occupational hazards (and of the heart)

Seokjin quirks a brow. “You know, if you wanted to get me naked, you could just ask nicely.”
“That’s the last thing I’m trying to accomplish right now,” Jungkook replies, steadily avoiding eye contact with him as he loops the rope around his wrists to secure him to the gilded, metal rod of the shower.
or: Seokjin is the bane of Jungkook's existence. Things get a lot more complicated when they have to work together on a mission. Cue jet-setting across the world, a healthy sprinkle of spy tropes, and two equally stubborn boys.

Notes:

(See the end of the work for notes.)

Work Text:

Jungkook drags the unconscious man into the bathroom stall, shuts the door, and heads over to the sink to wash his hands. He smoothes out the wrinkles on his shirt and frowns at the rapidly reddening mark on his cheek where the man was able to land a lucky strike before he’d successfully subdued him.

He figures that the bar is dimly lit enough that nobody would be the wiser. Jungkook taps on his earpiece. “You there?” he asks.

Jimin’s voice crackles into life over the line, mumbling out an affirmative. “Have you got the drive?”

Jungkook pats down the side of his jacket pocket where the seemingly innocuous flash drive containing sensitive information on hundreds of private corporations across the world laid safely encased. “I intercepted it before it could reach his buyer.”

Jimin hums out approvingly. “Nice. Meet you at the extraction point at t-minus 45.”

The line goes dead as Jimin disconnects.

The heavy thumping of bass drowns out everything else as Jungkook exits the restroom, flashing strobe lights painting dozens of pulsating, sweaty bodies in tones of neon purples and pinks.

Jungkook thinks briefly to himself that he was insanely grateful to not have suffered a concussion during the scuffle in the men’s room not even five minutes ago, because there was no way he would be walking out of this place without bumping into at least five very drunken bodies enthusiastically grinding on each other otherwise.

Which is precisely when he bumps into a very solid mass as he squeezes his way past the bar counter.

Jungkook catches a flash of purple stumbling sideways before his hand instinctively reaches out to steady the person. “Sorry! I wasn’t watching where I was going,” he apologizes smoothly, a charming smile already fixed on his face.

The man looks up, full, pink lips pulled into a pout. Jungkook blinks a little and realizes that it isn’t the strobe lights causing the man’s hair to appear purple, but that it actually is, a subdued lavender interspersed with streaks of silver along the edges and hints of dark brown roots peaking out at the tops. Beads of sweat gather along the sides of his face, clinging to the glitter lightly dusted on his cheekbones. It casts an iridescent sheen on his cheeks.

“Maybe you could make it up to me,” Sparkly Purple Man suggests with a coy smile. The billowy, white blouse he’s wearing seems to glow in the dark, a trim lace pattern adorning the sides of his sleeves. Jungkook thinks he kind of looks like a prince; a prince of a land of free-flowing margaritas and pretty, delicate collarbones.

On second thought, it’s entirely possible that he is suffering from a concussion right now.

“What would you suggest?” Jungkook entertains his proposal with an amused smile of his own, drawing himself just a little bit closer to the man. He tells himself it has completely nothing to do with wanting to see the shine on his lips and the way his lashes fall over his eyes, but everything to do with not being able to hear him amidst the pounding, heavy beat of music.

A professional. Jungkook is a professional, he repeats to himself. It sounds less and less convincing the longer his eyes stray to Sparkly Purple Man’s glossy, wet lips.

“A little dancing wouldn’t hurt,” the stranger replies. He carelessly discards his half-consumed margarita on a random table and expertly ignores the glare he receives from the owner. “C’mon,” he tugs on Jungkook’s hands, leading them to the dance floor with a subtle sway of his hips.

Jungkook mentally tries to list down why exactly this would be a supremely horrible idea, and manages to come up with approximately zero reasons. He’s on a mission, yes, but he’d subdued the target, obtained the information he needed in that handy little flash drive in his pocket, and had plenty of time to spare before he was expected at the extraction point.

And there was a beautiful man who was currently pressed up close against him, staring at him like he was two seconds away from devouring him whole. It was an ideal way to end the night, really, what exactly could go wrong?

(Jungkook will realize, in a very short amount of time, that absolutely everything could go wrong, and that his dick is never to be trusted again when making potentially life-altering decisions.)

Sparkly Purple Man wraps his arms around Jungkook’s shoulders, fingers interlocking behind the nape of his neck. “What’s your name?” he asks, hot breath fanning out across the shell of Jungkook’s ear.

He must catch the brief hesitation on Jungkook’s face before he shrugs. “You don’t have to tell me. I just wanted to know so I could stop calling you Leather Daddy in my head,” he winks cheekily.

Jungkook pulls him in closer, feels the heat from his waist emanating through the thin fabric of his blouse. “I’m not exactly opposed to you calling me that. But call me JK, to make things easier for you.” He huffs out a laugh.

“JK,” the man repeats. The syllables flow out of his mouth like he’s whispering a secret instead of two harmless letters of the alphabet, wrapping around his tongue like a sordid promise. “You can call me SJ, then.”

This is an undeniable upgrade from Sparkly Purple Man that Jungkook will gladly accept.

“Keeping up with the theme of secrecy, are we?” Jungkook murmurs. He grabs one of the hands resting lightly around his neck, squeezes SJ’s fingers gently, feels the soft pulse beating out its rhythm through his wrist, and twirls him on the dancefloor.

SJ laughs, a pretty, tinkly sound that fills the space between them. He comes up to face Jungkook again, teeters a little on his feet, and catches himself against Jungkook’s chest. “You don’t seem like a serial killer to me, but one can never be too safe.”

Stirrings of guilt start to crawl its way up Jungkook’s gut. He wasn’t exactly lying to SJ, had no obligation to let him know the true nature of his visit to this club, of who he was, of the variety of weapons currently tucked away discreetly into unfathomable places on his person. But it just didn’t sit right with him, not with the way SJ was looking at him, desire shamelessly displayed on his face, completely unaware of the man knocked unconscious by Jungkook’s doing just a few meters away from them.

He starts to pull away, fumbles up an excuse in his mind, when the beat of the music suddenly changes; a sultrier, dreamy sound, crooning vocals and layered bass lines reverberating throughout the cramped space.

“Oh, I love this song,” SJ admits. He shuts his eyes in bliss, throws his head back in brazen ecstasy, allows his limbs to loosely move with the rhythm. He presses his back to Jungkook’s chest, times the movement of his hips with the pulsing of the drums, and soon enough, Jungkook is swaying to the pace he’s set, is pushing back against him, hot and hard and desperate.

He doesn’t know how long they sway and rock against each other, completely oblivious to the dozens of sweaty bodies oscillating around them to the same tune. The song eventually stops, transitions into another one of those deafening EDM beats, and SJ turns to face him once more, face flushed and strands of pastel hair sticking to his forehead.

“I should go,” Jungkook says amidst the thumping, electronic music trying to pierce his eardrums and rattle his brain. SJ’s face falls a little, but it’s quickly replaced with a playful pout.

“Such a tease,” he says, fingers trailing lightly down the front of Jungkook’s leather jacket. “But I suppose I can’t really do anything about that. Maybe I’ll see you next time, stranger,” SJ hums. There’s an amused twinkle in his eye, like he’s basking in a secret Jungkook doesn’t quite know yet.

Jungkook tries not to let it show on his face how highly unlikely that would be. He parts with a small bow as if he’s addressing royalty, brandishing his hand in the air comically. He walks away to the sound of SJ’s laughter ringing in the air.

He pushes past the crowd of people, efficiently dodging drunken hands pumping in the air and the precariously wobbling drinks loosely held in said hands. He puffs out the collar of his jacket to allow for some ventilation after he starts to feel the sweat working its way down his back. Jungkook’s hand brushes against his side when he feels it.

Or rather, the complete absence of a tiny, rectangular object that held the potential fate of cybersecurity across the world in it.

His stomach drops down to his feet. “Shit,” he swears, frantically patting at his side pockets yet coming up with nothing. He’s half ready to search through every square inch of the club’s floor plan when he whips his head to the side, spotting a gleam of purple that he was entirely too acquainted with.

SJ stares back at him from where he’s tucked into a corner, sipping on another pink, fruity drink. He raises his glass to the air in Jungkook’s direction, flashes him an infuriating wink, and then slinks his way past the crowd, away from the writhing mass of bodies on the dancefloor, away from Jungkook.

“Son of a bitch,” Jungkook hisses, trying to make his way through the crowd again, eyes desperately trying to keep themselves trained on his new target. But it was hopeless.

SJ was gone, had skillfully blended into the sea of people, had disappeared in what could very well be a cloud of purple smoke and glitter. Jungkook very much regrets calling him a prince in his head, and has now pettily relegated SJ to the wicked witch of the west terrorizing innocent people in this imaginary land of free-flowing margaritas.

This is the first time, although very much not the last, wherein Jungkook realizes that Kim Seokjin--whose name at this point in time is unbeknownst to him, who is only SJ and Sparkly Purple Man in his head--is a goddamn problem.

___________________

“This is draining the life force out of me,” Jungkook declares as he stares at the surveillance feed on the laptop screen in front of him for what had to be an hour now.

Jimin mumbles out a similar complaint beside him before reaching out for one of the honey-glazed donuts they’d brought along with them for their stakeout mission. They’d been firmly told to pack only the essentials, which is exactly why they had packets of chips, flavored fizzy drinks, and an assortment of sweets scattered around their hotel room amidst the intimidating, bulky surveillance equipment they had set-up.

