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This really isn’t what Jihoon was expecting when he was called into Director Kim’s office.

For one thing, he has none of the qualifications to perform this task, considered both too intellectual and indolent at once. For another, he's always been more of a computer screen, night-owl kind of guy, and what the Director is proposing involves a little too much gunfire and bloodshed for his tastes.

But Director Kim is watching him expectantly, waiting for an answer, and Jihoon’s pretty sure he can’t just pretend he didn’t hear the question.

“Uh, well Director, I really appreciate the vote of confidence. I really do. But on this occasion, I think that confidence may be a little...misplaced. I’m sorry, I know I’m probably coming across ungrateful here, but the thing is—I’m just an analyst. I wouldn’t know the first thing about giving orders.”

Director Kim rocks back in his chair, acknowledging the point with a fractional inclination of his head.

“True, but technically you won’t be giving orders, you’ll just relaying them to the asset, while providing the technical assistance to ensure they’re carried out. When you think about it, it’s not that different to your current job.”

Jihoon bites down on an incredulous laugh, barely. It comes out as a huff of breath through his nose.

“With all due respect Director, I would have to disagree. I’ve never interacted with an agent directly before. I just assess the viability of the intel and pass on what’s needed to their handler. Other than that, I’m completely detached from the decision-making process. Now you’re asking me to make decisions. Huge, under pressure decisions I’ve never made before, that could potentially affect the outcome of a mission and an agent’s life, and I’m not sure I know how to do that. The only field missions I’ve been a part of so far have been simulations.”

The Director laughs, bright and privately entertained, “Well, here’s your chance to have some real fun.”

“Fun?” Jihoon echoes, hearing himself scoff a bit and figuring he is owed.

“Look Mr Lee,” Director Kim leans forward, his forearms braced against the edge of the desk. “I know it might feel like I’m throwing you in the deep end here, but I wouldn’t be suggesting this if I didn’t think you were perfectly capable of staying afloat. We’ve had our eye on you for some time, and we think you’re wasted where you are. This is your chance to step up and shine. I strongly suggest you take it. And it’s not like you’ll be going in there completely blind. We’ve actually teamed you with our best agent.” He trails off, leaving inferences open.

Jihoon doesn’t know what expression is on his face, but whatever it is, Director Kim must see it as a green light. He grins at him, shark like, then slides a folder across the desk, and Jihoon doesn’t have to look at the name stickered to the front to know who they’re talking about.

There are only a handful of Project-17 operatives in active service these days, and Agent Choi in particular holds a rather mythic status amongst them.

He’s always been the top dog, the best of the best, and his reputation as a soulless bad-ass mother fucker is so legendary at this point, sometimes just showing up to the party is enough to have splinter terrorist cells hand over their stolen nuclear arsenal with a ‘Yeah, sorry about that blowing the world up crap. We were just messing. Friends?’

The idea of working with him sends a thrill through Jihoon and scares the shit out of him all at once. 

When he joined the Agency three years ago, the possibility of working with anyone of that calibre never really entered his mind. He’s received the basic mandatory training, sure, but they never gave him a gun, and he never had to run a field course. He specialized in intel gathering, learning code and protocol. Assets and liabilities, and he’s still technically a newbie at it—a baby analyst. The rest of the team are grown ass people with children and mortgages and burgeoning cases of alcoholism, and any one of them would be better suited for this.

But the Director must have seen something in his file to recommend him. Or maybe the rumours are true. Maybe the guy really is just bat-shit crazy.

Either way, Jihoon would be an idiot to turn an opportunity like this down.

“I suppose I can always give it a try.”

Sprawled in bed, his bedroom lit only by the glow of his laptop, biting down on each yawn that tries to spring from him, Jihoon clicks and scrolls, reads and reads.

Everything he knows about Agent Choi—officially—is supplied in a single file dossier, not even three pages long. Odd, perhaps, for such a prolific agent.

Jihoon can’t decide if that’s because he doesn’t have the clearance yet to access the full version, or simply because Agent Choi is a difficult subject to pin down, least of all in writing.

It’s probably a bit of both really, leaning towards the former; based on the guy’s reputation alone, his case file should be thick enough to use as a bludgeon. Instead, all Jihoon has to work with is this:

Agent Name: Choi Seungcheol

Code Name: Choi-17

Aliases: (REDACTED)

D.O.B: (REDACTED) (Aged 28)

Gender: Male

Nationality: South Korean

Laterality: Right

Height: 6’ 3”

Weight: (REDACTED)

Vision: 20/20

Blood Type: B-

Eye Colour: Brown

Hair Colour: Black

Relatives: Mother, (REDACTED); Father, (REDACTED); Brother; (REDACTED)

Marital Status: (REDACTED)

Children: (REDACTED)

Languages: Korean, English, Chinese (Mandarin and Cantonese), Japanese, Spanish, French, Russian, Uzbeki, Farsi, Arabic, Italian, Portuguese

Licences: Firearms; Vehicle; Air Transport Pilot; Private Pilots Licence; Explosives

Home Address: (REDACTED)

Postal: (REDACTED)

Telephone: (REDACTED)

Mobile: (REDACTED)

Email: [email protected]

On the next page, there’s an extensive list of awards and commendations for service, information about Agent Choi’s military record (also heavily redacted), and a series of profiling notes made by his former handler, Jeon Wonwoo, the most interesting of which reads: Agent Choi demonstrates a high degree of tactlessness in unplanned social altercations, as well as a minimal understanding of basic social cues.

 Requires very specific directions—is underlined, twice.

It doesn’t add up to much, and the family background section especially is either severely out of date or simply unvarnished bullshit, because although Jihoon is a baby analyst, he knows the agency doesn’t invest in field agents with existing familial connections; they prefer to recruit orphans and the only-childs from broken single parent families—the kids who need a little extra TLC—and they recruit them young too, very young, so the Agency is all they know.

It’s proven to be a very effective working model, and Jihoon doubts Seungcheol is the exception.

Jihoon hates to work with anything less than the full picture, but he opens a new file and starts weeding through the bullshit, building his own profile of Seungcheol, with the tiny bits of information he’d learned working in HQ for the last three years.

He makes a note to get a more recent headshot of the man too, because even the photograph they have on file has been a little doctored; Jihoon may never have been formally introduced to Agent Choi, but he’s seen him hanging around the lobby at HQ before—waiting for the elevator—and he looked nowhere near this bland.

He was, to put it simply, a beautiful specimen of manhood. Fantastic to look at, from every angle. His hair was as black as vinyl records and his eyes dark as wells, and he had the ironic grace of someone amused by everything, a calm thread of self-confidence in his well-proportioned form.

Everyone else had deliberately given him a wide berth that day, but Jihoon got stuck sharing the elevator with him and he was immediately mesmerised by the fuck-it glance in his eyes, the casual sneer of his mouth as he said ‘Well? Don’t just stand there, what floor are you heading to?’

There was a streak of recklessness in him too, like a kid leaping off a bridge into a too shallow river. It was unsettling in a way, that you could almost tell just by looking at the other man, that Seungcheol wasn’t the type to age out and retire. He was going to die young, in some kind of huge fiery explosion, and everybody who knew him would still be telling the story years later.

It’s pretty sad, actually.

The first time he meets with Agent Choi as his handler, is over a screen on their very first mission together; Seungcheol on a rooftop in Prague, Jihoon in Operations room #4 in the Agency HQ.

Jihoon’s seen the LENS tactical eye camera in action before, but it’s still pretty exhilarating to be working with that kind of advanced tech, watching the world pass by as Agent Choi sees it.

He watches the man set up his rifle for a few minutes, before putting on his headphones, logging in and making his presence known with a chirpy, “Good morning, Agent Choi. How are you doing today?”

In his ear, the other end of the line hums and clicks, before a gruff voice reports, “Who’s this? I don’t recognise your voice.”

Oh yeah, that’s right. He doesn’t know yet.

Nervous, Jihoon wipes his palms on his thighs beneath the table, “Uh, well, uhm, I’m Jihoon. Lee Jihoon. I’m your new handler. I'll be your contact from this point forward.” When Seungcheol makes a noise of polite interest, he adds, “Can I just say, it’s a real honour to be working with you Agent Choi, I’ve been following your work—”

“What happened to Mr Jeon? Is he dead?” Seungcheol cuts in, surprisingly forward, though he doesn’t sound particularly bothered.

“No, no he’s…he’s still around. He was just offered early retirement and took it.”

Jihoon braces for the man to ask any number of questions. And why did they think you were an adequate replacement? Where were you doing before this? What experience do you have? Seungcheol however, simply adjusts the sights on his scope and asks none.

The thing Jihoon hates most in the world is awkward silence, empty air. There’s never been a silence he can’t fill, but right at this moment, he’s at a loss for words. He tries to come up with an appropriate topic, an icebreaker, but all he can think to say is, is it true you once killed ten enemy operatives with your shoelaces? That’s awesome.

Probably it would come across inappropriately fanboyish though, so he shakes his head, shrugs it off, and just gets down to work.

“Uhm, so—anyway. I guess we should get this show on the road, huh?”

The view on his screen shifts—Seungcheol glancing back towards the scaffolding surrounding the dome of St. Francis of Assisi, the construction crew and the barricades. Checking his six.

“Just waiting for you Chief.”

Their first mission together passes by with alarming smoothness; a fast in and out with no complications, no injuries, and the 4 o’clock rush hour had allowed Seungcheol to disassemble his rifle and slip into the crowds without notice. Ideal. Textbook.

Not that Jihoon was expecting an unmitigated disaster of course—he may be a newbie at this, but Seungcheol is most definitely not—and it was a relatively simple op to begin with, something Seungcheol could have done with his eyes closed.

It was more that Seungcheol actually listened to his suggestions that caught him by surprise.

The guy’s been doing this for (as far as Jihoon can tell) over fifteen years, so Jihoon was honestly expecting his tentative suggestions to be met with some variation of ‘Where did I ask?’. But Seungcheol deferred to Jihoon’s intel without hesitation, only altering the plan when an unsuspecting bystander crossed his line of sight, and he was forced to improvise.

Of course, he might have just been using the exercise to test Jihoon’s grit, giving him enough rope to hang himself with, so to speak, but Jihoon didn’t really get that feeling from him. It just seemed like he understood Jihoon had the intel he needed, and he was happy to go along with any plan as long as they completed the objective.

Not a bad way of working, when you think about it. Jihoon wishes more people in the agency would behave similarly, set the ego aside for a while and just work together.  

Clocking out at the end of his shift, Jihoon grabs a snack from the vending machines in the lobby and makes it to the station in time to catch the last train home.

He’s got himself a neat little house out in the city limits, rented sight unseen when he got his bonus and could afford to move somewhere with a little more legroom. He picked it for no real particular reason other than the privacy it afforded, the cosy fireplace and the cool wooden floorboards that creak under his weight.

He hasn't yet slept a month's worth of nights there yet, still not used to the tree branches clawing at the windows, owls hooting spectrally, no other soul for miles—which is probably why he freaks out a little when he gets home, stumbles through the dark hallway, and sees the large silhouette of a man sitting in the armchair.   

“Oh fuck—” Jihoon begins to wheeze, terrified beyond the telling of it, until the intruder flips on one of the side lamps, and he realises it’s just Agent Choi that’s broken in to chill in the shadowy corners of his home.

It adds a whole new level to terrifying.

“W-what are you doing in my home?” Jihoon stammers, eyes darting over the impeccably pressed lines of the man’s suit, the silk of his charcoal shirt and tie. With his black coat on despite the summer weather, he looks like some harbinger of death and destruction, which he supposes, is rather the point.

Seungcheol holds his gaze, clearly enjoying Jihoon's surprise. “I believe you asked to see me.” He says, slow, careful, as if working his way through a minefield.

Jihoon’s brow creases, feeling he's skipped over a few critical pictures in a slide show.

“I did? W-when?”

Seungcheol just tilts his head a little, blinking slowly. No fast reply, just those dark eyes studying him. When he speaks again it’s in the same low register. “You said, and I quote. ‘That was great. Good job Agent Choi. Guess I’ll catch you later. From that I understood that you wanted to see me, so…here I am.”

“That’s not,” Jihoon starts, stops, shakes his head, almost dizzying himself. “That’s not what I meant. That’s just something people say to each other when they don’t know what else to say. See you around, catch you later, or whatever. It doesn’t mean they actually expect to see you later. Or for you to break into their homes in the middle of the night and scare the shit out of them.”

Seungcheol doesn’t so much as blink, his face grim as fuck, serious. “You’re new at this,” he says, and it’s clearly not a question.

Jihoon decides to blame his aborted scream of terror from earlier.

“Yeah, I uhm, just got promoted. You’re the first Agent I’ve ever worked with directly.” He says, less embarrassed than he would have expected.

A contemplative ‘hmm’ leaves Seungcheol's lips.

He slowly stands and begins to wonder around the living area, hands in his pockets, stopping to inspect Jihoon’s record collection, a signed poster he has hung on the wall, the family pictures sitting on the mantle piece.

“You just moved in or something?” He asks, coming to a stop in front of a bookshelf.

Jihoon looks around, takes the place in through his eyes and can’t help the inward wince. His home has that lived-in look, if only in the sense that he’s hardly the neatest person in the world and he’s accumulated a lot of clutter over the years. Collectibles to be precise.

“Two months ago, actually,” He murmurs, watching Seungcheol poke one of the anime figurines on the shelf. “I just haven’t found a place for everything yet.”

Seungcheol’s mouth twitches but he doesn’t say anything.

Jihoon resists the urge to disguise that he is staring at him and eyes him warily, wondering idly just how the hell this guy managed to make it back from Prague in under six hours, before a more pertinent question springs to the forefront of his mind.

“Wait a minute… how did you find out where I live? I haven’t updated my details with HQ yet. Or better yet, how did you even break in here without tripping the alarm? I have this place locked up tighter than Area 51.”

Seungcheol cocks his head and says, very dryly, “I’m a spy. Finding people and breaking into secure locations is kind of in my job description.”

Jihoon lifts his hand, covering his face, pressing the heel of his hand into his eye socket.

Right, right, he forgot about that.

Dumbass.

He opens his mouth to ask something else, then decides maybe he shouldn't needle the man right off the bat. Some people believe in the importance of first impressions, and so far, Jihoon’s not really doing a good job with his.

“Okay, look, I’m sorry about the misunderstanding. I’ll be clearer with my directions in the future. You’re uhm…free to go?”

Seungcheol doesn’t say anything, just stares at him, his face resolute and serious in a way that renders him dangerously intelligent. Like a bird of prey, Jihoon thinks. Before the swoop down, talons at the ready.

The coffee table in the centre of the room remains a temporary buffer between them, but Jihoon’s not naive enough to think it will slow the guy down much if he decides to.  

Thankfully, Seungcheol just shrugs it off and leaves.

It’s only after the door closes behind him that Jihoon thinks, ‘Oh shit, was I rude?’ Should I have offered him a drink or something?’

Their second mission as a team takes them to Budapest, where Seungcheol has been tasked with tailing a physicist with strong ties to a terrorist organization operating in the region.

The Agency have been trying to root out this group out for some time, and want Jihoon to assemble dossiers on all the key-players Seungcheol may encounter, in the hope that one of them can be bought or leaned on, and ultimately convinced to turn on his associates before things get explosive.

Jihoon and Seungcheol do them one better—they actually uncover and infiltrate the hidden, underground lab the group have been using as their base of operations.

Jihoon really wishes he could put it down to his skill as a hacker and information retrieval specialist, but in reality, the mark is so oblivious to his surroundings he leads them right to the front door, and once Seungcheol incapacitates the guy and uses his biometrics to gain access, they find the access code to disable the main network purely by chance. 

It’s carved into the back of a paperweight on the guy’s desk. No word of a lie.

In other words, the mission is a total cakewalk from start to finish.

Seungcheol does have to contend with some resistance on his way out, but ten against one are apparently good odds for a man of his skill, and the ass-kicking that ensues gives Jihoon an excellent opportunity to witness first-hand just what makes Seungcheol so lethal.   

Unlike his fellow Project-17 agents, he's economical in his movements—doesn't expend any unnecessary energy showing off with flashy moves and cheesy one-liners. His brute strength is his asset, and he utilizes it ruthlessly; everyone who goes down doesn’t get back up again, and when there’s a timed explosive ticking away behind you, that’s all you can ask for.

He has all the guards dispatched within two minutes, back on the street again within three, and is safely down the block and out of the way when the bomb detonates, destroying the lab and everything in it.

“Great job man. That was just—that was awesome. You were awesome, especially with that last guy you took out. That was like, woah. If he somehow managed to survive that blast, which I very much doubt, he would have needed some serious facial reconstructive surgery from that punch alone. I mean, I wasn’t even there you know, not really—but even my jaw hurts with like…sympathy pain or something.”

“Uh, thank you?” Seungcheol says, after a beat.

He’d been efficiently making his way down the street towards the Széchenyi Chain Bridge, away from the blast, but stalled at a newspaper vendor as Jihoon rambled on. He’s hovering there now, awkwardly, like some celebrity that’s been accosted by a fangirl.

And, yeah, okay—Jihoon might have been laying the praise on pretty thick, but Seungcheol had been pretty spectacular.

“Does…does it hurt you, when you punch someone like that? Does your hand hurt after?” Jihoon asks, out of a simple lack of anything else to say.

“No.” Seungcheol says, on the move again, dipping between the throngs of rubbernecking tourists clogging up the sidewalk.  

Jihoon breathes out a long sigh, nodding, processing. He sits there for a second longer, waiting for something else to happen, for Seungcheol to say something else. Elaborate maybe, talk himself up.

He doesn’t.

“Okay, that’s…that’s good. Good to know. Uhm…well, anyway, good work. Give yourself a pat on the back, you absolutely deserve it.”

It’s past midnight by the time Jihoon makes it home, so exhausted he doesn’t have the energy to even make it to his bedroom. He wrestles off his shoes and belt at the front door, loses the shirt in the hallway and pushes out of his pants as he comes into the living area, just in time to face plant into the couch.

It’s not exactly the most comfortable place to spend the night, but with the day he’s had, he’s lucky he made it this—

“Are those rubber ducks on your boxers?” Someone says softly.

Jihoon yelps upright, all prior exhaustion evaporating, and throws himself away from the source of the sound. He ends up backed into the corner of the couch defensively, his hands fisting the cushions.

Seungcheol is sitting in the armchair across the ways, watching him, posture loose and face cast in half a shadow. His expression is lost in the dark, but the way his head tips towards Jihoon looks almost amused.

“Christ,” Jihoon breathes, the tension punching out of him on a harsh breath. “What the hell are you doing here?”

Seungcheol just stares at him, as if that isn’t an utterly logical question.

“Waiting for my next orders.”

Jihoon arches an eyebrow, playing for aloof even though his heart is still jack rabbiting in his ribcage, “But the mission’s over. We...we did it. We finished.”

Seungcheol crosses his legs at the knee, reclining back with a relaxed comfort Jihoon has previously thought impossible in such a chair. It’s all for show of course. His body is oriented to Jihoon like an attack dog waiting for the call.

“Well, you failed to inform me of that.”

Jihoon gives him an exasperated look. “Yes, I did. I said—’

“No, you said I did a good job, and that I should pat myself on the back.” Seungcheol interjects with an air of strained, deliberate calm. “You never said mission complete. I need to hear you say that before I can go off duty.”

Jihoon’s hands flutter briefly, sculpting frustration out of the air, “Why? Couldn’t you have just deduced that from our conversation?” He begins to argue, before he recalls the addendum in Seungcheol’s file: Requires very specific directions.

“Okay, you know what, I’m sorry. It’s my fault—I should have known to be more specific. I just figured Wonwoo was exaggerating when he said you miss obvious social cues. I didn’t take it to mean you couldn’t actually read the room to save your life.”

“Really? Mr Jeon said that?” Seungcheol leans forward, the dim glow of the overhead light illuminating his face, touching on the pensive furrow between his brows, “Is that why he stopped being my handler? Because he thought I was...socially illiterate?”

Jihoon laughs, more out of surprise than anything else. “No, no—of course not. He just took early retirement so he could spend more time with his family. It had nothing to do with you. In fact, he had a lot of nice things to say about your time together.”

Seungcheol snorts, recovering quickly from his discomfited surprise. Then, face falling unexpectedly sombre, he says, “It’s a good thing you were never cleared for field duty. You’re a terrible liar.”

Jihoon fidgets uncomfortably, “Hey, no, I’m telling the truth—" He pauses as a loud gurgling sound fills the air between them. A sound not unlike a miniature bulldozer, and his eyes widen when he determines the source. “Oh wow, what the hell was that? Was that your stomach? Holy shit dude, why is it so angry?”

Seungcheol shades his gaze down towards his stomach, glowering at it like it’s betrayed him in some way. “I came here as fast as I could. I didn’t have time to eat.”

Jihoon doesn’t fight the small smile that knocks the corners of his mouth upward. “Well, we better make sure you never go hungry again. Otherwise your stomach will alert every sharpshooter in a five mile radius to your location.”

That earns him a smile from Seungcheol, something with edges, the snap of his teeth white in the shadows of the room.

It makes Jihoon inexplicably nervous, and he curls his hands into fists, his fingernails biting into the palms of his hands, “Here, uhm, let me make you something. I picked up some fresh bread from the bakery this morning, you…you want a sandwich? I’ve been told I make excellent sandwiches.”

Seungcheol doesn’t say anything, merely cocks his head to the left and studies him carefully, like he can’t decide if Jihoon’s fucking with him or not.

After a weighty silence, Jihoon decided to hell with it, and gets up to make him one anyway. Seungcheol can enjoy it now, or Jihoon will wrap it up and take it to work for lunch tomorrow. Either way, it won’t go to—

“Nothing with mustard,” Seungcheol says, from somewhere behind him.

Jihoon whips around wildly to find him seated at the breakfast bar, watching him expectantly, and spares a moment to wonder how he managed that without making a sound, without brushing past him on the way.

Jesus—he can’t have been in the kitchen for more than ten seconds. 

“No mustard. Got it.” Jihoon gives a small, uncertain nod as he reaches for the bread.

He makes Seungcheol a chicken mayo club sandwich, with lettuce and tomato and pickles, which is apparently so delicious Seungcheol polishes it off in six bites and then proceeds to stare at Jihoon, meaningfully, until Jihoon thinks ‘Oh, oh right!’ and makes him another.

He washes it all down with a large glass of milk—even though Jihoon has a fridge full of soft drinks, beers and fruit juices for him to choose from—milk is all he wants.

Then, between one blink and the next, he’s gone, quick and subtle like the talented spy he is, leaving nothing behind but his crusts.

Jihoon shakes his head as he carries the empty plate over to the sink, “Bye, I guess.”

Jihoon’s still adding to that dossier whenever he gets the chance, because he truly hates leaving anything unfinished. Four months into their partnership though, and there is still very little he knows about Agent Choi through simple observation alone, so he decides to go on the offensive.

It kind of backfires.

They’re mid op at the time, tailing a high-risk target in Munich, and getting nowhere slowly, and with the sun setting, Seungcheol makes some glib remark about no one getting home in time for dinner. It hits Jihoon then that he has no idea what home constitutes for Seungcheol, so he asks, “Are you married?”

Seungcheol just laughs, a bitter bark.

“No?” Jihoon leans closer to the screen, surprised by that reaction. “What about a girlfriend?”

“Nope.”

“Boyfriend?”

Seungcheol pauses, a considering hitch of breath, “I used—” he begins, then goes abruptly silent, and Jihoon’s freezes with his nose millimetres from the screen, straining to hear the end of that sentence.

He would really like to know how that sentence ends, except when Seungcheol continues he merely brushes the previous answer aside. 

“There’s no one, alright. I’m not seeing anyone, and I haven’t seen anyone in a long time. This job doesn’t exactly make it easy to navigate the dating scene.”

Jihoon hums thoughtfully, feeling another little piece of the puzzle that is Choi Seungcheol slotting into place in his mind. “Well, that’s a shame. I always figured flashing your spy credentials would guarantee you some action.”

A gust of air that sounds like a slashed tire rushes out of Seungcheol’s lungs.

“Alright, I’ll bite. Spy credentials?”

“Oh well, you know,” Jihoon fumbles, feeling his cheeks heat, “Spies have that dark, broody, mysterious energy going for them, and a lot of people find a dangerous life really sexy. You could be the dullest dullard in the world, but the moment someone finds out you’re a spy, you’re suddenly ten times more attractive than anyone else in the room.”

“Surely that would defeat the purpose of being a spy. If I went around informing people.” Seungcheol says, a certain tipped undertone to his voice.

Jihoon furrows his brow, massages his temple. His hand is cramped around a pen, and he loosens his grip, rubs his thumb hard into his palm. “You wouldn’t have to say it out loud,” he answers, thinking for a moment, “You could just sidle up to someone at a bar, and pretend to accidentally flash your sidearm as you reached for your wallet or something.”

Seungcheol exhales shortly, “Reveal that I have a concealed weapon? Yes, that sounds like a sensible thing to do to get laid. Oh don’t stop there Jihoon, share more of your dating for spies pearls of wisdom. I’m writing this all down.”

“Oh, well, you could also—" Jihoon begins, clueless and cheerful, until Seungcheol cuts him off with a quick little laugh.

“That was sarcasm, by the way. Guess I’m not the only one who can’t read the room.”

Jihoon, baffled by how quickly this got out of hand, wanting to keep it light, sort of laughs. “Hey, man. Ease up, I was just trying to have an interesting conversation.”

“Try harder.” Seungcheol says in a hard tone that seems chipped out of his regular voice.

“Wow, okay, who put a quarter in you?” Jihoon says, with his throat abruptly constricted.

“I don’t know, you’re the one who won’t shut up.”

It cuts sharp and too loud and Jihoon’s mouth snaps shut so quick his teeth click. He leans back, away from his screen, experiencing a lessening feeling in his chest, like it’s been punctured, leaking air.

What a jackass—he thinks, then immediately side-lines the thought. That attitude is pretty par for the course in this business; Seungcheol’s not going out of his way to be rude, he’s just demonstrating the standard level of douchery you’d expect from an Asset. No reason to take it personally.

Nevertheless, Jihoon resolves to keep the talking to a minimum for the duration of the mission, and more importantly, keep his curiosity to himself.

He’s idly planning what he’ll have for dinner, when Seungcheol exhales against the receiver, a rustling sound like wind from far away.

“Hey, Jihoon, listen... I’m sorry, alright. I shouldn’t have spoken to you like that. It was... unprofessional, and I apologize. It won’t happen again.”

Jihoon thumbs the crack on the edge of his desk, feeling a little surprised and a little appeased by the apology.  

“It's okay, I know I talk a lot. You’re far from the first person to tell me to cram it,” he murmurs, worrying a small splinter from the surface. “And I shouldn’t have been asking you that personal stuff anyway. This job just really teaches you to be curious about stuff, you know, to question everything, and sometimes I forget when to switch that off, that some people relish their privacy. You probably most of all.”

Seungcheol is quiet for a moment, eyeing the pedestrians milling about the Marienplatz from his sheltered vantage point. Then he shakes his head, and Jihoon hears him sigh a little before he says, “I don’t mind the personal questions, Jihoon, I don’t mind you talking, I just...” And then the tilt of his voice changes, no less soft but with a hint of something different. “I don’t like talking about relationships, okay. It’s hard to meet people in my line of work. Hard to keep them around. There’s too much I can’t be upfront about, and I guess…it’s made me a little resentful.”

Something in Jihoon cuts out, goes to static, his mind silent for once.

Of all the things he ever expected to find out about Seungcheol, that was most definitely not on the list.

