Seokhan / Dear diary, my fiancé is a spy!

[notlettuce]

Jeonghan is a spy and ends up marrying Seokmin without revealing the real reason his business trips happen so erratically and like, where all those weird bruises come from.

Naturally, Seokmin finds out eventually.

This was written for ao3 user lithomancy as her birthday fic, and I re-wrote it so many times. This was the most happy and light hearted version of them all, but I just couldn't seem to get the tone and narrative where I wanted it. But I like this, even if it's not what I needed it to be. 

(T / 2557) 

 

 

This love story started like most others do. You won’t believe me once we get to the middle of it, but try to keep an open mind. This is excellent advice in general, but I am referring specifically to you reading this story. 

 

It will help. Trust me. 

 

 

HERE IS SOME CONTEXT

 

 

Meet Seokmin. He’s great. When he was twelve, he burnt a pizza to charcoal because he thought the oven would automatically turn off once the food was ready. The smoke alarm woke his mother from her afternoon nap and the smell lingered in the carpet for weeks. 

 

That was the day he decided he’d be a chef. Life is all about learning from your mistakes--he believed this with all his heart. He still does. His mother told him it would be a difficult career and tried to dissuade him from it, but life is also about fighting for what you love, so Seokmin persevered until he succeeded. It was treacherous and punishing: early mornings and long days, flour ending up in places it didn’t belong, nights spent second-guessing if it was worth it to be yelled at so constantly, pillowcases soaked with tears, and the ring-ring-ring of that damn bell constantly echoing around his brain like buzzards. 

 

The years were difficult, but they passed. The thing about Lee Seokmin is that he doesn’t give up. Not on himself, not on his dreams, not on other people. 

 

On his twenty-sixth birthday he received a set of keys to his very own restaurant--an Italian-style joint tucked under bright red awnings and trees that wilt in the summer. He spends almost every day there, making food for people; building a home for first dates and families and friends so excited to be around each other they spill out of their seats, their laughter chasing the servers into the kitchen. 

 

It isn’t easy, but it is what he worked for. He tells himself it’s enough when he goes home to an empty apartment every night, pushing down dreams about cooking for someone else, having them look at him like they understand what it means. It’s okay. Life is about… sacrifices. Maybe he will have time for love later on in his life.

 

But enough about him. Let’s meet the other half of the equation.

 

Yoon Jeonghan. Intelligent. Cunning. Beautiful. If you want to know about his childhood, you’ll have to ask him yourself. Everything prior to his eighteenth birthday is crossed out and buried under an ocean’s worth of repression techniques. Knowing him, it’s probably booby trapped, too, so I wouldn’t recommend it. 

 

Besides, mystery keeps things sexy! It’s not lying if you’ve made a game out of hiding the truth. And Jeonghan’s entire life revolves around hiding the truth. 

 

He didn’t exactly dream of becoming a spy when he was a child. Truthfully, he didn’t dream of becoming anything. He had a pretty normal life until his family died in a tragic accident and left him alone, and he had no choice except to get over it. 

 

After that, he sort of just let things happen. He watched his life play out like a movie. Getting recruited into a top-secret academy by his best friend was just another twist in the plot.

 

Fast forward a decade and Jeonghan has eleven passports and no permanent home address. He’s been all over the world. He’s broken an embarrassing number of bones in his body and he has taken lives in order to save hundreds more. He’s also taken lives when it wasn’t part of the assignment, because he’s human, and he still gets emotional even though he’s not supposed to. 

 

He still gets nightmares, but he convinces the agency’s therapist that everything is fine. She never looks like she believes him, says stuff like, “Wanting someone to love you isn’t a weakness, Jeonghan-ssi.” As though love has anything to do with the job. 

 

What is it about these lives that intersect? 

 

Anyone with half a brain can see that Lee Seokmin and Yoon Jeonghan don’t exactly have diverging life paths. One of them has never left the country and the other is unwelcome in sixteen of them. (Seventeen if you count Brazil, but that wasn’t Jeonghan’s fault, no matter what Seungcheol will tell you.) 

 

So it’s impossible, then. Love does have limits, and Disney was lying to us all along. The best we can hope for is that Seokmin and Jeonghan pass each other on the street and become another misplaced face in each others’ dreams. Seokmin gushes to his coworkers about the beautiful man he saw by the bus stop and Jeonghan fantasises about the tall guy with a gorgeous smile so vividly it embarrasses him. 

 

So fate is a myth and romance is only for the fortunate few.

 

But, oh. 

 

Not at all. 

 

 

“ITALIAN FOOD IS OVERRATED,” AND OTHER STATEMENTS

THAT WILL HELP YOU LOSE FRIENDS

 

 

“It’s past eight. You should head home,” says Seungcheol. He’s the sensible one. He’s also the one that recruited Jeonghan into a life of espionage. Either way, he’s charming, kind, and he worries too much in general. 

