FIC-Those are the chances we take [2/?]
Title: "Those are the Chances we Take" 2/?
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: The Donghae of my Eunhyuk wookism
A/N: It's been a while, I'm sorry D: I've been really busy. I wanted to leave you guys this update because I'll be traveling next week and will be unable to even use a computer, I'm sorry for the short chapter but I have the feeling that this fic works better in short chapters. Anyway, ENJOY~
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The first thing he noticed was that he was recovering consciousness, which meant that he must have had to lose it at some point in the first place. This lead him to believe that he was drugged. The lack of response of his fingers or even his eyelids confirmed his theory.
The second thing he noticed was that he was moved from his office. He was positive that there wasn't space for a bed between his desk and the front door. Also, everything smelled different. There was a faint smell of smoke, coffee, powder, and humidity.
The third thing he noticed was that his leg was hurting like a bitch, and he had to wonder why it was the third and not the first thing he noticed.
His eyes started to feel less heavy, so he tried to open them just enough to be able to recognize his surroundings but to avoid being noticed if he was accompanied. He also procured to maintain his breathing in a relaxed rhythm.
He was in a small room. He could see the door in front of him semi-open, letting a little ray of light (artificial, he noted) enter the room. He quickly scanned the room to notice that he was completely alone, no guards, no rich crazy shooter guy, he wasn't even tied. That meant that he wasn't considered a threat and that they (he liked to think in plural because that made him feel important, in an “organized crime needs me” way) were sure that he wouldn't be able to escape. After a few minutes of testing his extremities (he couldn't feel them, but they moved), he decided to go out and investigate. He felt almost naked with the familiar weight of his revolver missing from his waist. Nonetheless he decided to get out of the little room in which he was confined.
He decided that was a very bad idea when he was welcomed with a really painful and bright shoe on his stomach followed by a leg that sent him to the floor of the room he was in at the beginning.
“Oops...”
The pair of shiny shoes (he could only focus on them) walked toward him and stopped just in front of what he supposed were his own legs.
“What the hell was in that thing you made me give him?” said the left shoe. He found it weirder that the shoe talked without having lips, or moving its soles (like they did in those morning cartoons that he will deny until death that he watched) than the fact that a shoe was talking.
“Mainly Lorazepam?” answered the right shoe with a deeper and huskier voice.
The left shoe made a noise that he translated to annoyed “If you kill him...”
“Technically” said the right shoe in the same unaffected tone “you would have killed him, you shot him and then kicked him.” he briefly wondered how could a shoe shoot people. “Oh don't worry, kid, he's just very, very, very, very, drugged. My sedatives may be strong, but they haven't killed people... in a long time.”
“How long will he be like this?” asked the ventriloquist (he decided that was the only answer) left shoe.
The right shoe kept quiet for a little while “A couple of hours, he was unconscious for a long time, so I think he slept most of the effect off. He'll have lucid moments and then he'll feel... well, high again. I'll bring him some food later. You take him to the bed and keep him warm. He'll feel cold soon.”
“Why me?” the shoe sounded angry.
“Well... you shot the guy.”
After some curses the room was quiet again. The shoes started to move, but stopped talking; he suddenly felt sleepy.
“Donghae?”
It was the voice of the left shoe, but it was far away. He kept quiet, he learned not to talk without knowing the risks. He frowned and wondered why shoes could laugh in that room too.
“You're saying everything out loud.” said the shoe, “Also, I'm not a shoe.”
“Yes you are. I'm looking at you, shoe.”
“You are horribly drugged,” said the shoe that was not a shoe, “Let me help you to bed.”
“Shoes don't have arms, or legs, or hands.”
“Then it's good I'm not a shoe, isn't it?”
He felt his body being lifted and dragged with difficulty across the room until he was dropped ungracefully on a soft surface he recognized as the bed he woke up on before.
“You're too heavy to be so short,” he heard the shoe's voice say, only that it didn't came from a shoe but from a suit, a gray suit.
A gray suit.
“Maybe you're too weak to be a guy that shoots random people in their offices,” he felt something soft, warm and very welcome on his body. He just noticed it was freezing in there.
“Oh, so you're still not making any sense but at least you managed to remember me.”
“It's hard to forget the jerk who shoots you in the leg, believe me.”
“Oh I believe you, but don't worry. It wasn't a bullet, just a dart with drugs that hurts like one.”
“I feel relieved.”
The guy in the suit (whose face wasn't very clear yet, so he decided that the guy or wasn't very memorable looking or was just plain ugly) sat next to him on the bed.
“So why am I here?”
The guy kept quiet for a few seconds before saying simply, “I'm still not authorized to tell you anything.”
“I liked you better when you were a shoe.”
“And I liked you better when you were like a corpse.”
“Where is my gun?”
“Your Beretta? Really pretty revolver. I'll give it back when you stop thinking about shooting me.”
“So I'll never have it back?”
He heard a small chuckle.
“We'll discuss it when you wake up, Donghae.”
He then noticed he was falling asleep quickly.
“Wait” he managed to say. He saw what he thought was the guy (he could only see blurry shapes at that specific moment) stopping from getting up from where he was sitting on bed.
“You didn't give me your name.”
The guy got up from the bed, and walked towards the door.
“I don't have a name,” he said calmly, “you can call me Eunhyuk, though.”
“That's a really fake-sounding name,” he managed to say before his eyes closed completely.
Before he managed to fall in a profound dreamless sleep, he heard Eunhyuk say in amused voice, “Say that to the boss when you wake up.”
