Hey guys, I'm aware that Mikasa was adopted in late 843/early 844, but I changed for a year earlier for timeline issues that I had been encountering.

Here's another chapter. It's not very long, but I have been so busy. Sorry.

Armin was 8. It was late 842.

Angela had a bit more than two years to find a way to get the fuck back to her world before the whole district was annihilated by a Titan; her first instinct was run away and, if necessary, die in the hopes of going back into her own body.

Which was difficult, because Adawolf seemed to have taken upon himself to see to her recovery, promising a place to stay and to work within his household if she accepted it – and he seemed keen on getting her to accept it. Even poor Armin had been tasked to see to her recovery, always sitting with her and telling her about his friends – Eren especially – and the games they would play or about the horrible boys a bit older than him that would beat him and pull his hair whenever he walked alone.

It was also difficult because the Garrison Officers had come by the house more than once, getting information out of her, or at least trying to. Very firmly, she had insisted that she didn't remember anything. Nobody believed her, but nobody doubled down on insisting. It was clear that they imagined the worst of the situation – a young woman dressed in what seemed to be scandalous clothing for them, hurt and seemingly beaten – and she didn't blame them. Though feeling dirty about it, Angela didn't correct them.

Truth was that, when weighing things around, being shot and being attacked by someone didn't feel too different. The sense of disgust, anger and violation was similar enough that she felt a bit less guilty about not correcting them and breaking the illusion that she didn't remember (or didn't want to remember).

Adawolf himself seemed, too, to think that she had been attacked by some nameless man in the woods. She could notice the way he gave her physical space and never touched her unless to help her move around.

By the time they got to 843 (and she learned that they didn't celebrate the turning of the year), she was able to walk on her own and felt well enough to unwrap her ribs.

"You should talk to Doctor Jaeger before just going around without the bands," Adawolf said, watching her move around in one of his shirts that swallowed her almost whole and an old skirt of his wife, that was too long for her.

She folded the sleeves of the borrowed shirt once more and continued helping him with the dishes at the kitchen.

"I'll be fine," Angel dismissed.

Truth is that she couldn't bear to look at Grisha Jaeger without grimacing. She couldn't face him knowing that it would all be for naught, his whole life. In the end his wife would die and he would be devoured by his own son.

While she was aware that he had taken a step back from his original plans on helping humanity for the sake of his wife and son, she couldn't help but be disgusted by his passiveness. He had the power and the means to do good, and yet he didn't.

"Angel, do you think you can come play with us today?" Armin asked.

He had been asking that since she started moving around by herself and helping around the house, peeking through the curtains curiously. While it would be a good way to see around town with a local guide without people stopping her or asking questions, she was too nervous to do that.

The Garrison Officers knew her, knew her story and obvious in their curious and pitiful looks. Some of the people had heard about her from their husbands or sons, they would stare and whisper like they did sometimes when they caught by the window. Besides, she didn't even have the correct clothes; that would get her stared at.

"I don't think so," she said, as she usually answered.

Armin seemed devastated, as he always did.

She pressed her lips together, her heart squeezing, begging her to do whatever Armin wanted when he pouted like that. Armin seemed always so polite and mature in the anime that she would sometimes forget that he was a child, and moments like this – out of the screens and trauma – it reminded her that he was so little and fragile.

"I can't play yet, but I can come and watch you and Eren get wood and play swords soon," she offered.

Adawolf looked at her in surprise through the corner of his eyes, suddenly very still in the kitchen.

The young boy's eyes shone so brightly that it seemed a few tones lighter. She wondered what sort of pain could stop her from ever denying him anything.

"Well, I believe this is a good time to say that I have put some money in your name in the modiste," Adawolf said hesitantly.

She turned her head sharply at him. "What?!"

"Oh, you need dresses, like a proper young lady, Miss!" he said, trying to assume the pose of a scolding father.

