DEGREES OF SLEEPLESSNESS

Warnings: Swearing by characters and throughout narration, eventual mature content

A/N: What better way to ring in the New Year than by trying something new? I've started up this longer, multi-chapter story in hopes of improving upon my plot and development skills. Thanks for giving it a read!

Modern AU

1. SECOND FIRST IMPRESSIONS—AND THEN A THIRD

The sleepless hours of last night weigh heavy beneath Mikasa Ackerman's eyes, flowers of purple and blue most unkind bruising the delicate skin. Yawning, she dabs concealer on with the pad of her finger—as if it'll make a difference.

She considers the reflection before her less than satisfactory—the slight slouch of a 4 AM headache in her posture no matter how much she straightens her back, eyes as dead as the frogs her honors biology class will be dissecting in a few months time, blouse wrinkled even though she ironed it just last night. Cautiously, she reaches for her makeup bag, drawing in her liner much thicker in attempt to open up her eyes, and painting her lips with the only tube of lipstick she has, a bright cherry red; in the mirror, she blinks at herself a few times, and forces a smile at the woman in the looking glass with the uneven eyeliner and messy lips. She looks like one of her students. With a cringe and a shudder, she wipes away her additions, returning as best she can to her minimalist self.

After feeding the cat and rushing out the door, grabbing some toast and her water bottle on the way out, she makes sure to cast a dirty look at the door of the new next door neighbor, who'd had the courtesy of blasting their ungodly music late into the early hours of the morning, gifting her with a nagging headache in the silence afterwards. Asshole. Didn't they know it was a school night? When she spots their beat-up gray Passat in a shitty parking job next to her station wagon, she resists the urge to give it a good kick.

. . . . .

This Monday was destined to go poorly. Should she have expected anything else? She falls to the ground as she rounds the corner, a rather tall and fast moving figure careening into her, sending her students' lab reports and, somehow, her shoe, scattered across the hall.

"Fuck. Shit—I mean—dammit. Are you all right?"

When Mikasa opens her eyes, she stares face to face with a pair of tattered cognac loafers, and, eyes rising higher and higher, corduroys, a wrinkled button up tucked under an equally wrinkled sweater, and a shock of turquoise eyes when she reaches his face, brown hair disheveled to match. Had they met under different circumstances, had he not knocked her to the ground, and had she not gotten only three hours of sleep that night, she might have found his reckless behavior, his foul mouth, pardonable, found the way his brows knit together in concern endearing, and his overall physique rather attractive. But, as she lays on the floor, papers strewn about, and body so fatigued she could fall asleep right here in the middle of the hallway, all she can regard his wide-eyed expression with is abject chagrin.

He reaches out a hand to help her up, which she makes a show of ignoring, hating him all the more when she's forced to crawl on hands and knees to collect her papers. "Right," he says, getting down beside her, "Here, let me help you with that."

Mikasa refuses to look at him, snatching the papers from his hands up as quickly as she can, wiping off her skirt, and slipping her shoe back on when she's gathered everything, standing. Her temper flares all the more when he stands, too, revealing the vast height difference between them. The boy grins stupidly, hand reaching up to scratch the back of his neck: "Have we got everything?"

She doesn't answer.

"Didn't bite your tongue on the way down, did you?"

"Don't run in the hallways," she deadpans.

"Yeah, I'm really sorry about that. You know how it is: Monday mornings, running late for class—"

"I'll write you up."

"Haha. Right," he says with that stupid grin again, reaching to his back pocket and flashing his teacher's lanyard. And the first period bell rings.

She doesn't give him the satisfaction of comparing picture to face. Instead, Mikasa looks him straight in the eyes, voice and expression level and composed. "I'm late," she says. And turning on a heel, she leaves.

. . . . .

First period goes by slowly as usual, and she nearly falls asleep during her own lecture, which makes it much more difficult to convince her honors bio kids that the reverse processes of photosynthesis and cellular respiration are actually incredibly fascinating and essential systems of plant and animal life, quintessentially embodying the tenants of the first law of thermodynamics. She meets more blank stares and open mouths than expressions of comprehension and note scribbling.

