Chapter Text
Things weren’t always so bad.
You met Floch your sophomore year of college through a mutual friend, Eren. His girlfriend, Mikasa, was your roommate in the dorms freshman and sophomore year. You both got along right off the bat, so she introduced you to her friend group. You fit right in with everyone as if you knew them for years and years.
You buddied up with Marcel, who you knew because of your Latin courses; he was a senior, but you had credits from high school, so you tested into the senior level course. As a result, Marcel would invite his younger brother Porco.
Porco caught your eye instantly.
He was handsome, fairly arrogant, and had a temper to match Eren’s. Even so, when it was the two of you, he was quiet, kind, and he made you laugh.
God, did he make you laugh.
Your sides would hurt and you’d squeeze your legs together from laughing so hard, and your laugh was so infectious it caused the others to laugh, too. Porco rivaled Connie with how hysterical he was, but when the two worked together? They were legendary.
One day, Eren brought around Floch.
Floch was all shy smiles, nervous chuckles, and bright blue eyes. He was charming in an endearing way, so when he asked for your number, you gave it to him. He’d get it in the group chat anyway, right?
And then he asked you out.
You had hesitated, because you were holding out hope that Porco would ask you. You guys even had a moment, one night after a party, where you stared at one another when you said goodbye and you wondered if he would kiss you.
He didn’t.
So you said yes to Floch.
At first, he was sweet. He’d make you feel special and loved, and encouraged you in all that you did. You both graduated at the same time, making for some adorable photos and when he kissed you, his cap knocking into yours, he asked you to move in with him. Of course you said yes with a stomach full of butterflies, but something kept you from telling Porco, who found out through Mikasa.
Shortly after you moved in, he became more possessive. Jealous. He wanted to know who you saw and where.
On an ordinary afternoon, Porco texted you with a request to talk. Your gut twisted, but not as much as it did when Floch told you that he didn’t want you to go.
“I just don’t trust him,” he explained as he washed the dishes with more vigor. “Didn’t you like him, before we got together?”
You wanted to explain that was two years ago, but you bit your tongue.
“I won’t go, then,” you settled for. Floch seemed to accept your reply and dropped the topic.
You didn’t text Porco back.
The first time he hit you was around six months later. It’s his 24th birthday, and yours was only a month after. You took him out to a nice restaurant and you both drank a lot of wine.
The ride home was full of light-hearted conversation.
As soon as you were inside the house, he slammed the front door shut. You paused your removal of your heels, a hand against the wall to balance yourself, as you stared at him.
“What is it, baby?” You asked cautiously.
He fixed you with a cold glare. “You kept flirting with the waiter.”
Concern crept up the back of your neck. “Floch, come on. He was being nice. That was it.” You looked back down at your heels as you took off the other one, placing it on the ground as you spoke. “What’s wrong with being nice back? I just—“
As you raised your head, suddenly your cheek stung and you stumbled back. Your own hand flew to your face where Floch’s collided, and you gaped at him.
He hit you.
His expression fell when he approached you, but you took a step back. He followed you until your back hit the wall, but his touch was gentler. Remorseful.
He whispered apologies in your ear and swore it was an accident, that it would never happen again. You cried and nodded along, believing all of it.
Every word was a lie.
You stopped talking to your friends. You didn’t answer their calls. You avoided them if you saw them in public.
Makeup was no longer something you used to feel good about yourself. Instead, it was all a tool to cover up the bruises on your face and neck.
Floch no longer apologized when he hurt you.
Your outfits began to change.
Long sleeves hid the hand-shaped bruises on your arms. High necklines concealed marks on your neck.
Your legs were often free of signs of his temper, save for some scraped knees when you were shoved to the ground. He stopped having sex with you frequently, and when he did, it was the only time he’d listen if you asked him to stop.
Outside of the bedroom, though...
You had the wounds to remind you of his idea of affection.
You rush home.
Far too much time has passed.
You had gone around the block for a walk, wanting some fresh air before you made dinner. Once you started dinner, you had to brace for Floch’s arrival from work. His work day would dictate how his mood would be when he came home, and even his good moods aren’t that great, recently.
You had gotten distracted talking to Reiner as he was leaving for work—he lives on the opposite corner of the block. He feeds the neighborhood cats. He makes sure to stop and talk to you every time he sees you; he’s incredibly perceptive, which makes you worry he sees through you, but if he does, he doesn’t say so.
He’s also a cop.
You don’t tell Floch about your almost daily conversations.
They’re harmless, and friendly, but Floch doesn’t like other men paying attention to you.
When you round the corner and approach home, you nearly stop entirely.
Floch’s car is in the driveway.
You rush inside, breathless, and his shoes aren’t by the front door. You step into the kitchen and halt when you see Floch leaning against the fridge, arms crossed, and a deep frown on his lips.
“Floch! You’re home early,” you observe with a plastered smile. “How was work?”
“Where were you? Why weren’t you home?” He demands, looking you up and down before turning away in disgust. Your yellow floral dress isn’t out of place, nothing incriminating in your body language aside from nervous tension.
