You all wanted more, so I'm happy to deliver some Namjin feels. This takes place somewhere down the line when Namjoon and Seokjin have been together for a while.

“Namjoon?” Seokjin’s voice echoed down the deserted hallway.

Air conditioning blew faintly through the vents and his tennis shoes squeaked awkwardly with every step. Normally Yoongi or Jimin would intercept him right inside the door, snatching and depositing him into a Yoongi-approved room, but the duo was strangely absent.

The blank ID card tucked in the back of his wallet still unlocked the front door, so he assumed he was welcome, but something was off. The air was too still and the hallways too quiet. Namjoon ran a tight ship, but the sounds of banging, talking, and slamming doors usually filled the building wall to wall so it buzzed with life.  

“Yoongi? Jimin?”

His breathing quickened at the lack of response, compounded with the absence of any of the security guards. There had to be a reason that no one, not even Namjoon’s strange cousin or that one guy who glared at him and pantomimed slitting his throat every time they saw each other, was around. Where did they all go?

Maybe they were dead, killed by a rival group. Or maybe someone tipped off the police and everyone was wasting away in jail. Or even worse, what if Namjoon decided that Seokjin was a waste a time, a liability, and moved his entire operation without telling him, leaving him with an empty building?

As the possibilities careened even further out of control in his mind, Seokjin tentatively made his way down a familiar hallway in the direction of Namjoon’s office. If he opened the door to find the man lounging in his overstuffed leather chair without a care in the world, Seokjin was going to punch him in the mouth.

Making him worry like this was totally not cool.

---

“…of course, Mr. Kwon. Thank you.” Namjoon’s steepled fingers hovered in front of his chest before breaking apart and returning to the desk. “But I’m prepared to make a counter offer.” The collar of his starched shirt was sticking to the back of his neck, but he tamped down the urge to tug it away. He couldn’t, not with Kwon’s snake eyes boring into him from across the desk.

Yoongi and Jimin stared straight ahead, expressionless, from their positions on either side of Namjoon’s chair. Their counterparts, Mr. Lee and Mr. Dong, returned the stony gazes, an even match.

Mr. Kwon smiled, an expression almost equally handsome and frightening. “I would expect no less,” he purred. A finger absently tapped against the rim of his tumbler.

The compulsion to bare his teeth in retaliation was strong, but Namjoon resisted. Brokering any kind of deal with the head of the Kwon group was an exercise in lion-taming; the beast appeared soft and cuddly, but one wrong move ended with teeth in your throat. Their visits always concluded with Mr. Kwon silently gloating in his smug way as he gracefully dropped into the back seat of his limousine and Namjoon camped out in the kitchen in his pajamas with a pint of ice cream.

Namjoon blinked slowly and took a cleansing breath under the watchful eyes of Kwon and his bodyguards, pulled a business card from an inner pocket, and slid it across the wooden desktop. “My offer.”

All eyes shifted to Mr. Kwon’s finger as he dragged the card to the edge of the desk and flipped it over.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

Both sets of bodyguards whipped their attention to the door as the tentative raps faded. Namjoon and Mr. Kwon remained lounged in their leather chair, attention focused on each other and the business card in Mr. Kwon’s fingers.

A single shared nod between Yoongi and Mr. Dong had them stepping away from their respective charges and approaching the office door. As bodyguards, they were always prepared to face the worst and act accordingly. That being said, Yoongi wasn’t sure what to expect: the building was cleared of all extraneous personnel for Mr. Kwon’s visit to minimize the risk of any mishaps. The security posted throughout the complex should have caught any stragglers or trespassers, but he hadn’t heard anything on his earpiece. His trigger finger itched.

On a nonverbal count of three, Yoongi gracefully pulled the door open only to reveal a very relieved Seokjin. “Oh, finally!” the man groaned, unable to contain a smile. “Where is everybody, Yoongi? And is Namjoon in? I wanted to ask him-”

The second Namjoon recognized Seokjin’s voice coming in from the hallway, he felt the blood drain from his face. A nightmare was playing out before his eyes and he felt powerless to stop it.

Mr. Kwon keenly observed his reaction and was looking quite interested all of a sudden. The lazing lion was waking.

Where was the goddamn security? It didn't take seeing the expression on Yoongi’s face to know the guards would be paying for this with their blood, sweat, and tears.

