Chapter Text
The bar was full of smoke.
It wouldn’t usually have bothered Erwin, but when it was this crowded, it did. He can feel it scratching his throat as he weaves between the patrons and makes his way to the counter, his headache building in intensity as the thrumming of the crowd beats in on his skull.
“Grasshopper,” he orders the bartender. “Two of them.” A purse of silver coins lands on the tabletop. The bartender pulls out a few coins, counts them in front of Erwin, and pushes the sack back across the table, disappearing behind the bar. Erwin tucks it away, sighing.
“Drinking on the job?” Hanji slides in next to him.
“Business can be mixed with pleasure, if you do it right,” he states simply. He pulls a metal case from his breast coat pocket, and sparks the cigar without a second thought. It doesn’t lessen the itch in his airway, but the familiar taste of tobacco rolling over his tongue makes it slightly more palatable to bear. "And with what we're here for, we want Reeves to feel at home."
Hanji shakes their head when he offers the cigar. He shrugs, sliding his gaze back to the bar and tapping the fine layer of ash on the end of it up against the tray set out. The bartender returns, holding their drinks, and Hanji quirks an eyebrow upwards at the second one.
“I ordered you one, too,” he says.
The corner of their lip twitches up in response. “You spoil me.” He knows they don't drink much, but the occasional gesture goes a long way with them."But we need to be quick, tonight. It isn't the time."
He doesn’t reply. He's scanning the crowd, and his eyes drift to a round figure at the back of the bar, clad in a deep navy suit. A false smile sits on his lips, and he turns and nods at Hanji, grabbing his glass.
"Follow my lead,” he instructs, and they dip their head in response, moving through the crowd after him.
The man sees them before they quite get to him. He approaches with his hand outstretched. “Erwin Smith!” he beams, “I haven’t seen you in a full year!”
“Flegel.” Erwin acknowledges him evenly. His tone is silky, ignoring the hand he’s presented with. “You should be more careful with who you let into your establishment,” he warns, lifting an eyebrow and gesturing around them. “I’ve noticed some… less savoury types around tonight.”
“Business is booming, my friend,” Flegel replies. “Look around you. We haven’t had so many customers since before they passed those blasted restrictions!”
Hanji grumbles something under their breath. They falter when Erwin lifts a hand though, falling back into place. “I’m sure. But perhaps a more selective approach could more reliably,” he pauses, glancing around them, “maintain discretion, if you will.” The tip of his cigar flares red as he inhales.
“Relax,” Flegel says. “I promise you, security is always our priority.”
Hanji flinches in the silence that follows. Their working eye darts back and forth in its socket, like a nervous horse, the glass one fixed eerily in place. Normally, Erwin would respond to the comment directly, but something about today stops him. He looks around them, the crush of people, the heat, the noise, and finally settles back on Flegel. Some quiet, irritated noise rumbles deep in his throat.
“I hear you’ve found a new procurer, Mr. Reeves,” he says, and the glow of warmth in Flegel’s face evaporates.
“Ah,” he says, “so you’re here for business then.” He pauses and strokes his chin, neck fat jiggling. “We thought you were dead, Smith. I had my own things to keep afloat.”
“You thought wrong.” His voice is cold steel. “It may have been worth asking my associate here,” he adds, gesturing to his left, “for provisions instead. I’m sure they could have provided you with something adequate while I found my way out of the mess I was in.” Flegel’s eyes flicker to the revolver strapped at Erwin’s waist, his relaxed poise wavering. Erwin follows him, and chuckles when he realizes where he’s staring. As though he’d come to start a fight, alone like this.
“This? Relax,” he says, patting the gun. “This isn’t for you.” There’s a noise as the safety clicks off, Erwin’s lips pull back, showing his teeth in something that is decidedly not quite a smile. A man crashes into a chair at the table next to them, shouting something at his companions with the patent slur of someone who is far too obnoxiously drunk.
“Erwin,” Hanji warns, and he looks back at them. “Time.”
