the side, expression softening for a moment. But Eren didn't look up from his own feet, distraught at the memories of his mother dying in front of him.

Angela dismissed her happiness, reaching for Eren's head and caressing his hair gently.

"Adawolf saying that you're his ward will make sure they'll keep us together, alright?" she said, trying to get his attention. "We're not going to leave you, Eren. We are here for you, honey. Don't forget that."

Eren nodded, but didn't raise his head.

Mikasa took a little step towards Eren, not touching him, but making sure her presence was felt and known.

Adawolf looked up, trying his best not to be moved by Eren holding back tears. While he hurt for the loss of Carla, a good woman that had helped Armin and Angela when he couldn't, he knew he needed to be strong for the kids – they were suffering a lot more than him. Even Angela was suffering, grieving.

"Children, go on ahead and get in the line for bread," Adawolf said, pointing.

Mikasa was the first to walk, dragging Eren by the hand to the gathering of people a bit further ahead. Armin hesitated, not wanting to leave his grandfather, but in the end followed his friends to get food.

Once they were left alone, Angela turned to Adawolf again.

"Why did she give me that look when I said I was a barmaid?" she asked, curious.

"Oh, that's... hm..." Adawolf started, cheeks dusted pink. Flustered, he sat down on the bench against the church, crossing his arms. "That's the euphemism many of the women of entertainment houses use when asked about their jobs. It's not as common anymore, most brothels are down at the Underground now and – oh... do you know what the Underground is?"

Angela nodded. "Yeah."

"Oh, alright," he said, seemingly suspicious of her knowledge, but made no mention of it. "Anyway, it was just a misunderstanding."

She nodded again, acknowledging the situation.

Before being a famous singer, she had often danced here and there for other singers. Whenever she said she was a singer, people expected her to be a stripper. It wasn't that different from that, apparently. No matter where or when she was, women would always be misunderstood and sexualised regardless of the truth.

Well, she might have been part of the problem now that she stopped to think of it. She had used her sexuality and body to get positions or favours in the awful, rotten industry of entertainment back at home.

"Angel?"

She blinked, turning to face the man again. Startled, she realised that she had been staring off the distance.

"Yeah? Sorry, I got distracted," she said, shifting from side to side.

Adawolf pressed his lips together, watching her through narrowed eyes. He could see the way she had somehow been lost in thought, and he couldn't blame her too much about it. He, too, had been lost in thought often – especially when he got to the point of thinking about the heavy doctor's note he had given the military, and everything she had most likely done to get it for him.

"I can see that," he answered.

"Remember what I told you about? The thing about me knowing things," she muttered. Adawolf nodded. "There is a blank for a few years of what I do know, so I have no idea of what happens next for a while."

He gave her a weak attempt of a smile.

"That comforts me," he admitted.

She frowned, sitting beside him and turning her face towards him to read her facial expression.

"How can the unknown comfort you, Pa?" she asked.

"Because I know it'll be you and just you for a while. Leave whatever desire to save the world you have for later," he explained. "Didn't you say that you left it alone because you wanted the children to be children just a bit longer? Well, now it's your turn to be yourself a bit longer."

"I'm not a child anymore," she answered.

"When you get to my age, sweetheart, everybody else is a child," he quickly dismissed. He smiled, putting an arm around her shoulders – she didn't flinch. "I'm not asking you to be a child, but I am asking you to be my child. Trust me. Tell me things. Let me help you."

Not since the moment she had woken up in that universe, that was so bloody and violent, had Angela felt so well-protected and powerful as in the arms of the man that loved her so completely and innocently as Adawolf.

"Pa... so many people are going to die," she confessed.

"We'll see what we can do," he offered comfort.

He didn't have any miraculous idea or some sort of meticulous plan that could lead the world to victory and peace; he had the love of a father given to a vulnerable woman, and she had the heart to take it.

Angela nodded, accepting that.

"Yes, we will," she answered.

And she hoped it was true.

The thing about being Adawolf's daughter, was that nobody said otherwise. Most of the adults that remembered the situation that brought Angela forth were dead and the children – staving, grieving and lonely – did not care enough to say otherwise.

What surprised Angela about the whole situation was the great misunderstanding of her motherhood towards Armin. In her documentation (which made her a year older than her own age, making it possible for her to be a teenage mother), Armin was listed as her son. At first, Angela had been quite uncomfortable about it, feeling out of place, as if tyring to fit into a mould that wasn't hers to begin with, but was quickly shot down by Adawolf and Armin alike when she brought up the request for fixing the mistake.

"We don't want to give them any more reason to look into you, see that there are no paper trails about you," Adawolf had said.

"Well, I never had a mother before," Armin added later in the afternoon.

But that wasn't true.

Armin might not remember his mother very well since she passed when he was so young, but he certainly had one – and one that loved him. Taking over that role so officially felt disrespectful.

Her awkwardness over the subject wasn't ignored. When the children went to sleep later on that night, Adawolf sat beside her.

"My son and his wife would've been grateful about how you take care of Armin, they wouldn't hesitate for a single moment to let you take over the bureaucracy paperwork for Armin's sake if they could repay you for everything you did already," he had comforted her, putting an arm around her shoulders again.

That was the only reason that Angela accepted to be quiet about the mistake.

And about the added responsibilities that came with it.

Angela sat, still and awkward, in front of the teacher who had her hands on her hips, staring down at her as if expecting her to do something about the fact that Armin had gotten into a fight in school.