It was imperative to the mission, Jungkook had argued against Namjoon, who was the senior agent overseeing this trip. Namjoon had only given him and Jimin a vaguely resigned look, like they were two rascal children he was not being paid enough to deal with, before giving in to their whims.

“This guy isn’t doing anything but boring his date to death,” Jungkook sulks.

The man they were observing was Viktor Yahontov, a Serbian national suspected of supplying weapons and classified information to North Korean intelligence groups. They’d finally zeroed in on his location after tailing him for days in Tokyo to this swanky penthouse suite, which they’ve managed to thoroughly bug with cameras and audio devices, except they couldn’t move in on him until they had outright proof he was involved in nefarious schemes.

Which meant that Jungkook and Jimin were indefinitely stuck several floors down from Yahontov’s hotel room, nay, miniature house that Jungkook would never be able to afford in a million years, painfully watching him wax poetry about the workings of global economies to the young gentleman seated across him.

His date’s face is obscured from the camera angle, but Jungkook can see a head of honey blond hair and the outline of a crisp, finely-tailored black suit.

“How much do you think that meal costs?” Jimin asks as they watch him dig into tender, premium Wagyu steak. Jungkook is suddenly acutely aware of the Cheetos crumbs on his shirt, as well as the bright-orange powder coating his fingertips.

The dichotomy between them was completely laughable.

“Probably enough to pay for a small, uninhabited island somewhere,” Jungkook replies wistfully. Yahontov refills his wine glass with the contents of a two thousand dollar bottle of Merlot while Jungkook pokes a straw through his pack of banana milk.

Jimin reaches out for another piece of soggy donut when all hell breaks loose.

Yahontov’s face is suddenly pressed up against the pristine tablecloth, arms pinned behind his back at an awkward angle. Jungkook watches in horror as his plate clatters to the ground, shattering into tiny pieces and essentially rendering the marbled, first-grade steak inedible (unless you were determined? unhinged? enough to pick out the pieces of fine china. Jungkook has yet to decide where he falls on this scale.)

Only when Jungkook has finally managed to tear his eyes away from the complete tragedy of his meal does he realize that Yahontov’s date has him in a chokehold, and doesn’t seem particularly inclined to let him go anytime soon.

He and Jimin scramble out of their seats, grabbing their hand-guns from the dresser, bodies moving on auto-pilot as they make their way out the door. They run down the length of the corridor, not even bothering with the elevator that they know will take far too long. They hurtle up the flight of steps in a frantic daze. Jungkook leaps up over the last bannister, ankles protesting fiercely at the motion but going completely ignored as a rush of adrenaline takes over.

They kick down the penthouse door in one fluid motion, guns raised into the air, chests heaving.

The bulb from a broken lamp shade rolls ominously through the room. Jungkook eyes its projected path warily until it comes to an abrupt halt against a groaning lump of mass on the floor.

It’s Yahontov, curled up in pain with his eyes screwed shut, alternating between moaning pathetically and bouts of frantic, muttered Serbian phrases. Most of them are cries for help, as far as Jungkook’s limited grasp on the language can tell.

But what truly catches Jungkook’s attention is the man standing across the room, holding a briefcase in hand which he seems to have snatched from inside the safe.

The gun he trains on the man nearly fumbles out of his grasp when he catches a glimpse of his face. “Sparkly Purple Man?” Jungkook says in shock. Jimin makes an odd, questioning noise beside him, like he was currently doubting Jungkook’s sanity.

His hair is, evidently, no longer purple, but there’s no mistaking the shape of his lips, the delicate curve of his cheekbones, that same rogue glint in his eye, like he was always one step forward and perpetually amused with everything life threw his way.

“JK!” he cries out delightedly. The grin on his face falls every-so-slightly when he realizes that Jungkook’s gun is still steadily aimed in his direction. He reluctantly brings up both hands in the air, palms facing outwards placatingly. “Okay, I guess you are still mad about Busan,” he says with a pout.

Jungkook would be lying if he said he hadn’t spent months fantasizing about the clever one-liners he would drop after finally cornering such an elusive and cunning foe.

However, some higher being seems to have taken ahold of Jungkook’s intellectual faculties with no intention of returning them anytime soon, judging by the white static that blankets his mind. He’s also incredibly irked and preoccupied with the fact that he still has Cheeto dust on his fingers and is heaving very deep breaths right now, courtesy of the eight flights of steps he had just hurtled through not even five minutes ago.

Meanwhile, SJ looks just as devastating as he did in Busan nearly four months ago, resembling some kind of blond fairy of death and betrayal. Jungkook briefly wonders what horrible thing he could have committed in a past life to deserve this much misfortune and shame.

“I’ll take care of him,” Jungkook says to Jimin, keeping his eyes trained on the man who’s given him grief for so many months. “You go handle Yahontov.”

Jimin nods and makes a beeline for the man still curled up on the ground.

“Bathroom. Now,” Jungkook orders, gesturing to the wide, French doors at the corner of the room.

“Bossy,” SJ says, clucking his tongue. He follows the command either way, dress shoes clicking loudly against the glazed, porcelain-tiled floor as he enters the wide, airy space.

Jungkook motions for him to deposit the briefcase over to his side. He obeys dutifully, though not without a subtle eye roll. “Stand over by the bathtub,” Jungkook commands as he grabs a hold of one of the fancy, tasseled ropes wrapped decoratively around the nearby drapes.

SJ quirks a brow. “You know, if you wanted to get me naked, you could just ask nicely.”

“That’s the last thing I’m trying to accomplish right now,” Jungkook replies, steadily avoiding eye contact with him as he loops the rope around his wrists to secure him to the gilded, metal rod of the shower.

He has the sinking suspicion he doesn’t deliver his statement with much credibility. Jungkook’s fingers linger a little bit on his wrists, feels the fluttering of his pulse, and is instantly shrouded with memories of his skin flushed against his, piercing looks in the dark and coy, secretive smiles.

Jungkook wonders how he still manages to look entirely unfazed even when he’s tied up to a shower rod, still manages to give Jungkook a familiar, pretty look from beneath his lashes. “I’m usually into these kinds of things, but I must admit I’m rather partial to handcuffs. Not really a fan of rope burn, I’m afraid,” he says regretfully.

Jungkook decides to ignore this statement for the sake of his mental health and proceeds to lock this away in the recesses of his mind to unpack for some other time.

“I also don’t usually participate in bondage without being on at least a first name basis with my partner,” he continues, completely oblivious to the panicked screams reverberating inside Jungkook’s brain as of the moment. “So let me start. I’m Seokjin. I don’t think ‘Sparkly Purple Man’ would be very apt anymore. And SJ just seems kind of meh.”

He’s looking at Jungkook expectantly, like he’s waiting for him to drop his name in turn, perhaps along with his social security number and home address. Jungkook takes this brand new information with a grain of salt given the questionable track record of their previous experience, yet some small part of him is secretly pleased to finally have an acceptable name to the face.

“Well, Seokjin,” Jungkook starts out, hopping up on the sink across from him and folding one knee up. He catches a glimpse of them in the large mirror behind Seokjin and imagines, briefly, what this might look like to a complete stranger walking in on them. He can’t quite help the small chuckle that escapes him. “Good thing I’m not your bondage partner, then. Because JK is the only name you’re getting out of me tonight.”

Seokjin leans into his space, at least as far as his restraints will let him. Strands of golden hair have begun to fall out of it’s slicked back coil, and his previously immaculate suit now bears the evidence of Jungkook’s manhandling, creases and wrinkles cutting at its edges. The little exposed triangle of his chest gleams with sweat.

He looks just a little bit disheveled. Jungkook cannot, for the life of him, understand why a voice in his head preens at that, why an odd swell of pride clutches at his chest. He wills his caveman brain to kindly shut the fuck up and switch back to civilized, dangerously skilled, and highly trained junior agent.

(It does so begrudgingly.)

“The night is still young, JK. And I do enjoy a challenge.” Seokjin’s lips curl up into a suggestive smile. His eyes trail down the length of Jungkook’s legs, takes in the curve of his thighs, drinks up the sight of his rough, scraped-up knuckles, just a touch bruised and tender from a recent run-in with a target last week.

Against his better judgement, Jungkook is pulled into Seokjin’s orbit, finds himself drawn towards him through some kind of magnetic force. He rests his chin atop his propped up knee, stares at Seokjin like he’s a puzzle he can’t quite figure out. “That makes two of us then,” he says quietly, thoughtfully.

Yahontov’s yelp cuts through the bubble that’s enveloped Jungkook, followed by the stomping of Jimin’s feet.

Jungkook shakes himself out of his stupor.

He huffs out an annoyed breath. He’d let Seokjin get under his skin again, just like that night in Busan. He doesn’t know how Seokjin keeps doing it, or perhaps why he keeps letting him.

“What’s in this briefcase?” Jungkook asks, trying to quickly dispel the strange mood that had fallen over them.

Seokjin stares at him for a moment before responding. “Names. Lists of all the people he’s had dealings with, those who pay for his information and services.”

Jungkook frowns. He runs his fingers through the smooth leather of the bag, fiddling with the lock in place. “And what exactly are you going to do with that? Sell it to the highest bidder?”

Seokjin gasps dramatically, brows scrunching together in a comically offended fashion. “Ah, you wound me my dear JK! After all this time we’ve spent together, and you think I’m a petty, sleazy criminal?”

