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not-mission 008
Maybe it’s because until today, Jisung’s only experience at weddings has been on assignments, but he can’t seem to shake the feeling that there’s something off tonight; it leaves him just a little bit unsettled, just a little bit on edge as he glances around at everyone in attendance, trying to decipher just what it is that’s left him this restless.
The sinking feeling had settled in his chest almost as soon as the evening had begun, and Jisung thought he’d been hiding his current state of unease well since then; but, to Jisung’s complete and utter lack of surprise, Minho catches on almost immediately as they take their seats at the reception.
“What’s wrong?” he asks, propping his cheek with his left hand, elbow on the table—the dining etiquette drilled into Jisung years ago during training screams silently—as he shifts his body to face Jisung fully. The small lights of the centerpiece cast a warm glow over the side of his face, and it leaves his skin a luminous, peachy gold beneath it. Jisung has to remind himself that Minho asked a question, and that deems a response.
He raises a brow. “Who says something’s wrong?”
“Your face says,” Minho replies bluntly. “You always get a little line right here,”—he taps a finger against the space above Jisung’s left eyebrow—“Even when you think you’re keeping your face relaxed.” He leans forward to rub his fingertip against the skin softly, and Jisung’s surprised when he feels the muscles beneath it untense.
This close, he can see the light wash of champagne glitter on Minho’s eyelids. He’s not sure if he imagines the fragrance from Minho’s gardenia boutonnière, identical to Jisung’s own, suddenly becoming more intense with the proximity, but the velvety scent of it hits him hard nonetheless. It’s almost enough to distract him from giving a proper answer, but only almost.
“Nothing’s wrong,” he admits, because it’s true—for now, at least. “It just feels like there’s something off. Like something’s going to go wrong tonight.”
Minho hums, drops his hand to rest on Jisung’s shoulder, kneading his thumb into place where his shoulder meets his neck firmly enough for Jisung to feel it through the thick material of his tuxedo jacket; Jisung feels his shoulders drop from where he’d inadvertently been keeping them stiff.
“Wrong as in someone drops the cake, or wrong as in this ends up turning into business?”
“Okay, well, I wasn’t even worried about the cake until you just said that, so thanks.” He ignores the way the small smile Minho gives him makes his chest feel warm, even now. “But I think it’s more within the business category. I mean, I don’t doubt the screenings, and it’s our own security, and everyone we know is here anyway, but still.”
“Want my knife?” Minho asks gently, brow furrowed in concern. It’s sweet to ask, Jisung thinks. After all, Minho knows that he's much more comfortable with the weight of a blade in his hand rather than that of a gun; it’s what Jisung always goes for, given the choice.
He’s just as adept with either option, but there’s a familiarity in knives that there isn’t with guns; the first time he’d held one rather than look down its barrel being when he’d began his training, in comparison to his experience with knives; the fact that he can’t carry an extra tonight simply because his tux leaves little room to conceal one doesn’t help.
Jisung shakes his head—he knows he’d be worried either way. “You can buy me a drink instead.”
“It’s an open bar,” Minho reminds him.
“Oh. Right.”
“Hey, I’ll still get you a drink if you need it.” Minho moves his hand to rub the pad of his thumb against Jisung’s collarbone.
Jisung looks down, worrying his lip between his teeth before he continues. “No, it’s alright hyung. It’s just that, combined, we’ve fucked over a lot of people, and if any one of them found out about tonight then that’s it, it’s over. And—and I don’t want that to happen. I want it to be special.”
A pause then, and Jisung only looks up when he hears Minho’s laugh escape him as a small punch of air through his mouth.
“Are you going to cry again?” he teases, letting go of Jisung to scratch his chin until Jisung bats his hand away with a whine.
“I didn’t cry, the lights were right in my eyes,” he says in a way that’s not defensive in the slightest. Minho scoffs with a small shake of his head.
“You know, you’re allowed to cry, Sungie. No one here’s going to judge you. After all, it is our—fuck.” Minho straightens up immediately, facial expression shifting into the carefully curated mask of nonchalance that’s become his trademark by now.
“Don’t turn around,” he orders, and Jisung, who himself has perfected the art of not giving himself whiplash to look behind himself whenever he hears those words, also sits up straight, keeping his eyes on Minho.