Field Agents rarely make an appearance at HQ unless they’ve been ordered to, or something has gone very wrong, or someone important has died. It’s just generally accepted that the less you see one of them, the better they are at their jobs.

Which is why Jihoon’s surprised to find Seungcheol hanging outside the fitness room one day, as he makes his way back from a briefing with the quartermaster.

He’s standing around with a group of other Project 17 agents; some Jihoon vaguely recognizes—Kim Mingyu, Wen Junhui—some he doesn’t, and the sight of him decked out in training gear, the stretch of his shoulders obscene in his compression shirt, gives Jihoon pause. He’s used to seeing Seungcheol dressed immaculately, the quick snap of leather gloves and long wool coats. Seeing him in anything else is dismantling to his mind, bizarrely humbling. Like seeing him again for the very first time.

Jihoon contemplates ducking back into the stairwell to avoid what he suspects will be an awkward introduction, then thinks—don’t be ridiculous, you all technically work together, just say hi—and maintains course, slowing his stride as he approaches the group.

When he’s within earshot, they all stop talking to turn and pin him with an expectant look—Seungcheol last of all, though the expression on his face is more irritated than curious.   

“H-hi,” Jihoon swallows, embarrassed by the veneer of hesitation coating his voice. “I’m surprised to see you here. Are you checking out the new recruits?”

Seungcheol’s mouth twists in a flat substitution of a smile, too faint to be fake but too polite to be warm.

“Yeah. The Director asked me to help with training.”

Jihoon raises his chin slightly, bites the inside of his lip. There’s awkward small talk, and then there’s whatever is happening right now.

“Cool, cool. Well, I’m just on my way back from speaking with the Quartermaster. You know, to report that faulty Lenticular they equipped you with last week. He was pretty freaked out to hear you’d been working with it actually, that model was supposed to be decommissioned years ago apparently. Guess someone messed up when they were taking inventory.”

Seungcheol hums in response, and whether he’s conceding or dissenting the point Jihoon’s not really sure.

A dodgy sort of quiet settles between them, where Seungcheol just stares him down, eyes dark and expression veiled, body taut with rigid intensity. Jihoon wonders if he did something wrong, but can't bring himself to ask outright. Before the silence can get truly awkward, it’s shattered by the sound of someone clearing their throat.

“Oh, right, yeah,” Seungcheol turns back to the other agents, gesturing lazily over his shoulder, “Guys, this is Lee Jihoon, my handler.”

Perking up a bit, Jihoon smiles and gives them a lame little wave.

They in turn just stare at him very intently, their expressions not budging an inch, which makes Jihoon adjust his posture that much straighter. Either he’s just interrupted a private conversation, or they’ve all been cut from the same socially inept cloth.

“He is...very small.” Agent Mingyu finally announces, eyeing him carefully.

Seungcheol nods, very seriously, like that was a profound observation. Astute deduction Agent Kim.

“Yes, yes he is.”

Jihoon kind of wants to object to that, loudly—we’ve been working together for three months and that’s all you have to say? Fuck you, asshole. The only thing that stops him is the knowledge that he’d probably be leaving the building in a body bag.  

He offers a smile instead, feigning a convincing approximation of nonchalance as steps around them, “Well, this was lovely. Nice meeting you all.”

The email shows up in Jihoon’s work inbox on a Friday morning. He scans over it once, clamps the inside of his cheek between his molars, scrolls quickly through his sent emails, then quickly calculates the time difference in his head before picking up the phone.

“Yeah, what is it?” Seungcheol says on the third ring, voice held flat and even on the other end of the line.

Jihoon doesn’t roll his eyes; this is pretty much how every conversation starts with Seungcheol, dismissive instead of inviting.

“Hi, uhm, sorry to bother you, I know you’ve got a big day tomorrow, but I just wanted to check something. You know that full medical I booked you on last week, did you forget to go, or are the medical team just really slow in updating the personnel files? Because I just got an email saying you’re still overdue for a check-up, and I’d like to know who to direct my strongly worded email to.”

Silence crackles over the line for a few beats, before Seungcheol admits, “I cancelled.”

“Hm, okay,” Jihoon hums, tempered casual. “Can I ask why?”

“I didn’t feel like going.” Seungcheol says, sounding vaguely distracted.

Jihoon hears something metallic sounding click into place on the other end of the line, and if he closes his eyes he can see him plain as day, sitting in the corner of an anonymous hotel room, his guns spread out in front of him, cleaning each one with loving dedication while the table lamp burns golden yellow. 

“Hm, well, it’s a requirement for you to have a yearly medical, and according to your file, you’re overdue for yours by two years, so let me know what day suits you next week, and I’ll book you in for another one.”

“No.” Seungcheol says, and then cuts back in before Jihoon can open his mouth. “I feel fine, alright. Physically, I’m in great shape, and my performance will attest to that. I don’t need an Agency doctor to poke and prod me for two hours to tell me something I already know.”

Jihoon sighs, rubbing a hand up over his hair. “My uncle used to run six miles every day until he got diagnosed with cancer three years ago.”

Seungcheol makes some kind of choked sound in the back of his throat between a laugh and genuine surprise. “I—what? What has that got to do with anything?”

“I’m just saying, you shouldn’t take your own word for it,” Jihoon says, words falling a little more softly than he’d intended. “My uncle didn’t know he was sick until he had a check up to renew his health insurance, and the results really took him by surprise. He was the healthiest guy I knew, and by the time he was diagnosed he already had stage 4 pancreatic cancer. He died less than a year later.”

“How old was he?” Seungcheol asks, sounding far more subdued.

“Forty-three.”

“Fuck,” Seungcheol says, pitched sullen. Silence beats on the other end of the line for a few moments and then his voice is coming back, carefully hushed, fine-edged with a tone Jihoon is beginning to know like the back of his hand. “Alright, you can book me in next week.”

Jihoon gets him booked in for a full medical for the following Wednesday, then decides to tag along too, just to make sure Seungcheol actually shows up and doesn’t just try and bribe his way out of it or something.

A good decision it turns out, but not because of anything Seungcheol does.  

Seungcheol is actually on his best behaviour; arrives punctually with his paperwork already filled out—all capital letters, black ink—sits obediently in the waiting room for ten, then forty minutes past his appointment time, doesn’t even glance at the vending machine even though he’s fasted the required 12 hours beforehand and must be starving.

It’s the Agency medical team that needs to work on their professionalism, because they’re all acting like Seungcheol’s a live bomb seconds away from detonation. Not only are they surprised to see that he’s shown up, but they’re also openly terrified of him too, whispering amongst themselves and pulling straws to determine who will be forced to assess him.

Jihoon doesn’t get what the big deal is, and says as much.

“Is this normal? The way they’re acting around you.”

Seungcheol side-eyes him, raising his eyebrows a hair. “You heard about what Agent Sung did, haven’t you? It’s tainted the Project 17 image. I don’t blame people for being nervous.”

Jihoon makes a face, “That was like…two years ago and there hasn’t been an incident since. And so what? So there’s been one bad apple. Doesn’t mean the whole crate is rotten. Jesus, what’s the matter with people.”

Seungcheol smiles then, just a little bit, eyes briefly skirting over Jihoon’s face before cutting back down to his lap.

It brings Jihoon to mind, strangely enough, of the giant Bull Mastiff he once pet sat for his old neighbours, which had a vicious reputation in the neighbourhood, when in fact, it was the quietest dog ever. Never barked or growled, just followed him quietly around the apartment and wagged its tail whenever Jihoon told him what a good boy he was.

Seungcheol is a good boy too. The bestest, actually.

Jihoon would happily pet sit him…if that was, you know, a job that was actually available.

Being his handler is probably as close as it gets.

The Medical team’s Registrar ends up picking the short straw, and looks none to happy about it when she comes to collect Seungcheol for his check-up. Her hands are shaking so badly she keeps dropping her pen, and when Seungcheol stoops down to pick it up for the third time, Jihoon’s already resolved to sit in during the appointment. For Seungcheol’s sake, if nothing else.

There is a significant amount of poking and prodding—checking the lymph nodes and reflexes, quickly shining a light in both Seungcheol’s eyes and ears—as well as a whole host of blood and urine tests, X-rays and CT scans, and at Seungcheol’s insistence, cancer screening tests. Then the fitness portion of the examination begins, and the doctor instructs Seungcheol to strip down to his underwear, and—okay, wow.

Like, wow.

Seungcheol in nothing but pair of black boxer-briefs is—well, it’s a lot to take in. Hell, even when the guy’s fully clothed he looks like a wet dream, never mind now, when he’s all rippling muscle and smooth, tanned skin.   

Jihoon bites into his bottom lip and directs his gaze through the parted blinds on the far side of the room, because he honestly doesn’t trust himself not to gawk. And neither does the Doctor apparently, because she takes one look at Seungcheol and immediately hands Jihoon the ECG electrodes, saying, “Be a dear and stick those on his chest. I uhm, I need to fetch something from down the hall.”

“W-where on his chest exactly?” Jihoon stammers, prying his sticky tongue off the roof of his mouth.

The Doctor levels him a knowing look as she unloops the stethoscope from around her neck, mouth tugging into a smile for the first time since she walked in, “One on his left pectoral, the other lower down on the abdominal muscles.”

Which abdominal muscle? There’s like ten!—Jihoon wants to ask, but she’s already whisking out of the room and leaving him to it, so he has no choice but to approach the human wall of tanned skin and muscle watching him expectantly from the examination bench.

Seungcheol is completely relaxed as he peels of the backing paper and pats each pad in place gently, perfectly silent and still except for the gentle rise and fall of his chest. Nevertheless, Jihoon tries to get it over with as quickly as possible, but he loses focus a little as he smooths the second pad over Seungcheol left pectoral.

There’s a thick scar cut into skin there, shaped something like a crescent moon, pale pink and puckered some with age. Jihoon's hand is already half raised to touch it before he realises what he’s doing, before he thinks that maybe he shouldn’t.

This vicious line of serrated tissue and muscle is a very real reminder of old pain, of the fact that Seungcheol isn’t as impervious as his reputation suggests, and maybe he won’t appreciate someone drawing attention to it.

Seungcheol doesn’t look irritated right now though, even though he’s clearly noticed Jihoon looking. His head is tipped to the side, but it doesn’t look anything like his usual questioning head tilt. It feels sharper, more knowing. There's a dare somewhere there, and Jihoon’s not sure if there’s a right way to respond to it.

Before he can make up his mind, Seungcheol catches his falling wrist and lifts it again, brings it up to his chest, and the gesture is more than clear enough.

It’s fine. Go ahead.

So Jihoon lets his hand stretch out and touches, feeling the raised lines of imperfect skin under the pads of his fingers. Seungcheol stays perfectly still. He doesn’t fidget like other people, there are no shifts of discomfort, no twitching under his lazy exploration, no resettling of weight. Jihoon catches his eyes once and finds nothing that suggests he needs to stop—only his own quiet curiosity mirrored back at him.

“How’d you get this?” Jihoon asks after a moment, following the contour of the puckered scar with his eye.

“Shrapnel from an explosive. Five or so years ago.” Seungcheol says, voice flat, emotionless.

He could be commenting on the weather, for all anyone could tell, which really doesn’t do the scar any justice; it’s deep enough that Jihoon can feel the curve of it under his finger, so it must have hurt like all hell once upon a time.

Jihoon shakes his head, numbly, he can't take his eyes off of it. “It must have been a close call to get a scar like that.”

“I suppose,” Seungcheol says quietly, though there's a sharp twist of mouth to go with it. “I was out of commission for three months after.”

There's another scar near it, a ragged circle that looks like something punched in and Jihoon can't resist trailing his thumb round it too. "What about this one?" He asks, feeling the way the skin is soft and naked in the centre. Warm, pale, and strangely fragile.

Seungcheol makes a noise that sounds like he's sifting through his memory. “Beirut, 2014. My cover was blown during an op, and my captives thought a bolt gun would convince me to talk. Managed to escape before they could do any real damage.”

There's nothing underneath the words but a dry sort of practicality, but something in Jihoon's chest clenches anyway, leaves him feeling cold all the way through. It doesn't stop him though and he traces his fingertips over it, following the pale, spiderwebs of healed tissue where they drift round a nipple and then fade away.

“I…I don’t recall reading about that in your file. I mean, I read about the mission in Beirut of course, but there was nothing about you getting injured.”

Seungcheol's bare shoulders lift in a shrug, “Guess my handler at the time didn’t think it was worth noting.” There's a noticeable hitch of breath as Jihoon’s thumb accidently grazes a nipple, followed by a brief flirtatious eyebrow. “They’re not all as hands-on as you are. Not that I’m complaining, of course.”

That makes Jihoon stop and withdraw his hand abruptly, more flustered than apologetic, a hot blush rushing all the way up to his ears.

“Sorry.”

“What for?” Seungcheol says, still vaguely amused.

Jihoon clears his throat and sniffs at that, suddenly gone a tinge sheepish, “I have a scar too.” He murmurs, all the way sheepish when he hikes his shirt up and tugs the waistband of his pants down, drawing both back until the paler softness of his stomach is exposed.

You really have to squint to make out the tiny, threadlike incision on his lower abdomen, but it’s there.

“Can you see it? Got my appendix out.”

Seungcheol’s left cheek twitches, almost like a smile aborted at the last second. “Yeah, I see it. That...must have been a very traumatic experience for you.”

Jihoon nods seriously, “Oh, it was, very traumatic. I mean, I was under anaesthesia obviously and didn’t feel anything. But I didn’t know it was happening because my parents decided not to tell me, so you can imagine how upset I was when I woke up and discovered someone had stolen my appendix and I was never getting it back.”

He's not expecting the soft curl of laughter, and when he raises his head to meet Seungcheol’s gaze, he nearly winces at the look of surprisingly unguarded fondness that is suffused across the other man’s face.

“Hey...” He murmurs in a mildly injured tone, “I was only ten years old at the time. I didn’t really know what an appendix was. I didn’t know it was a vestigial organ; I thought it was something really important, like my heart or liver; something I might actually need to live. I didn’t even get a chance to say goodbye.”

Seungcheol laughs again at that, this time loud and real, and Jihoon's left to wonder which part of it was funny.

“Man, I would kill for a slice of that pizza right now.” Jihoon groans, watching their mark devour another slice of cheesy goodness.

The LENS feed shutters as Seungcheol blinks several times in quick succession, apparently startled out of his surveillance reverie by Jihoon’s arbitrary input.   

“That wasn’t a suggestion to pull your gun out by the way,” Jihoon adds quickly, “I was just, you know, making conversation.”

Seungcheol mumbles something indistinct, and turns the page on his magazine, returning to his surveillance efforts.

So far, their excursion in Naples has been a little on the dull side.

Their target is a supposed asset gone rogue, which is just Agency terminology for killing an old co-worker for lousy performance. Or in this case, killing an old co-worker because he won’t stop killing other people.  

Thing is, their intelligence on the area is minimal; the Agency lost a lot of network viability when one of their safehouses was compromised by a double-agent. So Jihoon's intel on the city is heavily reliant on case notes made by other Agency teams, which apparently just consist of: Francesco Esposito cannot be trusted, and the Gelato parlour across from the Teatro di San Carlo is shockingly expensive, don’t even think about buying gelato from there.

They’re basically working from scratch, but all this sitting around and scoping does give them a chance to get better acquainted with each other.

Now if only Seungcheol has the social skills to hold up his end of the conversation…

“What did you have for breakfast?” Jihoon asks after another few minutes of quiet, because he’s always interested in dumb stuff like that.

“Toast. Scrambled eggs. Some grapefruit.” Seungcheol says, “Why?”

“No pizza?” He asks sadly, and thinks he hears a snigger at this, but with the ambient noise at the other end it’s hard to tell.

“For breakfast?”

Jihoon scoffs, “You’re in Naples, Seungcheol. The home of Pizza. You should be eating the stuff every chance you get. In fact, I want you to call the waiter over and order some pizza now. I want to eat pizza vicariously through you.”

Seungcheol sighs, eyes darting around the clearing—surveying the nearest group of tourists and apparently deeming them far enough away for propriety, because finally he returns his gaze to his magazine and says, “That doesn’t seem detrimental to the mission objective. And I doubt it will arrive before the mark finishes his and leaves.”

“We already know where he’s heading, we’ll catch up after you finish. Besides, ordering something will help you blend in with the rest of the tourists; there’s only so long you can nurse that espresso before someone gets suspicious.”

Seungcheol murmurs something, like he’s building the argument to object, but then he just sighs and calls the waiter over.

When he orders, he just points at the menu and picks a pizza at random, only to amend his order as Jihoon hisses in his ear, “No, no—not that one, that one.” The pizza, when it arrives, looks even better up close, so mouth-wateringly tempting Jihoon has to actively stop himself from drooling over the keyboard.

“What’s it like? I need details.”

“Delicious. Good choice,” Seungcheol mumbles his wholehearted approval, diving in for another bite.

Jihoon sighs wistfully, “Yeah, good boy. Eat a slice for me.”

On Saturday, Jihoon rolls out of bed sometime around midday and pads into the kitchen. He’s on leave this week, has nowhere he needs to be, and a long lie in followed by a massive breakfast then a vegging session in front of the TV is exactly how he plans to spend his first day.  

He pops two slices of bread into the toaster, pulls the eggs, butter and bacon out of the fridge, and then freezes, sensing something. By the time he’s turned around, armed with a uselessly blunt knife, Choi Seungcheol has oozed into the stool at the breakfast bar behind him.

“I hope you don’t take this the wrong way, but you really need to work on your reaction time,” He says, not at all ruffled by the knife pointed at his face. “If you were my target, I would have killed you several times over in the time it’s taken you to notice me.”

The knife clatters down on the counter as Jihoon takes a sobering breath. “Well, it’s a damn good thing I’m not a field agent then, huh?”

Seungcheol’s expression remains as unreadable as ever. “Everyone who works for the Agency should be aware of their surroundings. Whether they pass the field assessment or not. You never know who could come knocking. You should always be prepared.”

Jihoon sighs, not quite rolling his eyes. “Noted, I’ll take that into consideration. Now, perhaps you can kindly inform me how I messed up this time, cause I’m pretty sure I didn’t. I ended the mission correctly, I know I did, and I was very careful not to be vague with any follow-up directions.”

Seungcheol’s mouth crooks up, “Oh, you were. You were very specific with your instructions. I appreciate that. And I appreciate those little reminders to stop and get something to eat or have a nap...I’d forget otherwise.”

Jihoon’s not sure if he’s being sarcastic or not. It’s hard to tell. He decides to focus on the matter at hand.

“Then uhm...why have you broken into my home again?”

Seungcheol inclines his head, gaze turning heavy with consideration, “Can it even be considered breaking in when the owner is already at home?”

Jihoon blinks at him, aghast. “Uhm, yeah—you entered a property without invitation. That’s the very definition of breaking in.”

“Hmm, I don’t think it is. I didn’t take anything...or break anything for that matter.”

“It doesn’t matter—”

“—I think it’s more like visiting, just without knocking.”

Jihoon sighs, “Seungcheol, please just...just answer the question.”

Seungcheol is quiet for a beat, staring into the distance past Jihoon’s shoulder. “I’m bored.” He finally says, nonchalant and so casual, it startles a laugh out of Jihoon.

“Uh, I’m sorry, come again. You’re bored?”

“The Agency have given me two weeks leave to recuperate. That’s more than I would usually get and, well, I find myself at a loss with how to spend it. I thought perhaps you could give me some training exercises to occupy me.” He hesitates, drumming his fingers on the table. “Wonwoo used to do that. He used to set me practice missions during my downtime.”

Jihoon just stares at him, his bewilderment huge and alive inside him. That seems too ridiculous to be true, yet he can’t see an ulterior motive anywhere for lying about it.

“Seriously? That’s—that’s insane. You’ve got one of the most intense jobs on the planet man, you need to be using this time to kick back and relax. Switch off for a few days and chill.”

The look on Seungcheol’s face is vexed, like perhaps that’s easier said than done.  

“C’mon man, you’re breaking my heart here. I’m sure there’s a whole bunch of cool things you want to do. You know, fun things that don’t involve a gun? Maybe some friends you need to catch up with? You—you do have friends, don’t you?”

Seungcheol startles at the question, blinks slowly as though he's really considering it for the first time. “Sure, yeah, I have friends,” he begins, a little haltingly. He flips his hand languidly through the air, as if to indicate the sprawling roster of friends. “I have Agent Kim, and Agent Wen—"

Jihoon shakes his head, “I meant friends away from work, Friends that aren’t agents too. People who know you as someone other than Agent Choi—killing machine.”

“There’s a guy who runs the bagel cart outside my apartment,” Seungcheol says, averting his eyes towards the floor. “I stop and chat with him every now and then. He makes really good bagels.”

“That doesn’t count,” Jihoon laughs, not thinking it through first and regretting it immediately when Seungcheol’s face tightens a little, halfway wounded.

“Ah, I just mean, I don’t think that guy would count you as a friend. He probably sees you as more of a consumer than anything else.”

Seungcheol’s mouth goes soft, not yet a frown, but threatening. He shakes his head slightly, barely imperceptible. “But he remembers my name, and sometimes he gives me free bagels.”

“Yeah, but he probably does that with a lot of his regulars. That personal touch is what keeps them happy and encourages them to come back; it’s good for his business. It doesn’t mean he cares about you like a friend would.”

The look on Seungcheol’s face isn’t halfway this time, and Jihoon bites his tongue and gives himself a mental kick up the backside for being so careless with his words. Seungcheol clearly cherishes his friendship with the Bagel Man. Who is he to belittle it?

In an effort to change the topic, Jihoon casts his gaze around the room in search of inspiration, and finds nothing but the standby light of the TV blinking back at him.

“Hey, uhm, I was just about to watch a movie actually. Maybe you’d like to join me?”

He’s being transparent, and he knows it. His desperation to lighten the mood is a palpable force, heavy in his chest, and he’s grateful when Seungcheol forces a smile in response.

“That’s okay, it’s your time off too, and I think I’ve infringed on it long enough.”

“No, it’s fine, honestly,” Jihoon says, kind of on autopilot. He chooses his next words more carefully, “I spend a lot of my time by myself already, and I enjoy having someone to watch movies with. Though I feel like I should warn you now, expect a running commentary throughout. If there’s stupidly unrealistic technology and massive potholes, I’m going to pick apart, and that really annoys some people.”

Seungcheol sort of laughs, mouth still awkwardly quirked, half a chuckle. The smile settles a little more naturally across his face as he gives a nonchalant shrug, letting his gaze dart down the empty hallway before returning his attention to Jihoon.

“I do that too, actually. But with, you know, the action sequences.”

“Yeah?” Jihoon has to steady his voice he’s grinning so hard, “Well, then—how about you make yourself comfy, and I’ll fetch us some snacks?”

Seungcheol shifts his stance, smile slipping again into something cagier as he tips his head to the side, like he’s listening out for something only he can hear.

Jihoon has seen the move a few times, but this is the first it's ever looked like the product of uncertainty. He has no idea why Seungcheol needs to be second guessing anything here—it’s just a movie and some snacks, and maybe a little bit of conversation if Seungcheol feels up to it—but before he can summon a response, Seungcheol is straightening up, shaking his head and saying, “Sorry, I can’t. I uh, I just remembered I have somewhere I need to be.”

Then he’s slipping down the hallway and out the door, leaving Jihoon blinking at the bizarre feeling of whiplash that overwhelms him.

Four blocks from the train station, Jihoon stops outside the barred window of a Chinese restaurant, the cold orange light of the flashing sign half-blinding him as he glances back over his shoulder.

There’s a guy on the other side of the road, stopped by a flashing cross-light.

He’s pretty sure it’s the same hooded man he noticed watching him on the train, the same one who was loitering on the sidewalk outside the Starbucks he pretended to stop at for coffee. Now he’s followed him here—never gaining on him, but never falling back—just walking with his head down, hands jammed into his pockets, hood up, with purpose.

Jihoon’s stomach rolls, and he hesitates, dividing a look between the garbage-strewn alley to his left, and the empty street before him.

It occurs to him that he has no idea what to do. Where he’s supposed to go, who he’s supposed to call. He’s not even sure where he is anymore; this part of town—with its broken lamps, boarded up storefronts and windows pasted over with old newspapers—is a tad too shady for him.

Snow has begun to fall in wispy little flakes by the time he makes his mind up and turns left, but he’s not paying enough attention as he reaches the end of the narrow little alley, too busy looking behind him, that he bumps directly into someone. Not hard, but clumsily enough to be noticed.

He scrambles over to the wall and raises his eyes, ready with an apology—only to find Seungcheol blinking down at him in what looks to be a perfect amalgam of surprise and amusement.

“Seungcheol!” Jihoon laughs, breathlessly, face flushed with relief, “Boy am I glad I bumped into you. You won’t believe this, but...I think I’m being followed.”

Seungcheol’s gaze holds on him for a minute, then cuts back toward the alley he came from, before he takes a step closer, moving towards Jihoon with conscious purpose. “Yeah, I know.”

“You...you do?” Jihoon blinks, taking an automatic step back when Seungcheol steps a little too close. The movement puts his back to the drab, grey wall of the alley, but Seungcheol’s still closing the distance, moving himself far enough into Jihoon’s space for their difference in height to be strikingly evident.

“I was the one following you.” He says, a mysterious smirk hovering around his mouth.

Jihoon’s spine goes stiff, goosebumps breaking out on his arms. He glances up and down the alleyway, and bites his tongue. “W-why would you do that?”

The barest hint of a smile flickers across Seungcheol's lips. “It was coincidence at first; I just happened to be walking in the same direction as you when you were heading towards the subway. Then you started getting visibly anxious, and I dunno...guess I got a kick out of it.”

Jihoon gives a quick, nervous swallow. He can feel his pulse fluttering in his throat like a trapped bird.

“That’s…pretty messed up man.”

“Is it?” There's no anger in the question. No accusation. Just quiet puzzlement. “Hmm, I suppose it is. Oh well, it was good hunting practice.”

Jihoon’s a little unnerved that he’s considered prey. He braces himself, licking his suddenly dry lips, and says with as much authority as he can muster, “Well, looks like you need to work on your stealthyness skit. I thought the whole point of following someone is for them to never realise they’re being followed in the first place.”

Seungcheol glowers at him for a moment before shaking his head, “Not always. Sometimes you want a person to know you’re watching them, so that they panic and make reckless choices.”

Jihoon gives a weak smile, “Like getting off the train a few stops early and getting lost in an unfamiliar neighbourhood I bet.”

Seungcheol inclines his head, “Exactly. And sometimes you can really throw them off, and they even leave something of great value behind.” He says, then draws his coat open and all the colour drains from Jihoon’s face as he pulls out a very scuffed looking, very familiar MacBook Air.  

“Oh shit.”

He’d been in such a rush to pack his things, so focused checking his phone and trying to figure out who was following him, he’d left his goddamn laptop behind. His work laptop.

“Leaving agency property in a public space?” Seungcheol drawls, arching his eyebrows, “I wonder what the Director would have to say to that?”

Jihoon winces and drops his eyes to the ground, too upset to be embarrassed by the plaintive desperation in his voice. “Please don’t tell anyone. I’ll lose my job.”

In his peripheral vision, he sees Seungcheol’s eyebrow arch higher, highly amused. But there’s the hint of sheepishness curling around his words when he holds the laptop out towards Jihoon and says, “Hey, I wasn’t going to rat on you. I was just, you know, teasing. I’m sure you’re usually pretty careful with your things.”