Standing and ushering Seokjin from the room before he got entangled with a man who could end his life with a word was out of the question. Namjoon couldn’t afford the show of weakness and the implied lack of faith in his bodyguards. But damn, Seokjin looked so relieved to see them. Namjoon wanted wrap him in a hug and smack him upside the head at the same time.

To his credit, Yoongi only paused for a second before placing a steady hand on the chef’s shoulder to stop him from entering the room. “This is not a good time. Please take your leave.”

The unusually formal tone made Seokjin blink in surprise and do a small double take. He looked to Jimin for help or a cue on how to respond, but he remained by Namjoon, statuesque. Seokjin’s eyebrows furrowed. Namjoon was on the edge of scowling and tried to communicate that Seokjin should get the hell out of here with his stare alone.

His questioning eyes settled on Mr. Kwon, who was slouched into his chair. The navy three piece suit hugged his thin shoulders, obviously tailored, while the vest highlighted his slim torso and trim hips. Sly menace oozed from every relaxed line of his body, doubly true for his grinning eyes.

Choking on his next breath, Seokjin bowed his head low and began to back away, fingers clutching at the doorknob. That was a man who could kill on his way to dinner without any fear of a queasy stomach.

“Leaving so soon?”

The nasal voice was almost absurdly loud in the dead quiet of the room. Seokjin, even with his little experience with the mafia, picked up on a cruel, commanding quality in Kwon’s tone that stopped him in his tracks. A frantic look at Namjoon showed his hands throttling the chair’s armrests.

“His concerns are not urgent,” the boss informed Kwon, tone not inviting a response. “We, however, have business to complete.” He nodded at the business card pinched between the other man’s fingers.

To his frustration, Mr. Kwon tucked the business card into his pocket and gave it a delicate pat. This smile was just as terrifying as the last. “Nonsense, Namjoon. Our business will conclude in due time. I’m curious,” he leered at Seokjin, who was half-hidden behind Yoongi.

Seokjin’s eyes were luminous, wide from alarm in the lamp light. Namjoon cursed the aura of vulnerability he was unwittingly projecting.

“…about the man who can come directly to your office, without , interrupt a meeting, and casually call both you and your esteemed bodyguard by your first names.”

For as bold and casual as Seokjin typically acted around anyone and everyone no matter their standing, he wisely kept his mouth shut and eyes lowered.

“A new hire,” Namjoon answered, forcing nonchalance. “He is not yet accustomed to the ways in which we show respect.” He bit back the impulse to further explain Seokjin’s presence and attitude; it would be a dead giveaway, and as someone who supposedly shared the same standing as Mr. Kwon, he shouldn’t have to explain himself.

Kwon’s fingernail slowly tapped against his glass. “To think such disrespect is allowed,” he mused, voice almost wondering. “Lesser organizations have fallen from a lack of proper regard for the rules, Namjoon. It is a dangerous game to play.”

If Namjoon wanted an example of disrespect, he had to look no further than across the desk. “And many risk the same collapse at the mercy of inbreeding and weak, old blood,” he countered. “Fresh recruits are essential to our work and legacies, Jiyong. I’m playing the long game.” The name was unnatural as it rolled off his tongue. Despite the man’s assertions that they should be on a first name basis, Namjoon could only bring himself to say it during their meetings.

No one so much as twitched as Mr. Kwon mulled this over. Seokjin’s legs were shaking. Jimin, Yoongi, Mr. Dong, and Mr. Lee remained conscious of each other, like a child’s hypervigilance around a dog that’s known to bite.

The flick of a finger against glass sent a warbling ring threading through the tension. “I suppose there is always time to learn the rules, the proper respect.” Mr. Kwon’s stare bored into Seokjin’s head until the chef finally met the man’s gaze as if dragged by a physical force. “Just what was so urgent that you went straight to Namjoon, boy?”

The moniker “boy” rankled, but Seokjin’s panic easily overwhelmed the feeling.  Fortunately, his bravado was so overdeveloped that he managed to answer almost immediately. It was the right move; letting Namjoon, Yoongi, or Jimin answer a direct question would make Seokjin appear weak and Mr. Kwon would wonder why they were so protective.

What it boiled down to is that he got himself into this mess, so it was about high time he got himself out.

Seokjin swallowed and hoped the sweat suddenly beading on his forehead wasn’t visible from across the room. “My apologies for the interruption,” he said, bowing smooth and low. “If I had known such an esteemed guest were on the premises, I would have looked elsewhere for assistance.”

Mr. Kwon’s eyes lit up in amusement and a softly curling surprise. “And the problem?”