“What is it?”
“Waiter at five o’ clock,” Minho says quietly. “Christ, please tell me I’m not looking at that gunrunner from Vienna.”
Jisung slowly twists around in his seat, reaching over to grab his glass of water as he does and, taking a sip, checks the table just behind him over the lip of the glass. From this position, he can only see the man’s profile, but it’s enough.
He places the glass back down and turns to face Minho. “You’re looking at that gunrunner from Vienna.”
Minho’s brow twitches and he closes his eyes; takes in a long, deep inhale before opening them with a smile as he turns to face the guests seated throughout the venue.
“Fuck. Fuck, why is he even here?”
“Should we tell Chan-hyung?” Jisung murmurs from the side of his mouth as he, too, turns to face the wedding party again. He sees Minho shake his head minutely in his peripheral.
“No, he doesn’t need to know. We can take care of it ourselves and be back before anyone notices. Shouldn’t have to ruin the night for anyone else.” His voice is steady, but Jisung can tell he’s vexed. He reaches over to place his hand over Minho’s hand where it rests on the table, curled into a half fist, and squeezes it exactly once before he lets go.
“Alright.”
He almost feels bad for it, but Jisung’s glad that his gut was right, because now all of the nerves that had been simmering beneath his skin, gnawing at the forefront of his thoughts, are being translated into a much more familiar, much more manageable buzz of anticipation.
It’s nearly twenty minutes later when Jisung spots the man from Vienna slipping out through one of the side doors. He nudges Minho, nods towards the direction that he’d seen him go, and the two silently get up from the table and follow, mingling with guests as they pass by to make their leave look less hasty.
The hall they step into leads only to a window to their right, and a pair of kitchen doors to the left. Jisung pats his jacket once, makes sure his sidearms are still in place even though there’s nowhere they could have gone, and heads to the right, checking over his shoulder as Minho heads towards the doors.
There’s a slim chance that the man had chosen to leave through the window, especially since, so far, he hadn’t even gotten the chance to do anything; but Jisung’s learned from experience that being thorough is more than worth the extra minute it’ll cost him.
They’re on the ground floor, so there is a probability that he left through the window without having to worry about a fall, but when Jisung cracks it open and sticks his head out, there’s no sign of disturbance among the shrubbery just below. He’s about to double check anyway, just to make sure, when the unmistakable clang of metal knocking over and into itself sounds from behind him.
Jisung turns around just in time to see Minho be all but flung out through the doors. He manages to stay on his feet, avoiding a saucepan rolling around on the floor; grabs the doors before they can swing back shut, and storms back in. Then, not a second later: the sound of a pistol firing in quick succession and muffled yelling.
Jisung draws his own handgun as he runs down the hall, throwing the doors open just in time to see Minho sidestep a skillet thrown at his head. Jisung instantly fires two rounds in the direction that it came from. Eyes darting around the kitchen, the only other person Jisung can see is the man they followed, shoving a magazine into his own pistol.
“What happened to the staff?” Jisung calls as he drops behind one of the cooking stations.
Minho, still standing as he takes another shot—and curses when he presumably misses—glances at him for less than a second before he answers.
“They’re safe,” is all he says as he shoots again, and the curse from behind Jisung tells him he must have made contact with something this time.
Minho shoots again, and when nothing happens, releases the magazine before dropping his pistol to the ground and kicking it behind him. He holds out a hand and Jisung quickly hands him his own gun, pulling himself away from the steel counter at his back just enough to get a good look around the edge of it.
The kitchen is set up in an island layout, and the man shooting at them stands at the opposite end of the U that the counter forms. Jisung draws his combat knife and follows behind Minho, keeping low and pressing against the outside of the counter as they make their way around.
Jisung wishes he’d had a second pistol, given the fact that everyone on security was allowed to bring in the works; then again, no one else in the wedding party had more than a handgun either, since they hadn’t been expecting someone to actually try making an appearance tonight.
They inch along further, until Jisung realizes he hasn’t heard a shot fire in at least a minute. He pops his head up to check, and swears when he doesn’t see anyone.
“Minho-hyung,” he hisses. “Check if he’s behind the counter, I don’t see him.”
“Shit.”