“You literally stole a flash drive off of me containing highly sensitive data the very first night we met,” Jungkook replies dryly.

Seokjin wrinkles his nose like this is a completely trivial, irrelevant piece of information. “Yes but! I’m one of the good guys, I can promise you that.”

Jungkook snorts. “I find this to be highly unlikely.”

“What do I have to do to prove it to you?” Seokjin asks. There’s an unfamiliar look on his face, something Jungkook has yet to come across. There’s no teasing smile on his lips, no mischief clinging to the crinkles by his eyes.

He almost looks a little sincere. Jungkook refuses to fall for it, continues to stare at him until his true intentions peek out through the cracks.

Seokjin licks his lips, keeping his eyes firmly trained on Jungkook’s as well.

Which is exactly how Jimin finds them, involved in a stare-off while Seokjin is very much still bound to a piece of metal, hair and clothes just a touch unkempt.

He awkwardly clears his throat. “Wow, um. Should I give you guys like a minute? Or maybe five? I could just step back out here.” He gestures to the dining area, where Yahontov’s muffled screams were ping-ponging through the four corners of the room.

“Literally why would you do that,” Jungkook says at the exact same time Seokjin lets out a: “That would be lovely, thanks.”

Jimin blinks at them. “I’m kind of getting mixed signals here.”

“Why on earth are you even listening to him?” Jungkook hisses, waving his arms around wildly. “He’s the enemy!”

Seokjin frowns in his direction. “That was a little harsh,” he huffs.

“Agreed,” Jimin says, flashing Jungkook a disapproving look. “Anyway,” Jimin says pointedly, sharing a look with Seokjin from behind Jungkook’s shoulder, like a telepathic apology for his friend that lacked acceptable social skills. Jungkook briefly considers the possibility of flushing himself down the toilet. “I have some good news and bad news.”

“How could this night possibly get much worse?” Jungkook rubs at his temples.

“The big boss just called while you two were very platonically staring into each other’s eyes. Apparently, our friend over here is independently contracted by another intelligence agency. Boss has just cut a deal with them. We keep Yahontov, while they keep the briefcase.”

Seokjin preens. “Told you I was one of the good guys.” The gloating on his face is short-lived and is quickly followed by a tiny wince. “I would really appreciate it if you could untie me now, though. I’d suggest you invest in some handcuffs for the next time, JK.”

“There will absolutely not be a next time, and you can go buy yourself your own handcuffs,” Jungkook mutters as he begins to undo the ropes. He does not at all imagine what it must be like to undo the restraints from Seokjin’s wrists in another more intimate context, not even a tiny bit.

“Bold of you to assume I don’t already have a collection,” Seokjin mutters under his breath. He shrugs his wrists out of the loosened ropes, lets out an absolutely delectable moan that may or may not go straight to Jungkook’s dick, and rubs soothingly at the shallow impressions left on his skin.

“Well, I’ll best get going now, boys.” He grabs at the briefcase lying on the sink counter, shoulder lightly brushing against Jungkook’s arm as he bends down to pick the bag up. Seokjin flounces out of the room, sends Jungkook a ridiculously cringey flying kiss, and reserves a polite bow for Jimin, which is frankly the most behaved he’s been all night.

“See you next time, stranger,” he waves, tucks in a loose strand of hair behind his ear, and disappears off into the hallway.

It’s silent in the bathroom for a few seconds before Jimin speaks. “You’re drooling,” he says, gesturing to the side of Jungkook’s chin.

“No, I’m not,” Jungkook scoffs.

Followed by, “...Okay, maybe I am.”

“Understandable,” Jimin nods.

As if on cue, Yahontov howls out something unintelligible through the gag in his mouth. Jimin groans before making his way to the dining room.

Jungkook shudders out a deep breath.

Seokjin had an impeccable knack for making him feel completely out of his depth and keeping him on his toes, like one tiny blink away from his stupidly smug face would spell out certain doom for him. And God help him, because some part of Jungkook actually likes it. Some part of him enjoys the challenge, the exhilarating thrill following Seokjin like a shadow, the various twists and turns that a night with Seokjin would undoubtedly bring to the table.

And the worst part? Jungkook is fairly certain Seokjin knows it.

___________________

“This completely goes against my morals,” Jungkook says firmly, stubbornly avoiding the exasperated look Jimin sends him. Instead, he chooses to aggressively riffle through the breakroom cupboards for some breakfast.

“First of all,” Jimin huffs out, slumping down on one of the stools like he’s already given up on this conversation, “you have very questionable morals to begin with.”

Jungkook is silent for a few seconds before shrugging. “You’re not wrong there,” he concedes.

“And second, you need to get over this.”

“I am over it!” Jungkook cries out, arms crossing against his chest petulantly. The cup of yoghurt he’s clutching crumples pathetically in his grasp.

“The entire time we were being briefed earlier you looked like you were progressively on the verge of shitting your pants,” Jimin points out flatly.

Jungkook knows that this statement is in fact, not an exaggeration, and allows himself a few deep breaths to banish the headache that was starting to bloom dully at the base of his skull.

Here lies the problem: Their team has been keeping tabs on Kim Min-joon, the disgraced son of a technological tycoon, who may or may not be embezzling millions of dollars and selling out sensitive information to organized crime groups all over the world for the thrill of it.

Rich people were awful, truly.

But what was even worse was that someone had been called in to assist in their case. Someone from a different agency, who has apparently been working in a similar trajectory of figuring out what exactly Min-joon is up to and could provide useful information to help advance all their dead-ends.

This would be all fine and well, if it wasn’t one Kim Seokjin’s perfectly symmetrical face staring back at him from the case files Namjoon had handed over to them in the conference room that morning.

Kim Seokjin, a specialist in infiltration and information extraction, who is supposed to be a “great asset to their mission” in the rare shows of collaboration between different intelligence organizations. (Namjoon’s words, not his.)

“He can’t be trusted,” Jungkook says with complete and utter conviction. “He stole that flash drive from me, Jimin.”

“Because it was his mission. His agency probably sent him out with the same orders you had that night.”

“And what if his orders suddenly change during this mission? What if he turns on us at the last minute?”

“Then let him,” Jimin says simply. “There’s two of us. We can handle him. But that’s not what’s really bothering you, is it? It’s the fact that you fell for his honeypot--”

Jungkook raises his pointer finger in the air to silence him. “It wasn’t a honeypot, and I didn’t fall for anything, okay? I was just caught off guard.”

“Yeah, by his ass grinding against your dick,” Jimin points out with absolutely no mercy. He catches the sulky look on Jungkook’s face before rolling his eyes. “Listen, it happens to the best of us! Being seduced by an objectively beautiful man is nothing to be ashamed of.”

His attempts at soothing Jungkook fall on completely deaf ears, who is now deep in the throes of regret over telling Jimin how exactly that night in Busan went down.

“And there’s nothing you can do about it anyway. So I suggest you put a smile on your face and try to make a good third impression this time, because he’s entering the building as we speak,” Jimin says cheerily.

“What.” Jungkook says, spinning around with a speed that should be humanly impossible and inducing some form of damage to his neck (which remains surprisingly unharmed.)

The elevator doors open at the end of the hall with a ding.

A group of sharp-suited people come rushing out in a flurry of case files and their second cups of coffee for the morning. Then, finally, Seokjin steps out, his pink jacket a startling pop of color against the muted grays and whites of the office backdrop.

The fluffy white cartoon alpaca on Seokjin’s hoodie stares back at Jungkook. Beside him, Jimin lets out a small coo.

Seokjin’s hair is no longer dyed, instead it’s a rich black that curls just a little bit around the corner of his ears and the nape of his neck. His eyes light up as he spots Jungkook and Jimin across the floor. He walks over to them in a few, long strides.

“Told you I’d see you again,” Seokjin says with a grin as he comes to a stop in front of Jungkook.

“Lucky me,” Jungkook grits out.

“Is Namjoon’s office on this floor?” Seokjin asks, addressing Jimin who, out of the two of them, was looking a great deal less like he was contemplating the quickest way to disappear from this room.

“Yup, just around the hall. It’s the second door from the left.”

Seokjin says his thanks, stalks out of the breakroom, but not before flashing Jungkook a look from behind his shoulder. There’s a quirk at the corner of his lips along with a spark in his eyes, almost like a challenge. “I do hope you’ve invested in some good pair of handcuffs by now, Jungkook.”

Jungkook’s stomach tumbles, something light and floaty unfurling inside him. He watches Seokjin round the corner before disappearing from his sight. The cup of yoghurt he’d been holding onto the entire time suddenly slips out of his grasp.

It falls to the floor with a disgusting splat.

“Nevermind. You’re completely hopeless,” is the only thing Jimin says as he gives Jungkook a pitying look.

Jungkook privately agrees.

This entire mission was going to be a total disaster. And he had no one to blame but himself--and his completely infuriating, undeniable, blistering attraction to Kim Seokjin.

___________________

Jungkook flips to the next page of the book he’s reading. He runs through the same paragraph three times, eyebrows scrunching up in frustration with each subsequent failed attempt at absorbing anything from the yellowed and creased pages.

Finally, he huffs out a breath. “Would it kill you to chew a little more softly?” he asks, directing a pointed look at the man seated across him.

Seokjin swallows down a particularly hefty bite before responding. “It could, in all honesty. Here, try some of the octopus, it’s to die for.” He waggles the fork in front of Jungkook’s mouth, waiting for him to open up.