Seokjin’s brain scrambled for a plausible excuse that wouldn’t throw Namjoon under the bus. The weight of Mr. Kwon’s expectation bogged down his thoughts, but before total despair set in, his mind latched onto the laughing face of Namjoon’s elder cousin. Perfect. He cleared his throat. “Of course. There is a situation with Mr. Lee that requires Mr. Kim’s attention.” Code for “Your crazy cousin’s throwing a fit, would you please smack some common sense into him?”

Though it was a lie, Donghae caused trouble often enough that Namjoon, Yoongi, and Jimin would be able to play along without a problem.

“Ah, the notorious Donghae,” Mr. Kwon murmured, taking a sip of his scotch. “Ready to stir things up at the drop of a hat. I’m not surprised his personality is too much for such a newbie to handle, particularly one who hasn’t learned to cater to his numerous whims.”

“Lee Donghae is a respected member of my organization,” Namjoon admonished mildly, taking a burning swig of his own scotch. It was a difficult task to indirectly call Kwon out for his rudeness, but it had to be done. He couldn’t allow another boss to talk about his people in such a way even if it were true. His heartbeat was finally beginning to slow. Seokjin was doing beautifully. If they played this right, the chef could be out of the room in under a minute, safe from Kwon’s evaluating eyes and even more dangerous interest.

Seokjin inclined his head toward Namjoon before speaking. “Mr. Lee’s wishes are perfectly reasonable. It was my mistake that his lunch contained shrimp.” He recalled hearing multiple versions of a certain incident in which Donghae happened upon a bag of frozen shrimp with legs while rooting around for ice cream, screamed and dropped the bag, which then broke open and scattered across the floor, and was found curled up on the countertop a half hour later. According to Donghae, seafood with eyes or legs was the stuff of nightmares.

“Your mistake…?”

“He is one of our new chefs,” Namjoon clarified. “And as such, should be returning to the kitchen.” He waved a hand in Seokjin’s direction and sipped his drink, turning his full attention to Mr. Kwon.

It was a clear dismissal, and one Seokjin was ridiculously grateful for. Yoongi’s shoulders relaxed a fraction and Jimin tucked away a small smile.

Seokjin bowed again, and just as he was about to and beat a hasty retreat (and perhaps fall on his knees and thank whichever deity was listening), Mr. Kwon grinned. Dread coiled in Namjoon’s stomach.

“A chef, eh?” Mr. Kwon’s voice went silky smooth. “I’ve always been a lover of the gourmet.” His eyelids fell to half-mast and the curl of his lips was positively sinful.

A chill shivered down Seokjin’s back.

Yoongi and Jimin exchanged subtle horrified glances and it was all Namjoon could do not to hurl himself across the desk and punch Mr. Kwon’s smug, seductive face in.

“Let’s close the deal, shall we,” Mr. Kwon suggested, suddenly all business. He pulled the card from his pocket and repetitively tapped the corner on the desk. In anyone else it would be a nervous gesture, but Jiyong’s every movement appeared calculated. “I accept your counter proposal, though it’s a bit low for my tastes,” he said carelessly. His expression shifted into something dark and sly and Namjoon knew the hammer was about to fall.

“To compensate, give me the chef.”

The temperature in the room plummeted to glacial levels. The blood stopped in Namjoon’s veins, the breath punched out of him by those four words: “Give me the chef.” The presumption and entitlement in Kwon’s demeanor, like Seokjin was a commodity, an object easily handed over, sent his mind into a spiral of disbelief and white hot rage. There was a deafening roaring in his ears and Namjoon couldn’t even look over at Seokjin, who was no doubt in a similar state of shock.

There had to be a way to deflect the demand or renegotiate the deal, because Seokjin wasn’t going anywhere. At the same time, refusing outright would jeopardize their alliance and risk offending Mr. Kwon.

Which is why when the silence was broken by a fierce “No,” Namjoon was surprised to realize it came from his own mouth.

Mr. Kwon was about to respond, head tilted back ever so slightly in that condescending way of his, but Namjoon cut him off. “He has duties to attend here, hence his hiring. He is not a part of this deal. Take my offer as is or leave it.” Keeping the contempt from seeping into his voice had never been so difficult. His hands were outright shaking.

Yoongi repositioned himself to hide more of Seokjin from Mr. Kwon’s line of sight.

