missfortune
Jeongguk, despite everything, likes the Mediterranean. It's been a while since he'd last been assigned a mission here: the sight of the cerulean sea, the heat and the spicy food.
All's perfect. Jeongguk drops his shoulders and moves a bit further to the right.
Because there, right under a parasol, a table overflowing with food, sits the third son for the leader of the most important criminal organization in the north hemisphere. He's wearing black and Jeongguk... Jeongguk had always thought he looked better in white but now he can't decide.
"Kim Taehyung," Jeongguk says under his breath, "always a pleasure to meet you."
---
Jeongguk, despite everything, likes the Mediterranean. It's been a while since he'd last been assigned a mission here and the sight of the cerulean sea, the heat and the spicy food have him reminiscing about the past.
He should be grateful Namjoon has decided to trust him with this again. Actually, he should be grateful none of the other agents are as good as him, leaving his boss with no other choice than hand back their most important mission to him. The memory of Namjoon's face, kept cryptically stoic above his clear disapproval as he handed him the folder over was enough to have Jeongguk smiling.
"Would you like any more tea, sir?" a solicitous waitress comes to ask him in broken English.
"I'm great, thank you," Jeongguk nods in her direction, following the way she moves around the other patrons, jar in hand to refill their glasses.
Jeongguk pushes his shades higher on his face and takes his phone in hand. He aimlessly scrolls down the stock market news while his eyes study the ambience around him.
A German couple sitting on his right. They speak leisurely, enjoying their vacation in the balcony of the most luxurious hotel Morocco has to offer. On his left sits a family of four, Indian, from the likes of it. Jeongguk knows an elderly lady is sitting behind him, British, and the two American women who'd shot him looks when he walked past them are now complaining about the bread's quality to the waitress.
All's perfect. Jeongguk drops his shoulders and moves a bit further to the right, being able to aim his camera right above the German woman's shoulder.
Because there, right under a parasol, a table overflowing with food, sits the third son for the leader of the most important criminal organization in the north hemisphere. He's wearing black and Jeongguk... Jeongguk had always thought he looked better in white but now he can't decide. He's in jeans shorts that barely cover his ass, and those legs, god, are going to be the death of Jeongguk. Tanned and long, shapely and supple, a sandaled foot moving up and down leisurely while he studies the menu.
"Kim Taehyung," Jeongguk says under his breath, "always a pleasure to meet you." He snaps a picture. Namjoon likes those, likes knowing Jeongguk had been able to get so close to his target. He always does, that is, gets the closest anyone's ever been to Taehyung.
Taehyung pouts, lips painted red with a lipstick that's surely the latest trend in Paris. One of his fingers, thin and delicate, adorned with a single silver ring, rubs the skin of his own neck as he fights to decide what to order, still valiantly reading the menu over. Even with all the food laid in front of him, he's not satisfied. Pretty little thing.
Taehyung raises the same finger Jeongguk'd been studying, the metal glinting under the sun's light. A nice piece of jewellery, shaped to Taehyung's precise measurements by one of the most experienced jewellers in all of Istanbul, a personal friend of Jeongguk's. Jeongguk got it one and a half year ago, right after Tehran. Oh, Tehran.