Jihoon nods and accepts the laptop, tucking it away safely in his satchel. When he lifts his head, Seungcheol’s expression has taken an unrepentant cast once more, but the longer the stand there, staring at each other, Jihoon notices a hint of unexpected concern.

“Word of advice,” Seungcheol says, shifting his stance to scan the darkening street carefully, checking for watchers in doorways and shop windows. “If you suspect someone is following, don’t just keep walking and hope you’ll lose them. Get to a crowded location and confront them, loudly. They’d be stupid to make a move under that much scrutiny.”

Jihoon ducks his head, feeling suddenly sheepish and a little bit flushed. “Thanks. That’s good advice. I’ll keep it in mind.” He pauses for an uncomfortable moment, then finally raises his eyes and adds, “Uhm, can I buy you a drink? Or maybe dinner or something? To say thank you.”

He wants very much to smile at the way Seungcheol’s pupils dilate in shock, but he finds that he can’t. He’s never seen Seungcheol look surprised before, but he can see hints of it now. Everything about him reads that much more controlled.

He takes another step back, then another, grunts out a “No”, then he’s turning the collar of his coat up and stepping back out into the deserted street, but not before giving Jihoon a downright frosty look over his shoulder, like he’s paranoid Jihoon has been the one following him.  

“Maybe another time,” Jihoon says to the empty alley.

Jihoon comes to slowly, a vibration against his hip triggering through the fog in his brain. Grabbing his phone, he clambers gracelessly upright, his body sluggish and aching, and sits back against the headboard to squint at the flashing screen for a long moment before he answers, “Hello?”

There’s no response from the caller, though Jihoon can hear Seungcheol breathing quietly on his end, and marvels absently, that he can tell the fall of Seungcheol’s breath apart from anyone else’s.

He waits patiently for the man to say something, but when the silence seems set to continue indefinitely, he asks, “Cheol? Is everything okay?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine. I just...” Seungcheol inhales, pauses, a hitch in his breath like he's trying to remember his line. “—I’m thinking.”

“Oh, okay. Uhm...What are you thinking of?”

“Just, you know, stuff.” Seungcheol murmurs, then falls silent again.

There’s another long pause, where Jihoon can hear Seungcheol moving around on his end of the call. He picks at a loose thread on his jeans, pushes his toes against the blankets, crumpling the bedding out of form. He’s used to Seungcheol’s prolonged silences during a mission, but it’s different when the guy calls him out of the blue and says nothing. That’s new, and it’s making him nervous.

Finally, Seungcheol blows out a staticky bristle of air against the receiver, and says with his voice hoarse and bleeding sincerity, “Never mind, it was a stupid idea. I’m sorry if I woke you up. Goodnight.”

“Woah, hold on a second—" Jihoon laughs, “You can’t just call a guy up in the middle of the night, breathe down the line for five minutes then hang up. That’s creepy as hell man. Tell me what’s going on Cheol; I’m your handler, I need to know.”

A pause, a rustle of breath crackling in Jihoon’s ears. “I’m at this Pizza place.” Seungcheol says eventually, though it doesn’t sound like he is. There is a television talking behind his voice, the rhythmic chant of the local news. "You want me to pick up a few and bring them over?"

“Pizza?” Jihoon boggles, struck dumb by the non-sequitur because—what? Seungcheol wants to bring him Pizza? At 11:35 at night? Is that supposed to be some kind of olive branch for being an unsociable jerk? Like, sorry I was a frosty bastard the other day, but you know what’ll warm your cockles? Papa John’s finest.

Jihoon doesn’t know what to do with that, except be highly suspicious.

“Is Pizza a code word for something? Oh wait, is Francesco Esposito in town? Did you see him?”

Seungcheol chuffs a laugh. “No, no—it’s not work related. I just...I found this place that does really good pizza. A lot like that pizza I had in Naples. I thought you might like to try some. If you were hungry.”

Jihoon blinks at the ceiling, feeling dumb and uncertain, and some third emotion he can’t quite identify.

“Uhm, yeah, sure,” He says, because why the hell not. “That sounds great.”

After Jihoon ends the call, he considers jumping in the shower and changing into something less college geek. He quickly decides against it.

It’s just pizza for crying out loud, not a three-course meal in a fancy bistro. No reason to dress up for pizza night, right?

That would be ridiculous.

Twenty minutes later, he regrets not making the effort when Seungcheol arrives looking very suave in beautifully fitted three-piece suit. He’s got an expensive bottle of wine in one hand and two pizza boxes in the other, a fine wool coat draped over his elbow, and Pizza night obviously means something completely different to him than it does to Jihoon, because he looks like he’s about to head out to the Opera or some shit.

“Wow, that was quick. I was just about to jump in the shower and get changed.” Jihoon murmurs, trying to cover for his lacklustre appearance.

Seungcheol’s eyebrows hitch up a fraction, “That seems like overkill for a causal meal with a co-worker. It is just pizza Jihoon, I’m not trying to get in your pants.”

Jihoon gapes at him, as breathless as if he had been punched in the solar plexus.  “What the—you’re the one who’s dressed like you’re attending a fucking movie premiere!”

Seungcheol shrugs, “Yeah, but I always dress like this. It’s all I know—my default, so to speak. Like that just rolled out of bed look is your default.”

“Hey!” Jihoon starts, rusty-hot blush on his face, but Seungcheol’s already got a hand held up in appeasement.

“Don’t get me wrong, I wasn’t trying to criticise you. I’d love to be able to dress as lazily as you do. It looks very comfortable.” He says with his smile that’s a study in charm.

Jihoon stares down at his feet, thinking that he should protest that, but he doesn’t. He’s wearing a moth-eaten T-shirt with at least five permanent stains in it and a pair of jogging bottoms so old the elastic has long worn away. They slide down his ass a hundred and one times a day.

They’re sliding down his ass now, in fact.

There’s really no arguing with the obvious.

“This pizza better be fucking incredible.” He huffs, turning on his heel to stomp down the hallway.

To Seungcheol’s credit, the pizza does look good; that authentic hand stretched, stone baked kind, with only a sprinkle of toppings and not a stuffed crust or pepperoni disc in sight. Italian mothers the world over would be voicing their approval.

Jihoon fetches them plates and glasses as Seungcheol uncorks the wine, and they settle on either side of the breakfast bar to eat, dividing half of each pizza between them.

“So, what’s your story?” Seungcheol asks, a few minutes if quiet chewing later, poking Jihoon’s yet untouched glass of wine towards him. “How did you end up joining the agency?”

Jihoon tears off another slice, remembering. “It was all completely by accident funnily enough. I was just killing some time online before my shift, and a friend sent me a link to this website that promised a cash prize to the first person who completed this unsolvable puzzle—”

“And you just so happened to solve it. I figured as much.” Seungcheol interjects in a contemplative voice.  

“Uh, no, actually,” Jihoon smiles and sucks a bit of melted cheese off his thumb. “I didn’t even look at it. I hacked the site instead, to see if I could trace it back to anyone and confirm it wasn’t a waste of my time. An hour later, a guy from the agency was at my door, asking me if I wanted a job. Apparently I wasn’t the only one who tried to infiltrate the network, but I was the only one who managed to get past their firewalls.”

Seungcheol frowns a little, surprised, maybe, then picks up a piece of crust and starts to gnaw on it, “And you just accepted. Simple as that.”

Jihoon shakes his head slowly, “I wouldn’t say it was simple—I still had a bunch of tests to pass before I got accepted—but yeah, I accepted. It was the most exciting career option a guy like me could have hoped for. And they were offering me a lot of money too, way more than your average high school drop-out could ever earn. No way I was turning that down.”

Seungcheol’s mouth drops open a fraction, and he blinks fast, his throat moving as he swallows.

“How...how old are you?”

Jihoon blushes, ducking his head down. “Twenty.”

That hits Seungcheol like a smack, his mouth dropping open and his eyes bugging out. Then he sort of reels back, a grimace contorting his features, not good-looking at all for the brief moment before he pulls himself back together.

“Jesus, I didn’t think you were that young. I thought you were twenty-six, twenty-seven at the least.”

A cold anxious curling thing happens in Jihoon’s stomach. He put down the slice of pizza in his hand, and licks his lips, looking up at Seungcheol's quietly disturbed face.

“I know what you’re thinking, he’s just a kid, and there’s no way he has the right experience to be my handler, and you know what, I thought so to. I actually tried to turn the position down when they first offered it to me, but—”

“Wait, wait, wait,” Seungcheol shakes his head, the shocked, open look on his face closing down to something more calculated. “Are you saying you didn’t ask to be my handler?”

Jihoon rubs at the back of his neck, saying doubtfully, “Only because I didn’t think I’d be any good at it. I was just an analyst, and I had no field experience. But the Director said they’d been watching me for a while, and thought I had a lot of potential, and I think he was right. I know it’s only been four months, but I think I’ve proven myself capable. And I think we work pretty well together too...don’t you?”

He hates the unsure sound of his voice as he stumbles over the last part. It sounds like the world’s saddest closing line for a job interview. Seungcheol nods though, like he agrees, and even though he isn’t really looking at Jihoon anymore—sort of just tracing his outline, flicking glances like playing cards, slick and sharp—he smiles.

“Yeah,” he says in a whisper, and then again, “Yeah we do.”

Jihoon watches him for a moment, wondering if he should keep this conversation going, or back-track, or redirect to something else entirely. He reaches over to snag his glass for some liquid courage, only for Seungcheol to shoot a hand out and intercept him, pulling the wine out of reach.

“No, you can’t have that.”

“What? Why not? I’m twenty; I’m legally allowed to drink.” Jihoon tells him, with no more scorn than is appropriate.

Seungcheol waves his hand indistinctly towards the fridge. There is a discomfited stain of red on his face, something like shame but that can’t be right, what does Seungcheol have to be ashamed about?

“Yeah, but...you should have some milk instead. Milk is better for you; helps your bones grow big and strong. In fact, we should both have milk.” He says, then he’s levering up out of his seat and stepping over to pour both glasses down the sink.

“H—hey,” Jihoon chokes out in disbelief, “You’re wasting a perfectly good bottle of wine!”

After that, things get a little weird. Not better, not worse. Just...weird.

They still work brilliantly together; on the field, behind a computer screen, Seungcheol and Jihoon are the Agency’s poster boys of success. Away from that however, their interactions are a thorny mix of gratifying ease and blind corners.

Seungcheol is chattier on the comms, friendlier in person, but he’s also, if possible, even more hard to read than he used to be. Every conversation between them seems to have turned into a fact-finding mission—where are you from? What school did you go to? Why’d you drop out? Are you deathly allergic to anything? Yes, I need to know. But if Jihoon tries to pose the same questions back, he’s vague, playing everything close to the chest.

Sometimes they'll be talking and he’ll just... shut down. Switch off. Like he thinks he’s said or shared too much. He almost sounds angry after. If it’s happening in person, a lights-are-on-but-nobodys-home look will take over his face, leaving Jihoon clueless as how to proceed.

It’s weird; Jihoon’s never worked so hard in a friendship for so little reciprocation.

It all comes to a head in Moscow, during Jihoon’s first outing in the field.  

It’s not an official field mission per se—Jihoon’s still not cleared for those yet—more of an ambassadorial endeavour to foster relations with other intelligence agencies, in the hopes of forming a global surveillance and intelligence co-operation initiative.

A little like Five Eyes, except for the Intelligence Agencies not cool enough to sit at the big boy’s table.

Jihoon’s pretty psyched about the whole thing if he’s being honest; he’s getting a chance to do a lot of things he’s never done before, the most exciting of which is an all expenses paid trip to Moscow and a ride in one of the Agency’s private jets.

It’s a shame then, that Seungcheol is there to shit all over the experience.

“Stop shaking your leg. It’s irritating me.”

Startled out of his reverie, Jihoon quickly presses his feet flat against the floor to quell his anxious tic. “Sorry, I didn’t know I was doing that. Guess I’m a little nervous.”

Seungcheol spares him an unimpressed glance before returning his attention to the undulating cloudscape outside the jet, “Understandable; we’ll be liaising with enemy operatives, and you’ve never held a gun in your life. I’d be nervous too if I were you.”

Jihoon leans back, crossing his arms over his chest, and glares good-naturedly at him.

“I think you’re forgetting the purpose of this trip Seungcheol. It’s a diplomatic mission; it won’t be necessary for anyone to fire a weapon.

Seungcheol shakes his head a couple times, his mouth opening and closing like what Jihoon had just said is so moronic he can’t even decide where to begin. “You’ve obviously never worked with the FSB. Pointing a gun in your face is their idea of diplomacy.”

Jihoon rolls his eyes, daring to tease. “Well, if that’s the case, then you should be happy to have me along as back up.”

“More like a human shield,” Comes the flat reply, which does a good job of killing Jihoon’s nascent grin.

Seungcheol notices and for a moment almost looks sorry for it, but he doesn’t say anything else. After a brief silence, he cranes his neck to look down the aisle, his attention caught by something at the front of the plane.  

Jihoon tries not to take any if it personally.

Much to his surprise, Seungcheol arrived at the Agency’s private hanger not wearing a suit, opting for a more relaxed jeans and jumper combo better suited to travelling. Jihoon had hoped it was a reflection of the man’s mood, but nope; Seungcheol has been nothing but uptight since he stepped foot on the plane and realised Jihoon wasn’t just there to pat him on the head and wave him off, then downright livid when he found out the only thing Jihoon had packed that could remotely be used as a weapon was a tube of Pringles. There was irritated pacing, muttered expletives—the term Glorified babysitter was even thrown around, which honestly, kind of offensive.

Jihoon may be a baby analyst, but he can take care of himself thank you very much. And it’s not like it was his big idea to come along either; it was the Director’s, so Seungcheol can just deal.  

Sighing, Jihoon combs a hand fast through his hair, his fingers catching in the elastic of his bun, “Anyway—that’s not what’s making me nervous. I’m nervous because I’ve never been on a plane before.”

Seungcheol cocks a disbelieving eyebrow, “You’re kidding.”

Jihoon tilts a grin and starts to fiddle with the latch if his tray table. “Nope, I never got around to it. Never could afford it really. Before I joined the agency, I was working two part-time jobs just to make rent, and before that, my parents could only afford to take me on camping trips in the summer, which, yeah, you can probably tell I’m not a camping kinda guy. Although, there was this one time—”

But Seungcheol isn't really listening anymore.

He has, in the few moments since Jihoon started talking, pulled out a Golf magazine and started flicking through it, insinuating with every lazy flip of his wrist, that nothing Jihoon could possible say is more interesting than the dullest sport on the planet. Not now. Not ever.

Jihoon feels lousy for a second, spurned and ignored and abandoned. He might as well be a mannequin, or one of those crash-test dummies. He rests his head against the window, feeling the slight thrum of the plane’s motion, then thinks—you know what, no. That’s not cool.

“You’re a real jerk, you know that?” he settles on, feeling inexplicable emotion building in his throat.

Seungcheol lowers his magazine slowly, his raised eyebrows inviting elaboration, and despite himself, Jihoon can feel his temper start to stir.

He knows he generally comes across as level-headed and chill, and he is, probably. For the most part. But holy shit if he doesn’t Hulk out from time to time, and Seungcheol’s definitely and deliberately walking straight up to the line.

“I was talking to you, trying to have a conversation with you, and you…you just whipped out your magazine and started reading.”

Seungcheol blinks at him, heavy-lidded and intent with a disbelieving smile tugging at his mouth. “So? I can do two things at once. It’s called multi-tasking. Besides, you’re always talking. If I stopped doing other things when you talked, I’d never get anything done. I’d just be standing there, listening to you talk all day.”

Jihoon suppresses a wince, probably unsuccessfully. “There’s a difference between multi-tasking, and deliberately blanking someone by reading, or scrolling through your phone.” He pauses, swallows, forces the words to keep coming. “It’s rude not to give a person your attention when they’re trying to have a conversation with you. It’s disrespectful.”

“Fine.” Seungcheol sighs, tossing the magazine aside and crossing his arms, before plastering on his most obnoxiously charming smile. “There. Now you have all my attention. Talk away. I believe you were just about to share an amusing camping anecdote with me. Correct?”

Okay, so…maybe he had been listening a little.

Whatever. He’s still a jerk.

“No,” Jihoon murmurs, letting his shoulders curve in a bit, “I don’t want to talk to you anymore.”

The smug expression on Seungcheol’s face scatters like leaves in a gust of wind.

“What?”

Jihoon pushes his knuckles into his forehead, upset now, and embarrassed that’s he’s upset. “I said I don’t want to talk to you anymore. I was really looking forward to this trip, but you’ve been nothing but inhospitable since you showed up, and in general you’re just way too much effort, and I—”

Anything more he has to say drops off into a frustrated sigh, and without another word, he gets up and collects his things, moves to the other side of the plane, across the aisle and two rows down from where he had been sitting.

Seungcheol doesn't so much as twitch during this process, though he does lean out of his seat to stare down the aisle at Jihoon once he gets settled, a look of wounded astonishment on his face.

Serves him right—Jihoon thinks, letting his knee jig as much as it wants.

His hope, that this newly imposed incommunicado would set the precedent for the remainder of the trip, however, could not be further from the truth.

Not long after switching seats, Seungcheol drops into the seat next to him, taps him on the shoulder and tries to bribe with a packet of complimentary peanuts, saying, “You’re hungry, right? That’s why you’re being a little baby right now.” Then has the audacity to get all offended when Jihoon puts his headphones on and rolls towards the window.

When the plane lands at Sheremetyevo, Seungcheol tries being very polite as they prepare to disembark, offering to carry Jihoon’s luggage for him. Jihoon in turn, rolls the suitcase away before he can reach for it.

On the ride to the hotel, he tries acting as though things are back to normal. Making comments about the landscape and architecture, and "Did you know that Russia spans 11 time zones? Yeah, it’s that huge."

Jihoon gives him a taste of his own medicine; completely blanks him in favour of scrolling through his Twitter feed.

At the hotel check-in desk, Seungcheol tries his hand at being a grade A archetypal wronged princess, announcing: “Fine, maybe I won’t talk to you either. See how you like it” before storming off to check in separately.

That peaceful interlude lasts about five minutes before he’s cornering Jihoon in the elevator, and trying to address the issue head-on. "Look, Jihoon, you can’t just not talk to me anymore. That’s ridiculous. We work together for crying out loud. I need you to talk to me to get things done. So how about we both start acting like adults, get over it and move on.”

Thankfully, by that time he’s stopped ranting, Jihoon has reached his room and can slam the door in his face.  

Finally, Seungcheol tries being unobtrusive. He slides a note underneath the door separating their rooms, which reads:

Hi, the room service menu is uninspiring, so I’m going to head out and grab something to eat. You are welcome to join me. Or I could bring you something back. We don’t have to talk…

Cheol :(

Jihoon does briefly contemplate giving in—the room service menu is pretty shit, and the little sad face Seungcheol has tacked to the bottom of the note is kind of hilariously adorable—then he checks his watch and determines it’s only been five hours since he embarked on his vow of silence, and giving up now will only validate Seungcheol’s dickish behaviour in the future.

He should give it 24 hours at least. After all, he seems to have very few defences where Choi Seungcheol is concerned.

A loud thud from Seungcheol’s room wakes him up just under six hours later, and a quick glance at the glowing face of his wristwatch tells him it’s way too late for anyone to be working out. Even a fitness nut like Seungcheol.

Jihoon shifts to the edge of his bed, where he’d fallen asleep surrounded by a chaotic spread of papers—maps, coordinates, spreadsheets full of data, then levers himself up and gropes his way to the door.

Unlocking his side, he feels disquiet coiling low in his stomach as he makes out an odd gurgling sound coming from the adjoining room. He tests the handle, expecting to find it secured, but the door swings open easily, and a bright shaft of light creeps across the carpet to illuminate the disturbing scene inside.

Seungcheol’s standing at the foot of his bed, rifling through the pockets of an unknown man sprawled on the floor. His nose is bloodied, dripping down his chin—superficial, nothing too serious. The stranger on the other hand is foaming at the mouth, moving in odd jerks and twitches; in the throes of some kind of epileptic seizure.

Jihoon takes the scene in for a moment, lets his eyes fall shut, then snaps them open again and realises with abrupt horror, ‘Oh my fucking god, I’m not dreaming!’

“What the hell is going on? Who is that?” He hisses, padding into the room.

Seungcheol immediately stops what he’s doing and, catching sight of him, blinks in surprise, then says sardonically, a smile biting the corners of his mouth, “Oh, so now you’re talking to me.”

Jihoon can't decide whether to glare or gape. He settles for yanking the door shut behind them, then striding forward to swat Seungcheol on the arm, “Would you stop being a fucking baby for five seconds! This is serious Seungcheol. Who is that, and what is he doing in your room?”

Seungcheol has the decency to look sheepish then, though it only lasts five seconds, expression shuttering into something more contemplative.

“I don’t know who it is. But he had a key card, and he tried to inject me with something while I was sleeping. I just so happened not to be sleeping, so I disarmed him and injected him with it instead. Now he’s having a little nap and—oh, now he’s dead.”

Jihoon’s eyes cut down to the figure sprawled at his feet and yeah, he’s not twitching anymore.

Fuck!

“But why? Why would he try and kill you?”

Seungcheol blows out a harsh breath, “I don’t know Jihoon. We didn’t exactly get a chance to bare our souls before he lunged at me. Though I would like to clarify, I wasn’t his only intended target.” He jerks his head towards the bed, where a little black case is lying open. There are twelve injections tucked inside the Velcro strapping, eight of which are empty. “Looks like house cleaning are going to have quite a mess on their hands this morning.”

Jihoon throws a hand out to brace himself against the wall. He can’t breathe, but, okay, that’s to be expected. Someone was planning to kill him tonight, has killed others and would most likely have succeeded in killing more had they not tried to take Seungcheol out first; that knowledge would incapacitate the toughest son of a bitch.

His legs are still working thankfully, and he just about makes it across the room and over to the bedside table to reach for the phone, though he only manages to punch in a few digits of the emergency number he memorized, before Seungcheol is crowding in behind him and casually depressing the switch-hook with his index finger.

“What are you doing?” Jihoon hisses, and Seungcheol, laughing without humour, hisses back, “What are you doing?”

Jihoon scowls, but answers, “Contacting the agency obviously. Someone just tried to kill us.”

The look Seungcheol levels at him is wide-eyed disapproval, and Jihoon understands then, albeit belatedly, why that would have been a really bad idea even before Seungcheol explains.

“Whoever that guy works for, they know who we are Jihoon, what rooms we’re staying in. Don’t you think they would have had the phonelines tapped too?” He shakes his head, expression grim, “Besides, this is a Code Five. The agency can’t do anything for us until we’re out of the hot zone.”

He's right, of course. Jihoon doesn't like the thought of it, but a dead, unidentified agent in their hotel room, in a country that is their ally, but an untested one, has Code Five written all over it. Seungcheol is undeniably right, and Jihoon's shoulders slump with the weight of resignation.

“Jesus,” He scrubs at his eyes, wishing he had gotten more sleep, “I can’t believe this is happening.”

Seungcheol steps away, seemingly satisfied he isn’t going to try and make any calls and blow what little cover they still have. He grabs a gun from under his pillow and tucks it into his waistband, then pulls out a duffel from the closet and starts moving around the room, tossing his belongings in.

He stops when he notices Jihoon watching him.

“Why are you just standing there? Go get dressed and pack your shit, we need to get out of here.”

Jihoon shakes himself part-way out of his stupor and stumbles into his bedroom, moving through the motions of gathering and packing his things in a mindless daze, his face wrenched, mouth half-open because he can hardly breathe.

One step at a time, he keeps telling himself, get your shoes on and push your pockets back in, check for your keys, passport, wallet. He’s trying to recall the fastest way out of the hotel, if UBER even operates in Moscow and how to say ‘Airport, Please’ in Russian, but most importantly, he’s trying not to think about the target currently painted on his back.

He’s only familiar with Code 5 in theory, and even then, it’s such an obscure protocol, it’s rarely implemented even in simulation missions. All he really knows is, they Agency won’t shelter them until they get their butts back on home turf and prove the agent’s death was necessary.

No easy feat when their passports will most likely be flagged before they reach the airport.

It’s a pretty shit situation to find yourself at any time, never mind during your very first in-field experience. Jihoon has no hidden cache of money to tap into, no weapons, no official resources he can call on, he has no idea how he’s supposed to get home or keep himself alive for the next how many hours with zero combat experience.

He’s just a baby analyst for crying out loud! He didn’t come here to get embroiled in an espionage bureaucracy shit-show—he just wanted to fly in a plane and eat some Borscht, maybe take a cool picture of the Kremlin to show his parents.

“You ready?” Seungcheol’s gruff voice snaps him out of his internal self-pitying monologue.

He’s leaning in the doorway separating their rooms when Jihoon looks over, and between the collar of his thick wool coat and the muffler wound halfway up to his ears, only his eyes are imminently recognizable. Otherwise, he looks the same as he always does – buffed and polished and groomed to the point of anonymity.

Jihoon wishes he could manage that—throw on a scarf and just disappear. With his approach to subterfuge, he’ll be lucky if he makes it to the lobby without drawing attention. Probably get himself stuck in the glass triangular wedge of the revolving door and need the concierge to help him out.

“Yeah, I guess.” He sighs, pulling a jumper over his head.  

“Good, get going then,” Seungcheol says, stooping down to grab the duffel at his feet, then over to grab Jihoon’s suitcase too, “Wait five minutes, then leave. Stay out of the elevator. Take the stairs at the very end of the hallway instead. The street level door leads to a small alley; turn left at the end and start walking west towards the Bolshoi theatre. I’ll meet you at the fountain at the front.”

Everything slows down for a few seconds, the world moving in slow motion as Jihoon staggers jerkily to his feet. He doesn’t trust himself right now, can’t trust what he’s hearing, has to check, “Wait...we’re sticking together?”

At the door, Seungcheol pauses to slant him a look of overdone exasperation.

“You know, for a guy with your IQ, you sure are pretty fucking stupid.”

Jihoon doesn’t know what to take from that. It doesn’t seem to have any bearing on the current situation, and there’s no real hardness or cruelty to Seungcheol’s voice; he says it merely as a fact, the same way Jihoon might say I’m allergic to pineapple or I never did watch The Sopranos, I just said I did because I was trying to be cool.  

By the time Jihoon thinks to point out Seungcheol hasn’t actually answered his question, then man’s already long gone. He does, however, stay true to his word and meets Jihoon at the theatre, though he doesn’t arrive alone or on foot. He pulls up in a battered white Kia Rio, with an inebriated Russian sprawled out in the backseat.

Sergei—that’s not his name, that’s just what Seungcheol’s decided to christen him tonight—has apparently kindly “volunteered” to give them a lift to the Belarus border, provided they keep him supplied with top-shelf Stoli.

From there, they're stepping into a bus, then a ferry, then an overnight cargo train—crossing borders and flipping through identities, disappearing entirely.

Each time they stop somewhere Jihoon expects Seungcheol to say ‘This is where we go our separate ways, good luck!’ and then vanish into the fog. But Seungcheol keeps a firm hand around his elbow the entire time, carving a path home for them both, no questions asked. Just a subtle raise of an eyebrow and incline of his head, and he’s exchanging money and cashing in favours for new passports, visas and a blind eye at border checks.

In less than twenty-four hours they’ve travelled over 8000km and they have yet to run into a situation Seungcheol can’t handle.

Jihoon doesn’t sleep a wink of course—a combination of diligence, worry and structure forces him to stay alert, keeps him glued to Seungcheol’s hip like a flashy but useless ceremonial sword.