Minho edges forward, and Jisung surveys the rest of the kitchen as much as he can from where they’re stranded to one side of it. He looks past the cookware hanging above them, the grilling station just ahead, past the dishwashers against the side wall, then quickly flits his eyes back to them. He can only make out a blur of movement in the reflection of the glass, but he grabs Minho by the back of his jacket and yanks him back anyway.
The steel pan that swings around the corner misses the tip of Minho’s nose by a centimeter; Jisung feels his heart trip over a beat as they step back. The man’s out of ammo, he realizes. He wouldn’t have given up a chance for a direct shot like that otherwise.
“Fuck, is he stupid or what? There’s a knife block right there, why does he keep grabbing the pans?” Jisung whispers to Minho before standing fully now that he knows there’s no threat of firearms.
“Are you really complaining?” Minho says as he joins him, rounding the counter in two quick steps. He fires again, only this time the man’s gotten a hold of what has to be a cast iron skillet, because the bullet lodges itself in it without piercing through as he ducks and holds it up against the shot.
“Okay, maybe that’s why.” Minho scowls as he fires again; his bullet grazes the man’s arm this time as he stumbles further into the kitchen, until they reach the service area. A handful of complete dishes lay cold and abandoned along a countertop, and Jisung silently mourns the loss of tonight’s lobster dinner.
The man’s ducked behind another counter, and Minho pulls himself atop it, poised to fire, before he immediately leans back, this time avoiding a salver swinging at him.
“Fuck this guy,” Jisung growls and, completely forgetting the fact that he has a knife in hand, drops it to grab whatever’s closest to him, which happens to be a lobster claw.
He gets a knee on the counter, nudges Minho aside, and drops his legs down hard on the other side as he steps down. The man must not have been expecting that, because he doesn’t even get a chance to strike Jisung with the metal in his hand before he’s jamming the claw into the side of the man’s neck.
To Jisung’s dismay, the claw doesn’t pierce through immediately, the tip of it too dull to cut through on its own. He scowls and slams it down again, then again until the teeth along the edge finally catch onto the flesh, digging his hand against it harder once he hears the man let out a choked off, gurgling sound beneath him.
Jisung scowls.
“Fuck you! We let you live in Vienna and you come to us on this, the day of our best friends' wedding, to what? To get even? Ruin our night just for the hell of it?”
He pulls the lobster claw out, now dripping blood from its ends, and stabs it down once more for good measure until Minho climbs down from the counter and fires a single shot to the man’s temple. He doesn’t say anything while Jisung sits back on his heels, wiping a brow with the back of his hand as he catches his breath.
Minho pulls out his pocket square, hands it to Jisung who wipes his fingers with it, and reaches forward to straighten out his tie for him from where it’s skewed. Jisung’s about to pull himself upright, before he picks the claw back up and holds it out to Minho.
“What’s this for?”
Jisung hopes his grin is more charming than worrisome given the man they killed not five minutes ago.
"Marry me?”
“Are you really going to propose at someone else’s wedding?”
“Well it’s not like they’re here right now for us to steal the spotlight from.”
“I’ll tell Hyunjin you said that.”
To Jisung’s sheer delight, there’s still dinner when they return to the reception after they’ve taken care of the body. Changbin raises a brow at them from where he sits besides Hyunjin, and Jisung waves him off with a small headshake; no reason to worry the men of honor when the situation’s already been handled.
His stomach drops once he sees the lobster thermidor in front of him.
mission 0161
Jisung knew when he accepted the job that it would mean the occasional external assignment; the company is often outsourced, and the less extensive operations are easily handled by a pair of their agents.
The thought of essentially having to be a gun for hire doesn’t bother him as much as it used to when he first started out, either; and though the thought of carrying out a termination at a wedding does still strike him as odd—especially when it’s a request from the bride herself— it’s far from the strangest thing he’s ever had to do in this line of work.
So Jisung’s not surprised that he’s attending his first wedding armed to the teeth, complete with a firearm in each side holster, extra magazines already loaded and in each of his pockets, his usual combat knife along with two others, and a ring with a pop-out blade on each index finger. He’d thought that had been erring on the side of overkill, until Minho handed him a suspiciously heavy pocket watch. Then Jisung was sure it was overkill.
