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Description
The tavern was unusually crowded that night. Never had you seen so many soldiers in one place, fifty uniforms all emblazoned with the blue and white Wings of Freedom. They belonged to the Survey Corps, and had returned once again from another (presumably) failed expedition. They had suffered heavy losses as usual, and many were here to forget the trials they had been through. Some, however, were bolder, openly celebrating their success of returning in one piece. One such soldier was drunkenly boasting his skills, claiming he had killed fifty Titans unassisted.

“Tch, yeah right,” you said under your breath, rolling your eyes at the soldier. You turned away, back to your drink and the bartender, who was watching you curiously, polishing a glass with his apron.

He glanced at the soldier, who was now in the process of acting out one of his amazing kills. “Ah, we’re so lucky to have such brave young men like him protecting us from those nasty Titans,” he said sarcastically.

You giggled, and his face broke out into a soft smile.

“Another drink, [Name]? On the house.”

“No thanks, Felix,” you replied. “I think I’ll leave soon. It’s much too noisy in here for my liking.”

As you lifted what remained of your drink to your lips, you felt eyes on you, boring into the back of your head. Placing the drink back on the counter, you swiveled on the bar stool, searching the tavern with your [e/c] eyes. They met gazes of green and blue and red-rimmed and swollen, but none retained the contact for more than a few moments. You still felt as though you were being watched, however, so you kept scanning the crowd. Your eyes fell on a figure hunched in the far corner where the flickering firelight could not penetrate.

He was lazing in his seat, leather-shod feet propped on the table before him and a half full bottle of whiskey dangled from his right hand. His face was mostly in shadow, hidden by drapes of ebony hair, but you could feel his unwavering gaze.

You felt a shudder creep through you and a flush begin to spread across your cheeks. Embarrassed, you turned back to your drink.

“On second thought, Felix, I will take that drink.”

You shifted uncomfortably in your seat as Felix poured you another glass of wine. Risking another glance at the corner, you noted the man no longer appeared to be watching you, but rather was following the movements of the drunken soldier from before as he made his way staggering to the bar.

As he approached, he noticed you, and began to make a beeline (or as much of one as he could in his state) to the stool beside you.

“Well, hello,” he said, his eyes skating up and down your body and licking his lips. You made a disgusted sound deep in your throat and ignored him, sipping at your wine.

“Aw, don’t be like that,” he said, attempting to shift closer to you. You could feel his hot breath on your neck, smell the stench of the cheap beer he had been drinking. He moved to place his hand over yours, but you moved it out from under his, causing him to knock your drink all over the front of your clothes.

You cried out at the shock of the cold wine against your skin and in anger at the soldier beside you.

“Well, shit,” he said, chuckling. “Looks like you ruined your clothes. Maybe you should just take-“

You were in the process of curling your right hand into a fist with which to punch the stupid grin off the soldier's face when he suddenly stopped dead. You looked up to find a gun pointed at the soldier’s head, pressing against the soft flesh of his temple. He dared not make a move. The bar had gone completely silent.

“Apologise to the lady,” said a low voice. It was the man from the corner, his hand gripping the pistol. He was shorter that he had seemed, yet somehow he exuded a power, one that left your body shivering and your mouth dry. His black bangs fell over grey-blue eyes, shrewd and cold, and his mouth was a hard line against his pale skin.

“I-I meant no disrespect,” stuttered the soldier, sweat beading on his ruddy face.
The man pressed the gun more firmly against the soldier’s temple, causing him to whimper.

“I said, apologise,” repeated the man, his voice laced with venom.

The soldier swallowed and glanced at you before casting his eyes to the ground. “Sorry,” he muttered. Only after you had nodded your acceptance did the gun release its pressure. The soldier visibly relaxed, but sweat still beaded his brow.

“Better,” said the man. “Do you know who I am?”

The soldier shook his head. He gulped as the gun moved to the hollow of his throat and the man stepped in front of him so that he could look upon his face.

“Then remember my face, because the next time you see it will be your last,” the man growled. “Now get out.”

He released the gun, and the soldier scurried backwards, cursing as he exited the bar. The man slipped his gun back into his coat, which was lazily draped across his broad shoulders.

“Tch, scum,” he said and, ignoring you, made his way back to his place in the corner.

Stunned, you looked after him. You blinked, seeming to come back to yourself, and called after him. “I could have handled him myself.”

The man stopped and glanced at you over his shoulder. “Well, next time I’ll let you do the threatening,” he said and walked away.