"Basically, photosynthesis converts the energy into employable energy that plants and animals can then access through cellular respiration," Mikasa says after stifling a closed mouthed yawn. She gestures to the hand raised in the back.

"So, like, every time we eat lettuce we're, like, basically eating the sun?"

It's at that moment her mind just goes absolutely blank, words in one ear, and jumbled around in the middle before going straight out the other. She squints at the windows in the back for longer than she should, mind for some reason fixated on why lettuce was the plant of choice. Thank you, new neighbor.

She finally settles on an answer: "Yes."

When the end of the period bell sounds, she rushes out of the room faster than most of her students, striding to the teacher's lounge on the other side of the floor for the coffee she for some reason skipped this morning. Taken black, it carries her through second, and a second cup carries her through third.

Back in the teacher's lounge at the start of fourth, she collapses upon the couch, resolved that it is completely acceptable and appropriate to take a quick nap right here until her sixth period class. Setting her head down on a pillow of notes, Mikasa closes her eyes…

It has to be a second—maybe a minute at most—later when she wakes to a deep and slow, monotone voice heavy with the perpetual disdain that she knows all too well.

"Christ, can someone please wake up Ackerman?"

She scrambles to her feet, adjusting her clothes and standing at attention. "Sorry," she mumbles, glancing sheepishly at Dean Levi.

His glare settles on her for an uncomfortable moment before expanding to the rest of the teachers in the room. "As I was saying," he continues, "Eren Yeager will be joining our faculty in the English Department as Marco Bodt's replacement. That will be all," he gestures to the man standing behind him before leaving. Bright turquoise eyes, an incredibly idiotic grin, cognac loafers, and disheveled everything; it's the same guy who knocked her to the floor that morning. That guy.

The others give waves and hellos of acknowledgment, a few of the bolder ones going forward to strike up a conversation. Mikasa slumps back on the couch, closing her eyes again and begging for sleep to take her.

"So—if you don't mind me asking—what happened to this Marco guy? Did he die, or something?"

"Yeah, yeah he did, you insensitive asshole," a voice that she's pretty sure belongs to Jean replies.

"Oh, shit, I am—wow. I am so sorry, I would never have said that if—"

The other person laughs. Yup. Definitely Jean. "Relax, new guy, I was just pulling your leg. He got a better offer up over in Sina. He's as good as dead to me though. Leaving me behind and all."

Someone taps her on the shoulder. Mikasa opens an eye.

"You look like you could use one," Armin says, offering up a steaming cup of coffee.

She receives it with a smile and a thank you. Mikasa raises her drink. "Cup number three."

He smiles sympathetically back. "I've gotta run. I'm on library duty."

She thanks him again, and Armin leaves, history textbooks under arm, but not before fist bumping the new guy. Odd.

Because sleep seems intent on evading her, she settles instead on grading papers, taking sips of searing coffee in between sentences, when the new guy takes a seat across from her.

"Sorry again about this morning. I don't think I had the chance to properly introduce myself," he says, offering out his hand, "Eren Yeager."

His eyes, bright and fiery, demand her gaze, and mesmerized, she accepts his hand.

"Mikasa Ackerman," she replies.

They sit in silence, and she wishes that he'd either go away or say something, anything, instead of just sitting here and staring. He didn't seem to have any problem running his mouth this morning. She shifts in her seat, tapping her pen and biting her lip; his eyes aren't directly on her, but she can still feel him looking at her, and she wishes she had the courage to return his fixed stare.

"So," she begins, half sighing, "you've already met Armin?"

Eren jumps to life, apparently elated to find that she's forgiven him enough to speak to him. "Old friends, actually. We went to the same high school."

Mikasa nods. "He's a sweetheart," she says, her cup of coffee still hot beneath her fingers.

"Yeah, he's a good guy," he waves away her apology when she gives a prolonged yawn. "Long night last night?"

"Obnoxious, nocturnal new neighbors."