The teacher was a woman much taller than Angela, broad-shouldered and with her hair usually down and oily. Eren had complained about her so much that the school moved him from her class, which meant that Mikasa had followed.

Which was also one of the possibilities as to why Armin had made such a mess.

"... lack of stability and social abilities to start a conversation without going into a physical violence," the teacher was speaking.

Beside her, Armin stood, head low, eyes rimmed red from crying and a bruise at the side of his face.

"He's hurt too, though," Angela said, pointing. "I don't know what happened to the other boy, but Armin has a bruise as well, therefore the fight wasn't one-sided. And Armin isn't one to jump into fights, either. Something has to have happened to get to this point."

"It doesn't matter –" the woman started.

Angela turned to the boy. "What happened?" she asked.

"It really doesn't matter what –" the woman tried to cut off.

"I'm asking my son about it, not you, ma'am," Angel said firmly, avoiding even to look at the direction of that horrid woman. "Armin, what happened?"

Armin put his hands behind his back.

"He pulled a girl's hair," he said. "So, I punched him, then he punched me back – a lot harder than I. But it's alright, because she punched him even harder afterwards."

It was so jarring that Angela just stared at him, speechless. She had never thought that Armin would start a fight over something like that – sure, she expected some sort of scolding, perhaps him running to the teachers, but never him stepping up and...

Oh...

"And who was the girl?" she asked.

His cheeks flushed and he didn't answer at first.

"Just a classmate," he said.

Angel had to hold back her own smile as she nodded, suddenly understanding the situation.

The nice thing about the blank period was how absolutely surprising shit was when it happened. Eren, apparently, was quite the troublemaker, making him well known through the Garison soldiers, including Hannes, who came to visit once or twice and helped Adawolf find a suitable house for the family a month into their haven. Mikasa, apparently, was heartbreaker since very young and mostly because she was oblivious to the boys' feelings rather than rejecting them straightaway (which Armin thought to be hilarious).

Adawolf, who wasn't even meant to be alive in canon, had managed to find a job in a butcher's shop and made enough money to put food on the table. It wouldn't be enough had Hannes not found them a house and given it to them for a very small price.

"Hm," she hummed, trying to control herself. Angela turned to the teacher. "Well, it seems like it was in defence of a classmate, which I'm certain the girl said when you talked to her, of course."

The teacher's face went red.

"Of course. It's just that, since Armin and Eren are friends, I thought it would be a good idea to –"

"It wasn't," Angela said, cutting her off and crossing her arms. "You were wrong, therefore it wasn't a good idea."

"Ma'am –"

"I request that Armin is moved classes. I'm certain that Eren and Mikasa are missing him," Angela continued, trying to keep her tone as dismissive as possible. She cleared her throat, turning to the boy again. "Is that ok? Do you want to stay here?"

His eyes widened, shaking his head so harshly that his cheeks trembled. Armin didn't even glance towards his teacher, eager to refuse the absurd idea.

"I most certainly do not!" he squeaked.

Angela smiled at the woman.

"Well, there you have it," she said.

By the time Angela got Armin out of school, where they walked together back home in the afternoon, she smirked. Though she tried to control herself, she was quite delighted that Armin was having normal experiences; a smile seemed somewhat an understatement of her body to the real happiness she was feeling at that moment.

Armin didn't need to look at her and read her expression to understand exactly what she was thinking.

"It's just a classmate!" he insisted out of nowhere.

"I believe you."

"I'm being serious!" he said.

"I believe you."

Armin scoffed, crossing his arms.

"What's her name, though? Your classmate," Angela asked.

"Annie."

It was like Angela had been slapped in the face.

"Annie what?" she asked, happiness dying down like old embers.

"I don't know. I never asked," he admitted, looking down and kicking some dirt as they continued walking.

There was no way that she was could be sure, after all 'Annie' was a common enough name.

The fact that the age matched and she knew, for certain, that Annie and her company (Reiner and Bertholdt) were within the Walls and within the same area as her and the kids.

Fuck. It hurt to think that they were kids too. Most likely they were small and scared, amongst men and women they were taught to see as demons growing up, trying to be strong and brave in a world that they didn't know nearly as well as they thought they did. But her sympathy certainly would run out sooner or later. They were soldiers – programmed and brainwashed, but soldiers nonetheless. They were there to do a job, and they would try their best to do it, no matter what or who was in the way.

The memory of the scene of Annie twisting the wire of an ODM gear and using to shake a soldier made her stomach roll.

They were real people.

They were real people, that Angela could interact with and smile to – and they would most likely smile back.

"Are you alright?" Armin asked, frowning at her.

She had stopped walking.

"Hm? Oh, yeah," she said, catching up to him quickly. "Hm... by the way, I made dinner, but I won't eat with you all tonight, ok?"

Armin blinked up at him, lips pursing.

"You got a job?" he asked.

"Yes," she said, nodding. "Not too far from the house, so if something happens and your grandfather isn't home by dinner, you can come get me, ok? It's at that inn near the teahouse, the one you all bathed in, remember?"

"Yeah," he grumbled, nodding.

"Are you going to be alright by yourself with Eren and Mikasa?" she asked needlessly.

None of the children had ever complained about being alone before.

"Yes, it'll just be a bit odd until we get used to it," he said with a shrug. "But what did you make for dinner?"

She smiled, putting a hand over his head as they continued to walk.