The business card tap, tap, tapped against the edge of the desk. “Oh, Namjoon, but he’s still so new, as you said yourself. Surely you won’t miss just another underling. I’ll even find a replacement, if you wish.” His tone was offhand and light, suggesting that Namjoon was being completely unreasonable.

A deep breath in through the mouth and out of the nose. Namjoon repeated this twice. He carefully placed his empty tumbler off to the side and deliberately leaned forward, fingers laced together in the middle of the desk. “If you persist in pursuing my chef,” he intoned, each word dropping like a stone, “This deal is over.” His jaw worked and he was sure his collar was soaked with sweat. “The lack of respect shown toward me and my men puts our partnership is jeopardy, Jiyong.” The most serious of threats that couldn’t be taken back. 

Hooded eyes bored into Jiyong’s face. “Do. Not. Push. Me.”

Their eyes were locked on one another. Mr. Kwon’s smug smirk was slowly straightening, flattening into a barely concealed scowl. His eyes sparked and the business card continued to tap, tap, tap.

The moment stretched and thinned as everyone waited for something to give.

Finally, Mr. Kwon tossed the card across the desk, where it bounced off Namjoon’s knuckles. “No need to be so dramatic, Namjoon. I’ve received the message loud and clear. Chef-boy is off limits.” He stood, brushing nonexistent dirt from his slacks. “Mr. Dong will deliver the payment tomorrow.” Mr. Lee, his bodyguard, helped Kwon into his coat and the group turned to leave.

Yoongi had rearranged Seokjin the minute Mr. Kwon gave in, pulling him into a corner of the room where he stood with his hands tucked behind his back and tried not to make eye contact with anyone.

Mr. Kwon stopped in the doorway, eyes sliding over the Seokjin’s timid figure. “I didn’t catch your name, chef,” he purred, confident smile returning.

Expression thunderous, Namjoon broke the line of sight with his body. “I didn’t introduce him,” he growled. “Jimin will see you out.”

Ever the contrarian, Mr. Kwon threw his head back and laughed. “So he shall. Until next time, Namjoon, Chef-boy.”

Mr. Dong and Mr. Lee nodded at Yoongi and Jimin and escorted their boss from the room. Jimin disappeared with them. A waiting security contingent would them from the premises while Yoongi locked down Namjoon’s office and did a sweep.

As soon as the door was shut and locked, Namjoon sagged into his chair and dropped his head into his hands. The anger and shock from Mr. Kwon’s attitude and proposition regarding Seokjin was still running rampant, freezing his vocal chords and making it impossible to look at his partner. Who knew what Jiyong would have done with him? There had always been rumors about Kwon’s operation, but the man was so powerful that no one dared question him.

And I almost blew it, Namjoon realized. He threatened the partnership of their organizations. It was like a goldfish trying to conquer a shark. The fallout of upsetting Mr. Kwon was almost unthinkable, but then again, Namjoon always had a good imagination. The bodies, the whole building burned down to the foundation, dead eyes accusing him. Seokjin’s eyes, dead or wishing they were. Oh god.

He was going to be sick.

“Namjoon, calm down. I’m okay, we’re all okay. He’s gone. Please calm down.”

Seokjin’s voice penetrated the storm of Namjoon’s thoughts and he slowly became aware that his breathing was rapid, ragged, and gasping. The image of dead Yoongi, Jimin, Seokjin, and countless other wouldn’t be shaken from is mind. He latched onto Seokjin’s arms and tried to think of anything else.  He almost lost Seokjin today.

“I think you’re having a panic attack. You need to breathe slowly. Everything’s okay, I promise.”

Namjoon was shaking so badly he was afraid his teeth would rattle out of his head. The scotch roiled in his stomach, burning him from the inside out, and the dread of what could happen with Mr. Kwon smothered him. The chair tipped beneath him, or maybe he was falling down and forward, but he was swept into a tight embrace. Everything was swelteringly hot and he had the hysterical thought that he’d have to get shirt washed and the damn collar starched again.

The soothing murmurs from Seokjin helped marginally. Namjoon shoved his head into the man’s shoulder and tried to control his breathing so it was no longer ripping from his lungs. “Stop, stop, stop,” he chanted compulsively, focusing on the overly warm hands his back in even circles. “Stop, stop, stop, stop, stop, stop, stop…” as if the words would command his body to work.