The two of them are seated in an outdoor cafe, a creamy white parasol providing some shade from the afternoon sun to the dozens of tables set out on the cobbled street. An apartment building with elegant arches and overlooking terraces faces them from the left, potted plants and colorful assortments of flowers arranged along the balcony railings, soaking up the heat.

Jimin is positioned inconspicuously in one of the balconies under the guise of answering crossword puzzles. Jungkook suspects he finds complete joy in being able to watch him make a fool of himself in front of Seokjin from the best vantage point.

“I’m good, thanks,” Jungkook replies, yet the octopus slice remains unmoving in front of him.

Seokjin pouts. “You’re making that poor lady over there feel sorry for me. She’s been giving me pitying looks for the past five minutes. She probably thinks we’re on a bad date and is a few seconds away from matchmaking me with her hunky son, who will sweep me away on a sexy Mediterranean cruise on his boat if you don’t accept this pulpo.”

He says all this in one breath, staring down at Jungkook from behind the dark-tinted lenses of his sunglasses.

“The way your mind works truly surprises me sometimes,” Jungkook admits. Despite this, a voice inside his head grumbles at how everything Seokjin has said might not be entirely implausible, which is what fuels him to accept the offering of food.

The octopus is in fact, to die for, and he gladly accepts the second bite that Seokjin knowingly has already lined up for him.

“Thank you,” Seokjin says with a smile that knows he’s won.

“It wasn’t a compliment,” Jungkook replies weakly.

“Whatever you say, darling.”

“If you two lovebirds are done squabbling now, our target is making his way over,” Jimin says through their earpieces, surreptitiously glancing down at someone in the crowd from his position.

“Is he alone?” Jungkook asks, casually folding down the corner of the page he’d finished.

“Seems like it. He’s at your 12 o’clock.”

“Great. I’ll be right back,” Seokjin says, departing from his seat after wiping around his mouth with a napkin. He crosses the narrow street, bends down to pet a random dog with much enthusiasm, and comes to a stop by an ice cream stall, where a man with a neatly trimmed beard and a briefcase in hand was lining up for.

Jungkook takes a sip from his glass of water, feels the beads of condensation run down the length of his forearm as he watches Seokjin from the corner of his eye. With just the barest, swiftest of movements, he drops down a bug with nimble fingers into the coat pocket of the man.

Their target remains none the wiser, patiently waiting for his cone of ice cream before striding away with purpose through the cobblestone pavement afterwards. Seokjin flashes the woman manning the stall a charming smile as he gets to the front of the line.

They’ve been in Barcelona for four days now before finally making a break in the case. The man they had just bugged was Jorge Ramirez, a known associate of Min-joon, assisting him in transferring embezzled money to offshore funds in various parts of the world. They had solid intelligence that Min-joon has been in the city for the past month, yet finding out where exactly has proven to be a challenge, one that Ramirez was hopefully going to unknowingly help them solve.

Seokjin returns to their table with two ice cream cones in hand, both adorned with copious amounts of sprinkles. He hands one over to Jungkook, who feels like he would be an absolute monster if he refuses. He mumbles out a thanks.

“Do you want some too, Jimin?” Seokjin asks as he shuffles back into his seat.

“No thanks,” Jimin replies, yawning into their earpieces. “I think I’m going to take a bit of a nap now. You guys have fun.” He stretches out on the balcony, angling his face to catch some last few drops of sunlight before heading into the apartment.

“We should check the transmitter if it's picked up anything from Ramirez,” Jungkook says, munching on some of the sprinkles he’s fairly certain is going to stain his tongue a bright pink and blue.

Seokjin wrinkles his nose. “Maybe we should wait a little while, unless you want to hear some frankly disgusting slurping noises. I witnessed some of it first-hand, and am now deeply scarred.”

A laugh bubbles out of Jungkook. “You’re not any better, you know. You look like you dove face-first into a pool of mud.” His gaze slides past the smears of chocolate lining the corners of Seokjin’s mouth, to the trails of ice cream sliding down his cone, some of which have dribbled onto his fingers.

“Well, I’m certainly a lot cuter than he is, so I think I can be forgiven.” To emphasize his point, the tip of his tongue darts out to slide wetly around the scoop of ice cream, all the while maintaining steady eye contact with Jungkook. He licks away the remaining drops of chocolate clinging to his lips.

Jungkook swallows thickly. He may or may not have been two seconds away from choking on neon-colored sprinkles, but he manages to escape the loss of his dignity for at least just this moment. “That’s highly debatable,” he manages to croak out.

Seokjin sniffs in offence. “I’m pretty sure that woman across us and her son disagree. If I don’t show up tomorrow, there’s a great chance I’m cruising across the Mediterranean by then, and you’ll be deeply sorry.”

“You really want to go on that cruise, huh? What’s so great about it anyway?” Jungkook asks, tacking on the last sentence partly just to rile Seokjin up for his own amusement. It seems to work, judging by the way his eyebrows raise in disbelief, mouth parting open slightly.

“Are you kidding me? Please tell me you’re joking,” Seokjin starts out, fingers furiously tapping out a rhythm against the wooden tabletop before pointing accusingly at Jungkook’s face. “Cruising through the ocean, making stops at gorgeous Greek islands, Italy, Croatia, all the while being served plates of fresh, cut-up fruit and an endless supply of cocktails? That is literally what my Good Place would look like, Jungkook. That, plus trays upon trays of this octopus dish.”

Jungkook leans back against his seat, pretends to mull over Seokjin’s dream vacation pitch, watches the way the tips of his ears turn slightly flushed, a result of the early afternoon heat and a Mediterranean daydream fueled outburst. He eventually shrugs. “Hmm. Okay. Seems like an acceptable time.”

“Acceptable is a severe understatement,” Seokjin grumbles. He sucks on the rim of his cone, nibbling on the surrounding wafer. There’s a thin sheen of sweat on his temples, strands of dark hair plastered in lumps across his forehead, falling delicately over his eyes. A faint halo of light emanates from behind him as the sun rises high against the cloudless sky of Barcelona, casting him in a warm glow.

Jungkook allows himself to think, for a passing moment, what it would feel like if they were sitting across each other not as spies, not as two individuals trained to track down, infiltrate, and subdue targets, not as pieces moving across a checkerboard in the carefully crafted game of espionage, where one wrong move could cost you everything.

He wonders what he would do right now if they were just Jungkook and Seokjin and not the properties of any organization or the state. Starts to think about how everything would play out if they were just friends, lovers, or something in between. Wonders if he would reach out across the table, would wipe the smudge of chocolate still stubbornly clinging to the side of Seokjin’s mouth, if he would openly voice out how beautiful he thought Seokjin was right now, illuminated by the afternoon light.

Then he buries that thought deep inside of him, because it would do neither of them any good to dwell on it. He finishes up the remaining dollops of ice cream on his cone, feels the hard candy shell of sprinkles snap between his teeth.

“What about you?” Seokjin asks, curiosity swimming in his eyes. “What’s your dream holiday?”

Jungkook frowns and considers it for a bit. “I dunno. I’ve never really been a fan of the ocean or islands. Deserts seem cool, though. I’d probably go to Jordan, visit Petra or something.”

Seokjin nods approvingly. “Seems like a beautiful place.”

“It is. My dad proposed to my mom there, right in front of the temple cut out of sandstone rocks. It was at night, and the path was all lit up with candles. They whip out the pictures every year; it’s practically engraved into my brain at this point.” He laughs warmly at the memory, which starts to trail off into an awkward, pregnant pause when he realizes he’s shared something so intimate and personal with Seokjin, and had done it all on his own volition too.

“That sounds lovely,” Seokjin replies softly. There’s an earnest look in his eyes, one that Jungkook can’t quite bring himself to stare at for more than a few seconds without wanting to squirm in his seat. “Oh! We should go sight-seeing today. It would be such a waste not to.”

“We’re on a mission,” Jungkook points out. “We’re not here to take a stroll through the streets.” No matter how gorgeous said streets were, with stunning architecture and towering, Gothic structures and neighborhoods with their own distinctive personalities.

Okay, maybe Jungkook did want to be a proper tourist for once instead of slinking through the shadows, even for just a short while.

Seokjin rolls his eyes. “You should live a little. Besides, there’s nothing we can do right now anyway. Take Jimin, for example.”

Jungkook’s eyebrows furrow. “What about him?”

Seokjin’s eyes flit to the bus stop on the street, where several bright red, double-decker buses with an open top were waiting for passengers to hop on. “I’m pretty sure he isn’t actually taking a nap right now, and has escaped into one of those sightseeing buses as we speak.”

One of the buses starts to rumble to life and chugs on past them. Jungkook narrows his eyes and spots a figure that’s vaguely Jimin-shaped in one of the seats on the upper deck, sporting large sunglasses, a dark beret, and a brochure that was expertly positioned in front of his face. For a person trained in espionage and blending through the crowds, it’s frankly a little overkill.

“Traitor,” Jungkook mumbles out, already set on using up all the hot water in their room later to leave Jimin suffering.

Seokjin wipes around his mouth with a paper napkin before speaking. He sighs out dramatically. “You, my friend, are in desperate need of some fun in your life. Lucky for you, I’m here to help.”

Jungkook taps on his chin thoughtfully. “I dunno...the last time I let myself have some fun, I got something very important stolen off of me.” He means for it to come out playfully with just the slightest hint of a bite, except it comes out a little more clipped than he’d hoped for, resentment weaving between the words and leaving a bitter stain.