(“Dagger,” Seungcheol amends, when Jihoon voices this out loud. “Because you’re small and concealable.”)

It’s only when they reach Beijing Airport does he allow himself to relax.

They’re not on home turf, not yet, and while there has been no sign of pursuit, he knows better than to assume there is none. Still, they’re close enough now that he feels safe stepping away from Seungcheol’s side to use the restroom and raid a nearby vending machine.

When he returns to their boarding gate with his armful of snacks, Seungcheol has picked up a travel brochure from somewhere and has situated himself near one of the large pillars in the departure lounge to read. Or at least, that’s what it looks like at first glance.

Jihoon doesn’t have many chances to catalogue Seungcheol’s mannerisms in person, so he pays close attention to him now, his movements and subtle glances, the way he flicks through the brochure in his hand, very invested in its contents by all appearances.

It’s nothing more than a prop, Jihoon comes to realise after a moment, something to break up his line of sight so he can furtively study everyone else around him, and not be caught doing it. It’s simple, ingenious, adaptable. Could easily be swapped out for say...a golf magazine?

Of course—Jihoon thinks, smiling to himself, ragged and guilty with hindsight.

Stepping over to take the seat next to him, Jihoon hesitantly sets a hand on his arm and whispers. “Hey, listen—"

"The tall blonde in the purple jumper," Seungcheol interjects, seemingly apropos of nothing, until Jihoon glances at their surroundings and spots the man in question.

“What about him?”

Seungcheol meets his eyes, caution heavy on his face, “He’s doing a good job of playing tourist, won’t deny that. But he keeps looking over here and smiling. Can’t figure out why.”

Jihoon spares another glance at said passenger—tall, blonde, good looking. American, according to the passport in his hand; tourist, judging by the oversized backpack and the plane ticket to Haneda, and clearly gay as the day is long if you count the lascivious smile he’s aiming Seungcheol’s way.

“Dude, I think he’s just checking you out.” Jihoon whispers, bringing a hand up to hide his smile.

Seungcheol goes a little cross-eyed with astonishment, like that idea of that has never occurred to him. Another human being hitting on me? No, not possible. They must want me dead.

“Look, just listen to me for a second,” Jihoon says, touching his arm and drawing his attention again, “I...I want to thank you, for taking care of all this. I’m not used to being on this side of things, and I was honestly shitting a brick back there, but you just took over and handled everything like a pro, and I just…I really appreciate it. Thank you.”

Seungcheol shifts in his seat and lowers the brochure, capturing Jihoon with a look both confused and heavy. 

“That’s not something you need to thank me for Jihoon. It’s my job to keep you safe.”

Jihoon smiles, managing to nod and shake his head all at once, “Well, no, not really. In a Code Five situation, an agent’s only priority is to get themselves out. Technically, you would have been expected to leave me behind to fend for myself—” At Seungcheol’s expression of appalled dismay, he quickly adds, “I appreciate that you didn’t, obviously, but I’m well aware that you could have.”

Seungcheol folds the brochure over, screwing it up into a paper tube between his hands. He doesn't look angry exactly, but the caginess is back in force when he meets Jihoon's eyes.

“No, Jihoon, I couldn’t. I know there’s a general opinion floating around the agency that Project 17 agents are unfeeling psychopaths that just follow every order blindly, but it’s not true. We know the difference between right and wrong, just as we know what we do for the agency is dodgy as fuck. We know, okay. We’re not fucking robots.”

Jihoon bites his lip, his throat convulsing in a hard swallow. He doesn't know why his pulse is such a wreck, or why his chest feels so full and tight. He doesn't know why there's nothing but heat and gravel in his voice when he says, “I know that. I…I’ve never thought that about you that way.”

Seungcheol’s voice falls serious. “Then don’t hold me to a lower standard than everyone else just because I occasionally blow people’s brains out for a living.” His eyes go guarded, the barest shadow settling over his expression as he turns away from Jihoon again and shifts his focus elsewhere. “Besides, even if you weren’t my handler, I would never let anything happen to you.”

Jihoon means to respond, but he's too busy staring. For all that he doesn’t doubt what Seungcheol’s saying, not after everything that’s happened in the last 24 hours, he still finds himself shocked by the unmistakable ease in his words.

Smiling to himself, he lets out a steady breath and shifts his weight, leaning into Seungcheol’s space, pillowing his cheek against Seungcheol’s shoulder.

For a second, Seungcheol stiffens with surprise, and then, in the most surprising turn of events—the tension eases from his frame and he eases back into the seat, drawing the coat folded neatly on his lap over them both.

“Get some sleep. I’ll wake you when it’s time to board.”

They never do find out who orchestrated the Moscow killings.

Every agency that could have been involved, claim not to know, and even after a thorough forensic examination of the scene and an analysis of the Neurotoxin used, nothing can be traced back to any one person or group.

Even the killer himself is a bit of a mystery: no special training, no obvious motive and no former links with any organisation or terror cell. Just a thug for hire, plucked off the streets and paid in cash. It’s almost hilariously amateur if not for the fact that he’d managed to eliminate eight unsuspecting agents. Two weeks later, his corpse is still idling away in a Moscow morgue, unclaimed, and what’s most disconcerting is, nobody seems to care.

Within a few days of their return, the assassinations have become old news and everyone seems happy enough to wash their hands of the entire mess and move on.

Jihoon however, can’t help but obsess about it a little at first; nobody’s tried to kill him before (that he knows of) and he feels entitled to a few answers.

Unfortunately, the only answer the Agency can give him is ‘You know what you signed up for. It comes with the job’ and when he tries to discuss it with Seungcheol, the guy weighs in with comments like ‘You’ve only had one attempt on your life? Awe, that’s precious. I don’t think Hallmark do cards for that, but remind me to buy you a cake.’ And then a week later, ‘You know what’ll take your mind off this shit? Getting laid. You should do that.’

Jihoon, increasingly frustrated with navigating the red tape of espionage bureaucracy, actually decides to take that advice on board.

It’s been a while since he’s dated anyone, and if his trip to Moscow taught him anything, it’s that life’s too short. So he signs himself up to a dating website, lists himself as a software developer in his bio, gets matched with a bunch of tech geeks, then goes on really fun date with a handsome, sweet, down to earth guy named Sehun.

At least, it began as a fun date…

“Is something wrong?”

Tearing his eyes away from the bar and back to his date, Jihoon gives a distracted shake of his head, thinking—of all the bars in all the world.

“No, of course not. I just…I’m sorry, will you excuse me a moment. I just need to—”

He leaves the end of that sentence open as he slips off his stool because he’s never been a graceful liar, and since he can’t predict how this conversation will go, he’d like to give himself a way out if Sehun questions him later. An air of mystery at least, is far more preferable than admitting ‘Sorry, the Secret Agent I babysit is watching me from across the bar. I should go see what he wants’

Seungcheol however, is already half turned away by the time he steps over to his side, and favours him with a politely amused look, like he’s surprised to him, like he hasn’t just spent the last ten minutes eyeing him not so secretively.

Any other time and Jihoon would have opened with something friendly. Hey, how are you, fancy seeing you here. But right just this minute he finds himself abruptly irritated, and can only manage, “What are you doing here Seungcheol?”

Over the rim of his glass, Seungcheol appraises him through dark, half-lidded eyes, taking in the form-fitting jeans and the black slinky shirt (a good look on him, or at least, so he’s been told), before turning back towards the bar.

“Having a drink. What does it look like?”

Jihoon neatly folds his hands on the counter and sneaks a quick look at him, eyeing the ink-black gleam of his hair in the direct light. “And you really expect me to believe, that out of all the restaurants in Seoul, you’ve chosen to have a drink in the same one I’m having a date?” He asks, in his most impassive tone

Like any good secret agent, Seungcheol has the moral compunction of an advertising executive about to close a deal and doesn't so much as blink at Jihoon's insinuation.

“So…what you’re implying is, that I followed you here deliberately.”

There’s no inflection in his tone to mark it as a question, and that makes it sound ridiculous, really. A preposterous suggestion to make.

Don’t flatter yourself.

Jihoon can’t help but demur, “No, no, I guess that would be silly—”

“—because you’d be right,” Seungcheol quickly re-joins. “I did follow you here.”

Jihoon pivots towards him, “Wait, what?”

Seungcheol meets his eyes, smirking a little bit. “I swung by your house earlier, you weren’t there. That’s unusual for you. You’re such a home bird, usually. So I thought, hey, maybe he’s been kidnapped. I should go rescue him. So yeah…here I am.”

Jihoon can’t help but laugh softly. It’s no doubt Seungcheol’s tireless sense of responsibility that motivates his decision to keep a close eye on his movements, but Jihoon feels an absurd little twinge of pleasure anyway.

“Why kidnapping though? Why is that your first thought?”

A one-shouldered shrug. “Oh, so many reasons, but namely your compact size. It makes you very kidnappable. Matter of fact, I’m sure I could fit you into a medium sized suitcase without having to dismember you.”

Strangely enough, that isn’t the first time Jihoon’s heard those very same words.

“Well, great news, I haven’t been kidnapped. I’m on a date.” He returns, tartly.

A smile swerves across Seungcheol’s mouth. “With that jackass over there? Really? You could do better.”

Jihoon frowns, his entire head jerking with it. That smug certainty is going to make him grind his teeth to stubs.

“What? He’s…he’s not a jackass. What the hell man, you don’t even know him.”

Seungcheol flicks his hand through the air, dismissive, “He looks like one. He looks like he could be a jackass. Maybe not today, or tomorrow, but someday down the line he’ll be a total jackass, and I’ll have to kick the shit out of him to defend your honour or something. Call me crazy, but I have a sixth sense about these things.”

“You are crazy,” Jihoon says sweetly, complete with a twist of his head. “And I’m going back to my date. Bye.”

He only gets a single step away before Seungcheol is catching him by the wrist and reeling him back into the conversation with a hushed, “Just answer me this: have you done a background check on him?”

Pulling his hand free, Jihoon squints back at him, suspicious but undeniably intrigued. “No, did you?”

Seungcheol nods slowly and takes a breath to speak, then hesitates, avoiding Jihoon’s eyes as reaches for his scotch again. For someone usually so straightforward, this indicates a misgiving of apocalyptic proportions.

“What?” Jihoon presses, with mounting dread. “Oh shit, what did you find out?”

Sighing wearily, Seungcheol motions for him to move closer, and Jihoon leans in slowly, tugged by a curiosity he hasn’t the will to staunch. He shivers as warm air fans across his cheek, and then Seungcheol’s lips are brushing against his ear as he whispers, oh so quietly, “That he’s a jackass.”

“Oh, you giant sack of shit. You almost had me there,” Jihoon reels back, grinning wildly.

The expression is perfectly mirrored on Seungcheol’s face for brief moment, before someone is clearing their throat and suddenly Sehun is there, wedging his way between them.

“Hi—hi, sorry to interrupt, but this won’t take long. I just wanted to say it was nice meeting you Jihoon; you seem like a nice guy, and I was really excited to see where this was going, but maybe in the future, you shouldn’t lead someone along when you’re just trying to make your ex jealous.”

Words escape Jihoon for a moment, because what the fuck? Where on Earth did he get that idea? Then it clicks, and all at once he’s shaking his head and stammering, “Oh, oh no, we’re not, we’ve never dated. This is not my boyfriend. Or my ex. We’re just...friends, right Seungcheol?”

He desperately looks to Seungcheol for backup, but that just makes everything worse; with the way Seungcheol’s squaring his shoulders and glaring at Sehun right now, like he’d very much like to dislocate every bone in his body, it does nothing but fortify the jealous ex narrative.

Sehun’s mouth thins into a distinctly unimpressed line, “Yeah, I thought as much. I could feel the sexual tension between you two from across the room.”

“No, honestly Sehun, he’s not my ex,” Jihoon tries again, “He’s just a co-worker. We work together, that’s all.”

Sehun scoffs, swinging his head around to give Seungcheol an assessing once over, “Yeah, right. Like anyone’s going to believe he’s a software developer!”

He storms out without another word, and Seungcheol chuckles and shakes his head helplessly, nudging Jihoon with his elbow, as though inviting him to share in some private joke.  

“What did I tell you. Jackass.”

Jihoon levels him a glare, wanting to punch him in his smug, perfect mouth, wondering if it would even land before Seungcheol snapped his arm clean in half. His fist tightens at his side just thinking about it, but just then the waiter calls out ‘Lee Jihoon, party of two’ and Seungcheol jumps out of his stool with a cheerful, “Hey, that’s us. C’mon, I’m starving,” and honestly, so is Jihoon. 

He’s barely eaten anything today; just four bowls of cereal, half a dozen egg rolls and a KFC chicken bucket, and it would be a shame to waste the reservation.

“You’re footing the bill for this by the way.” Jihoon says, giving Seungcheol a dark look as the waiter leads them to their table. “I’m going to order everything on the menu and you’re going to pay for it.”

Seungcheol merely hums his assent and dips past him quickly to pull out his chair.

On a scale of one to ten—one being so awful he’d voluntarily lobotomise himself, and ten being so impressive he’s already planning the rest of their lives together, his unplanned just-friends not-date with Seungcheol scores a solid 8.

A little tragic, considering it’s the highest score Jihoon’s bestowed on any of his real dates.

The food is excellent, the atmosphere pleasantly relaxed, and Seungcheol himself is, shock of all shocks, clearly capable of charming the pants of someone when he puts his mind to it.

Jihoon had wondered what he’d would be like to date in an idle, mindless sort of way. He is, after all, a very attractive man; it’s a natural extension of thought to be curious. But Jihoon’s suspicions (namely: offhand, dominant, insensitive, gruff) all prove to be unwarranted.

Seungcheol is sharp, witty, engaging—offering up amusing anecdotes and laughing over Jihoon’s like he never used to when they first knew each other. And he’s clearly learnt a thing or two from their Moscow adventure, because he’s attentive as fuck; meets Jihoon’s eyes every time he speaks, doesn’t hide behind his menu or reach for his phone. He foots the bill, generously tips the waiter, even steals an umbrella to escort Jihoon to his car, and if it was a date, a real date, Jihoon thinks he would have…

No. Let’s be real here.

He definitely would have put out.  

He almost does too, because he’s admittedly a little tipsy by the end of the night, and after Seungcheol steers him gently down the hallway to his bedroom, sits him on the bed and stoops down to help him with his shoelaces, Jihoon blurts out, unthinkingly, “I forgot to buy condoms.”

If Seungcheol’s alarmed by the insinuation, he certainly doesn’t let it show. He just smirks and slips the shoes off Jihoon’s feet, eases him down to lie flat on the bed, then hovers there, gaze skittering across the boneless sprawl of Jihoon on the bed.

After a while, in a voice so quiet he is scarcely mouthing the words, he says, “I’m going to let you finish undressing yourself, because if I catch a glimpse of those rubber duckie boxer shorts again, I might be tempted to take you up on that offer.”

Jihoon blinks up at him for a slow, hazy moment, confused because somewhere in there it seemed like Seungcheol might actually want to have sex with him.

“I…I don’t wear my rubber duckie boxers when I got out on dates,” He continues, losing his focus a little bit, slurring at the ends of words. He knows even before he opens his mouth again he needs to stop talking, but the words come out anyway, “I don’t wear any underwear actually.”

Seungcheol was already half turned away, but his shoulders freeze into a still line, shallow angle of his neck, his head bowed. He’s motionless for a moment, as if absorbing a blow, and then he drags a hand over his face groans something incomprehensible.

Jihoon falls asleep before he can ask him to repeat himself.

Jihoon’s not sure who’s given him this cold; the only people he spends any significant time around have all been perfectly healthy, while he’s wallowing at home practically ankle deep in snotty tissues. But if he ever…no, no, when he finds out who’s responsible, he’s going to sneeze on them, then possibly hack into the bank account and strip them of their life savings, because he’s honestly never felt this bad in his life.  

Every inch of his body aches, his nose is running like a defective faucet, and his head feels at least fifty pounds heavier than it normally does—and that’s with the maximum dose of every over-the-counter medicine going.

It wouldn’t be so bad if he had someone looking after him, like when he still young enough to curl up on the couch with Mr Blanky, watching cartoons while his mom fussed over him. Now that he’s all “grown up”, he has to fetch his own drinks and make himself soup, prepare his own hot water bottle with only self-pity as company.

He feels like crap, looks even worse, so of course this is the perfect time for Seungcheol to show up, dressed in a smooth navy suit that stretches across his shoulders like it was designed with him in mind. Freshly showered and shaved, with his hair scraped back from his forehead, he’s looking about a million times better than Jihoon feels.

Jihoon raises his hand in weary welcome from the couch, which he hasn't left in about twelve hours except to piss.

Seungcheol approaches slowly, putting his analytic eye to good use and finally declaring: “You’re sick.”

Jihoon gives him a weak, bleary-eyed smile, “I knew you were more than just a pretty face.”

That doesn't get so much as a flicker of a smile from Seungcheol. Jihoon watches him carefully a moment, looking past the slick appearance and noticing the furrow between his brows, the pinch of his mouth. He thinks this might be what ‘worried’ looks like on Seungcheol, but before he can ask what’s wrong, the guy is shucking off his jacket, undoing his shirt cuffs and methodically rolling up his sleeves.

For one stomach-churning moment Jihoon wonders if today’s the day Seungcheol has finally decided to silence his chattering once and for all, but Seungcheol only leans right in and Jihoon makes a pleased little sound when he presses his palm to Jihoon’s forehead, fingers blessedly cool where they rest against his temple.

Seungcheol’s heavy brow furrows deeper. “They didn’t tell me you were sick. They told me you were on vacation.”

Jihoon blinks up at him, “I was,” he rasps out and swallows to try to soothe his aching throat. It doesn’t help. “I am technically on vacation. I was supposed to have this week off to go visit my parents, but I got sick before I could leave and decided to stay here and sweat it out.”

The ferocious expression softens, but the worry doesn't dissipate entirely. After a moment, Seungcheol slides his hand away and says, “Then why aren’t you in bed?”

Jihoon lets his head drop back against the armrest as a wave of fatigue washes over him, “I may have thrown up a little from coughing so hard. Didn’t have the energy to change the sheets.”

Seungcheol’s nose wrinkles in distaste as he takes a step back, out of projectile vomiting distance. He looks like he’s about to say something else, but whatever it is dies in his throat. Instead, he picks up the blanket Jihoon threw on the end of the couch when he was running a fever earlier and gives it look like it's used toilet paper, before tossing it aside and sitting in its place.

Jihoon takes the new proximity as an opportunity and nudges at Seungcheol’s thigh with his foot until Seungcheol looks over. Once he's looking, Jihoon stares at him meaningfully.

“I’m sick.”

“Yeah, I know. I have eyes.” says Seungcheol, radiating an even mix of concern and ill-hidden mockery.

Jihoon gives an exaggerated sniffle, childish in his unhappiness. He might even be pouting a little too. “I feel even worse than I look probably. Everything hurts. My ears, my throat, my eyes, my joints, my skin. It all hurts.”

Seungcheol’s smile is a little mean the next time he glances over. “Yeah? Well, once I fell off the roof of a moving jeep and dislocated my arm, and I had to pop it back into the socket myself. Good luck topping that.”

Jihoon casts him an unimpressed look, full of exasperation and fatigue. “It’s not a competition Cheol.”

“It certainly felt like one.” Seungcheol snorts, only to scowl when Jihoon kicks at his thigh again. “What? What do you want me to do about it? I’m not a doctor.”

“A little compassion would be nice. Maybe a little TLC.” Jihoon grumbles, in his pathetically whiny voice. “You could at least make yourself useful while you’re here and fetch me some juice. I haven’t had anything to drink in hours.”

This earns him an almighty eye roll, but Seungcheol does get up to fetch him a glass of orange juice and some lozenges before retaking his seat, and much to Jihoon's silent, strangled delight, he even encourages Jihoon to stretch out a little more, gently pulling Jihoon's feet into his lap.

The orange juice is cold, straight out of the fridge; it’s not all that soothing on his throat either, but Jihoon takes little sips of it anyway, taking more comfort in the fact that he finally has some company, even if that company is a prickly son of a bitch like Seungcheol who’s more interested in flipping through the TV than paying any attention to him.

By the time he has finished the glass, Seungcheol has settled in to watch some action movie with stupidly loud explosions, though he does graciously lower the volume when Jihoon whines a little.

Jihoon admires his profile for a while, the strong line of his jaw, the damnably kissable lips, and those ridiculous lashes that have no business being that long, before he realises he’s been staring, kinda longingly, and shakes himself out of it.

“So, uhm, who’d they pair you up with for the Kosovo mission?

“I dunno, just some Rookie. I didn’t catch his name.” Seungcheol murmurs, not looking away from the television.

“Didn’t catch his name?” Jihoon parrots, the words coming out in an over-eager wheeze. “How? You’ve been working together all week.”

Seungcheol shrugs, thumb tracing idle along a vein on Jihoon’s ankle. “I muted him within the first ten minutes. He wasn’t very useful.”

Jihoon boggles; he wasn’t even aware an Agent’s earpiece had that kind of functionality. Which begs the question:

“Hey…you’ve never muted me, have you?”

Seungcheol tilts his head to glance over at him, raises his eyebrows a fraction, “Do you really want me to answer that?”

Jihoon tries to glare at him, but his eyes are watering and half swollen shut, ruining the effect, so he closes them instead and turns his face mournfully into the couch cushions.

He must zone out for a bit, or just pass out from exhaustion, because the next time he blinks himself out of a sluggish, miserable half sleep, there’s a crick in his neck, and the sky outside the window is a lot darker than he remembers it being.  

The movie’s either over or switched to a commercial break, but Seungcheol is nowhere to be seen anyway, the spot at the end of couch cold and vacant. Jihoon has just a second to feel sad about that, before he registers the strange new weight blanketing him, the black cashmere coat tucked around his shoulders.

It’s luxuriously soft, and easily the nicest thing Jihoon has smelled in the last 24 hours. He rubs his cheek against it instinctively and breathes in the oddly comforting scent of Seungcheol; wool and cologne and something a little mysterious. Very Agent Choi.   

When he cracks his eyes open again, Seungcheol has appeared in the kitchen doorway, tie missing, shirt collar unbuttoned, sleeves rolled up neatly to elbows, wearing the apron Jihoon keeps hung up behind the kitchen door.

Jihoon thinks he might be hallucinating. This definitely feels like the sort of hallucination only he'd have. But then the hallucination of Seungcheol is stepping over to the couch, swapping the damp flannel on his forehead for a cooler one, and rubbing his knuckles gently over his heated cheek and—oh. Oh.

Is this actually happening? Is this real?  

“Hm, seems like your temperature has finally gone done,” Seungcheol muses, tucking a few sweat-clumped tendrils of hair behind Jihoon’s ear, “You think you can manage to sit up and eat some soup, or should I find a funnel?”

That definitely sounds like something Seungcheol would say; tenderness intermixed with threats.

Nevertheless, Jihoon blinks a couple of times, eyes focusing awkwardly on his face. “You…you made me soup?”

Seungcheol just sighs, then reaches down to rearrange the cushions and help him sit upright, before slipping back into the kitchen. He returns with a tray, bearing an optimistically-sized portion of spiced butternut squash soup, two slices of toast and a segmented orange.

Jihoon spends a moment being unexpectedly and ridiculously touched, before the gnawing hunger in his stomach has him picking up the spoon and digging in.

Up until now he hasn’t had much of an appetite, but the soup is ridiculously good; thick, creamy, flavourful—warmed at just the right temperature to soothe his throat without making him break into a sweat. He polishes it off in no time, and manages one slice of toast and half the orange before he starts to feel drowsy again.

“I think—I think I might sleep some more,” He says, slurring a little, forgetting about the tray on his lap as he begins to tip sideways.

Thankfully, Seungcheol catches it before it goes crashing and sets it aside, then stoops down and…lifts him?

Okay, so that settles that—Jihoon’s obviously hallucinating now. He’s sure of it. Because there’s no way a guy that can kill a person six ways silently with nothing more than a shoelace would just pick him up off the couch and gently carry him down the hallway, like he’s a small, injured animal.

That doesn’t make any kind of sense.

He’s clearly in the throes of some weird, fever induced dream—one that involves Seungcheol wearing aprons, making him soup and doing his laundry apparently, because the bed he’s currently being tucked into smells fresh and vomit free. Next Seungcheol will be reading to him, running him a bath and gently carding fingers through his hair until he falls asleep.

He must express some of this astonishment out loud, because Seungcheol says, laughter in voice, “Dear God in heaven, how is it possible that you’re even more talkative when you’re sick?”

“The TV in this hotel is shit,” Seungcheol tells him once, eight months or so into their partnership, or friendship, or whatever the hell it is.

He’s half-way across the globe in London, completing the groundwork for an upcoming mission, and Jihoon can just picture the scene; Seungcheol standing in his hotel room in the Shangri-La, surveying the magnificent view outside his window with unrepentant and business-like disinterest, and kind of wants to be there so he can smack him upside the head.  

“You’re in the cultural capital of the world man. You shouldn’t be holed up in your hotel, you should be out on the town, living it up.”

Seungcheol makes a rumbling sound, maybe only half paying attention, then surprises Jihoon by saying, “I don’t know anyone here though.”

“So? That shouldn’t matter,” Jihoon laughs, rummaging through his vending machine haul for his cold brew, “You can still enjoy what the city has to offer by yourself. Everyone should be able to keep their own company for a day or two at least.”

Seungcheol laughs, then. It's a dry sound, brittle and self-deprecating.

“I’ve been keeping my own company for the last 28 years. It gets old after a while.”

Jihoon is troubled by this response. He fiddles with the cap on his bottle, spinning it restlessly around the rim. Eventually he suggests, “I can keep you company if you like. Just pop your LENS in and head out, pretend you’re talking on the phone to someone while you’re walking.”

There is a pause, a cottony rustle of static.

“Yeah?” Seungcheol says, sounding endearingly hopeful. “Isn’t that like…misuse of agency tech or something?”

Jihoon bites the inside of his cheek, and spares a paranoid glance over his shoulder before saying in a low whisper, “I won’t tell if you don’t.”

Seungcheol is quiet, long enough that Jihoon expects the next words out of his mouth to be ‘Nah, it’s okay. I’ll just get an early night’ or something along those lines. Then a notification pops up on Jihoon’s screen to inform him the LENS function has been activated a moment before he gets a first-person view of the inside of Seungcheol’s hotel room.  

“Yeah, that’s more like it. Let’s paint the town red!” Jihoon claps his hands together, before quickly adding, “And by that, I mean, lets have some fun. Not like…literally paint the town red with blood or anything. It’s just a figure of speech.”

Seungcheol’s answering laugh is breathless and incredulous, quiet. “Yeah, I know what it means Jihoon. But thanks, I appreciate the specificity.”

Jihoon grins, dragging his seat closer to the monitor, “Okay, cool—so, where are we going?”

Seungcheol steps over to the closet and pulls out his coat, and Jihoon catches the movement of his shrug reflected in the mirror of the door. 

“Anywhere you want.”

Jihoon’s always had a special hatred of vloggers—travel vloggers especially—so he honestly doesn’t expect watching Seungcheol play tourist for the day to be all that. Exploring a city he’s never been to through the LENS however, combined with Seungcheol’s bewildered, adorably awkward commentary, turns out to be one of the most hilariously fun things he’s ever done. And the best thing is, Seungcheol seems to be really enjoying himself too.

He doesn’t say as much, but Jihoon swears he hears him muffling laughter more than once, and when they’re exploring the Tate Modern and Jihoon decides to share his thoughts on all the questionable and, frankly, shit impressionist art, he quickly ducks into the toilets to hiss “Will you stop. You’re making me crack up and now people are staring at me.”