 

A handler with anxiety. Jeonghan has seen stranger things. 

 

“Since when is eight o’clock home time?” he asks around the pen between his teeth. 

 

“Since I said so. You’ve been here long enough. Jihoon and I can wrap up the recon plans by midnight.” He snatches the blueprints away just before Jeonghan can circle something important.

 

“Hey,” Jeonghan whines.

 

“Go home, Jeonghan-ah,” Seungcheol says gently. 

 

 “Fine,” Jeonghan concedes. “I need to eat, anyway. I’m starving.”

 

“Oh, you should try the Italian place two streets down. The one with the red roof. Shua and I went last week and it’s the best pizza I’ve ever had.”

 

Jeonghan raises an eyebrow. “You’ve been to Naples.”

 

“I said what I said.”

 

“Hm. Maybe. I don’t know if I feel like it.” Jeonghan pouts, just to be difficult. Or maybe he likes to be convinced. “Italian food is overrated.”

 

“Heretic,” Seungcheol scoffs. “Just go to the restaurant.”

 

Jeonghan grins. “Okayyyy,” he drawls, “but only so I can prove you wrong.”

 

 

 

 

The restaurant is small yet cosy. A soft ballad is playing amongst the conversations and the ceiling is covered in fake ivy; it looks kind of tacky, but Jeonghan likes it. 

 

A skinny guy with an awkward smile guides him to a table by the back corner and when he asks what Jeonghan would like to order, Jeonghan asks to be surprised. 

 

Unfortunately, it’s the best pizza he’s ever had.

 

The first bite makes him want to moan out loud. The second makes him see God. He eats three quarters of it before his stomach starts to protest, then he finishes it anyway.

 

“How was everything?” the waiter asks as he clears the table.

 

Jeonghan slumps back against the chair and says, “My compliments to the chef. Holy shit.”

 

The waiter laughs: a clunky series of ha-ha-ha’s that sound like he’s reading from a script. “I’ll pass on the message,” he says. “He’ll be glad to hear it.”

 

Jeonghan imagines some old Italian man tossing pizza dough into the air like they do in the movies. He’d go and see for himself, but he’s too sleepy from the food to act on his curiosities. Next time, perhaps.

 

 

 

 

‘Next time’ happens embarrassingly soon. Before long, Jeonghan finds himself drifting back down the same street several times a week. 

 

In his line of work, it’s bad to form habits where other people can see; routine is what gets people caught, or killed. Jeonghan knows that better than anyone. 

 

It’s just--

 

The restaurant is always so warm and welcoming. Everyone there seems happy and comfortable and normal. It’s a far cry from the quiet, lonely four walls of Jeonghan’s apartment, or the sterile offices at headquarters. 

 

The waiter--Wonwoo--starts to recognise him after the third night, and he always leads Jeonghan to the same table. It feels nice. Jeonghan doesn’t let himself have a lot, so he lets himself have this.

 

As if that wasn’t enough, the food continues to be wonderful. Wonwoo stops giving him a menu because he always asks to be surprised, and somehow Jeonghan always gets exactly what he felt like eating that day, even when he didn’t know what he wanted. It’s like magic. 

 

“Compliments to the chef” starts to sound a lot like “This is the best part of my day.” 

 

Jeonghan wonders if anyone else can tell.

 

 

 

 

The mission goes well. Jeonghan dresses up and sharpens his tongue and within two hours the target is spilling her secrets directly into his waiting palms. Jihoon gives him the green light through his earpiece, and Jeonghan politely excuses himself from the booth and doesn’t return. 

 

“It’s like she wants him to get caught,” Jihoon says as Jeonghan breaks into the safe in her hotel room, two buildings down. He pulls out a manilla envelope and makes sure Jihoon sees it through his lapel camera before it gets tucked into his inside pocket. 

 

“Fine by me,” he says. “Are we done?”

 

“Yeah. Valet’s bringing a car for you now. Silver CLS-Class.”

 

“Not the Mercedes,” Jeonghan whines, making a face in the elevator mirror so Jihoon can see. “Can’t I get something a little more noisy?”

 

Jihoon sighs, but when Jeonghan steps outside, a white Maserati GranTurismo pulls up to the curb. 

 

Jeonghan speeds back to the rendez-vous point with the windows down. The noise is terrible. Wind like knives against his neck. He welcomes it.

 

 

 

 

“Hey,” Wonwoo says, smiling wide, “It’s been a while.”

 

Jeonghan startles. The door to the restaurant closes slowly behind him, clipping his arm where he didn’t move out of the way in time. It’s a terrible time to realise that he hasn’t been in one place long enough to be recognised by anyone other than his coworkers in… months. Years. He had almost forgotten how nice it felt.

 

He recovers with a tired smile.

 

“Work’s been busy,” he says. He’s too worn out to lie. His flight landed three hours ago. He got home, showered, and came straight here. He’s wearing sweatpants and slides and the ends of his hair are still wet. He feels a belated wave of embarrassment that he doesn’t allow to reach his face.