"Ah. I know that story all too well," and he grins that grin of his, and this time it doesn't infuriate her, instead sending a shiver down her spine—not entirely unpleasant—and heat to her cheeks. "If there's anything I've learned from my experiences with terrible neighbors, it's that if they give you hell, you give 'em hell right back."

In retrospect, what he says isn't all that awe-inspiring, hasn't provided her with some momentous revelation—it isn't even remotely clever. Nonetheless, Mikasa finds herself smiling.

. . . . .

The neighbors give her hell all week. They steal her parking spot—because apparently there's just something horribly dissatisfying about their own—when they can, and boxing her in when they can't, come home late at night blasting the car radio, slam their door on their way in, and blare music only 'til two in the morning if they decide to hit the sack early. She bangs on the connecting wall Wednesday night as she grades papers, and the music stops for a moment. And then it returns a moment later, notably quite a few decibels louder.

"The noise doesn't bother you?" she asks the old woman who lives on the other side one day as they both climb the stairs.

"Huh?" the woman holds up a finger, signaling for her to wait as she turns on her hearing aids. "Did you say something?" she asks. Oh.

Mikasa smiles, and shakes her head.

"Another rough night?" Eren says as he appears beside her at the coffee machine, hair tousled and slightly out of breath. Running late seemed to be his perpetual state; oftentimes, she spots him flying down the hallways with seconds to spare. Not a morning person, he's told her.

She nods her head: "At least I'll get to sleep in tomorrow."

He hands her a napkin when she spills a bit of creamer on the counter. "I'm gonna grab a drink later on tonight with some of the guys if you'd like to join us," he says rather suddenly.

More than a small part of her wants to say yes. It's only been a few days, a few hours in the break room, a few hurried, short conversations in the hall, but she's gathered a good amount. He's passionate. Passionate about teaching, passionate about the kids he's only just recently met, he exudes passion in speech, speaking with such vigor in every conversation she's overheard, hands always moving to further emphasize what he's saying, he's quick to defend, quick to argue with any point he finds as a challenge to his ideology. Ironically, he lacks eloquence, but he more than compensates in fiery ardor. She's gathered quite a good amount of information in a few short days. And more than a small part of her craves to learn more.

"I shouldn't," she replies, averting her eyes from his. "I think I'm going to try to get a few hours of sleep in before the neighbor gets home."

The smile he gives, though there's no discernible difference from the others, feels rather forced. "I understand," he says.

. . . . .

Somewhere between two and four in the morning, the throbbing of her headache coinciding with the beat of the music, the idea hits her. Stroking Shina, the ball of gray fur sleeping on her stomach, Mikasa smiles to herself, that same smile playing on her lips when the music stops she finally drifts off to sleep.

The next morning, she jumps out of bed fifteen minutes before her alarm goes off, brushing her teeth and washing her face while she hums to a familiar tune.

Cat in her arms, the two of them loom over the litter box, paper bag and lighter in her back pocket.

"Let's give 'em hell," Mikasa purrs, scratching Shina's head. Six days is, after all, much too long to go without properly welcoming a new face to the neighborhood.

. . . . .

She pounds furiously at the door, relenting only when she hears approaching footsteps from the other side; quickly, she lights the bag and returns to her apartment.

The door creaks open, and there's a series of expletives, followed by the stomping of a foot upon concrete, followed by more expletives, and then with angry pounding on her front door.

"A FIERY BAG OF SHIT," a man's voice roars, "REAL FUCKING MATURE."

Poised, the faintest of smirks resting on her lips, she crosses the room, throwing open the door to receive whoever lies on the other side.

"Mikasa?"

Shit.

Hair tousled this way and that, drawstring pants ripped at the knees, and missing one sock, she didn't think it was possible to appear more unkempt than he already usually looked. He stares dumbly at her, mouth gaping. She suddenly regrets not putting on a bra before all this, pulling her sweater over to cover herself. And then, realizing that her mouth is open, too, composes the rest of herself before speaking.

"Good morning, Eren."