He drains his drink without a second thought, wrinkling his nose at the sting, and places the glass down on the nearest table. Hanji places their half-empty glass behind it, not bothering to finish. There's something lingering in the aftertaste of it, bitter and unpleasant, and Erwin is almost glad to say he knows that the product didn't come from his providing. The alcohol is low quality, at best.
“I’d like to say it’s been a pleasure,” Erwin says, his tone flat. "Good evening, Mr. Reeves.” He turns to walk away, placing the cigar between his lips. “I don’t think we’ll be meeting soon again.”
“Smith,” Flegel calls after the two retreating figures, “what the hell is that supposed to mean? Smith!”
The lights flick off as he’s shouting, the patrons going silent in shock before breaking into a panicked rush for the doors, screeching amongst each other. Erwin knows that noise, they're animals that know they've been cornered, each trying for a last ditch attempt to claw their way loose. He and Hanji beeline for the back of the room instead, where three windows line the wall.
Hanji covers their fist with a handkerchief, and, using the butt of their gun, smashes the nearest window, the crash blending with the screams of the customers. They kick in the remaining glass, shards lodging into the thick leather of their boots, then stand back. Erwin jumps out first, his shoes landing flat against the iron grate of the fire escape.
By time they’re out, the main doors shudder and give way, law enforcement shouting for calm. Erwin hears two gunshots. More follow, but they pay no mind, swiftly descending the stairs and disappearing into the night.
* * *
It’s nearing dawn when the two of them arrive back at the shop, Hanji driving the truck into the loading bay. They jump down, feet hitting the pavement, and Erwin follows, stepping out from the backseat. The sky is overcast, grey blotchy clouds rolling in.
Mike looks up at them as they walk past, Floch at his side. He’s polishing a shotgun, bored, his eyes lingering over the blood leaking down Hanji’s forearm as they come in.
“Did you get shot?” The question comes out roughly, bordering judgemental.
“Broke a window on the way out,” Erwin says, breezing by. He thinks it might be one of the few times that Mike has shown obvious disdain.
“That’s what you get for going there just to gloat,” Mike mutters, and Erwin shoots him an unimpressed look, gaze pointedly shifting from him to Floch, and back again. One of his eyebrows shoots up, as if to say Really? You’re going to do this in front of the new recruit?
Mike shrugs. “I’m right.”
“We need to make our point, in these situations. I don’t care who’s right,” Erwin proclaims, stifling his irritation as much as he can. “If Reeves survives, he’s a witness to that. If he doesn’t, well.”
Hanji tries to avoid both of them and slink by, but Mike catches the hem of their trench coat. “Let me see it,” he offers gently, taking the arm into his hands, putting down the rifle and opening a toolbox on the floor. It’s full of first aid supplies.
They grunt, but sit anyways, reluctance written across their expression. Mike picks out the glass with a pair of tweezers. Erwin has seen it before, the tenderness, the way Mike holds their arm like it’s fragile, but he’s never thought anything much of it. He’s written it off as camaraderie, maybe a one-sided crush at most. But there is something about the interactions, an unwritten trust that he almost envies. He looks at his own palm, brown crust forming over the cut from placing his hand on the shattered window frame.
“You should have taken me instead,” Mike hisses.
There's no hesitation in his answer. “You don’t bring your gunman to parties.” The reply is simple, but adequate enough that Mike only houghs in disagreement.
Floch sits next to the two seniors, watching them. Erwin pauses next to him, pats him on the shoulder, and Floch jolts back, looking up.
“Thank you for dropping the tip at the station for us. Clearly, they took the bait,”
He turns red at the attention of his superior, his ears flushing. “It was nothing,” he says.
Erwin goes to walk through the door, hesitating to watch as Mike gingerly covers Hanji’s cuts in gauze. He wraps clockwise, dabbing the deeper gashes with a cotton ball soaked in some kind of antibacterial ointment.
“Mike?” he says, taking off his hat and placing it on the stack of boxes next to the door
Mike looks at him and grunts.
“Make me some tea, when you’re done.” he orders, disappearing into the building.