"Oh, Adawolf –"

"I already told you –"

"Oh, Pa!" she corrected herself quickly, giving in for the one request he had. "You didn't need to do that."

The only reason that Angela had been mollified by his request of calling him 'Pa' was that fact that Adawolf had probably offered that title to her as a way to prove he had no amorous intentions towards her. She had seen him let a few people around her age let him call him that, too, which comforted her.

"You are young, you deserve to look pretty," Adawolf said, shaking his head at her bafflement. "A dress or two could be a good start if you're going outside."

Interested, Armin looked between the two adults in the room.

"Why not blouses and skirts like Grandma wore?" the boy asked, climbing on the chair near the sink to sit comfortably.

"Because young Angel here is too young to dress like Grandma did," he answered.

No matter how polite or modern Adawolf tried to sound, she knew that deep inside he wanted her to fit in with the older girls her age (mostly younger), even though they were mostly focused on working or finding a husband, or sometimes both.

"Mikasa wears a blouse and skirts, and she's even younger," Armin argued.

"Well, Mikasa is older than me at heart," Adawolf said, tone a bit more serious.

Silently washing the last plate, Angel wondered if Adawolf knew about what had happened to Mikasa and how traumatic the situation had been for her; enough to awaken her Ackerman abilities.

Armin didn't seem able to argue with the idea of Mikasa being an old soul, because he just nodded solemnly and pulled his knees to his chest, feet up the chair. He watched as Angel dried her hands and tucked a runaway part of the shirt she was wearing being under the skirt with some judgment.

"Perhaps a dress would be nice," he admitted, pursing his lips at Angela.

Betrayed, she turned to stare at Armin. Adawolf laughed.

"The decision was made, Angel. Time for the modiste," the old man said with a dramatic shrug. "I'll walk you two there, let me just get my hat."

Adawolf disappeared down the narrow corridor with careful, deliberate steps of someone whose back was hurting. Angel heard his bedroom drawer open, the soft clink of something metal – probably keys – and finally his footsteps returning, slower than before, hat already on his head before he was out of the door.

Amin was on his feet.

"I'm coming with! I'm coming with!" he announced, already halfway to the door.

Angel smiled despite herself.

She hadn't realised how long it had been since she'd stepped outside with intent rather than necessity until she walked out the door. Until that point, the world beyond Adawolf's house existed only as background noise through the windows: carts rattling over stone, voices calling prices, the distant hammering of metal. It felt safe because it was so far away, even thought it was a reminder of where she was – it was manageable because she didn't have to acknowledge it completely.

Now she did.

Adawolf, ever the gentleman, angled his body to block her from the street until she was ready to move out of the entrance of the house, talking to Armin as if giving him instructions on how to behave.

The air outside was still cold at the start of the year, it felt cleaner than anything Angela had ever breathed in her life. Angel pulled Adawolf's borrowed coat tighter around herself, the fabric heavy and unfamiliar, but warm.

People were moving, all in a hurry, busy with things she wouldn't understand. Nobody paid her any mind, and yet she was terrified, because she had no idea of who was in that crowd where she couldn't see all the faces.

"Let's go," she muttered.

She started moving.

The District unfolded in front of her, as if presenting itself to her.

It was smaller than she had expected. Perhaps because in the anime they would see everything through the eyes of Eren, a child, things seemed a lot smaller, quieter, more mundane. Streets curved, houses built well for the time period. Some people were watching them, but trying not to stare with recognition in their eyes.

It settled on her shoulders. 'The woman from the woods', she knew they thought.

She kept her gaze forward. Adawolf tried to block her from the watchers.

Armin did not stop talking.

He had noticed the staring as well and now couldn't stop turning his head around, absorbing everything with the kind of reverence only children and scholars held towards something simple and small, pointing out the most important parts of the city.

"That's where Eren's dad buys medicine. He sometimes sells plants to them, too. I sometimes help him get it," he said, pointing to the apothecary.

