Chapter Text
Things were looking up for Namjoon that morning. He’d awoken to soft shreds of sunlight creeping in through the cracks in his curtains, the sound of waves breaking delicately on white sand pulling him out of his sleepy, hazy state. There’s nothing quite like the peace Namjoon feels when he listens to the sea. In, out, in, out.
Namjoon hasn’t had a morning like that in years. It’s not that he doesn’t love his job, quite the contrary. Escaping South Korea’s 9-5 office job social expectations in order to become a songwriter and producer is something Namjoon will never take for granted. Even so, a dream job doesn’t come without sacrifice, and Namjoon’s had been free time.
Things had been looking up. Now, Namjoon is sitting in an uncomfortable plastic seat in an empty restaurant, explaining his mild knee graze to a hotel employee. Maybe if he hangs his head low enough his entire body will disappear into the chair, leaving only the remnants of his shame to fester.
This is Namjoon’s record scratch moment. Fucking typical.
It had started with waffles, like most good stories should, except this isn’t so much of a good story as it could be Namjoon’s motivation to change his name, grow a beard and move to Iceland. So, the man had been excited over some waffles. Sue him.
Namjoon hadn’t beelined for the waffles, no, he’d let the small children have their turn first while he headed toward the “adult” foods. Plain oatmeal, English breakfast sausages, tiny pieces of fruit, and the worst of all: bran. God, Namjoon doesn’t understand how anyone could eat bran . Heathens.
It was the Quest for Waffles that ultimately ended in a new trophy of shame to add to the collection. In Namjoon’s excitement, he had forgotten one crucial fact: Namjoon is clumsy. He’d broken seven plates before he’d finally been banned from washing dishes at his flat. Sometimes, his flatmates Taehyung and Jimin joke that he’s a Sim that needs somebody to watch over and protect him from himself. Namjoon would hate to admit that they’re right.
As Namjoon admires the way syrup is pooling in the dimples of the waffles, he fails to notice one crucial detail:
The beans.
There’s a large serving of baked beans spread all over the linoleum floor, only three feet away from the plate full of waffles. They say school never teaches you anything you need to know, and they were right. School never taught Namjoon about the unpredictably slippery quality beans possessed.
It’s inevitable, then, that as Namjoon grins, showing dimples so beautiful that they rival the waffle’s, he steps on a bean. It just feels strange, for the first second or so, until Namjoon’s world slows down, clinging onto each painful second that it takes Namjoon’s foot to stick to the bean juice , causing him to lose his balance and-
The floor was harder than it looked, Namjoon thinks, as he tumbles onto it face-first.
“Ouch,” his pride says. Namjoon can’t help but agree.
It’s just Namjoon’s luck that an employee happens to be refilling the heating tray of beans right in front of him as he spectacularly slips.
Namjoon lets out a low wail, his brain finally catching up with the series of events that has just taken place. He’s pouting a little, too, just because now he’ll never be able to get his waffles. No, now he’ll have to fake his own death, build a new identity, and move far, far, away, to a country that probably doesn’t even have waffles. Namjoon’s plate noisily clatters to the ground. It doesn’t shatter, which Namjoon is thankful for, because he doesn’t know if he’d be able to deal with manslaughter of his eight plate.
“Are you okay, dear,” a 50 year old woman asks Namjoon. Her plate is one big mountain of oatmeal. Namjoon groans in a manner that probably seems inappropriate for the situation, and the woman swiftly walks away. Perhaps she’ll be scarred for life, Namjoon thinks to himself, somewhat proudly.
Namjoon slowly becomes aware of his surroundings again, tray of beans to his left, plate of waffles to his right, room with hundreds of people trying to eat their breakfast in peace without Namjoon-related incidents, hand in front of Namjoon’s face—that wasn’t there before.
“Do you want to get up?” says the body attached to the hand.
Namjoon looks up. He’s cute.
“You’re cu—yes, yes please,” Namjoon cuts himself off. Maybe he could say he hit his head and now has mild to severe brain damage?
Namjoon takes the man’s hand and allows himself to be pulled up.
“Thanks,” he says, sheepishly.
“You’re welcome, Sir,” says the employee who had just been filling up the bean tray, “could you please come with me? I need to ask you a few questions for an incident report.”