“I took a walk,” you answer honestly. He seems frustrated, looking down at his tie as he yanks at it to pull it loose. “I thought I had more time—“
You’re filled with panic when Floch turns to you, his blue eyes narrowed to slits, piercing and pinning you to the spot. You know better than to move away.
“Floch, honey,” you try to pacify him but your voice is shaking too much. “Why don’t you come sit? I was about to make dinner.”
“Oh yeah?” He asks, though his voice is dripping with sarcasm. You nod, and are about to assure him that’s why the chicken is out thawing on the counter, but he hits you with the back of his hand. Between his bony knuckles and his university class ring, you feel your cheek sting and your lip split. You don’t dare lift a hand to inspect the site, willing yourself to stay still as he walks to the opposite counter where the chicken is sitting in a bowl of water beside the sink. There’s dishes drying in the right half of the sink.
You swallow dryly, awaiting his next words.
“Why do you insist on being so dishonest with me?” He asks, running a hand through his red hair. “I’ve done nothing but love you.”
“Honey, I do—“
“Then why are you talking to other people about me?” He looks somehow hurt, as if he’s the one who’s too afraid to move, despite the blood that trickles down your chin and into your cleavage, staining your dress.
He loves this dress. He spent a lot of money on this dress, and now it’s ruined.
He’ll blame you—it is your fault, after all.
“You’re lucky that I’ve put up with you for so long. You know what would’ve happened if I wasn’t so kind to you?”
Amidst his ranting, the crazed look in his blue eyes, and the way he’s throwing glasses and plates without a second thought, you sense a shift in him.
And then, somehow through you rapidly shutting down, you see it.
A terrifying realization settles over you, and the sounds of Floch’s gravely threats and breaking glass fade into a distant, muffled sound.
He’s going to kill you.
You’re going to die.
You blink, and the sounds come rushing back. Suddenly, it’s all overwhelming, too much, and you can’t breathe. Your chest is tight and there’s pressure on your sternum even though Floch is across the room, taking your favorite mug and slamming it on the ground. The sound of it shattering into pieces makes you flinch, and you try to form an escape plan.
You need to get away. You briefly worry about him reaching the silverware drawer where the knives are stored, but he could use his hands just as easily to steal your last breath.
“—and you’re not even listening.” He’s glaring at you, and shit, you messed up. “You stupid bitch. What, you daydreaming about that cop’s dick, right?”
“What?” No, there’s no way. “Floch, no—“
“Stop lying to me!” He screams as he crosses the room, the soles of his boots crushing the broken glass. “I found his business card that you hid away.” Your eyes widen, betraying you, and he jumps to the worst conclusion. “Oh my god, you did fuck him.”
“No—“
Your assurances die on your tongue as his hand comes around your throat, and you’re unable to breathe.
He tightens his hold and your pulse throbs in your temples as he leans in close, his eyes deranged as he speaks in a low, threatening voice.
“You know, this is the one thing I’ve spared you from. I could’ve taken you so many times, even when you said no, but I knew you’d never hurt me. Not like this. Guess I was wrong.” You’re past panic, desperation making you claw at his hand to loosen enough for you to take a breath. “I’ll remind you what you’re missing every time you fuck him.”
He releases your throat, and you gasp for air through a few hoarse coughs as he forces you to spin around, gripping your arm to hold you in place before moving to your hair, grabbing a handful in a vice-like hold. Dread paralyzes you for a moment as he pushes up your dress, and then rips your underwear from your waist. When he fails to fully tear the fabric, he grunts angrily as he finishes the job, discarding it on the floor with the glass. Despite the pain in your scalp, you manage to focus, despite the sound of him fumbling with his belt, you see the coffee maker on the counter, barely within reach.
The sound of his belt buckle stops, and you feel the leather of it brush your inner thigh.
You know what’s coming.
It’s inevitable.
You don’t even think.
You snatch the coffee pot by the handle, whipping around and nailing Floch straight on his forehead. He stumbles back a step, dazed, his fly halfway undone and his expression disoriented before he rights himself. He practically snarls at you, animalistic, and he’s about to hit you again—he’s going to kill you—but you hit him again, harder this time.
The glass pot breaks apart as you make it collide with his head again, and this time he falls back, blood on his face where the glass must have cut him. You don’t care.
You drop the handle and you run for it, the glass cutting through your flats as you sprint from the kitchen, through the front door, and off the porch. You stumble as you hit the street, losing your shoes, but you don’t feel the sting of the hot gravel or tiny glass shards in your feet as you run.
You run, and run, adrenaline carrying you on even when you feel a stitch in your side and your airways tighten. You ignore the honks of cars nearly hitting you or the shouts that follow. Your body is screaming at you to keep going, don’t stop, you can’t let him catch you.
You don’t know how far you run until you find it.
You burst through the front door of the building, and the receptionist stands, her expression full of surprise and concern at the sight of you.