Guilt flashes in Seokjin’s eyes, face crumpling for a fraction of a second before he casts his gaze downwards, worrying his bottom lip. He traces out patterns on the table using the condensation that has pooled beneath the curve of his glass. His brows are furrowed in contemplation, like he’s deciding what exactly he should say.

Jungkook groans inwardly and wishes he could kick himself in the shin, repeatedly. They were a team now whether he liked it or not, and he needed to stop bringing up what had happened between them for the sake of this mission.

But there’s also something else, a sneaking suspicion hovering in the back of Jungkook’s mind whispering to him in a tiny voice that maybe the mission isn’t the only thing he’s concerned about. Perhaps if he peered a little bit closer inside his thoughts and dissected them carefully, thoroughly, he would realize that witnessing that expression on Seokjin’s face, that flicker of hurt and pain, was something he never wanted to see again, much more be the cause of.

He clears his throat before standing up. Jungkook smoothes out the wrinkles in his jeans before gesturing to Seokjin. “C’mon.”

Seokjin looks up at him in surprise, eyes wide and searching.

“Let’s take a walk around. You know, to burn off all that ice cream.”

They both know that’s not what Jungkook really means. It’s the closest either of them will ever get to extending an olive branch to each other, one that Seokjin accepts with a wide smile.

“Just so you know, I’ve pinned all the places I want to check out on Google Maps so this is going to be a pretty long walk,” Seokjin says as he leaves out a couple of paper bills for their meal.

Jungkook huffs out a laugh. “Somehow, I had a feeling that was exactly what you were going to say.”

___________________

They’re walking through the packed streets of Barcelona in the early afternoon, stopping to stare at oddly shaped, multicolored buildings and peeking into antique shops when Jungkook is struck with an odd thought.

He’d gotten into this profession as a young adult, training ruthlessly for weeks on end, enduring every aching muscle, every bruised and bloodied fist, every splintered bone.

With every mission he undertook, the weight of the world was a steady burden on his shoulders. He’d had to deal with the indisputable fact that in some ways, the workings of the world quite literally relied on people like him, and could just as easily fall apart with one wrong move. So perhaps Jungkook had forgotten what it felt like to simply exist without thinking in mission parameters, in extraction points, in assessing who was a threat and who was not.

But with Seokjin by his side, who was staring wide-eyed at all that the city had to offer, at the performers and musicians lining the streets, at the years of history seeping out from every building, Jungkook begins to feel a lightness in him that he hasn’t felt in years.

He smiles a little to himself.

___________________

Jungkook’s eyes glide past the sprawling mansion grounds, to the stone fountain trickling in the dark surrounded by meticulously trimmed, lush hedges, and finally settle on the ornate mahogany door positioned by the center of the driveway, where groups of finely dressed people were ambling through.

He adjusts the collar of his silky black button-up discreetly, feeling entirely out of place among the sea of corporate bigwigs, investors, small-time politicians, and all sorts of people who rubbed elbows with the rich and powerful with simpering smiles.

Min-joon was hosting a party in his private residence, a secluded, lavishly-built house in the outskirts of Barcelona, teetering high on a rocky cliffside with a stunning view of the countryside.

What a shame it had been built using millions of dollars stolen from organizations and causes that needed it a great deal more than a man quite literally bathing in riches ever would.

The bug they had placed on Ramirez yielded them with fruitful results, allowing them to find out about the gathering Min-joon was having that weekend. It was an exclusive, invite-only event, to which Jimin had scoffed at and proceeded to fabricate their own set of invites through a mixture of sheer force of will, a most envious skill-set in forging, and the world’s most advanced technological equipment at their disposal.

The trio had then shuffled into their best suits, intimately acquainted themselves with exorbitant amounts of hair product, and an even more appalling amount of Gucci cologne that was well on its way to permanently embedding itself into Jungkook’s entire olfactory system.

A guard lazily pats him down before waving him through the doors. Jimin had entered a few minutes before him, already committing the building’s floor plan to memory.

Jungkook lingers near one of the staircases in the entrance hall, accepting a flute of champagne from one of the servers passing by. He pretends to be completely immersed in the impressive threadcount the window drapes beside him seem to possess as Seokjin gets searched a few feet away.

The guard grunts for him to enter, but narrows his eyes at the last second and reaches out to grab at Seokjin’s wrist. “Wait a minute...you look familiar.”

The slope of Jungkook’s shoulder tenses almost imperceptibly, undetectable to the untrained eye. He’s prepared to do something entirely drastic, like perhaps dropping down to the ground in a fainting spell, or accidentally lighting the drapes on fire with one of the decorative candlesticks propped up on the pillar stands nearby.

Before Jungkook can rank each of his equally unpleasant options, Seokjin graces the guard with a scathing, acidic look that manages to impart the message of how insignificant he is, like a piece of gum stuck on the underside of his shoe. “If you lay another hand on me, I will not hesitate to snap each and every one of your fingers like a toothpick. Then when I’m through with that, I’m going to make a phone call that will end your entire career--if it can even be considered as one--and you’ll regret every single decision you’ve made that has led up to this moment.”

He says all this calmly, passively, like he was making a passing remark about the weather that night. His charcoal grey suit jacket frames him perfectly, his entire being reeking of opulence and just a little bit of indifference, in a way that only those with too much time and money at their disposal can afford to.

The man drops his hold on Seokjin like he’s been burned, setting his gaze on the marble floors and mumbling out a quick apology. Seokjin doesn’t spare him another glance as he moves through the entrance hall.

Jungkook trails casually behind him as he takes another sip of his drink. When they’ve weaved their way in between shiny dresses and tailored suits and various liquors sloshing around in glasses that glimmer like crystals beneath the chandelier lights, he lets out a low, appreciative whistle. “Impressive,” Jungkook says.

“It’s surprisingly easy enough to act like a rich, entitled asshole,” Seokjin shrugs as he plucks out a glass of whiskey from one of the trays passing by.

“We should spread out,” Jimin says into their earpiece. He’s positioned across the other end of the room, appreciatively eyeing the freshly shucked oysters set out across the entrée table. “I’ll take the north wing, see if we can figure out where Min-joon is keeping his files.”

Jungkook mumbles out an affirmative, watches Seokjin flash him one last, quick wink before he blends into the crowd, gliding through the room like every fiber of his being belonged in that ballroom filled with all the sharks and wolves of the world.

___________________

“...but then we decided to sell our third house in the Pyrenees, because the windows were north facing, you know? We would just never get any direct sunlight. Our house plants had started to wilt away by the end of the month, and we were all looking a little too drab during our holiday retreats.”

Jungkook heaves out a sympathetic groan. “North facing windows? That sounds completely awful, Isabella. I’m so glad you got rid of that 12-bedroom, 10,000 square feet of junk.”

“It was a nightmare,” she agrees, sipping on the martini loosely held between her fingers, an army of ruby red rings glinting in the light.

He nods along commiseratingly despite the mantra in his head begging the ground to swallow him up whole. If he had to engage in another conversation with someone trying to pitch him a business deal or complaining about the abysmal natural lighting in their living room mansion, he could no longer be held responsible for whatever actions he might have to take.

She bids him goodbye as she spots another acquaintance across the room, but not before sternly reminding him to avoid north-facing windows at all costs.

“Noted,” Jungkook mutters to himself. He strides over to the desert table to comfort himself with some strawberries when he catches a flash of something from the corner of his eye. It’s Min-joon, making his way down from the second floor landing while typing out something on his cellphone. He meets some guests with a kiss on the cheek as he gets to the entrance hall, leading away two of them into one of the corridors on his left.

Two guards move swiftly up the staircase, positioning themselves in front of one of the rooms Min-joon had just vacated.

“I’ve got eyes on the target. He just left a room on the east wing, second floor. There’s two men stationed outside. If that doesn’t scream he’s hiding something important in there, I don’t know what does.”

Jimin’s voice floats over into his earpiece. “I can trip the security sensor in one of the gates out back. That can distract the guards long enough while you two look through his things.”

“Copy that,” Seokjin replies.

Jungkook is on his second plate of strawberries when Seokjin siddles up next to him, munching on a piece of shrimp from the cocktail dish he’s holding. “Say whatever you want about these bastards, but they have excellent taste in food,” he says, tongue chasing after the marinara sauce that’s dripped down his finger.

“Agreed. Although there isn’t a single person in this room I wouldn’t want to strangle,” Jungkook replies dryly, eyeing the crowd of people that were getting progressively drunker and rowdier with each succeeding tray of alcohol the servers were offering.

A shrill ringing sound erupts faintly from the gardens, although it’s hardly perceptible amidst the rumblings of drunken chatter and the bustle of people moving around. But to the trained ear, it’s a sign that something isn’t quite right, that there was a flaw in the well-oiled machine that was keeping everything perfectly running and polished that night.

The guards cast each other hard looks before making their way down the staircase, disappearing into a corner of the room like shadows.

Jungkook and Seokjin depart from the desert table, dress shoes clicking mildly against the floors, a feather-light intrusion in a crowd of rambunctious, roaring sounds that were drowning out everything else. They slip past the mass of people, striding up the staircase in a relaxed, offhand way, like they had every right and reason to be there.

They go through the short hallway before stopping outside a polished door with a gilded handle, which is, of course, locked. Jungkook digs into his pocket for a hair pin before smiling triumphantly. He crouches down and inserts it into the keyhole, twisting until a light clicking sound breaks out in the quiet hallway.