Painful minutes inched by, but Seokjin never stopped murmuring in his ear or rubbing his back. Control came back in increments while Namjoon focused on his sense of touch and the safety of being with Seokjin. Mr. Kwon was gone and wouldn’t be back for a long while. He didn’t seem too angry about his defeat, thank god.

Namjoon waited until his breathing was slow and steady before he straightened and rubbed his sleeve across his eyes. He pushed away from Seokjin just enough so they could see each other. “Don’t ever do that again,” he ordered, voice rough.

“It was an accident, you know,” Seokjin snapped defensively. He could hear the warble in his own voice as he fought to keep his composure. Watching someone else have a panic attack was about as scary as the prospect of being taken home as a door prize by a mobster. “But you have to admit that I was pretty good at it,” he grumbled.

The chef gasped when Namjoon’s hand dug into the collar of his shirt and twisted. “No!” The boss’s breathing grew heavier. “You’re not getting involved in this. The wrong words could have gotten you killed, or sent home with him. If you try to get involved in this business, we’re done.” He didn’t mean to shake Seokjin, but his hand was trembling badly and his grip precarious at best.

“You think I didn’t realize that?” Seokjin said half-hysterically, prying Namjoon’s fist from his shirt and shoving it to his side. He crushed Namjoon into his chest so the man wouldn’t see the tears welling in his eyes, about to spill over. “Yeah, Namjoon, all I wanted was some creepy mob boss to eye me like a piece of meat! It’s totally convinced me to dive head first into the criminal underworld. This is the life for me, alright.”

Despite the sarcasm, that was truer than Seokjin originally intended. He did, in fact, want this life –a life at Namjoon’s side. He just didn’t want the intrigue and murder that came part and parcel with romancing a mob boss.

That realization, along with the lingering shock, meant that Seokjin was about to shake apart. If he hadn’t played the part of subservient new chef perfectly, if he wasn’t able to think of a legitimate excuse, Namjoon would have been screwed. His standing among the other organizations depended on carefully choreographed meetings, half-truths, and the ability to out-bluff everyone else at the table, all of which was almost ruined by his inconvenient ing visit.

He was on a roll now. “And don’t you dare,” he croaked, wiping his tears into Namjoon’s mussed hair. “Don’t you ever threaten our relationship like that again, you son of a . You may be a man of questionable morals and an even more questionable sense of style, but I love you and you don’t get to threaten us like that. I know where you sleep and I am not afraid to retaliate.” He jabbed his chin into the top of Namjoon’s head with a vengeance.

Muffled squawking drove Seokjin to pull Namjoon’s head from his shoulder, but their tight grip on each other meant he didn’t go far.

“Ow, ow, ow. You’re chin’s poking a hole in my head,” the mob boss said miserably.

“…sorry,” Seokjin murmured. His jaw trembled with the effort of keeping the occasional hiccupping sob trapped inside.

There was a loud sniffle against his shoulder. “I’m sorry too,” Namjoon mumbled. “I’m just afraid of what could’ve happened if he got his hands on you.”

They sat in silence for a minute, just breathing. “Are you okay? No more panic attacks?”

“Yeah,” Namjoon sighed, grinding his forehead into Seokjin’s collarbone and wiping his blotchy face on his shirt. “It hasn’t happened for a while. Just sometimes when I’m stressed out.”

“Good to know.” Seokjin gave him a squeeze and began the complicated process of untangling their limbs. “C’mon. We both need a tissue and Yoongi’s probably stuck outside listening to our ugly crying.”

Namjoon grunted, but let Seokjin drag him to his feet. Instead of a box of tissues, he got Seokjin’s hand in his face, gently wiping his damp cheeks. “I can do it myself,” he grumbled.

“I know,” was Seokjin’s simple reply. “…you can always come talk to me when you’re stressed, just so you know. Please, don’t tell me the details, but I’m here if you need to talk.”

“Thanks.” He leaned against his desk and sighed again, rubbing at his sore chest. Overall, he was a bundle of exhausted aches and nerves, not to mention he continued to be deprived of his post-Kwon pint of ice cream. Maybe he could split it with Seokjin. They could curl up in their pajamas on the couch and watch some ty TV until they both passed out.

“The next time I see Kwon, I’m going to shoot him.” This was said completely seriously as Namjoon stared down at his hands.

Seokjin slid his hands into his partner’s and stepped in between his legs. “I know I said I don’t want to get involved in any of this mob , but just this once, I’ll help you hide the body.”

Namjoon chuckled, rubbing a thumb over Seokjin’s knuckles. “It’s a date.”