 

“Well, your table’s taken, I’m afraid,” Wonwoo says, sounding sincerely apologetic about it. “Where do you want to sit?” He grins. “Or should I surprise you?”

 

Jeonghan’s smile turns genuine. He nods. Wonwoo leads him to the table right beside the kitchen, close enough that he can see inside if he leans back in his chair. It’s a weird choice, but Jeonghan doesn’t comment on it. He just watches Wonwoo fuss around him, pouring water and straightening the cutlery.

 

“Thanks,” he says quietly. 

 

“You’re welcome,” Wonwoo says, matching his volume. He’s sweet. Jeonghan doesn’t like a lot of people, but he likes Wonwoo. 

 

Jeonghan plays a sad round of Sudoku on his phone while he waits for his meal. It doesn’t take long for the tiny bell to ring inside the kitchen, and footsteps approach.

 

“Spaghetti carbonara with extra cheese.” A plate glides smoothly onto the table and Jeonghan pockets his phone to be polite. 

 

“Thanks,” he says, looking up to smile at Wonwoo.

 

But. Oh. 

 

That’s not Wonwoo.

 

A man Jeonghan has never seen before is smiling down at him like they know each other. He’s tall, broad, generously filling out the t-shirt beneath his apron. Jeonghan scans him like he’s a target: head to hips, shoulder to shoulder. There’s so much of him. He’s disarmingly handsome, dark hair and kind eyes and a smile that grows and grows the longer Jeonghan stares at him.

 

“Enjoy your meal,” he tells Jeonghan at last, eyes made into moon-crescents, flour-covered hands pressed to his thighs as he bows. 

 

Jeonghan thanks him again, and then he’s gone.

 

Wonwoo wanders over once he’s escorted the last customers out and starts cleaning the tables around Jeonghan. He didn’t even realise he was the last person here. He starts to eat faster but Wonwoo says, “No, it’s fine. Take your time.” He cleans up the other tables and stacks the chairs. Jeonghan feels like he’s part of a secret, watching it all happen. Wonwoo doesn’t force conversation, and for that, Jeonghan is grateful.

 

Until.

 

“So. Did he finally introduce himself?” Wonwoo asks as he’s counting the cash.

 

Jeonghan plays dumb. “Who?” he asks his spaghetti.

 

“Seokmin. Y’know… the chef that you’ve been complimenting?”

 

Jeonghan focuses on not choking for a second, then he drops his voice below the sounds coming from the kitchen--voices and dishes and laughter--and asks, “That’s him?” 

 

“Yeah,” Wonwoo laughs, “He owns the place. I’m surprised you haven’t seen him walking around when you’re here--he loves doing that weird chef stroll where he comes out and checks that everyone is enjoying their food.”

 

Jeonghan pictures Seokmin walking out of the kitchen with his beautiful arms stacked with plates, delivering them to the tables of families he always sees when he comes in earlier. He’d probably crouch down to be at eye level with the kids. Ask if their spaghetti was up to standards. Smile at whatever they had to say, even if it was total nonsense.

 

The thought surprises Jeonghan. He’s never been one to find that kind of attentiveness appealing in another person. His coworkers are good people, of course, but it’s different. Love, for them, is about being prepared for the worst outcome and getting out alive. It’s full of adrenaline and history and pulling each other through the shittiest experiences life has to offer.

 

There’s something about feeding strangers and caring enough to ask if they’re enjoying it or not that just feels… kind. Devastatingly so. 

 

He looks over at the kitchen, and he wonders.

 

“Did you want me to get a takeaway container?” Wonwoo asks tentatively. He blinks rapidly when Jeonghan looks back at him. “Are you… are you done?”

 

“Oh. Yes. Thank you, Wonwoo-ssi.”

 

Wonwoo goes off to collect a container and Jeonghan vows never to come back to this restaurant ever again. 

 

Ten seconds in Seokmin’s presence. That’s all it took for Jeonghan to start thinking about the most dangerous thing he can imagine in his line of work: staying in one place. 

 

Jeonghan knows himself. Much better than he ever hoped to. Once he wants something, he wants it, and he doesn’t stop until he gets it. He can already feel the telltale simmer in his chest, his belly, the tips of his fingers; his ego rearing its pretty head to say he could walk through that door and call Seokmin’s name and have him on his knees within minutes. 

 

He could have him.

 

No. He’s not doing this. Jeonghan rubs a hand down his face, exhaling tightly. If this is what ten seconds has done, then he cannot afford to risk anything more.

 

He pays Wonwoo too much, then he leaves. 

 

It was good while it lasted. 

 

 

I’M SORRY SIR, WE CANNOT ACCEPT “I’M IN LOVE” 

AS A CLAIM ON YOUR CURRENT INSURANCE PLAN

 

[This is where Seokmin’s POV kicks in. Pour one out for what could have been.]