“Reiner,” you manage to get out before you fall to your knees, your hands supporting yourself as you lean forward on the carpet. “I need Reiner.”
You gasp for air, trying to fill your lungs, but every breath hurts as your ribs expand. Your hair falls into your face, and you watch as drops of blood fall on the plush green carpet, and you tense as you realize you’re making a mess. You wipe your face, and you’re shocked to see blood on your hand when you pull it back.
No wonder the receptionist looked so worried.
You don’t know if it’s Floch’s blood or your own, although it’s probably both, but you don’t get to dwell on it as a gentle hand is on your shoulder. You flinch back, but a part of you relaxes as you look up to see Reiner.
He’s in a pressed suit, looking like an image of perfection, but his face is pulled into one of fierce emotion—a blend of concern and anger.
He’s saying your name as you’re struggling to focus on his voice.
“He’s going to kill me,” you tell him, and that shuts him up. “He—he...”
“Who?” Reiner says your name again as he tilts his head, trying to catch your eye. When he repeats your name, he doesn’t have to touch you to force you to look him in the eye because his voice is suddenly full of authority, demanding you to look at him. “Who’s going to kill you?”
Your words falter, and you feel a sob coming up your throat.
“Who?” Reiner demands.
“Floch,” you whisper before you crumble, lowering your head as you squeeze your eyes tight and the tears begin to spill over. “Floch.”
Reiner takes you to the hospital.
You’re offered a choice between a male or female doctor. You don’t care—you don’t even want to be here, but you can’t go back home, so you’re given a female doctor named Dr. Brzenska, but she says you can call her Rico. The nurse who helps her is a man, and you’re shocked when he walks into the exam room.
Marcel.
Instinctively, you tense; this is humiliating, and he’s going to know what happened.
Does that mean...?
Marcel says your name.
You focus on him.
“Is it okay that I’m here?” He asks you, glancing at Reiner and Rico. “I didn’t know you were the patient.”
You look at the other two in the room, who are patiently waiting your decision. You look again at Marcel, his hazel eyes wide as he allows you to set a boundary if you want it.
The thought of someone else seeing you, knowing why you’re here, makes you shift in your seat. You nod, casting your gaze to your lap.
“You can stay.”
You want to ask about Porco, if he’s still living in the city, but you refrain.
The doctor begins her examination, and you can see the visible shift in her expression as well as Marcel’s as they document every injury on your body. Reiner is at your bedside, eyes kept respectably on his notepad as he jots down everything you say as he asks about what happened. Your voice shakes and you nearly cry, but you manage to hold back. You stare at a spot on the wall or the ceiling as you’re tended to, and you only catch a glimpse of Marcel’s concerned gaze a few times. He’s silent aside from small questions about injuries or if it’s okay if he adjusts a part of you, if he can touch you to clean up a cut or ensure your bruises aren’t a bruised or broken bone.
Marcel is bandaging your feet when the questions about Floch stop. The adrenaline has long since worn off, leaving you exhausted and numb to the pain. You had embedded tiny pieces of glass in your foot from running barefoot in the street, but they pulled out all they could, and you glance down at Marcel at your feet.
Reiner asks you one more question.
“This should be more than enough to arrest the son of a bitch who did this to you. Still, you shouldn’t go home yet. Do you have anywhere you can go stay for a little bit?”
You tense up as you draw a blank.
“N-No,” you tell him quietly.
“No family you can stay with? No friends?”
You shake your head shyly, furrowing your brows in embarrassment. Floch ensured you pushed away all of your friends once you both graduated from university, and your parents live in a different state.
You don’t even have your wallet or your phone, so you can’t go to a hotel.
You have nothing.
“Hey,” Marcel softly interjects, prompting both you and Reiner to look his way. “You can come stay with me. Porco and I share an apartment downtown. We have a third room that you can have so you have somewhere safe to stay.”
You meet his gaze, your eyes wide. You don’t want to impose, but you don’t have anywhere else to turn to.
So all you do is nod, fighting off tears.
Marcel is as patient and warm as you remember.
He lets you into the apartment first, flicking on the lights as soon as he’s inside behind you. He apologizes for the mess in the kitchen, but you don’t even notice. Your body is moving slowly from exhaustion, though your guard is way up.
The door shutting behind you is quiet, a mere click, but you still turn to glance at Marcel.
“Porco is probably asleep,” he tells you, giving you a smile. “Your room is down the hall, second door on the right. Its the main room—Pieck moved out a week or so ago, and we haven’t taken it back over. There’s a bathroom connected. Are you hungry?”
You hug your stomach; you’re somewhere between queasy and aching, so you shake your head.
“Thank you,” you mutter as you avoid his gaze. “For everything.”
“Isn’t that what friends are for?” He asks rhetorically.
A lump forms in your throat as you can’t bring yourself to argue his point. With another hushed phrase of gratitude, you retreat to the main bedroom. You lock the door behind you and skimp against the door.
You can’t bring yourself to shower yet, so you just crawl onto the bed.
Curling up stop the sheets, you allow yourself to sob.