Arrest My Heart

His Friday had been terrible. But now, driving down to the Trost District Police Station in his pajamas at three in the morning, Levi had a sinking feeling that his Saturday was going to stink more than Hange on a four-day bath strike. And it was all fucking Kenny's fault.

He had been looking forward to Friday all week: it was cleaning day at Rose & Maria Lawyers (Levi had happily taken initiative to plan this weekly event, of course), and he was going to get that big fat paycheck for closing the Reiss case after two years of screaming and bawling in Judge Shadis' divorce court. Levi was ready to lay all his cards down and hand that bastard Reiss a court order for child support and alimony. He was sick of spacing out whenever Reiss' sleazy lawyer opened his mouth and staring at the stupid statue of Greek justice goddess Themis in the courtroom. (He thought it rather fitting for Themis to be replaced with some porcelain goddess toilet deity; entirely suiting for the shit show he was dying to flush out of his daily schedule.)

But the real highlight of his day was this: a dial-in contest, where the first call placed at 5 o'clock right on the dot would win the caller a year's supply of Mr. Clean cleaning products! Levi planned out his battle strategy well in advance: he spent the past week driving Reiss into a corner; putting forth teary-eyed Historia Reiss and teenage runaway Freida Reiss up as witnesses to Reiss' neglect (sympathy wins cases, he had learned early on in his career), and when court was adjourned on Thursday afternoon, Levi patted himself on the back as he had reduced Rod Reiss to the level of a moldy potato in Shadis' eyes. He expected the verdict to come down in no more than an hour after closing arguments. He'd be home by 4:30, phone at the ready.

Boy, was he psyched for those cleaning supplies.

He was feeling good, almost generous enough to offer to clean Hange's cockroach infested apartment.

He was so elated that he forgot that things don't exactly go well in the life of 34-year-old Levi Ackerman.

His stunted height wasn't the only tragedy in his life, though it was the cherry-on-top he needed on his IBS-inducing parfait of countless foster homes, Kenny, not keeping a single relationship for over a year, Kenny, social constipation, Kenny, near-germaphobia, and Kenny, to name a few.

Friday morning, he woke up to the sound of construction in the townhouse next door. Then his Keurig handed in its resignation, pumping the kitchen full of black smoke as it choked to death on an Italian Roast. He was late getting to the office after airing out his kitchen, to find that in his absence, the paralegals (and even some of the janitors) on duty for the day had seen their chance to get out of cleaning-with-short-Satan, and made their run for it. He was fuming by the time he reached the courthouse, where he was blind-sighted by Exhibit-32, whereas Reiss' lawyer produced photographic evidence of Alma Reiss' affair with the pool-boy and suddenly the potato wasn't that moldy anymore. The case was set to continue the following Monday and when Alma Reiss cornered him at 4:50, crying on his reluctant shoulder, Levi almost cried with her. Needless to say, as he sat in a traffic jam at 4:59, phone in hand, dialing furiously, he was served his reminder on a silver platter.

Feeling dead as he heard the message – "We're sorry, you are 11 th place in line. Please try again — " he only nodded, unhearing, as a traffic cop wrote him a ticket for a distracted driving violation. His house still stank like ass when he got back and as he sat on his couch, a bottle of vodka in hand, his phone rang. Seeing the number, he sighed, feeling a migraine oncoming.

"Yes?"

"It's me." Came the customary monotone drawl.

No fucking shit. "I have caller ID," he snapped, then counted to ten before speaking again. "What do you want, Mikasa?"