Seokjin levels him with an impressed look, shoulders slouching lazily against the wall. “I must admit, I haven’t really had to make use of my lock-picking skills in a long time, since people willingly invite me into their bedrooms. But kudos to you.”

“That’s probably before they’ve heard anything coming out of your mouth,” Jungkook mutters out under his breath. He twists the handle open carefully, wary of any surprises that may be waiting on the other side of the door.

“On the contrary,” Seokjin whispers, lips positioned right across Jungkook’s ear. His warm exhale tickles against his skin, causing goosebumps to erupt and run through the back of his neck, “people seem to like my big mouth and its many talents.”

Jungkook pauses before entering, perhaps feeling a little emboldened by the roles they were playing that night: two young men with an arsenal of riches by their side, revelling in the charged atmosphere, in the soft string music echoing throughout the space, in the tinkling of wine glasses in the ballroom downstairs. “I’ll be the judge of that,” he finally says, eyes lingering on Seokjin’s lips, wondering if it would taste as soft as it looks, cottony candy sweet and rosebud pink.

They finally cross the threshold of the room, making sure not to leave anything out of place. It’s a sleek home office, walls a rich brick red with a tall, coffered ceiling and silky drapes blocking out the moonshine that’s bathing the cliffside in a lucent glow. A large desk sits in the corner of the room, right in front of a built-in bookshelf with an endless collection of heavy, dated books.

Seokjin looks through the drawers in his desk, sorting through the piles of papers and folders before frowning. “These are just rubbish, nothing useful.”

“Huh,” Jungkook remarks, staring at the weathered bookshelf with a tilt to his head. He runs his finger through the spines of the books, a light gathering of dust adhering to his fingertip as he pulls away. The books on that row seem as if they haven’t been touched in a while, all except one on the leftmost end. It was free of dust speckles, the cover of which still remained some of its luster.

Jungkook leans in to read the title. Fundamentals of Buddhism, it says, staring back at him in glossy, embossed letters. Min-joon didn’t strike him as a particularly spiritual person, judging by the complete lack of moral integrity he seems to possess. Acting on a steadily growing gut feeling, Jungkook pulls out the book from its place, holding his breath in anticipation.

The bookshelf parts in the middle, sliding open to reveal a small compartment holding a shiny, silver safe. “Well,” he says simply. “I think I’ve found where he’s hiding everything we need.”

“Excellent work,” Seokjin says from beside him, a large grin breaking out across his face. His fingers hover over the keypad on the safe, eyes narrowingly intently. After a few minutes of silent concentration, his eyes brighten. “Got it,” is the only thing he says before his knuckle presses down on a combination of numbers in rapid succession.

It clicks open with a beep.

“The ink on the numbers fade away just a tiny bit every time you press it,” he says nonchalantly, as if he hadn’t just broken into a secure safe in one try. Jungkook is hit with the brief thought that he was extremely grateful to have Seokjin on their side, if at least just for this night.

They pull out a laptop from the safe, setting it up on his desk. The screen patiently asks them for a password.

“Try his birthday,” Jungkook suggests.

Seokjin casts him a judgemental look. “Seriously?”

“What?” Jungkook says defensively. “He literally had a marble bust of himself commissioned to place in this room. You don’t get any more narcissistic than that.” He gestures to the opposite end of the office, where Min-joon’s sculpted face and torso stares back at them with a nose that was one light breeze away from chipping off.

Seokjin inputs the dates reluctantly. The home screen of his laptop begins to buffer, startling out a delighted laugh from Jungkook. “Told you,” he smirks proudly.

“Jungkook - 1, Laptop - 0,” Seokjin giggles, grabbing a flash drive from his suit pocket to transfer a few important files into the device. They’ve copied everything they seem to need after a few minutes, prompting Seokjin to shut down the laptop and return it back inside the safe.

The bookshelf slides back into its previous position.

Seokjin leaves a tiny surveillance bug beneath Min-joon’s desk before they head out of the office door silently. The two are halfway down the hallway leading to the staircase when Jimin’s voice suddenly buzzes into their earpieces, sounding just a little bit out of breath.

“Shit, are you two still on the second floor? I can see someone coming up the stairs.”

Jungkook’s eyes sweep past the corridor, which is completely lacking in any alcoves or nooks they can take refuge in. He can feel the weight of the blade he’d snuck into his shoe pressing against his ankle, but they’d been aiming for subtlety throughout this entire operation, and Jungkook doesn’t really think a guard bleeding out on Min-joon’s Persian rug is going to be particularly in line with that.

After looking into Seokjin’s wide, equally panicked eyes, an idea starts to form in his mind, something fuelled by pure adrenaline and the aftermath of watching too many horribly cliché spy movies that he insists he does ironically -- (he does not).

It’s admittedly not one of his finest ideas, but it probably isn’t the worst either, and the footsteps are getting louder by the second, which is all the motivation he needs to grab Seokjin by the lapels of his suit jacket, press him flush against the wall, and mesh their mouths together in a bruising kiss.

Seokjin gets on with the program quickly enough, curling his fingers roughly around the tufts of hair at the base of Jungkook’s neck before tugging, hard. His breath hitches sharply against Seokjin’s lips, who uses that opportunity to lick hotly into his mouth, leaving Jungkook with the heavy weight of molten desire swirling in his gut, pressing tautly against his insides.

He pushes Seokjin even more firmly against the wall, which causes the painting behind them to go slightly askew.

“Hey!” A gruff, irritated voice breaks through the fog in Jungkook’s head. “You’re not supposed to be here.”

His head swivels to the side, finally pulling away very reluctantly from Seokjin. Some part of him notes a little dazedly that his lips are as soft as they look, but that they tasted even sweeter, like a thick coat of molasses curling around his tongue, drowning out all his other senses until the only thought circulating in his brain was how to get more of Seokjin, how to permanently brand his own lips with the taste of his mouth.

Seokjin hiccups loudly, face flushed a pale pink and his suit jacket unbuttoned, revealing the rumpled white dress shirt beneath it. His lips are bitten raw, dark hair parting across his forehead in tousled waves. “Oh my gosh, we’re so sorry,” he slurs out his words a bit, giggling into Jungkook’s neck, whose hold on his back tightens. “We were just - hic! - looking for an empty room.”

For one horrible, fleeting moment, Jungkook thinks the guard is going to call their bluff, that he was going to pull out a gun on them and lock them away in some kind of dungeon with nothing but Min-joon’s horribly deformed sculpture for company. But eventually he heaves out a long-suffering sigh, like they weren’t the first pair he’d seen sucking face (or worse) that night. “This is a private area. Please rejoin the rest of the guests downstairs,” he finally says, pinching the bridge of his nose in frustration.

Seokjin leans against him as they make their way through the rest of the hallway, swaying lightly on his feet very convincingly. Jungkook’s arm remains wrapped around his waist, fingers dipping dangerously close down the curve of his back. When they’re finally out of earshot and are halfway down the stairs, Seokjin angles his face toward him.

“Are you aware that your hand is still currently on my ass? Just genuinely curious.”

Jungkook clears his throat. “You’re supposed to be drunk. I’m guiding you down these treacherous steps out of the goodness of my heart and this is how you repay me?”

“Never said I was complaining,” he whispers, lips just lightly grazing the shell of Jungkook’s ear like an afterthought.

His stomach clenches at the action, nearly causing him to miss the last step before the stairs even out into the ground floor. Seokjin flashes him a look from beneath his lashes, like he was entirely too aware of Jungkook’s near blunder and what exactly provoked it.

They head back into the crowd, nodding subtly at Jimin, who exhales in relief from where he’d been anxiously waiting beside a potted plant.

The mission may have gone smoothly tonight, but Jungkook is sure of one thing: he is well and truly fucked. Kim Seokjin had effectively burrowed his way under his skin, and he had no idea how to get him out of there.

Or frankly, if he even wanted him to.

___________________

“Namjoon says it might take another day before they can decrypt all the files we’ve sent them,” Jimin says as he combs through his hair in front of the mirror, glancing at Jungkook’s figure currently flipping through soap operas on their apartment couch.

“That’s a bit longer than expected,” Jungkook frowns.

Jimin snorts. “You and Seokjin did find a shit-ton of stuff, you know. Which is amazing for us but a total nightmare for the tech team. Anyway, I’m heading out to do some shopping. And to stare at the cute guy manning the cashier in the Gucci store.”

Jungkook gives the tight leather pants and nearly sheer shirt Jimin is wearing a pointed once-over. “I have a feeling you’re planning to do a lot more than just staring,” he says in amusement. The poor cashier didn’t stand a chance. Park Jimin is going to completely eat him alive.

He huffs out a breath. “Oh, give me a break. I’ve had to sit through the sexual tension between you guys this entire time, all while listening to you flirt with each other through our earpieces. If I have to endure this another day longer, I’m going to riot. And demand for a raise.”

He puts some chapstick on before heading out the door, raising his hand in a final wave. “Please don’t attempt to contact me unless you’re tied up in the trunk of someone’s car. Love you, bye!”

The door clicks close with a shut.

Jungkook watches the woman on the screen dramatically hurl the contents of her wine glass toward her lover’s face before he shuts the TV with a groan. A little over two days had passed since The Incident, which he has since then dubbed with capital letters in his head because it has been getting increasingly harder to think about anything else other than that.

