"Those are the Chances we Take" Eunhae AU [1/?]
Title: "Those are the Chances we Take"
Pairing: Eunhyuk/Donghae (Eunhae) Because I'm really original.
Rating: PG-13 in this chapter
Summary: Detectives get caught up in weird and dangerous situations and meet with even more dangerous people on their way. That's the life of the private detective. Lee Donghae is not the exception. AU
Warnings: Guns, lame attempts of smart dialogue, violence, detectives, suits, mocking of deficient fashion sense.
Beta: My better halfwookism
A/N: You are very much welcome to punch me for starting another story, but I couldn't help myself. If you've been reading my werewolf AU, don't worry, the third chapter is almost finished. This universe in particular will take more effort since I have to research a little (mainly about guns and such). I hope you enjoy this short chapter and leave some love on the comments~
He would think he was in some kind of movie if it wasn't because he doubted a hero of the big screen would have to help an old lady to find out if his (cheating, bastard, piece of shit, waste of air) ex husband was treating their (adorable, cute, perfect) dog, because of course he had to take the animal with him as some sort of twisted revenge. He would never understand rich people.
Idiotic but profitable works aside, he though he could dream about being some kind of character in an exciting but dark story, he would be the detective, always looking out the window of his office, coffee in one hand and some documents on the other (never a cigarette, not even his romantic self would make him smoke, it was about the stench in his clothes), the rain would fall heavily, and some unfortunate pedestrians would be running trying to shelter themselves from the sudden bad weather. An offended scream would be heard, a car splashed a woman and her expensive dress would be ruined; the car wouldn't even slow down. He would listen to a sigh not even noticing it was his.
It would be black and white because he liked the way the lack of color portrayed the city, the effect played with imagination, his imagination, any imagination. The car could be green, or black, or red, the lady's ruined dress could be made of red silk or maybe some gray disgustingly expensive fabric. Whatever it is, he would surely be thinking about his last case, an easy one, he would say, some old school tailing of a mafia member to get enough proof to incriminate him, a request from an old friend from the police; he would do it, he wasn't bound to legality, anyway.
Lost in his thoughts he would hear a faint knock on his door, more like caresses than hits, the door would open and a beautiful lady will appear; expensive dress, a leather purse, covered in tasteful jewels, beautiful lips, beautiful body, evil eyes. She would float around his office and will tell him, in an affected and whispering voice about her tragedy, how awful her life was due to some sort of circumstances (his mind was too busy picturing the girl to bother himself in imagining the case too), and will tell him that he'll be covered with money at the end of the month if everything worked.
His fantasy would always end like that, it was like a curse, as if his own mind was telling him that this scenario will never be, and he was an idiot for spending so much time just thinking about what would be.
Until it was.
It wasn't in black and white, and he was wearing a brown jacket, white shirt, some old pants, a black tie and worn out hat. His office still had the same ugly flowery yellow wallpaper that he could never afford to change, his desk was second hand and the wood was peeling on the sides. It wasn't even raining, and there was no disgustingly rich lady being splashed by a car.
The only things that fitted with his fantasy was him daydreaming (but that was routine), and the shy knock on his office's door. He expected an exuberant woman entering with a cold look in his eyes, and a sexy pout, all wrapped in a silk dress (the color was subject of modification).
The guy (guy!) that entered to his office, was dressed with a nice gray suit, a little dirty, but clearly expensive, a black tie and white shirt, leather shoes, and an overall rich boy aura.
He forgot all about his fantasy and expected to be trusted with some sort of stupid easy case.
The guy's voice was a hurried whisper “Are you Donghae?”
He learned to never give information before getting something in exchange so he raised an eyebrow and waited.
“Well.” the unknown guy continued “The horrible office and your ugly clothes make me believe you are”
“Hey, my clothes are not ugly.” The guy smiled. Shit.
“So you are Donghae.”
Then he shot the discovered Donghae on the leg.
NEXT
Pairing: Eunhyuk/Donghae (Eunhae) Because I'm really original.
Rating: PG-13 in this chapter
Summary: Detectives get caught up in weird and dangerous situations and meet with even more dangerous people on their way. That's the life of the private detective. Lee Donghae is not the exception. AU
Warnings: Guns, lame attempts of smart dialogue, violence, detectives, suits, mocking of deficient fashion sense.
Beta: My better halfwookism
A/N: You are very much welcome to punch me for starting another story, but I couldn't help myself. If you've been reading my werewolf AU, don't worry, the third chapter is almost finished. This universe in particular will take more effort since I have to research a little (mainly about guns and such). I hope you enjoy this short chapter and leave some love on the comments~
He would think he was in some kind of movie if it wasn't because he doubted a hero of the big screen would have to help an old lady to find out if his (cheating, bastard, piece of shit, waste of air) ex husband was treating their (adorable, cute, perfect) dog, because of course he had to take the animal with him as some sort of twisted revenge. He would never understand rich people.
Idiotic but profitable works aside, he though he could dream about being some kind of character in an exciting but dark story, he would be the detective, always looking out the window of his office, coffee in one hand and some documents on the other (never a cigarette, not even his romantic self would make him smoke, it was about the stench in his clothes), the rain would fall heavily, and some unfortunate pedestrians would be running trying to shelter themselves from the sudden bad weather. An offended scream would be heard, a car splashed a woman and her expensive dress would be ruined; the car wouldn't even slow down. He would listen to a sigh not even noticing it was his.
It would be black and white because he liked the way the lack of color portrayed the city, the effect played with imagination, his imagination, any imagination. The car could be green, or black, or red, the lady's ruined dress could be made of red silk or maybe some gray disgustingly expensive fabric. Whatever it is, he would surely be thinking about his last case, an easy one, he would say, some old school tailing of a mafia member to get enough proof to incriminate him, a request from an old friend from the police; he would do it, he wasn't bound to legality, anyway.
Lost in his thoughts he would hear a faint knock on his door, more like caresses than hits, the door would open and a beautiful lady will appear; expensive dress, a leather purse, covered in tasteful jewels, beautiful lips, beautiful body, evil eyes. She would float around his office and will tell him, in an affected and whispering voice about her tragedy, how awful her life was due to some sort of circumstances (his mind was too busy picturing the girl to bother himself in imagining the case too), and will tell him that he'll be covered with money at the end of the month if everything worked.
His fantasy would always end like that, it was like a curse, as if his own mind was telling him that this scenario will never be, and he was an idiot for spending so much time just thinking about what would be.
Until it was.
It wasn't in black and white, and he was wearing a brown jacket, white shirt, some old pants, a black tie and worn out hat. His office still had the same ugly flowery yellow wallpaper that he could never afford to change, his desk was second hand and the wood was peeling on the sides. It wasn't even raining, and there was no disgustingly rich lady being splashed by a car.
The only things that fitted with his fantasy was him daydreaming (but that was routine), and the shy knock on his office's door. He expected an exuberant woman entering with a cold look in his eyes, and a sexy pout, all wrapped in a silk dress (the color was subject of modification).
The guy (guy!) that entered to his office, was dressed with a nice gray suit, a little dirty, but clearly expensive, a black tie and white shirt, leather shoes, and an overall rich boy aura.
He forgot all about his fantasy and expected to be trusted with some sort of stupid easy case.
The guy's voice was a hurried whisper “Are you Donghae?”
He learned to never give information before getting something in exchange so he raised an eyebrow and waited.
“Well.” the unknown guy continued “The horrible office and your ugly clothes make me believe you are”
“Hey, my clothes are not ugly.” The guy smiled. Shit.
“So you are Donghae.”
Then he shot the discovered Donghae on the leg.
NEXT