It’s good to see him let his hair down a little. Seungcheol doesn’t get much of a chance to explore all the cool, interesting places the Agency sends him to, too focused on the complexities of a mission to appreciate the World passing him by, but with Jihoon acting as a virtual backseat driver in his tourism adventure, he has no choice but to.

Jihoon oohs and aahs and points out things he wants a closer look at, and Seungcheol obliges him, leaning into the utter ridiculousness of the whole experience.

They—they, wind down the evening in a cute little bistro in Soho that Jihoon discovers through Trip Advisor, and after several minutes of perusing the menu through Seungcheol’s LENS, Jihoon orders for him too.

“Well? What’s your verdict?”

“Overrated. The English wouldn’t know good food if it bit them in the ass,” Is apparently Seungcheol’s opinion on the Bistro’s up-market take on Fish ‘n’ chips.

Jihoon sighs with loud exasperation that is mostly for show. “Hey man, I’m munching on a peanut brittle bar in lieu of dinner right now. At least exaggerate your enjoyment for my benefit if nothing else.”

Seungcheol moans outrageously on his next mouthful, earning him a few quintessentially British looks of disappointment from the other patrons, but thousands of miles away, sitting behind a desk, Jihoon is giggling in tiny helpless bursts of laughter.

Jihoon wasn’t expecting to make any friends when he joined the Agency, what with the curtain of secrecy everyone drew around themselves, their work and habits. And in all fairness, he wasn’t all that stellar at making friends anyway; his smartassed humour, his intelligence and uncompromising nature off-putting to many people. But when you face down several life-or-death situations with a person on a weekly basis, it’s hard not to form a connection, and Jihoon finds his first friendship in Seungcheol, to their mutual and profoundly bemused pleasure.

In fact, Seungcheol might just be the first real friend Jihoon’s made in his whole damn adult life if he’s being honest. Their one-sided banter during missions has turned into a casual back and forth, which in turn has developed into steadily longer conversations off duty, both of them letting the other see a little more each time, and before Jihoon realized what is happening, he's syncing his watch up to Seungcheol, to calculate the time difference between him and wherever Seungcheol is that particular day.

Seungcheol isn’t really good on the phone of course; he’s not used to just chattering about random stuff for hours on end, and he can’t talk most of the time really. Has to stay quiet, discreet.

He’s a very good listener though, and seems to like listening to Jihoon just talk and complain about random shit, so Jihoon will call him when he’s just running errands sometimes, so he can complain about the queue at the post office, or have him on loudspeaker when he’s pottering around the kitchen.

There’s something terribly domestic about it, chatting away to Seungcheol while he’s at a car rental desk in crowded airport, sipping scotch at a hotel bar, fixing his tie in the mirror. It kind of reminds Jihoon of something his parents used to do, when his dad was still travelling for work.

It’s also, kind of, technically, bending the rules a little, because they’re not supposed to communicate this openly or this often. Their viability as a team is dependant on maintaining a certain level of anonymity with each other, to prevent emotions from clouding their perceptions and choices during a mission. And to be fair, it was already pretty nerve wrecking watching Seungcheol do crazy shit he does—whenever he’s scaling the side of a skyscraper or defusing a bomb, Jihoon feels like he’s right there with him, on the edge of his seat—now that he knows the guy’s morning routine consist of Fruit Loops and reruns of Tom&Jerry, that spiders still make him jump and that he hums the ‘Bunny ears’ rhyme to tie his shoelaces, it’s so so much harder.

Seungcheol isn’t just some emotionless, mindless weapon to point towards danger, he’s a human being, with thoughts and feelings and a genuine, goofy laugh that makes him sound all of ten years old.

Jihoon doesn’t want to see him hurt—he wants him to age out or retire or just quit, so he can live out the rest of his life happy and whole.

“Jihoon, uh, I could use some help here.”

“What? Don’t be ridiculous, just ignore it.”

“I can’t, it’s coming right at me. I need back up.”

Jihoon restrains himself from rolling his eyes, not that Seungcheol can see. “Seungcheol, calm down. You’re a 200 pound man with a gun and God knows how many knives. It’s a tiny cat. It cannot overpower you.”

“But it’s climbing up my leg!”

Jihoon drops his face into his hands, thinking—well thank fuck it didn’t happen mid op.

They’re in Marrakesh—or Seungcheol is anyway—trying to stop an underground terrorist group from getting their hands on a biological toxin.

They tracked the courier down in no time, and managed to intercept and neutralise the package before it reached its target, but the guy was not working alone. He had backup, and a lot of it too, and in the crowded market streets with so much potential for civilian casualties, it made sense to retreat than face them head on.

The chase that ensued took Seungcheol over a dozen perilous rooftops and halfway across the city, before he managed to shake his pursuers by diving into a dumpster in a shaded alley. Which is roundabout the same time a stray kitten decided to introduce itself, and use Seungcheol’s leg as a climbing tree.

It’s actually kind of hilarious that Seungcheol’s more freaked out about a tiny, friendly kitten than the highly trained operatives that were chasing him. Moments earlier, there were bullets whizzing past his ears, the persistent beat of helicopters circling over his head as he scaled the rooftops and he didn’t even break a sweat. Now a tiny cat has him backed into the corner of a dumpster, pleading, “Stop meowing, you’re going to give away my location.”

Jihoon honestly doesn’t know how he does it, but he manages to encourage Seungcheol to pick the kitten up and soothe it to keep it quiet, and when they’ve ascertained that the coast is clear, Seungcheol clambers out to fetch it some cooked meat from a café around the corner.

Mission accomplished. Except...

“Are you kidding me?” Jihoon laughs, a little hysterical when Seungcheol shows up at his doorstep the very next day, cradling the very same kitten.

It’s looking significantly cleaner than it did back in that alley, and it seems to have obtained a collar and little bell since then too, but it’s definitely the same kitten—a tabby, scrawny, shouty little thing, small enough to fit lovingly in Seungcheol’s palm.

“I couldn’t just...leave him there.” Seungcheol huffs, looking just as bewildered and put-out as Jihoon does. “He kept following me when I tried to leave the alley, and I was worried he’d run out into the road and get hurt. I didn’t know what else to do.”

Jihoon looks at him as if he’s grown a second head. “So what? You decided to smuggle it into the country?”

“I didn’t have to smuggle him in—" Seungcheol murmurs, scratching around the kitten’s ears with a fingertip. “You’re allowed to bring small pets on the plane, you know. Just as long as they stay in their carrier during the flight.”

Jihoon feels scepticism twist his mouth as he eyes the little tag on the kitten’s collar, the letter P engraved on the silver plate, “Yeah, but, you still would have needed to get a pet passport for it first, which can take weeks. And before that it would’ve needed to be examined by a vet, vaccinated and microchip—oh my god, that’s why I couldn’t get hold of you last night. You were busy forging all the documents to smuggle it in, weren’t you?”

Seungcheol looks almost sheepish for a moment, but it passes quickly. Replaced by a determined expression and unapologetic posture. “I wish you would stop referring to him as it. He has a name, and his name is Pebbles.”

Jihoon chokes out a slightly hysterical laugh, but anything he can think to say in response, namely ‘Oh my god, you named it? This is bad dude,’ is derailed when the kitten opens its tiny pink mouth to let out a squeaky mew of complaint, and Seungcheol immediately enters protective dad mode.

“Hey, awe, what’s wrong?” He coos, eyes going all soft and sweet as he brings the kitten up to his face for a little nuzzle.

He follows that up with a judicious kiss on the kitten’s head, and then a gentle boop on the nose, and Jihoon’s never been more grateful to be a guy right now, because if he was a woman, he’s pretty sure his ovaries would be exploding.

“Hey—” Seungcheol snaps, all serious again as he cradles the now purring ball of fur against his chest, “Are you going to invite us in or not? Pebbles has had a long trip, and he could really use a snack. As could I in fact.”

Jihoon frowns, a strange mixture of bizarrely jealous and ridiculously horny.

“Is Pebbles going to piddle all over my house?”

Seungcheol contemplates this, toying with the pink toe beans on the kitten’s hind paw. “Maybe...But considering he already piddled all over my scarf on the drive here, I’d say it’s unlikely.”

Jihoon actually considers saying no anyway—he’s never been a big lover of cats if he’s being honest, always been more of a dog person—but turning Seungcheol and his tiny cat son away is probably going to haunt him for the rest of his life, so he ushers them into the warmth of the kitchen and starts rummaging around for some suitable cat chow.

He almost reaches for the milk, before remembering cow’s milk isn’t actually good for cats, so he settles for a little bowl of water instead, then he pops open his last can of tuna and tips it into a bowl. A good choice apparently, judging by the way the kitten scrambles out of Seungcheol’s hands and goes to fucking town, making loud, excitable, grumbling noises as it chews.

Poor thing must not have eaten for days before Seungcheol crashed into its home.

On a lighter note, it seems like Seungcheol has acclimatised pretty well to his new, littlest friend since yesterday. He’s hunched over in his stool, chin on the counter as he watches Pebbles eat, and the way he’s petting him oh so gently, with just two fingers, like he’s afraid of applying too much pressure, is doing funny things to Jihoon’s insides.

“You know you can’t keep it, right?” Jihoon finally tells him, staring out the window because he can’t—he just can’t look Seungcheol in the face while he explains the realty of their situation.

“And it’s not because I don’t think you’re capable or anything, because you’re clearly more than capable. But the things is, you’re always travelling for work Cheol, and it wouldn’t be fair leaving Pebbles by himself for so long. He’s still a kitten, he needs a lot of care and attention.”

When he cuts his gaze over again, Seungcheol has slumped in his seat a little, his expression shifting into something resigned.

“Yeah, I know. You’re right, it’s just...he came to me, you know. He’s so tiny and weak and helpless and yet—” He hesitates, and looks like he wants to smile, but if he did, it would be a sad smile. “It’s not every day I meet someone who isn’t scared of me. It feels kinda nice.”

Jihoon’s brain, normally so good at navigating complex scenarios, utterly abandons him at this point. A broken record of ‘oh my god’ the only answer he can seem to give himself when faced with six-foot-something of wistful Secret Agent and a heart overflowing with goddamn feelings.

Before he’s aware of what’s happening, he’s reaching out to thread his fingers through Seungcheol’s hair gently. Petting him while he pets the kitten.

“Listen, my old neighbour used to adopt cats from the shelter. I can get in contact with her if you like, see if she can give Pebbles a new home. And she’s a really sweet lady; I’m sure she wouldn’t mind if you paid Pebbles a visit every now and then.”

Seungcheol stares at him for a second before his mouth quirks up into a shy kind of smile.

“Yeah? Could you? That would be great.”

Jihoon really hates these kinds of missions. Honeytraps. 

He understands the practicality of them, of course – they can gather some really good intel without ever having to draw a weapon—you get more flies with honey then you do with vinegar has never been so true—and there’s a lot less collateral damage to explain away. But watching Seungcheol lay on the charm through the LENS is a profoundly discomfiting experience.

Talking him through it is even worse, because despite all evidence to the contrary, Agent Choi = not so good with the ladies.

“Tell her she has beautiful eyes.”

“You have beautiful eyes.” Seungcheol says, with all the sensuality of a paperclip.

The woman laughs, an airy little thing, then sweeps a cascade of curls over her shoulder to give him a stupendous view of the breasts she’s somehow, miraculously, squeezed into her dress tonight.

“Wow, is that all it took? Seriously?” Jihoon snorts, shaking his head in disbelief. “Well, guess there’s no point dragging this out. See if you can get her somewhere private.”

Seungcheol manages to sound a little more enthused when he suggests they continue the conversation somewhere private. He might even throw in a wink.

Unfortunately, the woman deems the privacy of the elevator to be sufficient, and immediately starts pawing at Seungcheol, running her manicured hands all over him and seizing his tie to drag him into a kiss.

At first, it’s hard to say whether Seungcheol approves of this turn of events or is freaking the fuck out—the biometric readings flashing in the corner of Jihoon’s screen could be interpreted either way—then Seungcheol wrenches himself away from the woman’s lips and backs himself into a corner of the elevator, and yeah—poor guy’s definitely not happy.   

“Hey, hey—it’s okay. Relax.” Jihoon coos, catching the pissed off expression on Seungcheol’s face in one of the mirrored walls and feeling guilt pool sickly in his stomach. “Just knock her out now and steal the card. I’ll hack in and erase the CCTV footage. It’s okay.”

Everything comes out roses in the end; Seungcheol gets the card, he gets into the Private Bank vault, he swaps out the hard drive and gets back to the hotel in time, just as the woman’s regaining consciousness so he can sweep in with and icepack and say, “I think someone had a little too much to drink.”

By the time he gets back to his own hotel though, it’s close to midnight and he’s obviously exhausted, eyes bloodshot as he tries to remove the LENS in the mirror. It takes him three tries before he gets the first out because he’s so jittery, like he’s still mid-mission rather than post. Adrenaline still running hot and reckless.

“I’m sorry, I messed up.” He whispers, once he’s calmed down enough to remove the second LENS. His earpiece is still in, and Jihoon can hear the clink of ice in a glass. Seungcheol’s not much of a drinker though—more likely he’s rolling the glass against his forehead.

“Hey, no—don’t say that. You didn’t mess anything up. We completed the objective, and the end justifies the means as far as the Agency is concerned. Don’t beat yourself up man. You handled yourself really well. A lot better than I would have if someone grabbed by junk out of nowhere.”

He can hear Seungcheol swallow before he speaks, his throat clicking audibly. “I don’t excel at that sort of thing. Seduction. The Agency wouldn’t normally put me forward for that kind of mission you know.”

“Yeah—” Jihoon intones, letting that thought bounce around his head for a moment. It had seemed odd to him at the time, that Seungcheol had been selected for such a low-level op that would utilize none of his skillset. But Director Kim had insisted.

He shrugs as he tries to gather his thoughts—and can’t quite manage the trick with the way his brain is starting to go fuzzy around the edges. Finally he says, “Anyway, don’t worry about it. You did good, and I for one am very proud of you.”

“Thanks boss. Means a lot.” Seungcheol huffs, but   Jihoon’s not fooled: he can hear the smile in his voice, small but honest.

He bites back a smile of his own and bends over the table, his chin coming to rest on the laminated wood and his breath fogging under his mouth.

“Hey so uhm, listen, I have a kind of personal question for you I’ve always been meaning to ask. You don’t have to answer it of course, it’s not detrimental to a mission or anything, it’s just something I’ve been curious about for a while.”

Seungcheol chuckles. The sound is warm, reverberating like the plucking of a cello string. “Something that isn’t mentioned in my file, I take it?”

“Honestly Cheol, there isn’t a whole lot of useful info in your file to begin with. Unless you really were recruited by bold black line, at the age of bold black line and trained by bold black line.” Jihoon says, in a lousy approximation of his usual wryness.

Seungcheol coughs a laugh at that, which at least means he’s seen the file himself, and accepts how ridiculously censored it is.

“What would you like to know?”

Jihoon taps into the dossier he’s been quietly building on Seungcheol, the background info he’s been able to ascertain as true, as well as the list of the guy’s quirks and habits, and things that make him tick.

“Your file said you were originally from Daegu—that you have a family out there. Parents, an older brother…I guess what I’m curious about is, how come you never talk about them?”

“Because I don’t remember much about them anymore,” Seungcheol begins, then pauses. Jihoon feels the moment of hesitation, and gives him time, wanting the rest of the story if Seungcheol's ready to offer it up.

When he continues, Seungcheol’s voice comes out soft, heartbreakingly adrift.

“They died in a car accident when I was five.”

Jihoon closes his eyes and presses his cheek against the desk again, concentrating on the feel of it, pressure against his cheekbone, denting into his temple.

“I’m so sorry Seungcheol.”

“It’s alright. Like I said, I don’t really remember much,” Seungcheol mumbles. His next breath holds a bite of something in it that could be mistaken laughter, if it was a different conversation. “I suppose keeping that information on my file makes me look more rounded as an individual, but the fact is, the Agency is the only family I have. They recruited me right out of the orphanage, gave me a home, started training me. They made me who I am, and I’m very grateful for that.”

Jihoon grimaces, bothered by this recitation of events.

It always seemed to him that Seungcheol had a strange sort of laissez-faire attitude to life, and now he can see why. The Agency tells him to jump and how high, and he does it as hard as he can, like he needs to pay them back in some way for, what? Indoctrinating him? Robbing him of his childhood?

Can’t he see how wrong that is?

“Did you want it though?” He can’t help but ask, “Did you know what you were getting into?”

Seungcheol makes a small laughing sound, “I was six, Jihoon, and they told me I could be an international super spy if I agreed to go with them. What six-year-old boy would have turned that down?”

His words have the configuration of a joke, but his tone is uneasy. Restless.

Jihoon has the sudden and sharp urge to see his face, to look for one of those little micro expressions he’s started to catalogue. He almost wants to ask Seungcheol to put the LENS back in so he can, but the man sounds tired—his voice is getting slower, carefully slurred at the edges—and Jihoon can read the occasional pauses, the long swallows, knows that he’s ten minutes away from conking out. It would be cruel to rob him of rest now.  

Jihoon pulls a hand across his face and lets out a long breath. “Listen, I know we had plans, but it’s been a long day and I think we should give the backseat tourism adventure a break for tonight. Try and get some sleep, rest your eyes instead.”

Seungcheol is quiet for a bit, then makes some tiny huff of acknowledgement.

“Fine, but we can still talk, right? You’re not... you’re not going to log out now, are you?”

Jihoon smiles and presses his fist against his mouth. “No Cheol, I’ll still be here.”

For the record, Jihoon didn’t like the sound of this mission from the start, and business man cum arms dealer Simon Gatchui's shady dealings were only half the reason.

They were supposed to confirm the scouted location in Nairobi was indeed his safehouse, confirm that he was still there, then move in to take him out.

Three days in, however, and Jihoon hasn’t uncovered nearly as much intel as he would have liked, and the sources and gut-instincts that have brought them this far have suddenly gone dry as a bone. 

Despite his reservations, the Agency still want them to proceed with the objective, and Jihoon knows from the jump there’s something disquieting about the compound. The ramshackle buildings out in the isolated countryside, the lack of security, the pervading silence of the grounds—it all speaks of a sinister complacency, and the main house itself is only five bedrooms large, spread across two floors.

Surely and arms dealer’s summer home would be a little more ostentatious.

“This can’t be right place—it’s too small.” He says, peering at the schematics of the building in question.

On the next screen, Seungcheol’s head bobs, still facing out at the rest of the compound, “Yeah, but the guards are stretched thin. Can’t hurt to check it out.”

Swallowing down his concern, Jihoon watches as Seungcheol scales the wall of the Villa and lands soundlessly on the other side, approaching the open basement window he’d spotted earlier.

The are a handful of guards milling about on the first floor, but it’s dark enough for a stealthy approach, so Seungcheol draws his gun and sticks to the shadows, begins clearing each room with sharp, methodical precision.

Jihoon keeps his eyes peeled for thermal readings instead of watching the carnage unfold, the pillowy snick of silenced weapons fire followed by the thud of bodies hitting the ground the only thing to reach his ears.

With the guards dispatched however, the complete silence that falls over the house is unnerving, and Jihoon grows tetchy as Seungcheol makes his way up to the second floor.

He waits and he can feel his heartbeat, dashing away in his ears. His hand is tight in a fist on his leg, and he can feel his pulse there, too, he can feel it everywhere. Then shakes his head grimly, hissing, “This is too easy man. I don’t like this at all. I want you to pull back.”

Seungcheol pauses near the top of the stairs and waves a hand over his eyes impatiently, signalling a silent Negative, like he just wants to get this over with.

He only gets another few steps before he comes to a sudden halt in the middle of a darkened room, and slowly lowers his head to study something on the floorboard under his boot.

“Oh—fuck,” is all says, before that something beeps and flashes red.

Seungcheol manages to turn away before Jihoon catches the flash full in his eyes, but even thousands of miles away, he feels the explosion vibrate straight through him, the sheer noise blasting through his screen knocking him sideways out of his chair.

He lies there for a moment, gasping “Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck” listening to his pulse thudding in his ears, then quickly scrambles to get upright, fighting with the cord of his headset.

By the time he drags himself back up into his seat, he’s lost all contact with Seungcheol; his screen is nothing but static, and the channel in his ear buzzes for several seconds and then dies.

If he was panicking before, he goes absolutely hysterical now, great heaving sobs breaking from his lips, a litany of anguish stuck on repeat as tears cascade down his face. It’s the single worst moment of his life to date and he is in no way equipped to handle it, his mind strafed and scoured as it tries to make sense of the awful thing that’s just happened. The man who has just been killed on his watch.

He’s just about ready to hurl his computer off the desk, when the phone on his desk starts ringing. Jihoon answers it with a shaky grip, trying to breathe through his nose, trying not to throw up. Then the world comes to a halt as he brings it up to his ear, and a familiar voice crackles across the line.

“Hey, it’s me. Uhm, I’m still alive by the way.”

“C-cheol?” Jihoon attempts, but it doesn’t work, his tongue not working right, his throat clenched shut. “Is that you?”

“Yeah, sorry. I guess the explosion damaged my comms. I could hear you, but it’s seems like you couldn’t hear me. I called as soon as I found a phone.”

Jihoon bends over at the waist and covers his face up with his hands, the panic that had been knotting in his gut slowly starting to loosen, leaving him winded and fatigued. He lets his eyes fall shut and takes a moment to centre himself, only for Seungcheol’s deep voice to startle him out of his slump.

“Hey…You still there?”

Jihoon wipes his tearing eyes with the side of his hand and croaks, unable to breathe, “Yeah, yeah I’m here.”

He’s so glad this conversation isn’t happening in person; Seungcheol is liable to be disturbed by his red eyes swollen and clogged nose, the sight of him curled up at his desk, shaking weakly as the last of his hysteria drains away.

“Are you okay? Are you injured?” He asks, his vocal cords feeling shredded.

Seungcheol breathes out harshly against the receiver. “No, no, I’m fine Jihoon. I… made it out in time. Are you okay?”

The genuine concern in his voice just makes Jihoon start crying all over again, feeling like such a baby, but beyond caring at this point, beyond pretty much everything.

“I thought you’d died Cheol. I thought you’d died and I didn’t know what to do, I was so scared.”

There is a pause, and then a rustle that might have been Seungcheol laughing. It sets Jihoon to anxious clattering on the inside, anger and hurt and self-pity all mixed up together in a bright reddish tide.

"Pardon me Agent Choi, but would you care to explain what’s so funny about this?" Jihoon sniffs loudly, offended and wishing Seungcheol is here to get the full impact of his glare.

There’s a burst of static across the line, something like a sigh, then Seungcheol says, all business. “Of course not. I’m sorry, that was uncalled for.”

“Yes, yes it was,” Jihoon huffs. His eyes sheer over again and he swipes his arm across them angrily, brushing the tears away because they’re done with that now. “Now, I’m going to go wash my face, and you—you get your ass back here in one piece. We clear?”

Jihoon kind of wants to be mad at him when he shows up at his house later, but there’s a reddened scrape under his eye, an angry looking cut across the bridge of his nose, and he’s limping a little, favouring his left leg, and Jihoon’s ‘You’ve got some nerve coming here’ turns into a tearful, “You said you weren’t injured!”

Seungcheol just looks at him with slow surprise, which turns to sharp-eyed alarm as Jihoon flings himself across the living room to get a closer look at him. He rears back a step and raises his arms, instinct probably, but he catches up fast, straightening his shoulders and adjusting his tie.

“I’m not injured. Not really. Just a few scrapes and bruises, and my leg’s a little achy from landing on it wrong. That’s all.”

That is not, in fact, at all reassuring.

“Did you get it checked out at HQ?” Jihoon asks, sounding a little desperate as he prods the cut on Seungcheol’s cheek.

Seungcheol lets a small huff of protest pass his lips, playful annoyance blended with genuine exhaustion.

“That would have been overkill, don’t you think? It’s probably just a stress fracture or something. I just need to rest it for a bit, take the weight off.”

Jihoon takes in his stilted movements and very much doubts the validity of that diagnosis.

Seungcheol would have had to move fast to avoid the worst of the explosion, would have had to throw himself out of the second floor window in fact, and that can’t have been a pleasant landing, regardless of how fine tuned your reflexes are. Coupled with the fact that he’d been constantly on his feet for the 72 hours prior, he has to be feeling the strain of his injuries now more than ever, and is perhaps underplaying them for Jihoon’s sake.

It certainly looks that way; his eyes are flecked through with blood, burst capillaries making him look doped as fuck, and his usually perfectly coiffed hair is hanging in ragged clumps of black, begging a hand to smooth it back, fight gravity.

Jihoon crosses his arms over his chest to resist the temptation, giving Seungcheol his most killer don’t bullshit me look.

Seungcheol must misinterpret the source of his irritation, because his throat ducks, and he looks down, his eyebrows lowering.

“Have I come at a bad time?”

Jihoon blinks in surprise. For a moment he has no idea how to respond, then he rushes forward to envelop Seungcheol in a warm hug. “No, of course not you giant idiot,” He huffs against Seungcheol’s chest, “Why do you think I’m still awake? I’ve been waiting for you to show up.”

It takes him a moment to realise Seungcheol isn’t hugging him back—is sort of just standing there awkwardly, arms at his sides and surprise evident in the stiffness of his posture, like he's not quite sure what a hug is, or what he's supposed to do during one.

And Jesus—maybe he doesn’t? Maybe this is like the first embrace he’s taken part in that doesn’t involve an attack of some kind?

It kind of makes sense the longer Jihoon thinks about it; there probably isn’t an opportunity, in or out of work, that Seungcheol would voluntarily hug someone without the intent of wrestling them to the floor.

Jihoon’s just starting to worry about what that means for him, and whether he’s going to end up sprawled across the hardwood floor in the next five seconds, when he feels Seungcheol’s arms come up around him, the first tentative touch of those big hands on the small of his back, holding him, almost carefully, as if he isn't quite sure how much force to use.

When he pulls back, he catches the twitch of Seungcheol’s lips, the ghost of a smile, amusement flashing through the exhaustion in his eyes.

“So,” Seungcheol begins, clearing his throat awkwardly, “Does this mean I can have a nap on your couch? Because I’m not gonna lie, I’m pretty wrecked.”

Letting out a quiet breath, Jihoon smiles tiredly, “I’ll do you one better. You can have my bed.”

“Oh, hey, that’s not—”

But Jihoon doesn’t give him a chance to protest, just drags him to the room, gets him stripped down to his boxers and undershirt and settled in the bed.

Seungcheol looks kind of hilariously put out by the whole experience, like he can’t believe he’s allowing himself to be manhandled by a much smaller man. Once Jihoon gets him horizontal though, a stack of pillows nested at his back, sheets drawn over his waist, he practically melts into the mattress with a groan of relief.

“Oh fuck, yeah. That’s good. That’s the shit.”

Smiling to himself, Jihoon heads off to the kitchen to fetch an ice pack and search through his cupboards for some pain medication. He doesn’t have any prescription strength stuff on hand, but he finds a strip of Nurofen Plus in the bottom of his first aid box and pops four out. It’s double the recommended dose, but he suspects Seungcheol could use something even stronger right now.

“You’re not allergic to Ibuprofen, are you?” He asks, padding back into the room.

Seungcheol shifts up a little, moving his shoulders uncomfortably as he eyes the pills. “No, but if it’s all the same to you, I’d prefer not to self-medicate right now. Not when I’m already...compromised.”