Now, attending the reception with the rest of the bride’s side—all entirely hired; paid guests from the agency pretending to be various distant relatives of a woman they’ve only met once before, during the briefing—Jisung eyes the groom; tonight’s target, along with the rest of his guests.
Jisung has no idea why the agency even agreed to send upwards of fifty of their best men and women to eliminate a family he’d never even heard of. It’s apparently all political, something about having to remain on good terms with the bureau that sought them out. Jisung doesn’t question it further than that. He’s learned that it’s better not to when it comes to these types of missions.
The sound of the wedding band’s last song lulling out into a slow ambiance breaks Jisung out of his thoughts. He pushes himself away from the oak of the bar he’d been leaning against, clears his throat as he sets aside his untouched flute of champagne, and, locking eyes with Minho across the room, makes his way to the floor for the next dance as the third song of the night begins.
It’s for their vantage point, tonight’s handler had explained. Jisung hadn’t said anything then, and he doesn’t say anything as he meets Minho halfway; doesn’t say anything as he lets Minho take one hand in his own, dipping the other under his jacket to fit his hand to Jisung’s waist, his palm a warm weight where it rests over the fabric of his dress shirt while Jisung places his own free hand to Minho’s shoulder. He stays quiet as they silently sway through the beginning chords of the intro.
He should be paying closer attention to the lyrics; the last line of the final chorus of the third song is their cue, and they’ve been tasked with the hit on the groom himself, the dance letting them get close enough for a direct shot.
And Jisung does listen, keeps an ear trained on the gentle crooning that slowly begins. He listens as his palms go clammy and he tries to discreetly wipe one on the shoulder of Minho’s jacket, hoping Minho doesn’t notice the sweat on the other hand that he clasps in his own, firm but gentle.
Jisung only breaks their silence when Minho does first, with a small, contemplative hm, before he murmurs, “That’s new.”
“What’s new?”
Minho lifts the hand he has on his waist, goes to touch Jisung’s face with a finger before he changes course and curls his hand over his cheek softly instead. He sweeps his index finger where it rests just below the side of Jisung’s hairline, on the perimeter of his face.
“This,” he says.
Jisung pulls his hand away from Minho’s shoulder to frame his chin with his thumb and pointer, and, with the smarmiest face he can, says, “What, my handsomeness?”
He’s cringing to himself the second the words leave his mouth, but he’s also counting on Minho cringing even harder to make it worth the delayed agony he’s about to endure; he’s surprised when, instead, Minho frowns.
“No, I said new. You have a scar over here, that’s what’s new.”
“Oh. Oh, that. Think it was from that time I got glassed,” Jisung plays off with a soft laugh, hopes the warmth creeping up his neck into his cheeks isn’t palpable under Minho’s hand; he hasn’t moved it yet, and Jisung tries not to think about the way Minho’s small palms are a perfect fit to cup his face; like they were made with that sole action as their primary function.
“Don’t part your hair to this side next time.” He’s still frowning, and Jisung huffs.
“Alright, I won’t. It’s not even noticeable, you only saw it because you’re right in front of me.”
“That’s not—never mind. And get ready, the bridge is ending soon.”
He finally pulls his hand away from Jisung’s face, returns it to the curve of Jisung’s side, higher up than before; Jisung brings his own back to Minho’s shoulder before moving to curl his fingers over the side of his neck instead, just above the place where skin meets the collar of his jacket.
Jisung tunes back into the song as they continue to move; tells himself the lightheadedness he feels is from the slow circling around the floor they’ve been doing, and not from the feeling of Minho’s gaze trained on his face while Jisung keeps his own resolutely on the space beyond his shoulder, the soft puffs of Minho’s breath that Jisung can hear even louder than the music, the skip of his pulse beneath Jisung’s fingers.
The first line of the final chorus passes, and Jisung slides his hand down along the inside of Minho’s lapel, over his chest as he dips a hand into his jacket to wrap around the grip of the pistol in his holster. Minho’s own hand creeps further up Jisung’s side, and he feels the gun in his own holster be pulled free, still concealed beneath the fabric of his suit jacket.