"That man fixes Grandpa's boots better than the other one," he said, pointing to an old man sitting on the street.

"Eren broke that window with a snow ball once," he narrated, pointing to the tool shop.

Though Armin tried to distract her, Adawolf wasn't moved. He walked beside her with posture stiff, hands behind his back, strides shorter than his usual. He escorted her as if he didn't trust the very town he was born and raised in.

Angela wondered if what he believed to have happened to her had changed his idea of the sort of people living near him.

The modiste's shop had no sign, just a window of a beautiful dress and fabrics draped across the edges: pale cottons, darker wools, startling blues tucked at the very edge. Angel slowed down, interested.

At the window, her reflection appeared. Her light-coloured hair was pinned back simply, the bangs messy and overgrown, thrown to the side of her face. Face which was thinner than she remembered after so long refusing to eat, too shocked at being somewhere she did not belong and then all the energy she wasted to get better. Soon the colour of her hair would grow out and she'd be left with the common brown she had avoided for a while in her career.

Adawolf cleared his throat.

"I'll wait for you out here," he said, stepping aside.

"What?" she asked, turning to him.

"Men aren't usually welcome in. Young ladies are very vulnerable in there," he said with a grimace, as if he knew far too well the sort of conversation that happened in there. "You understand, right?"

She did.

"But I'm going," Armin said, frowning.

"Armin –"

"You can leave him with me," she answered.

Adawolf looked at his grandson, deep in thought. After a second, he nodded.

"Don't touch anything, don't ask any questions and do not make unnecessary observations," Adawolf ordered.

Armin nodded, though it was clear that he intended to break all those ruled given to him. He followed Angela inside the shop, looking up at the bell that chimed as the door opened.

The inside of the shop was warmer than the street, thick with the smell of fabric and soap, perhaps a hit of a floral perfume. The shop was narrow, but long, walls lines with shelves and rolls of cloth, folded and hang. Dresses hung from pegs, hats balanced in the corner. There was a long counter on one side, full of pins, needles and scissors.

Behind it, the modiste smiled.

A woman in her late fifties, hair pinned back in a severe and simple bun that showed all the happiness she had in her face.

"Oh, aren't you a picture! Adawolf was correct in the description!" she exclaimed.

Angel froze.

The woman's gaze moved quickly, taking in the borrowed clothes and the uncomfortable posture Angela took while they stared at one another. Her eyes shifted to Armin, who was already reaching for a length of satin ribbons.

Angela's hand flew to hold onto Armin's hand to stop him.

"How old is he?" the modiste asked, warmly.

"I'm eight!" Armin supplied before Angel could open her mouth.

"Well, you are a handsome young man and I'm sure you have good taste. Can you help me choose something for your mama?" she asked, gently.

Armin's eyes widened in shock and, for a second, Angela worried he might cry. She didn't know much about Armin's family in the anime, she knew that he had been raised by grandfather and that he died soon after the Wall Maria was breached. Taking the space of mother, even by accident, in just a few months seemed rude.

"Oh, I'm not his mother," Angela said, putting a hand on Armin's skinny shoulder.

Armin continued in silence, lowering his head.

The modiste seemed taken aback by the revelation, but quickly recovered.

"Well, all the same!" she dismissed, lowering her body to look at Armin's face. "You can still help me find something that will make her look ever prettier, right? She looks like she needs something new."

Angel wasn't sure whether to be offended or grateful.

"Find me some cloth in a pretty blue, darling," the modiste said to the boy.

Angela was led to the deepest part of the shop where she was measured; a very uncomfortable and awkward experience, too familiar even with the seamstresses that worked with her since the start of her career, let alone someone she had never seen before.

"You'll want shifts, of course. Proper underthings so you don't feel the seams rubbing. Maybe we can use late-winter things, leave wools for next winter since we're almost done here. A Sunday dress, nothing too fine."