Jihoon laughs, high and brittle, “It’s not morphine dude. It’s just a combo of codeine and ibuprofen that I keep on hand for migraines. I thought it take the edge off. Help you get to sleep.” His face falls serious and he adds, “And why should it matter anyway? You’re on home turf now, nobody’s going to try and kill you here.”

Seungcheol huffs an exasperated breath and gives him a look of inexplicable fondness. “You’re adorable.”

Jihoon is momentarily taken aback. He blinks, murmuring a soft, “What’s that supposed to mean?”

But Seungcheol just shakes his head and holds his hand out. “Alright boss, give em here.”

Jihoon deposits the pills into his palm and Seungcheol knocks them back with half a glass of water before settling back against the pillows.

Quiet extends for a while, seconds stretching into minutes. Jihoon dims the bedside lamp a little when he notices that Seungcheol's breathing has become deep and regular, his chin snug against his chest, his eyes closed and his features pulled smooth.

He shifts minutely on the edge of the bed, wondering how best to slip the glass out of Seungcheol’s hand without waking him, and is surprised when Seungcheol stirs and speaks.

“I wasn’t laughing at you, you know. I...didn’t think it was funny, I was just surprised is all. I didn’t think anyone would care if I died.” he says, his voice quiet and almost wistful.

Jihoon feels himself scowl slightly against his will, and has to reach over to smooth that errant lock of hair away from Seungcheol’s face, feeling a curious strain of protectiveness as his thumb brushes gently over the scrape on his cheek, “Jesus Cheol, don’t say that. It’s not true.”

Seungcheol’s eyelids flutter briefly under the touch, startled, uncertain, but he doesn’t pull away. He leans into the touch with a pleased little sound and Jihoon’s heart splits.

Fuck me, he thinks.

Jihoon’s not sure whether he should be taking offence here or not. On one hand, Seungcheol rarely has a reason to laugh out loud, and hearing it is kinda like music to his ears. On the other hand, Seungcheol’s laughing a little too hard. Like the idea is just ridiculous.

“What, what’s so funny? You don’t think it’s a good idea?”

“Hey now, I never said that,” Seungcheol says, almost affectionately. “I just…find it really hard to imagine you working retail. You have an adorably short fuse.”

Jihoon makes a face, before remembering that Seungcheol can’t see him. “Who said anything about working retail?”

Seungcheol hums briefly. “Well, running your own Boba shop kind of implies you’ll be serving customers at some point. Customers who come to get Boba. Otherwise, how will you turn a profit and keep the business afloat?”

Jihoon flaps a hand dismissively, “Right, well...I suppose I haven’t really thought the logistics of it all the way through. I was more focusing on the unlimited access to Boba thing.”

That sets Seungcheol off again, harder than before. Jihoon lets him get it out of his system for a whole minute, before snapping back with, “Alright wise ass. What about you? What would you do if you retired early?”

Seungcheol makes a short cut-off sound, “I doubt I have many options. Not with my skill set. Although I have always...” There is a pause, as if he might say more; instead he doesn’t say anything at all. He’s good with silence; he knows how to bend the quiet to say more than he ever could with words.

“What? Although what? C’mon, you can tell me.”

“You’re going to laugh.” Seungcheol warns, half-serious, half sheepish.  

“No, I won’t,” Jihoon snorts, “I just told you about my awesome hypothetical Boba Shop. Who am I to laugh at anyone else’s pipe dreams?”

Another pause, and Jihoon is actively holding his breath, imagining the various careers Seungcheol might chose as his fallback option. He could become a Professional Chef, because he’s terrifyingly good with knives. Perhaps a Butcher—again, because he’s terrifyingly good with knives. Or even a Surgeon, because—

Well, you get the drift. Something with knives at any rate.

When Seungcheol finally speaks though, it’s not an answer Jihoon could have ever prepared for.

“I’ve always wanted to try my hand at Bee keeping.”

Jihoon grins hugely, all at once and unexpected, his face feeling stretched. “R-really?”

Seungcheol makes a sound he can't identify, can't interpret, and says, “Yeah, I love bees, I’ve always found them really fascinating. And yeah, I appreciate running an Apiary probably isn’t the most profitable of enterprises anymore, there’s way too much competition, but I’ve got plenty of money tucked away that I don’t have to worry about turning a profit. I can just kick back and enjoy the process.” Another pause, and then, “Alright, go ahead. Laugh. I know you want to.”

“There’s nothing to laugh about. I think that’s an awesome idea. You’d be so good at it too—you’ve got the patience and determination, and you’re already up every day at the crack of dawn. I can already picture it.”

Seungcheol’s voice is soft, but clear when he says, “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Jihoon sighs, slipping a hand under his shirt to scratch lazily at his stomach. He yawns, not bothering to shift the phone away. “Aw, I can’t wait to see you in your beekeeping suit. Not even you can make that outfit look good.”

“Oh, fuck off,” Seungcheol huffs, but it's his good-tempered huff, amused and willing to tolerate a lot of nonsense.  

Jihoon giggles and closes his eyes, tunnelling under the covers a little more, liking the darkness and the solitude, the way Seungcheol’s voice is the only thing around.

In his minds’ eye, he can see Seungcheol so clearly—twisting smile on his face, thick lashes lowering over his eyes, the unconscious gestures of his hand cutting lethargically through the air—and rubs his hand slowly low on his stomach, his eyes at half-mast.

There is a moment of content, companionable silence. Jihoon lies there, looking up at the dark ceiling, revelling in the familiar warmth spreading through his chest. 

“Hey, where are you right now?” Asks Seungcheol. Maybe because it’s all monosyllabic words, or maybe it’s just the immediacy of feeling the feather down pillow under his head, but Jihoon is abruptly aware of the question, aware that he’s been curled up in bed for the last hour, last two hours actually, talking on the phone.

“Oh, uhm, in bed. I’m in my bedroom.” He murmurs, fighting back a grin for no reason at all.

There’s a pause on the other end, and then Seungcheol’s softly amused laughter, “Oh yeah? Settling in for the night in your rubber duckie boxer shorts?”

“No.” Jihoon says hotly; his boxers have little penguins on them today actually. “Why? Where are you?”

“In the bathroom.”

“Dude,” Jihoon balks, “You called me while you’re taking a dump? That’s not cool.”

Seungcheol chuckles at that, a throaty sound that sends shivers along Jihoon's spine. “I’m in the bath.”

“Oh,” Jihoon says, just as his brain unhelpfully provides him with an image of bare, sunkissed skin under hot shower spray. Goddamn it. He takes a deep breath and tries to shake the thought, “That... that’s nice. A bath will help you fall asleep later. But uh, don’t go falling asleep in the bath, okay? Can’t have you drowning on me where I can’t save your ass.”

“Yes boss.” Seungcheol chuckles, voice low and rough. It almost sounds like a growl.

Jihoon’s pretty sure he shouldn’t enjoy it as much as he does

At the end of November, the Agency takes part in a covert mission in Johannesburg. It’s a joint operation with the CIA—the first of its kind—so it’s top level, ground-breaking high priority shit that Jihoon is kind of excited to be a part of. That is until he arrives at the hastily assembled briefing they hold immediately before they get the green light, and is promptly informed he won’t be taking part at all, because he doesn’t have the right security clearance.

Instead, his role as Agent Choi’s handler will be temporarily filled by an analyst from a classified taskforce who does have the necessary clearance, and far more experience to boot. So Jihoon will be spending the day in a cubicle doing paper work until his eyes blur.

No biggie. Nothing personal. That’s just how it is sometimes.

Except half an hour into the op, a very harassed looking Mission Chief is standing at his elbow and telling him, “Congratulations Mr Lee, you’ve just been cleared for the mission. Please make your way to operations room 1 for briefing.”

“But I thought—” Jihoon begins, only for the man to hold up a hand in a silent—Don’t ask.

There’s a team of suited men bustling away in the operations room when Jihoon arrives, a bank of surveillance monitors spread out behind them, and a large, digitized map on the table to assist them in tracking the movements of the assets.

The analyst that was set to replace him passes him on the way to the console, and gives him such a flat glare, Jihoon feels his blood run cold. He can’t even begin to guess what he’s done to annoy her, but he really doesn’t have the time or inclination to find out, so he ducks past her, quickly settles into his seat and logs in.

Jihoon can’t really make out what’s showing up on screen at first. Wherever Seungcheol is, it’s dark and cramped, and only the shine of his shoes is visible. Then he fiddles with the contrast, and more things come into view, and he realises...

“Why are you hiding in the closet?”

“Jihoon?” Seungcheol’s voice rings out, crackling with static. “That you? Are they letting you back on the mission?”

One of the senior analysts loitering nearby cuts in then, rolling his eyes, impatient.

“Yes, Agent Choi, Mr Lee has resumed his normal duties, so can we please get back—”

“Was I fucking talking to you, asshole? No, I was speaking to Jihoon. That’s the only person I want to hear in my ear from here on out or I swear to fucking god, I’m gonna rip—”

Jihoon quickly mutes the feed before he can finish, so he and only he can hear the end of that violent, expletive ridden rant.

The rest of the mission goes off without a hitch; the CIA successfully extract their man, and the Agency obtains the data coordinates for a dozen secret missile silos in the area, and everyone’s lives to fight another day.

Well...except for the eight guards Seungcheol incapacitates during the assault of course, but who cares about them.  

Jihoon, however, only gets to ride the high of another successful mission for twenty minutes before he is called into Director Kim’s office for a “chat”.

It immediately sets his teeth on edge; he doesn't usually get called in to powwow with Director Kim one-on-one, and he’s pretty sure he’s months away from a performance review, but he tries to school his nerves as he arrives at the Director’s office, and is quickly waved through by the harried receptionist.

Director Kim is already seated behind his desk, a thick file clenched between his white-knuckled hand. Without so much as a hello, he tosses it aside and orders Jihoon to sit, and Jihoon does, the back of his neck prickling as he meets the man’s penetrating gaze.

From this angle, the Director look nearly looks grotesque; tired and old and abused, his face twisted in a sneer.

If Jihoon didn’t know better, he would have said the man was disappointed.

He certainly sounds it.

“If there’s something pertinent you’d like to disclose Mr Lee, now’s your chance.”

Jihoon’s jaw tightens. He doesn’t know what kind of question this is or what Director Kim is trying to get at with it, but he plays it off with an engaging smile.

“Something like what?”

Director Kim shrugs, performative as anything. “Something like the nature of your relationship with Agent Choi perhaps? Something that will explain the little hissy fit he through when he was informed you wouldn’t be on the mission.”

“Hissy fit?” Jihoon echoes, eyebrows rocketing up to his forehead.

The man’s face hardens, “He locked himself inside a hotel room closet Jihoon, and refused to come out until you were reinstated as his handler. I would call that a hissy fit—wouldn’t you?”

Jihoon forces his face to relax, managing a cold little smile, “I just think Agent Choi and I work very well together, and perhaps he felt the last-minute switch up was detrimental to the mission objective. In all honestly Director, I am liable to agree.” He says, his choice of words careful.

The Director hums sceptically, leaning back in his seat.

After a long moment, he turns to Jihoon and speaks in a candid tone, “I’ll be frank with you Mr Lee. What I was trying to find out is whether you and Agent Choi were involved romantically, but I realise now, that’s completely unnecessary. You’ve always been a stickler for protocol, that’s what we value in you. You don’t need to be reminded that operatives should maintain a strictly professional relationship with their handlers at all times, do you.”

He doesn’t tack the question mark on the end of the question, but it’s there. Lingering, affording Jihoon an out should he decide to take it.

Jihoon just shakes his head, one hundred certain if he speaks right now, he’ll swallow his own tongue.

Okay, so, Jihoon may have lied to Director Kim, just a little bit.

Not about being ‘romantically involved’ part of course—that’s way too huge and ridiculous to lie about—but it was a lie to pretend his relationship with Seungcheol is strictly professional, because when you take the Agency’s handler/operative protocol into consideration, their relationship crosses a lot of lines.

Jihoon doesn’t even feel bad about it though, and he certainly has no intention of severing their friendship, because it’s a kind of ridiculous that the Agencies definition of ‘strictly professional’ discourages even the most innocent of friendly overtures. Like, it’s totally okay for Seungcheol to put his life in Jihoon’s hands every day, for Jihoon to know his deepest, darkest secrets, but them hanging out or watching a movie together is what’s going to encourage intimacy?

Seriously?

Jihoon’s beginning to think whoever wrote the rulebook has never worked in the field, or at least, has never met Seungcheol. Because he may be capable of a lot of things, but intimacy? Romance even?

Not so much.

Jihoon’s forced to revise that opinion two weeks later, when Seungcheol arrives at his doorstep with a cookie bouquet and a vaguely constipated expression. He’s not one to blush, not Agent Choi, but his jaw is tense and there’s sweat breaking out along his hairline, and he’s tapping his foot on the ground, like the ten seconds it took for Jihoon to answer the door has put him severely behind schedule.

Jihoon’s expecting the first words out of his mouth to be some variety of ‘My life is in grave danger’, but Seungcheol just blows out a breath, holds the cookie bouquet out at arms length and grunts, “Happy anniversary.”

Jihoon blinks at him, his airway briefly cut off. “I...Huh?”

Seungcheol ducks his head, scuffing his shoe against the doormat, hard enough to create a little dust cloud.

“It’s our work anniversary. We’ve been working together for a year today,” He shrugs, radiating awkwardness, “I guess it’s technically a year and one week, but I’m going by the date I first broke into your home and met you face to face. So yeah, I bought you a present.”

“Oh, oh right, yeah. Wow, thank you,” Jihoon laughs, a little giddy as he accepts the gift.

It’s sweet, really, that Seungcheol knows how many months they’ve been working together. He knows Seungcheol is just good with numbers and details, kinda has to be for the job he does. It’s probably only habit to be so specific, but it’s still so touching that he acknowledges something like this.

So touching in fact, Jihoon’s voice cracks a little as steps back from the door to usher Seungcheol in.

“Come in, I-I’m just gonna put these in some milk.”

Seungcheol follows him down the hall to the kitchen, but stops to lean in the doorway instead of taking a seat at the breakfast bar like he usually would.

It throws Jihoon off a little, makes him more self conscious, more scatter-brained than normal. He ends up putting the bouquet in the fridge first, then thinking—wait, no, that’s not right—then he takes the orange juice out instead of the milk, then puts the juice back and takes milk and cheese out for some reason. All the while, Seungcheol just stands there, looking at him under the weight of heavy-drawn lids.

By the time Jihoon gets glasses out, almost drops one, and pours them out two glasses of milk, he’s blushing so badly he can feel his heartbeat in his ears. He distracts himself by breaking a cookie off the bouquet and dunking it in his glass, and takes his first bite as Seungcheol finally pushes away from the door to grab a seat.

“I was going to get you flowers at first, but I figured you’d prefer something edible.” He points out, watching Jihoon carefully.  

His voice sounds perfectly neutral, but there’s a hopeful gleam in his eyes, like a kid seeking approval for the Papier-mâché cat he made in art class.

“You know me too well.” Says Jihoon, trying very hard to keep a straight face.

Seungcheol flashes him a small smile and looks down for a second, studies his hands, the glass of milk clasped between them, silent for a beat.

“Is this...have I made things weird? If I have, I wasn’t trying to. I’ve just never had a handler I was this close to, and I felt like it was something worth celebrating.”

Jihoon shakes his head emphatically. There is a knot in his throat—tight, but not necessarily unpleasant. “I don’t think it’s weird. I think it’s sweet.” He pauses, fingering the rim of his glass, “I do feel a little guilty though; I didn’t get you anything.”

Seungcheol breathes out a laugh, sounding relieved, “Don’t worry about it. You’re saving my ass on a regular basis. I think that’s more than enough.”

Jihoon scoffs that away, rolling his eyes as he reaches for another cookie, “I think you’re giving me a little too much credit there. Pretty sure you would’ve managed fine without me.”

When he licks his lips and the rim of the glass, Seungcheol’s eyes drop to watch with unconscious intent, and linger there. A look of focus settles across his face, eyes going distant, but the softly amused half smile doesn’t fade from the corner of his mouth.

“No, I wouldn’t.”

Here’s what Jihoon knows about Seungcheol so far, because it’s been over a year of them working together, and those notes in his file are so irrelevant now. So inaccurate too. 

Choi Seungcheol, 28 years old, was the youngest child of a middle-class family from Daegu. He was recruited by the Agency at the age of six through the now inactive Orph-17-unit black ops program, and spent the rest of his childhood and adult life working his way through the ranks of field division, climbing the ladder rung by unforgiving rung.

Unlike his fellow operatives, he’s not a competitive man. It’s not a race for him, and it’s why he’s always leading; there’s a bigger picture for him somewhere, and it’s more important to him than him. When it comes to his work, he’s focused and relentless, approaching each mission with vicious determination. Away from it however, he seems to shed layers, the hunter in him retreating to reveal a much warmer, easier person.  

He’s not afraid to apologize for something, but he rarely has to because he thinks most things all the way through. He takes his time, he watches people, he doesn’t chatter away endlessly about every little thing, that doesn’t make him unsociable. Just careful. Cautious. He doesn’t need to give his opinion on every topic under the sun, and that’s okay.  

He can read the room actually, Jihoon was wrong about that, he’s just severely out of practice. Socialised late and all wrong, too much time with the wrong people. He tilts his head a lot when someone is speaking, a quirk he developed when he realized that blankly staring at someone as they attempted to make small talk might make some people uncomfortable, so he needed a way to show that he was interested. Or at least listening. Jihoon kind of thinks it’s adorable.

He’s completely oblivious to how handsome he is, handles every compliment or second glance with a modicum of suspicion. He is actually good friends with the Bagel Man—helped him out of an altercation with a mugger once and they exchanged numbers. His name is Seokmin, and he thinks Seungcheol is a banker. The suits, maybe?

He doesn’t like mustard and is not above sending back a burger served with it. He is a fantastic driver, a fact everyone seems to forget because he writes off so many vehicles per mission. His favourite movie is Groundhog Day, for its rewatch value, and his favourite colour is actually not black. It’s green. He just can’t afford to look that memorable. He doesn’t have a favourite band or genre of music, he’ll listen to anything except for Christmas music. He’s a cat person, no surprises there—still dutifully visits Pebbles the kitten at his new home and even pays cat support for his upkeep.

There is a romantic somewhere in there too, beneath the layers of bulletproof padding and the stolen childhood and the stack of commendations that depict little more than an efficient, finely tuned weapon. He may not have a lot of people in his life to share that side of himself with, but Jihoon has seen glimpses of it here and there. In those late-night long-distance calls, when he’s always the last to say goodnight, holding on long after his voice goes all soft and hoarse, and the cute little souvenirs he brings back from his missions abroad, without ever having to been asked. Key chains, bar coasters and snow globes—because he knows all about Jihoon’s obsession with collecting shit—but snacks mostly, as much as he can fit in his luggage, because he’s totally supportive of Jihoon’s goal of tasting the world.

There are the messages too, that arrive on Jihoon’s phone at random times of the day; funny conversational snip-its Seungcheol’s overheard out and about, or photographs he’s captured during surveillance—an interesting piece of graffiti, a beautiful sunrise—captioned with ‘I know you’ll find this funny’ and ‘Thought you might like this’.

It all might seem trivial to an outside observer, nothing worth obsessing over—but from where Jihoon’s standing, knowing what he knows about Seungcheol, it’s honestly kind of heart-fluttering.

Jihoon rolls the edge of the glass along his lips. It’s more of a prop at this point than anything else, the contents long gone while he sat there, waiting for his date to—

Woah, hold on. Date?

Where did that come from?

This is not a date; he’s just meeting Seungcheol for dinner. Or at least, he was supposed to be meeting him an hour ago, before Seungcheol’s flight was delayed.

That's something they do, now and again (and again). Dinner, drinks, moonlight walks around the park (only to help with digestion, after the meal). It’s a little unusual, maybe, considering Seungcheol never shared so much as a stick of gum with his last handler, but this never seems to stop Seungcheol from asking him out, or Jihoon from saying yes. And so long as Seungcheol keeps asking, Jihoon's going to keep saying yes.  

The Agency probably wouldn’t approve—theoretically, they should not be seen together too often—but Jihoon doesn’t give a shit. It’s just two guys having dinner together, (in a fancy restaurant preferred by couples on Valentines’ Day) nothing to raise eyebrows over, really.

And it is, all things considered, a good way to touch base after a mission.

“Is this seat taken?”

Jihoon glances up to see a man hovering in the stool next to his. A schlubby-looking sort in a crumpled brown sports coat, tough in the carry of his shoulders and the shadow across his jaw.

It’s on the tip of Jihoon’s tongue to make some response, no, go ahead, but this late in the night, the overpriced restaurant bar isn’t very crowded. There are a lot of empty stools, and after a more thorough second glance, the man’s intent become clear. The pale strip around his finger, where his wedding ring is not, stands out cleanly against the washed red of his shirt, and when he meets Jihoon's eyes, it’s only after a long journey up his body.

“Uh, yeah, sorry. I’m expecting someone—” Jihoon begins to say, trying to supress a shudder, but the guy takes the seat anyway.

Jihoon sighs and reaches into his empty glass and fishes out a rind of lime. He ordered a Mojito, and now he wishes he had ordered something stronger. Especially when the man who stole Seungcheol’s seat  braces his legs wide, and leans so close over the bar Jihoon’s forced to sit back a bit to maintain his personal space.

“A sweet little thing like you shouldn’t be sitting alone. Let me buy you a drink.”

Jihoon wants to laugh out loud, say something like ‘Wow. Does that line actually work on anyone?’ Instead, he keeps his gaze fixed on his empty glass, his hand pale and small wrapped around it.

“No, thank you.”

There is a brief pause in which Jihoon dares to hope that he’s scared the man off, but nope. The creep seems incapable of taking a hint.

He claps a sticky, sticky hand on Jihoon’s knee and leaves it there, and Jihoon does his best not to convulse as he leans closer to fan stale cigarette breath over his face, “Just one drink sweetheart. Won’t hurt you to have one drink.”

With a clink, Jihoon sets down his empty glass and drags his knee out from under the man’s hand, preparing himself to say something scathing, threatening—but just as he opens his mouth to speak, he spots Seungcheol rounding the corner.   

“Hey, there you are, sorry I’m late.” He smiles, slowing his stride as he slides up to the bar.

Jihoon bursts into a smile, all relief. He doesn’t get a chance to say anything though, because all at once Seungcheol is cupping the back of his neck, dipping down and sealing their lips together.

Jihoon kisses him back, a default reaction that proceeds without thought, and then, with dizzying speed. The universe narrows down to Seungcheol’s hand on his neck, his jaw, the tongue sliding expertly against his, then Seungcheol catches his lower lip between his teeth and sucks, and Jihoon whimpers, hands scrabbling for purchase on Seungcheol’s jacket as heat spirals crazily through his body.

When they pull apart, the creepy guy is staring sullenly into his drink and Jihoon is actually breathless, hardly even recognizes his own voice when he finally manages to speak. “Uhm, that’s okay.” 

Smirking, Seungcheol takes his hand to help him off the stool, saying something about how sorry he is to keep Jihoon waiting, how lovely he looks tonight, how blue might be his new favourite colour.

Jihoon just goes along with it for a moment, nodding dumbly, completely bewildered. It’s only when Seungcheol’s guiding him to their table, a possessive hand at the small of his back, does he realise—oh, you smooth motherfucker.

It’s just an act, obviously.

Seungcheol had simply noticed Mr Oblivious back there, or perhaps picked up on Jihoon’s discomfort, and instead of breaking the man’s neck and making a scene, he played the pretend boyfriend card and whisked him away in a flawlessly executed, well thought out and very convincing display.

“Thanks for that,” Jihoon says, offering him a warm smile as he settles into his seat. “I tried telling that jerk I wasn’t interested, but the guy just wouldn’t take a hint.”

Seungcheol looks kind of surprised, his mouth curling at the edge, “What guy?”

His own surprise gives Jihoon pause, and it takes him a moment to say, “Uhm, the one at the bar? The one who was harassing me?”

Seungcheol growls, eyebrows knitting. “What?”

A dangerous shadow falls over his face, and Jihoon has to roll his eyes when he pivots in his seat to glare murderously in the direction of the bar.

“Do me a favour and point him out for me, would ya?”

“Oh, hell, would you relax. He’s probably long gone now,” Jihoon snorts, unfolding his napkin—only to pause and lean back in his chair, giving Seungcheol a careful once over, “If you didn’t know, why did you just kiss me back there?”

Seungcheol meets his gaze, his dark eyes lighting up. “I’m still in Paris mode Jihoon. That’s how the French greet each other.”

Jihoon laughs, startled into amusement. “Really? With tongue?”

Seungcheol doesn’t quite smile, but there is a persistent gleam in his eye, like he is sitting on the punchline to the dirtiest joke you were ever gonna hear.

Jihoon doesn’t let himself linger on that smile, or the cool, efficient way Seungcheol uncorks the wine and pours them out two glasses, those large hands surprisingly nimble. He flicks through his menu instead, even though he already knows what he’s going to order.

“The rump steak sounds good. I think it’s the special tonight.”

“Yeah, it does. The rump steak sounds delicious.” Seungcheol says, tilting his head in acknowledgment as he examines the menu. Then his eyes swivel towards Jihoon, gaze dipping the length of his body, calculating and hungry, before he adds, “But I’ve always been more of a tenderloin kind of guy.”

Jihoon feels like he might burst into flames. He reaches for his wine, resisting the urge to squirm on his side of the table, but only just.

He has no idea what’s going on. Did Seungcheol just imply he’s a tenderloin? And if so, what the hell does that even mean? Is he flirting with him, or just fucking with him, or—or is it possible Jihoon’s just reading too much into things?

Yeah, that has to be it—Jihoon thinks, and makes a face at himself as he takes a long drink, annoyance prickling at the back of his throat. Of course, Seungcheol isn’t hitting on him. Of course.

There is being hopeful, and then there is just being pathetic—this is edging toward the latter.

“I think you need your eyes checked Cheol, I don’t think tenderloin is even on the menu.”

Seungcheol chuckles and reaches for his own wine glass, eyes watching Jihoon, expression wicked. He raises the glass to his lips, taking a sip before he speaks, eye contact unfaltering.

“Maybe not tonight, but I’m a patient guy, I can wait.”

The waiter comes over to take their order before Jihoon can wrap his head around that, and by the time it’s just the two of them again, Seungcheol has pulled out the box of Macrons he’d picked up for him from Paris, and Jihoon’s too busy cooing over them to remember what’s making him warm under the collar.  

Jihoon doesn’t know how long he’s been sitting there, staring out the window, watching a ledge of grey shifting forward across the sky. It feels like he’s been stewing in anxiety for days, but realistically it can’t be any more than a few hours.

He’s just not used to the absence of Seungcheol’s voice for this long.

The mission was a success, or at least it was rubber-stamped as such back at HQ once Seungcheol uploaded the files. But Jihoon only allows himself to relax once Seungcheol makes it out in one piece, and right at this moment, he can’t be sure that’s happened because twenty-two hours ago, Seungcheol went off the grid.

It's been nearly an entire day since Seungcheol checked in with anyone, and the fear of ‘what if?’ is whining in Jihoon’s mind like a train whistle, getting louder with the approach.

It happened completely without warning, no indication of a technical blip or hacking attempt anywhere on the HQ network. Nothing from Seungcheol’s end to suggest he’d been made. Just one second he was on the phone to Jihoon, chatting as he made his way through airport security, and the next his phone, GPS tracker and LENS chip went offline, and not a single technician in HQ can tell Jihoon why.