The man leads Namjoon away from the breakfast buffet and into another hotel restaurant, pulling a 10 sheet document from within his suit jacket and slapping it down on the table they’re sitting at.
“This won’t take long,” the employee promises, and Namjoon is reminded of the last survey a stranger had coerced him into filling out, which had taken over two hours and subsequently flooded his email inbox with disturbingly titled live cam advertisements for months. That hadn’t been easy for Namjoon to explain to the humor-starved IT worker. He’d stumbled over his words with justified embarrassment, the IT worker looking to be about one second from rolling around on the floor laughing at any point throughout his explanation.
The employee (cute questionnaire guy, Namjoon’s mind supplies) actually looks like he’s hanging off every word Namjoon’s saying, jotting down notes on where he fell (Namjoon sees what looks like a grid reference and tries not to salivate), what he slipped on (fucking beans ), where he hurt himself (the tiny shreds of pride he’d been desperately trying to retain). Cute questionnaire guy had even offered him a kleenex , pulled a travel-size pack out of his suit pant pocket—it’s like he has infinite pocket space. Maybe he’s magical? Namjoon files the thought to the back of his mind for further contemplation.
After about 10 minutes it looks like the questionnaire is finishing up, complete with a police report-esque body drawing, marked at the places Namjoon had injured himself.
(“I’m not sure where to mark pride ,” CQG had said, almost teasingly.)
“I just need one last thing— your room number, it’s recorded as part of the process. Don’t worry, it won’t be passed on to anyone else.”
“471B,” Namjoon complies. He’s looking forward to crawling back under the freshly changed in his California King Size bed and hiding forever.
“Thank you for your time, I’ll let you get back to breakfast,” CQG smiles warmly at Namjoon—Namjoon’s heart decidedly does not flutter—before reaching into his suit jacket pocket one last time.
“Lollipop for your troubles?” CQG says, hesitating when Namjoon gives him A Look.
“Ah, sorry Sir, usually I’m filling these forms out for… younger children,” CQG has the decency to look bashful, but Namjoon, who has no shame left, takes the lollipop anyway.
“Enjoy the rest of your stay at the resort, Sir.”
“Thank you,” Namjoon says, nodding his head. He’s unsure of why he’s thanking a man who has just put him through what has possibly been the worst 10 minutes of his life to date. Except, as CQG walks away, Namjoon is blessed with the beautiful view of his thighs in well-fitting slacks, so perhaps Namjoon knows exactly what he was thanking the employee for. Namjoon mentally slaps himself for the gross objectification, but can’t stop thinking about kissing CQG’s thigh. Just once. Oh, and in the infamous words of Flo Rida: “Them birthday cakes, they stole the show.”
-
Namjoon hides away in his room for the rest of that day, content watching Netflix back in his comfortable koala-themed pyjamas away from the outside world. He’ll go outside tomorrow, he figures, he’s rostered on for three of the hotel-run activities.
Amy Santiago has just discovered the task she’s been given for the Halloween Heist—stealing a cummerbund —has been an elaborate scheme by one Jake Peralta to propose to her. She’s crying, so Namjoon’s crying, blowing his nose loudly into a tissue, and praying that nobody can see the tears streaming down his cheeks through the window. As Namjoon pulls a fresh tissue from the already half-empty box, there’s a loud knock at the door and a call of “Room Service!”. Namjoon drags his body out of bed (he hasn’t used his gangly legs in more than two hours and it shows in his paresthesia) and opens the door, politely accepting his food from the waiter and tipping generously.
It’s not until he settles back into bed, plate of Elegant Roasted Chicken with Parsley Crusted Sweet Potato, Totara Cheddar, and Aromatic Beetroot Jus on his bedside dresser that he notices.
At least one quarter of his plate is taken up by a generous serving of—you guessed it—beans. There was absolutely no mention of the vile legumes on the menu item, and yet somehow they’d managed to sneak back into his life anyway, with complete disregard for his emotional wellbeing.
Namjoon locks eye contact with the evil beings, each opponent waiting for the other to make a move. Namjoon’s eye twitches, his stomach gurgling loudly and filling the otherwise intense silence.
Cursing his own body for being unable to control itself in such a situation of utmost importance, Namjoon begins to eat his meal, sulking all the while.