He attempts to distract himself for the next couple of minutes. He checks through the audio surveillance feed they’d planted in Min-joon’s room for any updates on his next move. When he doesn’t make out anything substantial from it, he heads over to the dresser and methodically disassembles his hand-gun, unloading the magazine and pulling the slide open before reassembling everything again with frightening efficiency.

But nothing gets rid of the jittery feeling building up inside him, the pent-up energy clawing at his insides begging to be released.

“Fuck it,” he mumbles beneath his breath.

He makes his way out the door, striding over to the room across the hallway before raising the back of his hand up in a fist.

The door opens before he even has a chance to knock against it.

Seokjin stares back at him in surprise. “Oh! I was just about to go check on you.”

“Well, here I am,” Jungkook laughs nervously. “Ta-da,” he says while doing a set of jazz hands. He has no idea what just possessed him to do that. He wonders if Seokjin would notice him sinking to the ground and belly-crawling his way back into his own room.

“Please don’t ever do that again,” is the only thing Seokjin says before grabbing Jungkook by the arm and ushering him in.

“Right,” he nods dumbly.

“Do you want anything to drink?” Seokjin asks, leading the way into the living room. His apartment is identical to the one Jungkook shares with Jimin, exposed brick wall behind a worn, velvet couch and a large open space leading up to the balcony doors, which are parted just enough to let in a light breeze.

The curtain flutters delicately for a few moments, like butterfly wings beating out a quiet rhythm.

“I’m okay with anything you have,” Jungkook replies, which he assumes is Not a Lot aside from bottled water and a now half-consumed can of iced tea they’d purchased in a convenience store after Min-joon’s party.

Except Seokjin pulls out a vintage bottle of Pinot Noir from the cupboard that had to be at least a few thousand dollars. He grabs two wine glasses from the kitchen shelf and heads over to the couch, folding his legs beneath him as he sinks into the plush cushions.

Jungkook barks out a surprised laugh. “Now where the hell did you get that?”

“Let’s just say a few servers in Min-joon’s ballroom weren’t paying attention before we left.” There’s a wicked look on his face, lips curled up into a devastating smile.

Jungkook looks at him in complete amazement for a few seconds before shaking his head. “You know what? You continue to surprise me more each day,” he admits, eyes staring back at Seokjin a little too brightly.

“I’m not sure if that’s a compliment, but I’m taking it as one anyway.”

“It is,” Jungkook assures him quietly. He doesn’t quite know what kind of look is on his face right now, if he’s doing a poor job at concealing his bleeding, gaping heart. He finds that he doesn’t really care if Seokjin is able to see right through him. At least, not anymore.

Seokjin’s breath hitches slightly at the weight of Jungkook’s gaze before he turns away to finally pop open the bottle. He pours out a generous serving into each of their glasses. “Here’s to eating the rich,” he says, clinking their glasses together. “Or eating their food, at the very least.”

“I can get behind that,” Jungkook says before taking a sip. The rich, acidic tang lingers in his mouth, subtle notes of cherry and raspberry peeking out between the other flavors.

“That is insanely good, and I’m mentally patting myself on the back right now for managing to sneak this out.” Seokjin takes another sip, a proud curl to his lips settling on his face.

Jungkook props a leg up on the couch lazily, one elbow coming over to rest on his knee. He casts Seokjin an inquiring look. “How did you sneak out an entire bottle of wine without anyone noticing?”

Jungkook had left the mansion grounds first that night, as to not raise any suspicion if they had all left together. He had also been finding it increasingly difficult to look Seokjin in the face at that point, since every time he did his eyes would immediately stray down to his lips, so he had happily welcomed the time alone to take a deep breath, to tame the flustered look on his face that Seokjin so easily coaxed out of him every time they were together.

“To be fair, everyone was extremely drunk. And the servers were preoccupied with trying to stop two politicians from fighting over the last cheese board. It was pretty messy,” he leans in close to whisper to Jungkook conspiratorially. His lips are stained cherry red now, glistening with a light sheen. “Someone was waving a butter knife in the air at some point.”

A light laugh flows out of Jungkook. “Let me guess, was it that bald guy in the red and black striped suit? With the huge bowtie?”

Seokjin’s eyes widen in mirth. “Oh my god, yes.”

“I knew it,” Jungkook pumps his fist in the air triumphantly. “He gave me major cheese enthusiast vibes.”

Seokjin hums in agreement. “I think it’s the mustache.”

Jungkook raises the glass to his lips for another sip when a thought pops into his head. He giggles softly. “I just realized I’m going to be comparing every other drink I’m going to have for the rest of my life with wine from the collection of an infamous psychopath. Just my luck.”

Seokjin sends him a sympathetic look from over his wine glass. “I get it. I once had the best massage of my life in Bali, but the experience has been soiled by the massage therapist trying to strangle me shortly afterwards.” He pauses thoughtfully for a few seconds. “Actually, scratch that, it still is the best massage ever despite the near successful murder attempt.”

Jungkook flashes him a half fearful, half fascinated look. “Do I wanna know?”

“Oh darling, I’m going to tell you anyway,” Seokjin says cheerily, patting Jungkook on the cheek gently.

___________________

Seokjin breaks out into loud peals of laughter beside Jungkook, doubling over onto the couch as his wine glass wobbles threateningly in his loosening grip. “I can’t believe you crash-landed in a goat farm in the middle of nowhere,” he finally manages to say, eventually slumping back against the cushion and reaching out to fan himself.

Jungkook blinks the haze away from his vision before pouting. “My parachute malfunctioned halfway through the jump! It was either that farm or the rooftop of an abandoned, radioactive building. The goats were cute anyway.”

He isn’t quite sure how much time has passed since they’d finished their first glass of wine. Jungkook and Seokjin are well onto their third by now, precariously teetering into that zone where everything is just a little bit funny, where outside sounds have begun to be interlaced with a light layer of buzzing, where the room seems to be just a touch too warm despite the breeze flowing in.

They’ve inched closer together progressively throughout the night, until their shoulders are leaning lazily against each other’s, knees pressed up close like extensions of the other’s limbs. Jungkook can see the sweep of his lashes across his cheekbones, can smell the bittersweet scent of alcohol on his breath.

His eyes linger on the exposed curve of Seokjin’s collarbone, his oversized white t-shirt halfway through sliding off his shoulder, revealing an expanse of smooth, unblemished skin. He’s struck with the sudden thought that since their first meeting in that Busan nightclub, this might be the only time he’s ever seen Seokjin look like himself. Like he isn’t playing a part, like he isn’t trying to fool people into thinking he’s something that he’s not, like he isn’t putting on a persona depending on what the mission would demand him to be that night.

And tonight, Seokjin isn’t a wealthy big shot mingling with the world’s elite in a cliffside mansion, or a carefree guy partying it up beneath neon-colored lights in Busan. He’s not pretending to be anyone, or anything.

Jungkook thinks he likes this version of Seokjin best, with his unstyled hair falling softly over his forehead, and his bare feet peeking out from beneath his loose, faded jeans, getting drunk on some stolen wine with a pretty, giggly smile on his face.

The first few notes of a violin piece start to float into the room through the open balcony doors, startling the two of them into silence as they try to peer into the street, where performers often set up their instruments at night.

It’s a muted, melancholic tune, the kind that leaves you aching, the kind that you associate with memories of mourning, of grieving. But Seokjin tugs on Jungkook’s arm, springing up from the couch with tipsy enthusiasm and wine-stained lips. “Dance with me,” he demands, eyes bright and crinkled at the corners.

Jungkook thinks he would say yes to anything Seokjin asked of him, would dance with him no matter what kind of music was playing, even without the presence of alcohol thrumming in his veins, even if every single cell in his body was sober.

He stands and accepts the hand Seokjin outstretches to him, but not before holding it in his palm, running his thumb against the soft skin, and pressing a soft, heated kiss on the back of Seokjin’s hand. “Anything for you,” Jungkook says, eyes wide and dark.

Perhaps it’s a little too raw and vulnerable, a little too serious for the giddy, wine-drunk bubble that’s enveloped them.

But perhaps it’s exactly what Seokjin is looking for, is craving for. He presses up close against Jungkook, winding his arms around his shoulders, resting his fingers lightly around the nape of his neck. They lean into each other at the same time like the sun sinking towards the horizon, blending and disappearing into it, leaving nothing but brilliant streaks of color behind.

It’s soft and sweet at first, tentatively searching out each other’s mouths, as if the night at Min-joon’s hadn’t happened at all. Then, gradually, when they’ve mapped out the way the other feels against them, the way they taste, it transitions into something hard and burning, a fervent push and pull.

Jungkook cups both of his hands around Seokjin’s face, who desperately brings Jungkook even closer towards him, like the ground would give out beneath them if there was so much as an inch of space between them. They exchange kisses for what feels like a lifetime, alternating between lazy, idle touches to scorching, charged declarations against the other’s skin.

Then, finally, when their lips have become a touch too bruised and their minds have permanently committed the way the other tastes to memory, they pull apart. Seokjin’s hair ruffles lightly in the breeze as his fingers ghost across the back of Jungkook’s neck. “I still want my dance,” he whispers against Jungkook’s lips. “And I’m not going to steal a stupid drive from you this time, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

Jungkook laughs, feels like he’s floating with the soft hum of music still spilling into the room and Seokjin looking at him with shining eyes. Then he takes hold of Seokjin’s wrist and twirls him two, three times against the carpeted floor, and it’s messy and truly, painfully uncoordinated with Seokjin nearly bumping into the coffee table with an undignified squeak, but that moment is theirs to keep, something real and genuine, something exceedingly rare in their world, where fabricating parts of yourself, if not your entire being, sometimes becomes the only way to survive.