She nodded, listening to the modiste as attentively as possible while also keeping an eye on Armin going around the store with two rolls of fabric that he thought were pretty. One was blue, as the modiste had said, the other was pink for some reason.

As the modiste spoke of shifts, Angela thought briefly (and longingly) about bras. Elastic, straps, claps and the familiar weight and pressure that held her body where needed. All the shifts and not a single use of real underwear made her feel too wrong, too loose and exposed.

"Oh, I love that pink for her!" the modiste agreed suddenly.

Blinking, Angela noticed that Armin was showing off the two fabrics he had chosen.

"They're very good, Armin," Angel praised.

Armin smiled at her.

"We'll make the everyday dress in blue and the especial one pink, what do you think?" the modiste asked.

"What about the other way around?" Armin offered.

They both stared at Angel for her to decide.

"I like pink," she said with a nod. "We'll go with his idea, what do you think, Miss Modiste?"

Armin smiled brightly.

"You may call me Johanna," she said, reaching over for a shorter measuring tape for her measuring of the waist.

Angela had to actively force herself not to flinch when Johanna's hands brushed against her side, touching the ribs. Though they were healed, there was something in her body that waited for the pain every time, even after five months of letting everything heal.

Armin walked to the corner, looking at the masculine hats on the hooks, interested about something for his far future as a grown man. He held no interest in the women in the store talking in a low voice or in Angela and Johanna being silent.

"Are you usually this thin or have you been ill?" the modiste asked.

"Ill," Angel answered.

"Then I won't make the dress too right for your body, leave a bit of room for you to grow into, alright?" the woman said.

Grateful, Angela smiled a bit at the woman.

She did not look at the growing account at the modiste.

More and more, Angela was starting to feel the dread whenever she walked out of the house. No longer she felt scared of finding her murderer, always understanding that – no matter how she had gotten to that world – he had not followed her. But as soon as her eyes saw the gigantic walls, she knew that she was running out of time.

For the next week while she waited for her dresses to be ready, Angel found herself working in the house, cleaning and cooking with the little the house had while Adawolf fished and hunted to sell and eat later.

She didn't have a problem with waiting for Armin to get home from school or waiting for him to get home after playing, because for most of the time she was stuck in a horrifying loop of thought of just how to change the story.

"Angel?" Armin called.

She looked to the front door, seeing him standing there with a frown.

"Oh, hi," she said, smiling. "Food's ready. Come eat."

He walked into the house, still hesitant.

"I called you twice," he said.

"Sorry, I was far away in my thoughts."

"I noticed," he teased. He slipped into the space between chair and table, unwilling to drag the chair further away. "Eren asked if you were going to meet him soon, I said I didn't know. I like that you stay home waiting for me and that food is ready when I get here instead of having to cook it myself, but... I think I'd like it more if you came with me."

Sighing, Angela glanced out the window before nodding.

"Alright, after lunch I'll go with you," she said.

Armin ate faster than ever before, leading Angela out the door as soon as possible. He held her hand as they walked through the streets, happy to lead her through the passages to get faster to the field.

"I'm sure that Eren and Mikasa will be there, waiting for me," Armin said.

She nodded, trying her best to accompany his quick steps, glad that his legs were still shorter than hers.

Before a sharp turn to the left, Armin hesitated, biting the inside of his cheek before holding her hand tighter and dragging her along. They came face to face with three teenagers that smiled at the sight of Armin, smiles dying at the sight of Angela following right behind him, raising her eyebrows at the mischievous mannerisms they had adopted once they saw the young boy appearing.

She recognised quickly. Bullies.

"Hello, boys," she said, voice sickly sweet.

"You called your mum on us, Arlert?" one of the boys barked.

"No –" Armin started.

"We have things to do now, boys. Important things. So, step out of the way and be polite before I find your mothers," she said firmly, pulling her hand out of Armin's grasp.