The last syllable is slowly sung out, and then: within a split second the sound of multiple shots firing, each at the same time. Jisung sees his own make contact with the groom’s throat before a second hits his kneecap and he topples over face first onto the dance floor, blood quickly pooling beneath him and spreading across the hardwood.
Ignoring the panicked screams from the rest of the groom’s side, Jisung turns to Minho, ready to congratulate him on a flawless execution. He’s tackled to the floor before he gets the chance, cold metal of the barrel of a gun to his head, before the hand holding it falls limp with a spray of blood spattering across Jisung’s face.
“Fuck, ew,” he groans, shoving the body on top of him away before it gets the chance to drop over him.
Then: back on his feet, two steps taking him to Minho’s side where he stands with the end of his gun still pointed at the man now lying lifeless at their feet. The sound of gunfire still going off is what makes him quickly look around, and he swears once he gets a glimpse at their surroundings.
He can barely make out which of the men are their own, both sides engaged in a brawl that would be almost comical if not for multiple firearms and blades involved. Jisung almost misses the bride, dress stained bright red as she shoots a man point blank.
His communicator crackles, and in spite of the fact that it sits right in his ear, he only just barely manages to hear the words south exit, and right now, and for fuck’s sake in a voice that only sounds vaguely familiar over the sounds of yelling and more gunfire.
Jisung figures the instructions are clear enough and makes for said exit, Minho to his left as they rush through the thinning crowd. The familiar thrum of adrenaline kicks in his chest each time he fires a shot, aiming below the waist; there’s no way he’s making any clear headshots like this, and it’s better to at least keep them from following.
A minute more and they’re at the door. When Jisung checks behind them, he can’t spot a single familiar face, although there are more members of the wedding party still moving than what he’d prefer—which would be none at all.
“Jisung, move.” Minho pushes him through the door, blocks the way as he unloads his pistol into the wedding venue; drops it once it empties, pulls the second one from his holster, and fires that one off too.
Jisung peeks over his shoulder, and he can still spot a few men moving from the back of the room. Minho turns around, makes to pull them both out into the hall before Jisung stops him.
“Wait, just a second, hyung.” He shoves a hand into his pocket, feels the metal of the pocket watch against his fingers and pulls it out. His fingers slip as he tries to pinch the crown between them.
“What are you—fuck,” Minho says as Jisung finally gets a grip on the crown and yanks. The pin is small, almost too small, and for a second Jisung thinks he may have been mistaken. Until Minho grabs the watch out of his hand with a, “Fuck, don’t just stand there,” and chucks it into the room.
Jisung watches with horror and a hysteric laugh crawling up his throat as the tiny grenade sails across the room, completely missing the group of men making their way towards them, and lands in the cake that had somehow managed to remain undamaged throughout the mutiny. A second later and it goes off; Jisung’s impressed when he feels the force of it rattle the doorframe he leans against while he cackles.
He hears a low groan from the direction of the carnage and feels tears well in his eyes when Minho swears, loads another magazine into his handgun, and stomps back into the room. He’s still laughing when Minho returns, somehow managing to have gotten hold of the rumpled bouquet as he drags Jisung out of the building.
After, with the blood washed from his face and the gel washed from his hair, Jisung sits on the cramped desk of their hotel room while Minho finishes up their statement report on the space beside him. He twirls the bouquet in his hand idly, initially white tulips that are now more stalk than bloodstained petal.
He looks at them a moment more before he nudges Minho with a knee to his arm. “Hey.”
Minho looks up, low light of the desk lamp highlighting his bare face before Jisung shoves the bouquet against him.
“Wanna get married?”
Minho arches a single brow. “You know I’m the one who got you those.”
“You didn’t even buy them! You pried them from someone’s cold dead hands,” Jisung scoffs.
“Which should make it even more meaningful. I risked my life, and now you’re trying to return them. Kind of a dick move, princess.” He pushes Jisung’s hand away.
“Risked your life against what, blood on your Louboutins? You know the bottoms are already red, right? It doesn’t make any difference.”
“They’re Louis Vuitton. You want me to marry you when you don’t even know which shoes I wear?”
“Does it matter? Am I gonna be marrying the shoes or you?”
Minho rolls his eyes and digs his elbow into Jisung’s thigh until he pulls his leg away, and Jisung tries not to think about the fact that he hadn’t said no.