Jihoon’s already done everything he can to get answers, running diagnostics on every piece of tech they work with, contacting other teams on the ground. He even barged into the middle of Director Kim’s meeting to request additional field assistance, but the ground is too hot to send another agent in, so all they can do is wait, cross their fingers and hope Seungcheol just shows up.

Jihoon had been forced to do most of his waiting at home, in front of his laptop, because apparently his restless pacing was unnerving everyone else. Being home so early only rekindled his desire to pace however, and he spent the first few hours prowling around his home, looking for a chore to distract himself with.

By midnight, the house was as clean as it could be, and there was still no word from Seungcheol, so he had no choice but to sit down somewhere before he collapsed with exhaustion.

He can’t bring himself to turn on the TV, he can’t even drink because he wants to keep his head clear, and he daren’t sleep, because what if Seungcheol needs him? Oh fuck, what if he’s been captured, or hurt, or worse?

There are too many unknowns. Too many varied and awful ways things could play out.

He’s just about to head into the kitchen to alphabetize everything in his fridge, when he hears a soft knock on the door almost drowned out by the rain lashing against the windows, and springs off the couch, his blood a drumbeat in his ears as he sprints down the hall.

It’s Seungcheol, and he’s soaked to the bone, the shoulders of his jacket sagging with the rain hailing down against his neck and shoulders.

His head snaps up when Jihoon yanks the door open, body going fight-or-flight rigid before he reassesses the danger and smiles. “Hey, uh, I hope I didn’t wake you. I just realised after I knocked this is what normal people would consider an unsociable hour. I should probably come back in the morning.”

Jihoon doesn’t let him take a single step away before he’s grabbing him by his shirt and hauling him inside.

“Where the hell do you think you’re going? I’ve been worried sick about you, trying to call you all day. What the hell happened back there? Why did you just disappear?”

Seungcheol’s shoulders rise and drop in something like a shrug, “I’m honestly not sure. My passport was flagged by Interpol for some reason, and they stopped me at the airport. I managed to escape and doubled back to the safe house, then took a train out of the country instead, caught another flight on a cargo plane. I got in just over an hour ago, and I came straight here. I—I’m sorry, okay. I couldn’t risk contacting you earlier, I didn’t know who was after me.”

Jihoon makes a mournful little sound, his anger wilting away in the face of Seungcheol’s earnest disappointment.

It might have been a long 20 something hours for him, but it’s clearly been an exhausting one for Seungcheol. He looks tired, bad-sleep bruises under his eyes and actual bruises on his jaw, and his clothes are more than just damp. They’re soaked all the way through, dripping rainwater everywhere.

“W-where’s your coat?”

Seungcheol screws his mouth up in a smirk and gives himself a quick once over, laughing silently at the puddle of rainwater he’s standing in. “Ah, well, I figured it was giving me away, so I passed it to a homeless man on the subway. Regretted that pretty quickly. It was thirty degrees in Brno.”

A protective twinge murmurs through Jihoon’s chest, and he disregards the rest of his questions to shepherd Seungcheol down the hall and straight into the master bathroom. He shows him how to work the thermostat on the shower, where the towels are and where to dump his wet clothes, then leaves him to it, heads off to make some tea and notify HQ of Seungcheol’s safe return.

When he pads back into the bedroom, the shower’s still running, so he sets the tea aside and starts rooting through his wardrobe in hopes of finding something Seungcheol can wear. He’s under no illusions that even his baggiest clothes are going to stretch tight on Seungcheol’s frame, but after the day he’s had, he’s sure Seungcheol won’t care how ridiculous he looks as long as he’s dry.

He’s testing the elasticity on a loose pair of jogging pants, when the door opens, and Seungcheol emerges from the bathroom in a cloud of steam.

“Thanks man, I really needed that.”

Jihoon thinks he manages a nod in return, some approximation of a smile, but he can’t be sure because his primary objective right at this moment is to not stare.

It’s possibly the hardest thing he’s done; with his hair wet and slicked back off his forehead, his impressively defined chest bare and glistening, and nothing but a tiny sheet of white terrycloth swaddled around his hips—Seungcheol kinda demands attention.

Jihoon drops his gaze to the jogging bottoms in his hand, twists the cotton between his fingers and bites the corner of his bottom lip before simply laying them out on the bed, eyes anywhere but Seungcheol.

“Here, uhm, try these on for size. They might be a little snug, but at least they’re dry, right?”

“Right, thanks.” There’s a smile in Seungcheol’s voice, before it edges into something more serious. “What’s wrong?”

Surprised, Jihoon meets his gaze, then immediately regrets it. Those hypnotic dark eyes are staring straight into him, seeing everything, he’s absolutely certain.

“N-nothing.”

A distant rumble of thunder echoes outside the house as he watches a single stray drop of water track down Seungcheol’s chest, and Jihoon feels his cheeks flushing deeper, sending his embarrassment skyrocketing.

“Nothing’s wrong.”

Seungcheol just gives him a soft smile and then reaches down to whip his towel off. “Alright, if you say so.”

Jihoon blinks, feeling like he has missed several seconds of time. “I’m just…I’m just going to fetch you a shirt from the...the kitchen?”

He’s aware even as he says it, there’s something not right about that sentence, but he doesn’t care. He just needs to flee the room as quickly as possible. He turns, angling towards the door, when a light touch on his wrist, a calloused thumb curling around to rest against his pulse arrests his momentum.  

There’s something focused about the contact, unmistakably deliberate. Intimate. And when Jihoon turns to face him, the intensity on Seungcheol’s face makes his breath catch.

The room feels small suddenly, as Seungcheol shifts closer, near enough that Jihoon has to tilt his head back to maintain eye contact, everything smaller, warmer, darker, as he rests a hand low on Jihoon’s hip and leans in, fingers flexing against the cotton.

When he ducks his head into the bend of Jihoon’s neck, Jihoon draws in a startled breath at the unexpected touch, the nudge of Seungcheol’s nose against his pulse point.

He doesn’t know what to do, so he doesn’t pull away or make any sudden moves. He doesn’t really want to, anyway.

The way Seungcheol’s nuzzling into his neck feels innocent at first, lazy and directionless enough that you could pass it off as friendly affection. Just two guys hugging it out. No biggie. But then he feels Seungcheol’s lips skimming over his neck, hot mouth closing around his jugular, and everything quickly transforms into something too desperate and hungry to ignore.

“Cheol,” Jihoon says quietly, heart fluttering in his ribs.

Seungcheol stops, but does not move; Jihoon can feel him shuddering against him. Then be pulls back abruptly after a moment or two, looking uncomfortable and contrite, like an overeager puppy whose overtures were rebuffed.

“I just...I thought maybe you—" He trails off, hand sliding off Jihoon’s hip, leaving a cold place. “Sorry, I clearly misread things.”

He’s flushed, too dim to really see, but Jihoon can tell from how he pulls his shoulders up, tugging at his own ear.

Jihoon can feel himself blinking owlishly up at him, confused and not making much sense inside his head. He knows too much about Seungcheol, and it’s blurring his best conclusions.

Then he’s moving on instinct, reaching for Seungcheol, sliding his free hand up into the hair at the nape of his neck, drawing him down to rest their foreheads together, and this time he doesn’t just see Seungcheol shiver. He feels it.

“It’s okay,” He whispers, nudging nose against nose, but not quite mouth against mouth, not yet. “I want it too.”

Seungcheol stares at him intently for a second. That easy nonchalance he wears so naturally, an armour all its own, is absent now. Nothing but wide-open eyes and terrified uncertainty, like he’s still not sure if Jihoon wants this or not, giving him a chance to pull away.

When Jihoon tilts his head forward to graze their lips together, as tentative as his words from only a few moments before, it’s apparently all the permission Seungcheol needs; he makes a falling sound in the back of his throat and then he’s surging forward, hand coming up to clamp around the back of Jihoon’s neck as he claims his mouth, deepening the brush of lips into a bruising kiss.

Jihoon opens up for him, tongue moving with Seungcheol’s own, moaning low and needy, his stomach jumping with the shivery heat running across his skin. The kiss is charged, deep and needy, perfect in every way. It feels like continuing a conversation they’d started ages ago but never finished. It feels right. 

And Jihoon doesn’t think he’s alone in that thought. Seungcheol is touching him everywhere, like he can’t get enough of him, rough hands splitting their attention between grasping Jihoon’s hips, his shoulders, reaching down to grope his ass.

When he manoeuvres them back against the wall, the spark in Jihoon's belly hits flashpoint, wildfire spreading through his veins. He instinctively shifts to open space between his legs and Seungcheol immediately crowds in closer, a growl deep in his chest, pressing his thigh against Jihoon's groin and the hardening line of his cock against his belly.

Jihoon keens, almost startled by the sound of his own neediness, his vision glittering with exploding white stars. Seungcheol barely gives him a moment to catch his breath though—he’s already leaning back in to take his mouth, even hungrier this time, and all Jihoon can do is latch on to his shoulders and rock his hips up as Seungcheol grinds down to meet him.

They rut mindlessly against together until Jihoon is making little noises of pleasure and need with Seungcheol echoing him almost breath for breath, gasping Jihoon’s name over and over as if he’s afraid he will forget what it is.

Jihoon feels drunk, dazed. He’s pretty sure he can get off on this, just this. But Seungcheol’s cock feels hard and huge against his thigh, one solid curve of need, and it would be shame not to have it buried deep in his ass at some point tonight.

He reluctantly slows the movement of his hips, eliciting a hungry sound from Seungcheol in the process, followed by something more bewildered as he delivers a parting nip to his lips before resting their foreheads back together.

“Why…why are we stopping?”

The words tumble from Seungcheol on an overwhelmed breath, just barely spoken, and Jihoon has to draw the taller man back down and brush their mouths together again in a reassuring kiss before he can continue.

“Because if we keep going, I’m going to come in my pants.” 

Strong hands tighten on his hips, thumbs rubbing reassurances into his skin through his clothes, “I’m okay with that. That sounds good. Let’s do that.”

Jihoon can only throw his head back and laugh, not caring that he sounds a little unhinged. He feels every bit as starved for this as the man bruising him against the wall clearly is, but just like in the field, Seungcheol’s not concerning himself with the best approach to the situation, just whatever gets him there faster.

“You’re right, it does. But I kind of have my heart set on your fucking me tonight.”  

Seungcheol looks floored for a second, like the possibility had never occurred to him, then grins – huge and glorious – and ducks his head and presses a kiss to Jihoon's rapidly beating pulse.

A few minutes later, Jihoon lets Seungcheol lay him down on the unmade sheets of his bed, rough eager hands stroking hot under Jihoon’s shirt, sliding the buttons open and making his hips jerk like there are hidden triggers under his skin.

Seungcheol looks desperately relieved to have a body against his own again, lowering his head to tongue across Jihoon’s ribs, scraping the coarse grain of his cheek against Jihoon’s belly to get him to shiver and curse. His face is blood-hot against the palm of Jihoon’s hand when he urges him back up for another kiss, glassy brown eyes doped with want and half-closed, and Jihoon can see he doesn’t the patience for anything like foreplay. Not tonight.

It’s amazing, anyway. The size and weight and heat of Seungcheol’s body over his, the thrill of having him settling between his legs, the burn of his stubble as he buries his face against Jihoon's neck, breathing hard, murmuring against his overheated skin, “Jihoon, I need to—can I?”

Jihoon’s already rambling out something that sounds a lot like ‘yes’ and ‘now’, throwing a hand out towards the bedside cabinet. His fingers don’t quite reach, but Seungcheol quickly takes over, yanking open the drawer to fetch lube.

It’s still a full bottle, unopened, something Jihoon would normally feel embarrassed about. But it’s hard to feel embarrassed about anything with Seungcheol trailing a path down the sensitive flat of his stomach, Seungcheol grinning up at him through sooty lashes as he mouths the twitching hardness of his cock, Seungcheol kissing the soft inside of his knee as he presses a finger steadily inside him. 

Jihoon doesn’t expect Seungcheol to be gentle, but the man clearly lives to be a walking contradiction. He takes his time opening Jihoon up, watching Jihoon’s face carefully between kisses, swallowing down every one of his eager noises. Then he slicks himself up, throws Jihoon’s legs over his shoulders and slowly begins to push into him, and—fuck.

Jihoon's glad he can’t see it—Seungcheol’s thick cock disappearing inside him, one inch at a time—just feeling it wrecks him: the heat, the pressure, the slow, relentless slide. All of Jihoon’s nerves are shooting off like fireworks, and each time he breathes out there’s a whimper to accompany it, no matter how hard he tries to stop himself.

And then, he feels Seungcheol’s thighs press against his ass and—

“Oh—oh god,” Jihoon groans, grabbing a fistful of the sheets. It’s too much, too far; but when Seungcheol starts to pull back, Jihoon grabs at him without thinking, hands desperately clutching at his back, “No, please, please, don’t stop. Please.”

Seungcheol doesn’t, which is good, because Jihoon isn't sure he would have been able to stop begging. As he is, he doesn't really—just pulls Seungcheol against him and rocks his hips and sobs. Seungcheol's cock feels huge, hot and perfect and pulsing deep inside him, stripping his nerves bare.

"Jesus Jihoonie," Seungcheol is panting, but almost laughing too; with the pleasure of it, Jihoon hopes, and not at his wild enthusiasm, his desperate need. "You’re really..."

If he has something more important to say, he never gets to it.

When he starts fucking Jihoon, the pace is steady, measured. Seungcheol is reverent, careful, everything the rest of his life doesn't permit.

Jihoon can feel just how much the restraint is costing him in the tension quivering through his limbs, and he wants to tell him he can go faster if he likes, he can be rough—Jihoon can take it. But every word that falls out if his mouth disintegrates into a moan, the pressure building in his balls so intense there are tears in his eyes.

Instead he writhes under him, his back bowing up, his skinny frame one with Seungcheol’s as they move together.   

Time shifts out of any sense of order and Jihoon loses track of whether his eyes are open or closed, whether his hands are clenched in the sheets or sliding over heated skin. All he can consciously process is Seungcheol – how hard, how fast, how deep – interspersed with sudden flares of overwhelming pleasure when Seungcheol changes his angle. It seems to last forever and yet it seems like one long, single instant.

But then Seungcheol is moving more quickly, his breath coming faster and faster, and one of his hands which had been idly stroking up the underside of Jihoon’s thigh suddenly closes around his cock.

One stroke is all it takes for Jihoon to come between them, crying out with the intensity of his orgasm. Seungcheol holds out longer, only a handful of thrusts or so, before falling over the edge with him. Pressing his face against Jihoon’s neck, biting into his shoulder, shivery-hot noises sobbed into skin as he buries his cock deep one last time.

Jihoon shakes, moaning as the heat of Seungcheol's orgasm floods him, as teeth mark his shoulder and a litany of broken sounds wash over him, weight pressing him into the bed.

Seungcheol barely manages to pull out before he falls asleep, sprawled all over him, the broad golden expanse of his back gleaming with sweat in the moonlight, one arm trailing off down to the floor relaxed and limp.

Jihoon doesn’t try and move for the longest time, can’t actually, but that’s okay.

The position allows him to indulge in his hobby as a shameless cuddler, so he just watches Seungcheol instead, threading fingers through his hair. Squished, most definitely, and finding it kinda hard to breathe, but he is in that faraway place, distant and joyful and okay with suffocation if it means he doesn’t have to move.

The next morning, Jihoon is awoken by a ticklish sensation travelling up and down the length of his spine that no amount of whining and wriggling and outright threats seems to discourage.

When he finally summons the energy to roll over and glare balefully at the culprit, Seungcheol just grins at him and says, “Oh good, now that you’re awake, how about we go for a nice five mile run together?”

It’s honestly the worst thing anyone has ever said to him, brings honest-to-god tears to his eyes, but before he can start sobbing, Seungcheol bursts out laughing, blows a raspberry on his belly and then saunters off to cook them breakfast.

By the time Jihoon limps out of bed and hobbles down the hallway, he’s got coffee brewed, something delicious sizzling on the stove, and two ibuprofen tablets sitting on the counter that Jihoon doesn’t waste time knocking back.

They end up eating apple-cinnamon pancakes together in the kitchen—knocking their feet under the table, the radio droning away in the background—and if it wasn’t for Seungcheol’s relative state of undress and the intimate ache in Jihoon’s ass, one could be forgiven for thinking nothing pivotal happened last night. That all the hot sex and kissing and post-coital cuddling had all just been a figment of Jihoon’s imagination.

It’s only when they’ve cleared the table, and Jihoon’s stacking clean dishes away in the cupboard, does it become clear that no, that did happen, because Seungcheol has no compunctions about coming up behind him, bending him over the counter and motorboating his ass.

“Oh my god!” Jihoon chokes out as a talented tongue flickers against his rim then twists inside, no hesitation.

The first few seconds are like trying to draw breath underwater – every muscle in body body locks up, his heart crashes against his ribs like a crazed animal and he claws at the counter, gasping, whining, until he feels Seungcheol pull away, palm on the small of his back, sliding down his hip, his thigh, slow and soothing.

“You don’t mind, do you? It’s just that... for a small guy, you’ve got the peachiest ass, and I didn’t get a chance to properly appreciate it last night.”

Jihoon shakes his head, struggling to find something that resembles a voice, “No—no, I don’t mind.”

Inevitably things escalate from there; they spend the rest of the day defiling every flat surface of the house, before piling into the shower for what has to be the filthiest shower of Jihoon’s life. Then the next morning, when it comes time for Seungcheol to head out, he swings by the kitchen where Jihoon’s making coffee to peck him on the cheek and murmur, “Bye kitten. I’ll call you when I get to the airport, yeah?”

There's a vivid ease to his touch, the way he strokes a hand over his hip, the way he kisses the tender spot behind Jihoon’s ear, as though they've been lovers for years and not a scant twenty-four hours. And that’s not even the crazy part. The craziest thing is…nothing really changes.

At least, not in the way you would expect things to when you start sleeping with a co-worker.

They still work together, still an efficient team, still keep up the semi-professional repartee that’s carried them this far. They still chat on the phone every night (morning, depending on how you judge the time difference) and Seungcheol still shows up at his home unannounced to scare the crap out of him. Except now, instead of lounging around and shooting the shit, they get naked.

Well, okay, they don’t always get naked.

Some activities don’t require immediate and complete nakedness; they still watch movies and cook dinner together, and it’s kinda weird (and unsafe) to do that stuff in the nude. But there’s definitely a lot more nakedness than there was before, and for Jihoon especially, as Seungcheol seems to have developed this endearing habit of showing up when he’s in the shower.

Beyond that, things are pretty much the same between them, which makes Jihoon wonder if this was always bound to happen—if all roads had been leading to this from the start.

A fanciful notion, perhaps, but one he finds himself coming back to each time he looks up from a book, or glances across the kitchen counter, or blinks his eyes open in the morning, curled up against Seungcheol’s bare chest, and catches the man watching him quietly, a distinct softness in his eyes.

“—and then the screen faded to black, and that was it. That was the end of the movie. No closure at all.” Jihoon grumbles, sitting on the bed to better shimmy out of his jeans one-handed.

Seungcheol murmurs something indistinct, not really adding to the conversation. Now that Jihoon’s thinking about it, there has been a distracted quality to his voice all along, his attention split between Jihoon and something else.

Huffing, Jihoon kicks his jeans away before crawling up the bed until he can lean against the headboard.

“Hey, don’t let me hold you back. I mean, you are the one who called me, but if I’m boring you—”

“No, no, don’t hang up.” Seungcheol cuts in quickly, “Please, I’m nearly finished.”

Jihoon tips his head way back on the bed, looking upside down out the window. The scratch of the branches is constant in winter, rasping like fingernails, but he can just about make out the sound of Seungcheol humming deep in his throat, so quiet he can only barely hear it.

“Nearly finished what? What are you doing?”

Of all the reactions he prepared for, a long, punched out groan isn’t one of them. It stretches out, guttural and painfully obscene, hiking Jihoon’s curiosity up several notches, and he presses the receiver harder to his ear, as if it might help him catch a clue.

After an interminable wait, Seungcheol clears his throat and says, voice rough, “Woah...good thing this hotel offers dry cleaning.”

Jihoon’s breath catches. “Oh my god, were you jerking off?”

Seungcheol hums, his voice pitched low when he speaks, still a little out of breath. “Yeah, you get really excited when you’re complaining about movies. Kind of reminded me of those noises you make when you were sitting on my dick last week. Couldn’t help myself.”

“That’s... that’s kinda rude man,” Jihoon mumbles, flooded with heat and wishing for a breeze, something cool. “You could’ve said something.”

Seungcheol laughs, low and dirty, “I’m sorry, I couldn’t be sure you wouldn’t just hang up on me. You can be such a prude sometimes.”

“Hey, no I’m not,” Jihoon huffs, embarrassed. His voice isn’t as steady as he’d like and that makes him more embarrassed.

Seungcheol makes a rumbling sound, amused, doubtful, “Alright then, prove it…Touch yourself.” he whispers in that way of his, that specific hiss of his coarse voice.

Jihoon swallows, shuts his eyes, then wedges the phone between his head and his shoulder and passes a hand glacially down his chest, his fingertips tagging on the waistband of his boxers, sliding inside. Not touching himself, not yet, just toying with the idea of it. Then his dick gives a hopeful little twitch, and he thinks, fuck it, and moves his hand, gives himself a firm stroke, legs falling open just a bit.

When Seungcheol murmurs in his ear, “Yeah, that’s it. Good boy,”, smile evident in his tone, Jihoon hesitates, wanting to open his eyes and check if he is somehow right there, watching him, otherwise how does he know? He tilts his hips up into the next stroke instead and lets out a little grunt, thinking about Seungcheol’s goofy grin and dark eyes, the flared span of his hands and sloped valley between his shoulder blades.

Seungcheol makes a rough desperate sound, "Oh fuck, you’re actually doing it, aren’t you?”

“You’re a jerk,” Jihoon says, good-natured, panting. “And I’m not a prude.”

Seungcheol laughs again, softer this time, sounding utterly fond, “I dunno, I might need some evidence before I agree to that. Maybe if you got on your laptop, let me watch, or sent me a nude—”

“I’m hanging up.”

“No, no, don’t, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Seungcheol revises immediately, no hesitation at all. “You’re not a prude, you’re not. I take it all back.”

Jihoon half-sighs, half-laughs and spreads his legs a bit more, arousal shivering through him as Seungcheol starts talking, telling him all the unspeakably filthy things he wants to do to him, with his mouth and his tongue and his dick, his voice low, sandpaper rough and demanding.

And maybe it’s because he’s not here in the room with him, but Jihoon finds it easy to be loud. Louder now than he’s ever been with him before.

He whines, pants a little, hips twitching helplessly as he speeds up his hand. He’s not even saying words anymore, just moaning, gasping as he listens to Seungcheol, still voicing his encouragement, making promises, 'the things I'm gonna do to you'. He pinches a nipple and fucks up into his fist, then moves lower, behind his balls, working two fingers inside himself.

“God, you’re such a little slut, I love it.” Seungcheol groans, and Jihoon, caught completely by surprise, comes, spilling hard all over his fist, his orgasm pulsing through him unexpectedly.

Immediately after he comes down, he hangs up on Seungcheol, embarrassed.

Or no, not embarrassed, something stronger. Mortified. Yeah, that’s it.

God, maybe he is a prude.

Seungcheol sends him a series of sideways laughing emojis in response, cause he’s still a dick like that sometimes, but he’s all heavy-lidded eyes and slow, eager hands when he corners Jihoon in the shower two days later. Not offering so much as a hello before he makes good on all those unspeakably filthy promises.

It’s the phone call from his mother that sets everything spinning.

Jihoon, being an only child, has always been the apple of his parent’s eye, and it’s understandable that they want to see him more than a handful of times a year. He already broke their hearts when he dropped out of school at sixteen, then again when he moved all the way to Seoul to start a job he can’t really talk to them about, so when they started making noise about taking a family vacation to Jeju in the summer he immediately agreed. Then, a few seconds later, he threw caution to the wind and asked, “Can I bring my boyfriend too?”

He hadn’t really considered the logistics of it, hadn’t been thinking of anything really, beyond the fact that he needed a nice vacation, and that a laidback family trip to Jeju would be the perfect opportunity to introduce Seungcheol to his parents. It was only when he ended the call that he thought ‘Maybe I should have checked with Seungcheol first’.  

It’s not that he thinks Seungcheol would be opposed to the idea of some time off, or even the idea of meeting his parents, it’s more that outside the Universe of them, nobody actually knows they’re dating.

They made a tacit agreement not to kiss and tell, even under duress, and Jihoon, because he wanted to keep his job with the Agency, and more importantly, wanted to remain as Seungcheol’s handler, was sure as hell going to keep his mouth zipped. Besides, their relationship isn’t exactly something he can just casually bring up around the water cooler. ‘Guess what, I’m sleeping with Agent Choi,’ would have probably earned him a few thousand laughs. At his expense.

Bringing Seungcheol along to a family vacation though…that’s probably going to set alarms bells ringing at HQ, and Jihoon’s not naïve enough to think the Agency won’t dig deeper find out what’s really going on.

The topic of ‘them’ is clearly a conversation they’re going to have to have at some point, because while the secrecy is working for them now, there will come a point that it doesn’t, and they should probably have a contingency plan in place for their future together.

Unfortunately, since the vacation plans have been laid, there hasn’t been an opportunity to mention it to Seungcheol in person; between May and July, they’ve taken part in so many complicated, back-to-back missions, Seungcheol’s only been home side for a couple of days at a time, and they’re usually so busy making up for lost time, it often slips Jihoon’s mind.

Finally, at the beginning of August, they’re granted some reprieve between missions, and Jihoon decides there’s time like the present.

“So, I’ve been thinking.” He says, cornering Seungcheol in the kitchen, hands braced on his hips, “While I am generally good at keeping secrets, I don’t know how much longer I can keep pretending we’re not together. So maybe we could, you know…tell the Agency about us?”

Seungcheol’s eyes widen with lack of preparation. “Wait, what?”

“Before you panic, just hear me out. I did a little research, and it turns out it’s not actually against protocol to date a co-worker, it’s just not recommended. Especially when it’s someone you work closely with. But with our track record of successful missions, I doubt the agency would move to reprimand either of us.”

No sooner has he said that, has Seungcheol caught him by the arms to ask, deadly seriously, “Who have you told about us?”

“N-nobody,” Jihoon stammers, alarmed by his intensity, “I haven’t told anyone yet.”

The other man releases him and turns to look out the kitchen window, guarded, shoulders tight. Jihoon stares at his profile, watches him blink rapidly and lick his lips uneasily. Eventually, he can’t take the silence, so he says quietly, “What’s wrong Cheol?”

Seungcheol raises a hand to his hair, bunching it up into his fist; when he relinquishes his grip, it sticks up at all sorts of new and odd angles.

“I appreciate that you’ve looked into it Jihoon, I do, but I’ve been with the Agency a lot longer than you, and I know how they operate. They’re not just going to look the other way, regardless of performance, so I’d prefer it if we just kept this between us.”

Jihoon rubs a hand over his mouth, uncertain how to continue this conversation when Seungcheol has already been so unreceptive. He wants to pace or fidget, put his hands in his pockets. He doesn't move. There’s no way out, he thinks, but through.

“What…what about my parents?”

Seungcheol pauses, several thoughts flashing across his face in quick succession. “What about them?”

“Well…they’re planning a family vacation to Jeju at the end of the month, and I sort of implied you’d be coming along.”

He doesn’t even get to finish the sentence before Seungcheol is backing away, raising a hand as if he can physically block his words.

