Bts sickfics, hurt & comfort

Call 112 (Namjoon)

Namjoon's POV.

The buttons on his phone have never responded less fast to his attempt at typing. It might have something to do with time slowing down. Or maybe it's his fingers that are shaking too much. Who knows.

**two hours ago**

It's a quiet day off for the boys, and Namjoon is planning to rest as much as he can for once. He usually goes out and loves to visit museums and walk in nature, but today he's staying home. So he takes a nice bath to start off his day, then he sits on his balcony for a while, soaking up as much sunlight as he can. He lights up a few candles around the living room. Yes, a day off was very much deserved and overdue. I'm getting old, he thinks.

He hasn't gone to pick up his dog from the daycare that takes care of him while he's too busy touring. He hasn't bought any groceries and he hasn't gone jogging either. Today is about doing nothing. So Namjoon opens Netflix for the first time in ages, impressed to discover the "random" feature that they added probably long ago. He decides to watch the second movie that comes up, but it's really not that good and his feet lead him to his bookshelf before he can even begin to understand the plot.

He's read them all, all except one. It's in Japanese and that's why he didn't give the novel a try yet, but it seems like the perfect moment to finally get to it. He's about three chapters in when he hears voices outside of his apartment. At first he doesn't pay much attention to it, assuming that it's simply maintenance or his neighbours walking past, but then he hears the doorknob turn. Or rather, someone attempting to get it to turn. He hears someone punching some numbers on the security pad that keeps it locked. It doesn't work. They try again.

Namjoon is frozen on the couch. He doesn't know where to go or if he should say something. His genius brain feels empty when he realises that whoever is outside of his door is planning on breaking in. He's about to warn them and say that he called the police -which would be a bluff, but the words never leave his mouth because he hears the door break open and he sprints to his bedroom before they can see him. He was probably too loud, there's no way they didn't hear him running to his room. He panics. His hazy mind leads him to the end of the corridor.

The voices tell Namjoon that at least two men are in his apartment. He looks around frantically, trying to find a place to hide and cursing himself for panicking. He looks at his bed, but the frame is too low and not even Yoongi could fit under it. He lives too far up to jump from the window and he isn't planning to die today or anytime soon, so there's not much of a choice. The only option left is the closet, and Namjoon rushes to it, closing the door as quietly as possible and doing his best at hiding behind a bunch of clothes in case someone were to open it in a hurry. He realises that the chances of him not being found are slim.

But then Namjoon hears them talk and he realises that maybe he does stand a chance after all. The men seem to be here for the art pieces scattered around his apartment, especially his newest addition, a big painting that he's hung on his living room wall. He knows now that posting a selca on Weverse with the painting visible was probably not the smartest move. Its artist wasn't that well-known to the general public but it was still an expensive piece, and anyone remotely paying attention to art auctions would be able to tell that this one was worth more than it seemed. And now Namjoon had basically told the whole world that he had such artwork casually sitting in his living room. And now strangers broke into his house to get it.

He hears the men move his stuff around, pushing chairs and throwing stuff on the ground as they look for valuables. He winces. Sure enough material objects can always be bought again, but art is unique and quite frankly the sound of his belongings getting destroyed adds to his startled state. Struggling to breathe as quietly as possible, Namjoon tries to pay attention to their movements while he reaches for his phone in his pocket. He hears them cross the doorway to his bedroom and open a drawer or two. He stills. The buttons on his phone have never responded less fast to his attempt at typing. It might have something to do with time slowing down. Or maybe it's his fingers that are shaking too much. Who knows. He opens the first contact he can think of -someone who always answers the phone, and starts typing.