It’s somewhat reminiscent of that night in Busan, of Jungkook twirling Seokjin against the pulsating, vibrant dance floor, but ultimately different at its core. This time, they were under no false pretenses, weren’t trying to trick each other into thinking they were people they were not.

He supposes it’s a little funny. How mere months ago, Jungkook had considered Seokjin as an enemy, a threat to this mission, someone he had to watch closely with wary, cautious eyes. But in just the short amount of time they’ve spent in this city, watching the same sunrise and the sky fade out into the night, the complex cocktail mixture of emotions he’d felt for Seokjin had blossomed into this intense, blistering feeling that Jungkook is drowning in.

The music comes to a lulling stop.

Seokjin looks out into the street, disappointment clouding his eyes. Then, he gasps loudly, completely transfixed with the color of the sky which has now begun to set, blazing hues of oranges and yellows and hints of pink blanketing the entire city. He pulls on Jungkook’s hand, leading him over to the balcony.

They step out into the tiny space, city filth and dust gathering beneath their bare feet, but they continue to lean against the railings, staring up at the sunset while the rumblings of cars and people occasionally walking through the street echoes in the space between them.

“What are you thinking about?” Jungkook asks Seokjin. He thinks this is how he wants to remember him, bathed in a soft, golden glow, equally as stunning as the blazing sky behind them.

“How happy I am with you here, standing next to me.” Seokjin reaches out to lace their fingers together.

Jungkook bites on his lower lip. “You know, sometimes I can never tell if you’re being real or not. If what you’re presenting to me is something that’s carefully crafted.”

Seokjin frowns, eyebrows furrowing together. “And now? Do you think I’m being real?”

“Yes,” he says without a beat of hesitation. He doesn’t know if that makes him naïve, or foolish, or infinitely too trusting, especially considering the career he’s in. But Jungkook has always learned to listen to his gut feeling, and right now, it’s perfectly content with the decision he’s made.

“Good,” Seokjin replies with a soft smile.

They lean into each other again until the last drops of light fade away into the horizon, two figures silhouetted against the burning sky.

___________________

Glass rains over Jungkook’s shoulders as he ducks behind a crate of boxes.

There’s a hot white flash of pain somewhere along his shoulder, but he has more pressing things to worry about, like the steady stream of bullets currently making its way to where his face had been just a few seconds ago.

Jungkook swears under his breath. He waits for the sound of bullets showering over concrete to die down, then peers over the side to take one clean shot at the man hovering over the railings to his right, who falls to the ground with a thud.

Jungkook taps on his earpiece. “Are you there?” he asks, waiting with bated breath.

“I’ve got eyes on Min-joon,” Jimin’s voice confirms. “He’s heading for the rooftop. I’ll take care of it.”

Through the bug they’d planted in his office, they’d learned of his plans to flee the country that weekend, but not without stopping by one of the warehouses he owned to collect the bags of cash he’d stashed away. The files Namjoon had decrypted had also turned out to be everything they’d need to prove Min-joon’s ties to organized crime groups and the location of his offshore funds, and there was absolutely no way Jungkook would be letting him get away from them today.

He takes a deep breath before hopping up on the stash of boxes he’s been using for cover, which wobble precariously under his weight. He dashes to the edge of the very last slatted wooden crate, extends his knees out for a jump, and grabs at the railings of the steps leading to the third floor. He hauls his weight over the bannister, landing on the ground in one deft motion, all the while very narrowly avoiding a bullet that whizzes past his ear.

One of Min-joon’s men tackles him to the floor before he can even catch his breath, which Jungkook finds to be extremely rude.

He huffs out an annoyed breath before he brings his hands down hard against the man’s forearms, who momentarily relinquishes his hold on him with a surprised yelp. He uses this split-second distraction to push him off and flip him to the ground, where he knees him in the gut, repeatedly.

The man clutches at his abdomen, doubled over in pain as Jungkook scrambles up and grabs at a piece of hardwood plank lying abandoned against the wall, crashing it over his head to knock him out.

He breathes out heavily for a few moments, feeling winded as he peers into the lower floors to see if any of Min-joon’s men are still stationed throughout the place. He finds no one.

“Target subdued,” Jimin finally says into his earpiece. The mission was over.

Jungkook’s shoulders sag with relief, wrinkling his nose as he eyes the semi-dilapidated warehouse they were in. There’s a flash of gray that zooms past the corner of his eye, which he’s fairly certain is some kind of mutant rat scuttling away into a corner with its other mutant babies. He shudders in disgust.

He wants nothing more than to go back to their apartment, sink into a nice, warm bubble bath to wash off the grime and blood from his body, and curl up in his sheets preferably with one Kim Seokjin pressed up against him before they would be sent back home, please and thank you.

Speaking of...

“Seokjin?” Jungkook calls out. No one calls back out to him, nothing but the faint sound of trickling water echoing throughout the space. They’d been separated during the fight with Min-joon’s men, and a swirling, sick feeling starts to settle at the pit of his stomach as he makes his way down the eerily silent stairs.

There’s a soft gasp that cuts through the silence, and Jungkook rushes toward a crate of boxes on the ground floor where Seokjin is crouched beside, face scrunched up in pain.

“Shit, what happened? Are you hurt?” Jungkook’s trembling hands reach out to anxiously run through Seokjin’s torso, face, shoulders, trying to search for bullet wounds and cuts and bruises, trying to see if his clothes are stained with blood.

“Kind of,” Seokjin swallows thickly, “But promise me you won’t laugh.”

Jungkook looks at him as if he’s gone insane. “Why the fuck would I be laughing right now?”

“...I think I sprained my butt falling from this crate. And I cannot get up.”

“Oh,” Jungkook says. Pure relief floods through him, that Seokjin isn’t in any mortal danger, that they would all walk away unscathed from this. Except the sheer ridiculousness of the situation does not escape him. His lips curl up into a small smile.

Seokjin groans. “You promised you wouldn’t laugh!”

“I’m not!” Jungkook insists despite the increasingly toothy grin taking over his face. “But you do know what this means right?”

“What?” Seokjin eyes him warily.

“I need to carry you out of this building,” Jungkook replies gleefully.

“Absolutely not. Leave me here to die. Or you can just haul me around like a sack of potatoes. I truly wouldn’t mind.”

“Stop whining,” Jungkook says, already positioning himself in front of Seokjin so the latter can clamber onto his back. “Some people would kill to be in your place, you know.”

“Highly debatable,” Seokjin murmurs back. Despite his vehement refusals, Seokjin curls his arms around his shoulders, legs slotting into place on each side of Jungkook’s waist. His lips brush a soft, warm kiss on the nape of Jungkook’s neck, a sign of gratitude, an assurance that everything was going to be fine, and maybe even a promise of what was to come.

They exit the warehouse and stare up into the sunny Barcelona sky for the last time together.

___________________

Jungkook narrows his eyes as he squeezes into the door leading to the roof deck.

It’s filled with a decent amount of people, plush cushions resting on woven rattan chairs and twinkling, string lights illuminating the rooftop bar in a yellow glow. He spots his target in one of the corners, phone camera out and taking a picture of the dusky sky.

He approaches with silent footsteps before snaking his arms around the person’s waist, pressing their back flush against his chest.

“Gotcha,” Jungkook whispers.

Seokjin melts into Jungkook, entirely too familiar with the touch of his skin, the scent clinging to his soft, cotton shirt, and the soothing murmur of his voice. “I was beginning to think you wouldn’t make it.”

“Paperwork was a bitch but is no match for me, especially when I’m heavily caffeinated. Also, Jimin would kill me if I missed his birthday party.”

Seokjin turns around to face him, yet the fond look in his eyes crumples up into a tiny wince.

Jungkook rests a hand on Seokjin’s side, being careful to avoid the scar that was still healing a little bit above his hip bone, a bitter souvenir from his latest mission in Shanghai a few weeks ago. “Is your stitch bothering you? I’m sure Jimin would understand if we slip out early tonight.”

Seokjin pouts. “What, and miss out on Jimin giving Namjoon the lap dance of a lifetime? Absolutely not.”

Their gazes swivel to the other side of the roof deck, where Namjoon is already seated on a rickety metal chair, burying his face in his hands as other people from their team give him encouraging pats on the shoulder. Jimin had insisted that the one thing he truly desired more than anything in this material world was to give Namjoon a lap dance on his birthday, who was unable to utter a single word of refusal when subjected to Jimin’s pleading, puppy-dog eyes.

“I have a surprise for you too, you know,” Seokjin says, voice dropping into a whisper. He’s pressed up against Jungkook’s side, fingers sneaking in under Jungkook’s shirt and ghosting across the warm expanse of his toned stomach.

“Oh?” Jungkook says, licking his lips in anticipation.

“Mhm. You’ll have to wait and see when we get home, though.”

There’s something about the look in Seokjin’s face, the heavy swirl of heat in his eyes, the teasing, playful quirk to his lips that cause visions to flash in Jungkook’s mind, images of handcuffs and blindfolds and silky sheets in the dimly-lit expanse of their bedroom.

“Can’t wait,” he finally says, capturing Seokjin’s mouth in a searing kiss.

Notes:

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