“No, nope, absolutely not. I can’t do that. That’s a bad, very bad idea.” He says, like it’s irrefutable, like he's already done the math, worked the proof. QED.

Jihoon laughs, a bewildered sound. “Why? It’s just my parents—they’re not going to write about it in the family newsletter. Jesus Cheol, if I didn’t know any better, it almost seems like you’re embarrassed to be seen with me or something.” he says, mostly as a joke. Then he actually thinks about it for a moment—how sterile Seungcheol behaves when they ever meet up in public—and when he says it again, it sounds terribly quiet, “Wait, are you actually embarrassed to be with me?”

Seungcheol laughs at that.

“No, no, Jesus, of course not. It’s not like that,” He laughs again and his hands came up to cover his eyes. His mouth sags open, the corners hitched up in pain. He groans and says, in an uncharacteristic hedging tone. “I just… like…. to keep my relationships private. Why can’t we just keep things the way they are? Why does anyone have to know?”

Jihoon clenches his back teeth carefully on his tongue, breathes through his nose a few times. “Because I’d like to be able to have a real, fulfilling relationship with you without looking over my shoulder all the time?” he says, distantly shocked that he even has to make the argument.

“I understand your need for privacy Seungcheol, but there has to be a limit to that. I’d like for us to do things together, and not just in bed. Things like going on dates and holding hands and introducing you to my family. You know, couple stuff? I don’t think that’s too much to ask.”

For a long minute Seungcheol keeps himself turned away – then, slowly, his hands drop from his face. When he turns around again, he appears more calm – unsettling placid, in fact.

“That can’t happen Jihoon. None of that can happen. Ever.” He says, angry or miserable and Jihoon doesn’t know which there is more of, which is worse.

He feels his face screw up in confusion. “Are you saying you don’t ever want to tell people about us?”

It takes a moment, a tense moment of penetrating eye contact on both their parts, before Seungcheol purses his lips and nods his head, once. “Yes.”

Jihoon’s throat constricts, every resigned word catching and raw. He forces them through his teeth anyway. “I’m sorry Seungcheol, but that’s... that’s a deal breaker for me. If you don’t want to have a real relationship with me, then I don’t want to continue whatever...whatever this is.”

Seungcheol stares at him, expression shuttered, completely devoid of emotion. Jihoon’s always been able to read him, but he finds he can’t just now.

Then Seungcheol says quietly, “I understand…I should go.”

He doesn’t sound even a little torn up about it. He sounds like it’s easy to say.

His back is rigid as he grabs his coat and leaves, and Jihoon wants desperately to go after him, cry and yell and beg him to explain, something, anything to close the sudden chasm growing between them. But he doesn't. He just watches him go, and after a moment, he fetches a beer from the fridge and goes to sit in the backyard, staring out into the shadows.

It kind of hurts how easy it is for Seungcheol to fall back into a routine; how simple it is for him to pretend everything is normal between them. He’s stopped coming around, stopped calling, stopped lingering on the comms after missions, but he’s acting like that’s all perfectly normal, like it was a part of his day he never gave a shit about.

They still work well together, even now. Intuitively. They're still an efficient team, but the fact that Seungcheol doesn’t have to try very hard to sound normal does nothing to settle the rattle of feelings barricaded low in Jihoon's chest.

He’d like for them to still be friends of course—they can’t be anything more, for whatever stupid secretive reason Seungcheol is clinging to—but Jihoon still wants Seungcheol’s friendship. He’d just prefer it if Seungcheol wasn’t acting so goddamn aloof about the whole thing.

They broke up for fucks sake. At least show some emotion you asshole.

Unfortunately, the new disconnect in their relationship bleeds into their work eventually, which proves detrimental when the next op goes south, through no fault of theirs.

Seungcheol was only supposed to be passive observer, conducting surveillance on a person of interest to the Agency who'd been making overtures to an arms dealer based out of Jakarta. They couldn't really have anticipated that the meeting might go abruptly and dramatically sour, devolving into a shootout in the middle of the hotel lobby.

Seungcheol had managed, against the odds, to protect the asset and get him extracted from a nearby heliport, but failed to board the helicopter himself when the landing site was suddenly swarmed by guards packing a hell of a lot of fire for security guards with pistols.

In the ensuing chaos, he was forced to take cover behind a water tower, and pick them off one by one. And be was doing a pretty stellar job of it too, until he took a hit.

“Cheol? Talk to me. Are you hurt?” Jihoon asks, voice kicking up a level of anxiety.

Seungcheol gives an annoyed grunt, his camera feed shaky as he staggers back up to his feet. “Negative.”

Jihoon almost allows himself to relax, until his eyes fly over the screen to his left that monitors Seungcheol’s vitals; they’re all over the place.

“Then why is your blood pressure dropping?”

Seungcheol makes a pained noise, quickly muffled by a curse. “I’m fine. I’ve got it under control.”

An odd, unexpected tightness in his throat keeps Jihoon from arguing any more. 

When something explodes in the distance, loud enough that Jihoon catches the echo over the comms, he hijacks the building’s CCTV system and searches until he finds the source of the sound: another security unit making their way to Seungcheol’s location.

“Oh shit, shit. You’ve got hostiles incoming from the northern stairwell.”

“How many?” Seungcheol barks.

Jihoon wants to give him an accurate answer, but the angles of the cameras are all wrong, too many broken sightlines to tell, and the shots are echoing too much to pin them down. Regardless, it’s more than they were expecting, and definitely more than Seungcheol can handle in his current state.

“Too many,” Jihoon tells him, hands flying over the keyboard, “Fall back to the rendezvous location. I’m sending a drone in.”

“Unnecessary. I have it under control.” Seungcheol says, snapping another clip into his gun. His hands are steady, but he sounds odd and fractured and God, Jihoon just wants to see him, wants to get him the hell out of there. He tries to help any way he can, overriding the building’s security systems to seal off some doors, jam the elevators, offering suggestions—"There’s a fire-escape two floors down, I’ve cleared your path”—but Seungcheol continues to ignore him, hell bent it seems on getting himself out of this mess.

When he rips his earpiece out and tosses it aside with a harsh “Stop talking, you’re distracting me,” there’s nothing left for Jihoon to do but remove his hands from the keyboard, and settle back against the chair in silence.

Jihoon stands outside the front door of the apartment, the dread of what he’s about to face sitting like a stone in his gut, keeping him frozen with his hand on the keypad.

Seungcheol’s trail had been light, almost invisible, but when you know a person intimately, you know what to look for, and Jihoon had found one loose thread that he tugged at until an address in Seongbuk-Dong came out. After that, it was just a case of driving out there and hacking the security keypad, but that’s where his courage failed him, because Seungcheol had made it abundantly clear he did not want his help.

After a moment of indecision, Jihoon draws a long breath and steels himself, overrides access to the lock and pushes the door open.

Inside there’s a small, sterile cookie-cutter of a studio apartment; all blank cabinetry and empty surfaces, a single bed with hospital crisp corners and a wardrobe half-full of well-tailored, carefully-pressed clothes. Not the sort of place he would have pegged for a guy with Seungcheol’s salary, but Jihoon isn’t one to judge.

The only thing that gives this place away as Seungcheol’s is the unscrewed lightbulbs and the pile of unopened mail that bears his Alias’ name on the faux-granite countertop.

It’s only when Jihoon’s standing in the kitchen, flicking through the mail, that he considers the possibility that Seungcheol might not come back here at all. Maybe he has somewhere else to lay low when he’s injured, and this apartment is just a decoy?

He’s just about to step over to the fridge, to check for fresh food and confirm his theory, when suddenly the door swings open, and Seungcheol comes slouching in, slump-shouldered and dragging, a plastic bag dangling from his fingers.

He looks like shit.  

Worse, in fact. Jihoon counts it as a success that he doesn’t immediately tackle him in a great big hug because Seungcheol looks like twelve different kinds of hell—like he’s spent their time apart not sleeping, not eating, not doing anything at all except letting himself cultivate one hell of a case of five o’clock shadow. It looks almost blue-black against how chalky his skin is.

He stops just inside the room, eyeing Jihoon warily, as if he’s maybe an apparition of some kind.

“What are you doing here?”

The question is soft, quiet, already has Jihoon skittish. He crosses his arms in front of his chest and leans back against the countertop, grateful for the support, “Giving you a taste of your own medicine.”

Seungcheol’s haggard face twitches, half-irritated, half-curious.

Jihoon sighs, too relieved by the sight of him to hold on to his anger.

“Oh god, never mind. Can you please just...sit down? So I can take a look at your shoulder.”

Seungcheol tips his head to the side, eyes still glassy, still dazed. Still looking at Jihoon like he's not sure whether this conversation is actually happening. Then he sort of waves him off,  “It’s fine. I took care of it in the airport bathroom.”

Jihoon eyes the grocery bag in his hand; a bottle of cheap tequila alongside a variety of first aid basics; gauze, dental floss, tweezers.

“Then what’s that for?”

Seungcheol gives him a hard-edged smile, “Just stocking up on the essentials.”

Jihoon narrows his eyes, “You haven’t extracted the bullet yet, have you?”

The smile falters, Seungcheol’s lips pressing into a thin, breakless line.

That’s a categoric NO—Jihoon thinks, and gives him his most severe look. The ‘You have been a very, very bad Secret agent’ scowl he reserves for only the most serious of talking downs. Seungcheol isn’t very familiar with that look—hasn’t really done much to deserve it—but he knows it’s not just for show and when Jihoon points at the bed, he obediently unbuttons his shirt and takes a seat on the edge.

Jihoon immediately starts fussing over him, shining a penlight in his eyes, checking his temperature, pulling back the matted plaster and checking the wound for infection. Seungcheol tolerates it with a half-assed scowl, wrung dry and exhausted as he downs half the bottle of tequila.

He seems to have done a reasonably good job packing the wound himself, but to get on a plane with the bullet still lodged in his shoulder is the height of stupidity. Jihoon’s so angry with him, he feels his eyes shearing with tears as he steps over to the kitchenette to fetch a suture kit.

He works quickly, injecting the local anaesthetic around the entry point, applying disinfectant, ripping open the sterile tweezers and poking around till he gets the bullet out. It’s messy business, more blood than his training prepared him for, but he’s running purely on adrenaline now, hands perfectly steady as he pulls the needle through, cinching the wound closed.

Eventually he gets everything bandaged and gets Seungcheol into bed, flicking the blankets over him like a mechanic snicking the hood shut.

“There, that’s better. How do you feel?”

Seungcheol rotates his shoulders, speaking slowly, carefully.

“Like a kid who’s just been sent to his room.”

Jihoon surprises them both by laughing, a ragged little thing, more relief than true amusement. He pushes the back of his hand across his face, obscuring a stray tear, then fumbles a hand over the sheets and finds Seungcheol’s; squeezes slightly.

“Please don’t do that to me again Cheol, don’t cut me off like that. I was so worried about you.”

Seungcheol moves his mouth like he's grinding his teeth, then pulls his hand away clumsily, reaction dulled by a cocktail of the tequila and the expired pain pills Jihoon found in his cupboards.

“You...you can’t be here. I need you to go.” His voice has that overused strain to it, throat aching with the effort, but he makes no effort to explain.

Jihoon doesn't try to quell the frustration that rises in his chest. “But why?” He asks, horrified to hear his voice crack. “Why are you being like this? Why are you pushing me away? I want us to still be friends.”

Seungcheol’s face falls for half a second, eyes flickering, his mouth weak and unsure, but then he gets himself back under control, his angles going taut. “Please Jihoon, I need you to leave.”

Jihoon studies him, his throat closing up and something dissolving in his chest.

The silence stretches and eventually becomes too long to interrupt without some sort of uncomfortable display, so instead he gathers his things and leaves.

Jihoon’s life comes crashing down in Tripoli.

The mission, an extraction, goes sideways fast and the completely out of fucking control. On the record, it states that an undercover asset is sacrificed in a hostage situation that escalated out of control. Off the record, Seungcheol had been sent to smoke the insurgents out while another team extracted the hostages. The back up he was supposed to get never came, and he doesn’t make it out of the building before the explosion.

Jihoon feels numb all over where he’s slumped in his seat, watching a rush of dust and smoke and small bits of debris fill the screen and refusing to believe it. It’s only when the sound of Seungcheol’s biometrics flat lining rings in his ears for an entire minute does it register, and he has to push back from his desk and bend over to vomit in a waste paper basket.

After, he presses his cheek against the cold desktop and lingers there a while, trying to breathe around the crushing weight in his chest.

“I’m sorry Jihoon.” Director Kim murmurs, patting him on the shoulder during the debrief.

It sounds thin to Jihoon’s ears, meaningless.

They make him take time off, after. Mandatory stress leave, Director Kim calls it, which is such bullshit. It’s because he’s been asking too many questions, doing his own research and ruffling the wrong feathers.

They even suggest he takes a vacation somewhere tropical, all expenses paid, so he can what? Grieve quietly on the beach while he sips a fruity cocktail? No thanks.

Instead, he buys a bottle of red wine and sits in his empty apartment, goes over debriefing notes, his own notes in bullet point by bullet point detail, reviews surveillance logs, footage, maps, transcripts.

It bothers him to think there was writing on the wall he missed. That something about the Intel he provided was wrong, so he fills one wall of his living room with alternate timelines and thinks like a conspiracy theorist, trying to find a connection between Seungcheol’s last mission and his death.

But even with all the information he has at his fingertips, he finds no new answers. It was just down to shitty luck, like the Agency said—Seungcheol was in the wrong place at the wrong time, and he paid the price with his life.

When they finally clear him to return to work, it’s back to a desk job for him. No unpartnered Agents on the field to assist right now, and he’s perfectly fine with that. He really can’t imagine working with anyone else, doesn’t even want to.

He does good work, still does a good job gathering intel, reviewing bank records, flight manifests, social media, but he has a hard time marshalling that old focus when everyone is talking about him.

No one is dumb enough to deliver the full brunt of gossip to his feet of course, but he knows. The rubbernecking when he walks through the cafeteria, the way conversations sometimes stall and then fitfully resume when he enters a conference room. The dawning look of recognition on the faces of Agency personnel when someone thinks to introduce him.

“Oh so, that’s the guy who got Agent Choi killed,” they don’t say.

They don’t need to. 

Nobody blames him for it. He blames himself.

Jihoon really doesn’t know what to think anymore.

He had heard the crunch of gravel as a car pulled up, so the knock on the door isn’t entirely unexpected. Finding Jeon Wonwoo standing at his doorway is, as is the fact that the man doesn't wait for an invitation, just muscles his way inside and closes the door quickly behind them.

“Apologies for intruding on you like this Mr Lee, but may we speak?”

Jihoon gives him a hesitant once over, not sure what to make of this late night visit from a man he only spoke to in passing.

Jeon Wonwoo’s wearing a baseball cap, brim pulled down, the collar of his jacket pulled up along his jaw. A low profile if Jihoon’s ever seen one, which should worry him, but he invites him into the living area anyway.

“Not getting much sleep huh?” Wonwoo says, rubbing his hands together as he scans the room.

It’s more observation than inquiry, and Jihoon doesn’t comment on it. The scene speaks for itself: the television on, the film on the TV muted (Groundhog Day), an abandoned bottle of red wine on the coffee table next to an open laptop, default screen bright and blue.

“What can I,” Jihoon starts then stops. “Can I get you anything?” he asks.

Wonwoo shakes his head and takes a seat at the far end of the couch. Jihoon considers taking the other side, then decides until the man explains his presence, he’s happy right where he is.

“Nobody knows I’m here,” Wonwoo says unprompted, raising his chin, like there’s some pride to be found in that.

Jihoon slips his hands into the pockets of his hoodie. “Okay.”

Wonwoo offers him a quick once-over, cool and assessing, before his gaze softens into something infuriatingly sympathetic.

“I just wanted you to know it wasn’t your fault.”

Jihoon scoffs—he can’t help it, he’s sick of hearing this—but Wonwoo’s already talking over him, leaning forward, eyes entreating behind his glasses, “No, just...just listen to me. You can’t blame yourself for this—there was no way you could have put a stop to it. I know because I already tried, and I failed, and that’s why they forced me to retire.”

A mote of unease curls in Jihoon’s stomach,  “I…I thought you took early retirement to spend time with your family?”

Wonwoo purses his lips, very near to disappointed disapproval. “So that’s the story they’re selling, huh?” he shakes his head, laughing a little. “I don’t have a family Jihoon. I’m a single guy, always have been. I have a cat, but that’s about it on the family front.”

Jihoon goes perfectly still, feeling time screech to a halt like an old record. “I don’t understand. What are you saying?”

Wonwoo chews on his lower lip and looks like he’s trying very, very hard to decide how much to tell him. When he finally speaks, it’s with obvious reluctance.

“Director Kim has been working very hard to rebrand the agency since he took over. Ever since that disaster in Rome with Agent Sung, he’s lost faith in Project 17 agents. He deems them a liability, a danger to the mission objective and National security, and unfortunately, a lot of top brass agree with him. In a way, I agree with him too; Project 17 agents are unpredictable, difficult to control. More of them have gone rogue or off the rails than any other group of agents, and when they do, they’re almost impossible to bring down. What I don’t agree with, and why I was fired, is how he’s handling the situation. Instead of retiring them, getting them the help they need to adjust to a normal life—he’s been systematically trying to wipe them out before they can pose a threat.”

Jihoon keeps his face carefully blank, even though there is this sensation in the pit of his stomach, the way he feels on roller coasters when the bottom drops out and he thinks he’s going to fall and fall and never stop.

“Are you saying…they sent Cheol out on a mission, they knew he wouldn’t come back from? That they did it deliberately?”

This pause is more contemplative than hesitant, though Wonwoo's voice is still heavy when he admits, “Have you never wondered why they picked you to handle his missions? Why you, when they had a hundred more qualified analysts?”

Jihoon looks at him searchingly for a long moment, and when he speaks again his voice is low and sick with comprehension.

“They…they thought I’d get him killed.”

Wonwoo nods, making an uncomfortable sound deep in his throat, “They hoped your inexperience would lead to it eventually, yes. It probably vexed them a great deal when you proved them wrong time and again.”

Jihoon shakes his head, stupefied and knowing he shouldn't be: the clues were there all along, but he didn't want to put them together, like his mind was shielding him.

Now, his defences are down, and an unwelcome rerun of things he thought to question, but never did, plays in his head: the grim, downward tilt of the Director’s mouth when Jihoon briefed him on another successful mission; the panicked twist in the pit of his stomach as Seungcheol faced down another ambush, seemingly out of nowhere; the thin smiles from the data team he ragged on for supplying shoddy intel; the bewildered expression on the quartermasters face when he reported another faulty weapon. Seungcheol was never set up to succeed, he was set up to die. 

“I don’t have the connections I once did in the Agency,” Wonwoo continues, tone soft and musing, oblivious to Jihoon’s inner turmoil, “But from what I heard, you worked fantastically with Agent Choi. Helped stabilise him in a way I never managed. I am happy to know he had a friend like you in the end.”

Jihoon shakes his head emphatically—he can’t hear that now, he can’t.

It’s fucked up. It’s all so fucked up.

Clenching his teeth, he fists his hands, nails digging into his palms. All the anger and self loathing that he’s been shoving inward suddenly switches directions.

“Oh, fuck you Wonwoo. Don’t give me that heartbroken bullshit when you knew about this all along. You could have told someone, you could have put a stop to this, and you didn’t.”

Wonwoo doesn’t even seem surprised by his outburst.

“No,” He says carefully, “I couldn’t have.”

“Why the hell not?” Jihoon’s practically spitting, he’s that mad; three months of hurt stockpiled away now bubbling to the surface. 

Wonwoo folds his hands together, watching him dispassionately.

Jihoon doesn’t like that look—like Wonwoo thinks he’s too stupid, too naive to understand any of this. Too inconsequential.

“Think about it Jihoon, what evidence did I really have? There wasn’t a paper trail to prove this plan was in motion, I didn’t come across a memo on Director Kim’s desk one day that revealed it all. It’s only through gut instinct, my experience as a handler and a series of questionable mission objectives that I noticed a pattern. The only proof I ever had beyond that was that Director Kim immediately fired me the moment I questioned the status quo.” Wonwoo’s lips thin, “And not that it matters anymore, but I did try and share my concerns with someone. I told Agent Choi before I left. I warned him what I suspected was happening, that he needed to find a way out. For whatever reason, he chose to remain anyway.”

Jihoon stares at him, frightening knowledge growing in his eyes, pieces sliding into place that he didn’t know were missing at all.

He wants to yell and scream, trash the room, but what’s the use? It won’t bring him back.

A low moan floats up from his chest and he collapses into the nearest seat, sobbing.

Wonwoo watches him out of the corner of his eye, finally a tinge of sadness in him, some awareness that it is he who has led Jihoon into this state. But when he speaks again, he is nothing but deadly serious.

“For your own safety Jihoon, I strongly suggest you forget we had this conversation. Director Kim will get what’s coming to him in the end, you just have to stay out of it.”

It's two months and five days since Seungcheol’s death when the postcard arrives on Jihoon's desk, a flash of colour between the usual dull, manilla envelopes catching his eye and giving him pause.

Fishing it out of the pile of mail, he tips back in his seat to study the tropical paradise pictured on the front—a sunset over the ocean, crashing waves on a sandy beach, the whole scene drenched in gold and pink and violet—then flips it over to check the postmark, expecting a message from his parents or someone else he knows that might be on vacation.

His breath catches at the sight of the note he does find, printed in what looks like a third-grader's writing.

Good news…

There are only three Boba shops in the whole of Costa Rica.

Lots of demand for a fourth.  

Just saying :)

Jihoon clutches it to his chest for a beat, then reads it through twice more before he feels like he can breathe again. 

Of course he considered the possibility that Seungcheol might have survived that explosion somehow, because if anyone could have, it would have been him. Maybe even prayed for it. But it's a far different thing actually knowing. Seungcheol is out there somewhere, waiting.

Before he can decide what to do about it, a chorus of frantic murmurs fills the room as several armed police officers march in and begin making their way down the rows of desks.

Jihoon sits up very straight, almost afraid to breathe, but they sweep past him, making their way to the large office at the front.

It’s wall to wall glass, so everyone can freely watch as they enter Director Kim’s office and arrest him—watch first the colour drain from his face and fill in as anger takes over.

Jihoon arranges paperwork in front of him, pen gripped tight in his hand, and tries hard not to smile spitefully as Director Kim is escorted past his desk in handcuffs.

It takes about two minutes to empty the contents of his desk, a few more to type out his resignation letter and seal it in an envelope. No one says anything as he makes the long walk down the row of desks, too busy gathering in groups to try and make sense of what’s happening.

Outside, Jihoon hails a cab and gives the driver his home address; if he can make it home before 2pm, he can make it over to the airport before rush hour hits.

Jihoon never makes it to Costa Rica.

He makes it home, calls his parents, packs a bag. He makes it to the airport, through security to his seat on the plane, then someone sits down next to him, jostling his knee.

Jihoon has his eyes closed, but he hears him sigh and settle into the aisle seat beside him, his forearm bumping his – both their shirt sleeves rolled, bare skin meeting bare skin.

Jihoon cracks one eye open and Seungcheol has his chin tucked to his shoulder, looking over and down at him, eyebrow quirked.

“Hey.”

Jihoon stares. For the moment his anger is held at bay by raw confusion, then pure, unadulterated happiness, then…

“You absolute bastard! I can’t believe you faked your own death!”

The last four words are thankfully muffled by Seungcheol’s hand sealing over his mouth, but the first few are said loud enough to earn them irate glances from nearby passengers, so Jihoon doesn’t resist when Seungcheol grabs his bag and herds him off the plane, making up some lame excuse to the Air Stewardess about Jihoon being a nervous flyer.

The departure gate is empty by the time they disembark, and Jihoon doesn’t waste any time in letting Seungcheol know how furious he is—hissing and spitting and even slapping at one point, especially when Seungcheol tries to pull him into the handicapped bathroom for a kiss, like he hadn’t been pronounced K.I.A two fucking months ago. Like Jihoon hadn’t cried himself to sleep, mourning him.

“I know you’re angry, I know,” Seungcheol whispers, arms held out and open, peace treaty-style. “And I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry about everything Jihoon, but please, please just hear me out. I can explain everything.”

Crossing his arms, Jihoon regards him as icily as he can while being simultaneously so happy to see him he could cry.

After a while he swallows, skips about thirty percent of the scolding he was planning to do, and settles for, “Fine. Talk.”

Seungcheol’s mouth quirks tiredly, and he shifts to lean back against the door of the bathroom, his lowered profile bruised and sad.

“I never planned for things to go this way, you know. Not at first. I was supposed to get out months ago, had it all planned out too; that bomb, in the compound in Nairobi, that was my first window to walk away—I knew what Director Kim was planning, and I had my own plan: I’d fake my death, get away clean and never look back. But then you...I heard you crying over the Comms, and it was hard to just walk away. I realised then I had to find another way out, one that involved keeping you in my life.”

Shock momentarily clears Jihoon’s face as he twists around to stare him in the eye. After a second he shakes his head and manages a croaky, “But you said—"

Seungcheol interrupts as if he hadn’t spoken. “I didn’t mean it when I said I didn’t want those things with you Jihoon, you have to know that.”

Jihoon’s eyes swell, and he shakes his head again, digging his teeth into his lip. “I didn’t know anything. You made it all seem so easy. Like none of it ever mattered.”

“Easy?” Seungcheol echoes, around a burst of incredulous laughter. That sliver of mirth is short-lived as he squeezes his eyes shut and thumps his head against the door.

“Nothing about this has been easy Jihoon. Jesus, I’ve been falling in love with you since you made me a sandwich, and being away from you these past three months has been fucking hell.”

He releases a heartbreaking shudder of air and lifts his head again, meeting Jihoon’s gaze with earnest intensity. “I’m sorry if I came across cold, but I couldn’t risk you telling people about us, I couldn’t risk exposing you more than I already had. Cutting you off was an integral part of the plan, as was faking my death; I needed Director Kim to think I was out of the picture so he’d be blind to what I was doing. But I didn’t want to give him a reason to focus on you instead.”

“Why didn’t you...you should have, you left me thinking,” Jihoon has no idea what he is trying to say, only knowing that he has to say something because it feels like someone has packed his chest full of sawdust until he can barely breathe, “You could have let me in on the plan.”

Seungcheol has the decency to look halfway ashamed, his eyes apologetic, but he still closes the distance between them, still reaches out, no hesitation in the way his hand curls around to frame Jihoon’s jaw.

“I thought about it, I did. When you told me about that vacation with your parents, I really wanted to. But it would have been too risky; you’re a terrible liar Jihoon, and the Agency would have seen through it. I on the other hand, my whole life was a lie. Or at least...it was before I met you.”

The words are so soft, so earnest, so completely unexpected, they stop Jihoon in his tracks, knock all the air out of his lungs in a rush. He closes his eyes for several heartbeats, forcing himself to draw a slow, shaky breath.

When Seungcheol pulls him in, he knows he could resist, could pull back or do something to fight against the gentle pressure on the back of his skull, drawing him closer; but he’s already fallen.

Seungcheol kisses him slowly, more gently than he ever had before, just lips pressed against lips, fingers kneading the back of his neck. It makes warmth curl in the low part of his belly, not quite insistent enough to be arousal, but more intense than Jihoon expects for such a simple touch.

When he draws back, Seungcheol’s hand slips around to cup his cheek, thumb running over his cheekbone, wiping away the tears without hesitation.

Jihoon takes his hand and holds tight, fingers laced. “What happens now?”

Seungcheol smiles and rests their foreheads together, “Anything you want.”

FIN