Then nothing.
PREV 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: The Donghae of my Eunhyuk wookism
A/N: It's been a while, I'm sorry D: I've been really busy. I wanted to leave you guys this update because I'll be traveling next week and will be unable to even use a computer, I'm sorry for the short chapter but I have the feeling that this fic works better in short chapters. Anyway, ENJOY~
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
The first thing he noticed was that he was recovering consciousness, which meant that he must have had to lose it at some point in the first place. This lead him to believe that he was drugged. The lack of response of his fingers or even his eyelids confirmed his theory.
The second thing he noticed was that he was moved from his office. He was positive that there wasn't space for a bed between his desk and the front door. Also, everything smelled different. There was a faint smell of smoke, coffee, powder, and humidity.
The third thing he noticed was that his leg was hurting like a bitch, and he had to wonder why it was the third and not the first thing he noticed.
His eyes started to feel less heavy, so he tried to open them just enough to be able to recognize his surroundings but to avoid being noticed if he was accompanied. He also procured to maintain his breathing in a relaxed rhythm.
He was in a small room. He could see the door in front of him semi-open, letting a little ray of light (artificial, he noted) enter the room. He quickly scanned the room to notice that he was completely alone, no guards, no rich crazy shooter guy, he wasn't even tied. That meant that he wasn't considered a threat and that they (he liked to think in plural because that made him feel important, in an “organized crime needs me” way) were sure that he wouldn't be able to escape. After a few minutes of testing his extremities (he couldn't feel them, but they moved), he decided to go out and investigate. He felt almost naked with the familiar weight of his revolver missing from his waist. Nonetheless he decided to get out of the little room in which he was confined.
He decided that was a very bad idea when he was welcomed with a really painful and bright shoe on his stomach followed by a leg that sent him to the floor of the room he was in at the beginning.
“Oops...”
The pair of shiny shoes (he could only focus on them) walked toward him and stopped just in front of what he supposed were his own legs.
“What the hell was in that thing you made me give him?” said the left shoe. He found it weirder that the shoe talked without having lips, or moving its soles (like they did in those morning cartoons that he will deny until death that he watched) than the fact that a shoe was talking.
“Mainly Lorazepam?” answered the right shoe with a deeper and huskier voice.
The left shoe made a noise that he translated to annoyed “If you kill him...”
“Technically” said the right shoe in the same unaffected tone “you would have killed him, you shot him and then kicked him.” he briefly wondered how could a shoe shoot people. “Oh don't worry, kid, he's just very, very, very, very, drugged. My sedatives may be strong, but they haven't killed people... in a long time.”
“How long will he be like this?” asked the ventriloquist (he decided that was the only answer) left shoe.
The right shoe kept quiet for a little while “A couple of hours, he was unconscious for a long time, so I think he slept most of the effect off. He'll have lucid moments and then he'll feel... well, high again. I'll bring him some food later. You take him to the bed and keep him warm. He'll feel cold soon.”
“Why me?” the shoe sounded angry.
“Well... you shot the guy.”
After some curses the room was quiet again. The shoes started to move, but stopped talking; he suddenly felt sleepy.
“Donghae?”
It was the voice of the left shoe, but it was far away. He kept quiet, he learned not to talk without knowing the risks. He frowned and wondered why shoes could laugh in that room too.
“You're saying everything out loud.” said the shoe, “Also, I'm not a shoe.”
“Yes you are. I'm looking at you, shoe.”
“You are horribly drugged,” said the shoe that was not a shoe, “Let me help you to bed.”
“Shoes don't have arms, or legs, or hands.”
“Then it's good I'm not a shoe, isn't it?”
He felt his body being lifted and dragged with difficulty across the room until he was dropped ungracefully on a soft surface he recognized as the bed he woke up on before.
“You're too heavy to be so short,” he heard the shoe's voice say, only that it didn't came from a shoe but from a suit, a gray suit.
A gray suit.
“Maybe you're too weak to be a guy that shoots random people in their offices,” he felt something soft, warm and very welcome on his body. He just noticed it was freezing in there.
“Oh, so you're still not making any sense but at least you managed to remember me.”
“It's hard to forget the jerk who shoots you in the leg, believe me.”
“Oh I believe you, but don't worry. It wasn't a bullet, just a dart with drugs that hurts like one.”
“I feel relieved.”
The guy in the suit (whose face wasn't very clear yet, so he decided that the guy or wasn't very memorable looking or was just plain ugly) sat next to him on the bed.
“So why am I here?”
The guy kept quiet for a few seconds before saying simply, “I'm still not authorized to tell you anything.”
“I liked you better when you were a shoe.”
“And I liked you better when you were like a corpse.”
“Where is my gun?”
“Your Beretta? Really pretty revolver. I'll give it back when you stop thinking about shooting me.”
“So I'll never have it back?”
He heard a small chuckle.
“We'll discuss it when you wake up, Donghae.”
He then noticed he was falling asleep quickly.
“Wait” he managed to say. He saw what he thought was the guy (he could only see blurry shapes at that specific moment) stopping from getting up from where he was sitting on bed.
“You didn't give me your name.”
The guy got up from the bed, and walked towards the door.
“I don't have a name,” he said calmly, “you can call me Eunhyuk, though.”
“That's a really fake-sounding name,” he managed to say before his eyes closed completely.
Before he managed to fall in a profound dreamless sleep, he heard Eunhyuk say in amused voice, “Say that to the boss when you wake up.”
Then nothing.
PREV NEXT