Angela had walked into fame around her teen years, if there was something that she knew how to do well with deal with mean people that were scared of authority figures. Besides that, after everything Armin and Adawolf had done for her, she wasn't above kicking some teenager's shins as hard as she could.

The boys weren't sure of what to do at first, but soon stepped out of the way to let them pass.

Mentally grateful that she wouldn't have to go into a brawl with a teenager, Angela grabbed Armin's hand and dragged him through the alleyway, not even looking over her shoulder. Armin's hand was too cold and sweaty in hers for her to care about the inconsequential teenage boys they had crossed.

Anything about the bullies escaped her mind quickly.

They had gotten there.

The fields opened into a wide stretch of uneven grass and wildflowers. The Wall loomed in the distance, its shadow long as hours went by. In there, two figures were waiting for them, already playing amongst each other.

Eren Jaeger was standing in the middle of the field, wielding a stick far too large for him as if it was a blade meant to fell the Titans he had read about, his movements exaggerated and dramatic, every swing accompanied by a useless shout of fake effort. Mikasa was with him, arms crossed while watching him before using her stick to hit him several times in all the places she could – she didn't use a lot of strength, but her show of capability compared to her friend's made Eren angry.

Angel stopped walking, heart pounding.

There they were.

Children, innocent and unaware of everything that was going to happen to them, everything that they would have to see. Alive. Whole. Laughing like normal children.

"Eren!" Armin called.

Eren turned immediately, eyes lighting up as he dropped the stick. It was like he had not seen Armin that very morning.

"Armin!" he screamed back, arms waving.

It was Angela's understanding that Mikasa and Eren didn't go to school, unlike Armin. Apparently, their mother – Carla – was the one that taught them to read and do mathematics, dismissive of the idea of someone else doing that to her own children.

Eren ran towards them, skidding to a stop in front of Angel in bafflement, gaze shooting upward at her to take her in.

"You're Angel?" he asked.

"I am," she answered.

"She's the one staying with me and Grandpa."

Eren just stared at her, unabashed at first. "You're really pretty."

Unable to stop herself, Angela laughed.

Mikasa, who hadn't run, looked at with eyes narrowing, trying to decide if she was worth trust. She stepped closer, positioning herself subtly between Eren and Angle in a very deliberate way. Angela almost laughed at that as well.

"Hello," Angel tried. "You must be Mikasa. Armin told me you're new in the group."

The girl took a moment to respond, dark eyes searching Angel's face with unsettling intensity for someone so young. It felt like she was cataloguing everything about Angela, ever detail, every micro expression.

That was the Ackerman Power, Angela thought.

"Yes," she finally answered.

Angela forced another smile, this one softer.

"It's nice to meet you," she offered. That was genuine.

Mikasa nodded, acknowledging her words. Eren cocked his head to the side, reaching over to tug at Angela's sleeve.

"Why are you here?" Eren asked.

"Oh, Armin invited me to watch you play. I don't leave the house much," she answered truthfully. "I wanted to meet you two, he talks about you both a lot."

Eren puffed up at that. "He does?" he asked.

"All the time," Angela said with a slow nod.

Eren smiled, reaching over for Armin and putting his arm around his shoulders and pulled him closer, glowing in happiness and belonging. Mikasa gave a little smirk, glad to be part of the group, even if she wasn't in the hug.

Angel felt the world tilt.

She didn't even hear the sound of Armin telling her he was going to play and pulling away from her. She just sat on the grass and watched the shouting children use sticks as swords, clashing into one another. They played with reckless enthusiasm found only in innocence and naivety, even Mikasa – ever precise and controlled – seemed like a normal child at that moment.

She couldn't move, hands folded in her lap, heart breaking in silence.

All the while, she counted.

The years she still had.

The moments she could still have.

The losses she wouldn't be able to stop.

And she watched, children being children in the field, pretending to one day being heroes, unaware that they would become the very bane of each other's existence at some point. She promised herself that she would change it, that she would save them.

Angela pretended that she didn't know how the story ended.