(un)expendable [1/2]

[ivoryroyale]

Title: (un)expendable
Author: ivoryroyale
Pairing: Daehyun/Youngjae
Genre: angst, romance
Rating: PG-15
Warnings: sexual situations, alcohol, mild violence, mentions of bullying, character death
Summary: Youngjae's an undercover cop. It was supposed to stay that way, but then Jung Daehyun happened.
Note: 11,431 words. Because Minnie has amazing prompts.

(un)expendable

Youngjae has wanted to be a cop ever since he was twelve and watched his first crime show.

He admired the stature of the men in blue, steadily poising their guns with amazing accuracy. It fascinated him-how they were able to stand up to all the criminals they faced, never a waver in sight, never a tremble in the way that their eyes locked on target and shot, straight through the heart of a man with a bomb, with a hostage, with a threat. They were strong, they were cunning, and Youngjae wanted to be like them.

When Youngjae joined the police force-when he was finally able to strap that gun to his hip and that badge to his chest-he imagined change. He imagined a transformation from his once inadequate self-the one who locked himself in his bedroom when he was scared, the one who had to whimper and crawl and cry because of the school bullies, the one who could never trust a soul-into someone better. Someone who wasn’t afraid. Someone who could actually do something for society. Someone he could be proud of.

He imagined chasing after purse thieves, busting druggies and illegal traders, standoffs, and gun games.

He didn’t imagine fetching cups of coffee for the senior staff.

“Who ordered a decaf?” He shouts into the room of desks, of men actually doing something, and he tries not to sound too pissed off. Tapping an impatient foot with pursed lips, Youngjae scans the room, looking for a beckoning hand gesture.

A man who Youngjae recognizes as chief of his unit walks up to him with a smile; Youngjae finds himself involuntarily straightening where he stands. “That’d be me.” Park Jongil says, raised hand and a slight smile on his lips-the same smile he wore when he told Youngjae he was going to be a great benefit to the team, followed by ‘you’re good with coffee, right?’ (Youngjae detests him.

Despite that, he musters up a tight smile.) “Morning, sir.”

“Good morning,” He replies, swiping the cup out of Youngjae’s hands with a sing-song voice. Pausing, he surveys Youngjae’s uniform, as if looking for a name tag, “err…”

Biting the inside of his cheek, Youngjae says, as calm as he can, “Youngjae. Yoo Youngjae.”

“Right.”

(One day, he’s going to get assigned to something so important-something so astonishing-and Park Jongil is going to regret ever making him coffee boy.)

It isn’t until much later that Youngjae finally gets his first assignment (after handing out cups of single-shot espressos and cappuccinos for two weeks straight).

When Park Jongil waves him into his office for more than just a decaf caramel macchiato, Youngjae nearly has a heart attack and is so happy he nearly drops the tray of coffee in his hands.

As quick as a bunny, he hops into Jongil’s office and closes the glass door with great caution, as if doing it with any less care will ruin his chance at any real assignments. The black haired man is sitting at his desk, ankles crossed, sizing Youngjae up with an icy cold stare that he isn’t quite used to. Before Youngjae can even reach the chair in front of the mahogany tabletop, Jongil speaks up, “Youngjae,” His tone of voice is serious, yet hesitant. He says his name with a fluctuation, like he isn’t sure how to begin the conversation (or better yet, like he doesn’t even want to begin the conversation), “that’s your name, isn’t it?”

“Yes, sir.” He says, nodding.

Jongil plays with his fingers like he’s uncomfortable, and Youngjae eyes the sleek manila folders stacked under his folded hands. “Are you aware of the several gangs residing in this town?”

Being in the gang unit, of course he does. Youngjae has no idea why he has to ask something so obvious, something so simple.

He answers anyway.

“Have you ever studied up on the group named B.A.P?” He asks like the mere answer would tip the Earth off its axis. His voice is grave, teeth chewing on his bottom lip, and Youngjae realizes he’s a little more than reluctant to discuss this with Youngjae at all. The brunette doesn’t know whether to feel pride, because he’s the only one the chief can confide in, or disdain, because the chief doesn’t want to. A mixture of both seems to suffice.

The name is vaguely familiar to Youngjae. He’s seen forums, small articles, on the Big Bads reeking otherwise harmless mayhem. B.A.P had been one of the more recurring names. He remembers a particular portion of text, describing in vivid, almost disturbing detail how the group went about torture if any one of their members was harassed by anyone. Remembers something about coiled iron, fresh off a fire and skin.

With an uncomfortable twitch to his lips, Youngjae finally answers, “I know enough.”

Jongil makes a small gesture for him to come closer, beckons him toward the chair, padded with the armrests wooden, matching the desk. Looking grim, the chief slowly inches the manila folders toward Youngjae, and he takes them, tentatively into his hands. Even with curiosity burning at the front of his head, Youngjae refrains from asking anything just yet, occupying himself with the new information in his hands, acquainting himself with foreign texts.

A picture slips out of the folder and into Youngjae’s hands. He’s met with big, rounded seal brown eyes, full lips, and purposely styled brown hair, hidden somewhat deliberately under a large, black hoodie. It’s obvious the photo is candid, but the way the man is poised, long fingers pulling at the hood and mouth crooked just so to the left, he can fool just about anyone into thinking this was intentional. As quick as he can, Youngjae tucks the photo back into the folder with a cleared throat and tries not to feel too ashamed at the unprofessional, inappropriate thoughts running through his head.

“I’m assuming you’ve heard of the group’s longstanding rivalry with Kim Hinsoo’s gang then.”

Drumming his fingers on the folders in his lap, Youngjae nods. Kim Hinsoo proves, at least in his mind, to be a bigger threat than B.A.P. While the five membered gang prided themselves in simple tricks and familial bonding, Hinsoo’s looked toward money to satisfy their needs. Where B.A.P stole replaceable car parts, Hinsoon’s stole priceless jewelry. Where B.A.P had an upfront Don’t Mess With Us And We Won’t Mess With You attitude, Hinsoo’s held hostage situations every other week, asking for outrageous prices in return for people they didn’t even know. From what he’s heard, one of Hinsoo’s goons had rubbed one of the younger members of B.A.P the wrong way, resulting in an everlasting battle between the two. Now they’re always out to get each other, one way or another, whether obviously or discreetly.

Youngjae folds his hands together over his knees, over the folder weighing heavily on his knees, and finally asks, “I’m sorry, sir, but what exactly does this have to do with me?”

Jongil’s face looks concerning. “Have you ever heard of infiltration, Youngjae?”

Youngjae’s the youngest member on the unit, and also, the least threatening. It’s why he was assigned the job in the first place.

Apparently, B.A.P and Kim Hinsoo have become more than just simple blemishes in the city record. Upon investigation, tension has escalated, and either of the two groups can strike at any given time-in ways that could be extremely dangerous for the town. Something worse-something far more consequential than bank robberies and amateur abductions.

The police force wants to mediate, and in time, terminate the problem within a six month time period.

As ordered by Jongil, Youngjae’s supposed to establish trust with the five member’s in B.A.P. He’s supposed to somehow weave his way into the gang, and eventually, Hinsoo’s. Once Youngjae successfully gathers enough information to label them guilty, he’s supposed to gather the two groups in one area and call Jongil, who will then alert SWAT.

(Quite honestly, it all seems very tedious to Youngjae, but he can’t bring himself to care. Not when he’s waited so long to actually do something to help.

So, instead of turning down the offer, Youngjae finds himself at his apartment with a new haircut, new wardrobe, and new profiles to study.)

Tossing himself on the edge of his bed, he flips open the folders, and the same picture from before-the one that slipped out in the office-meets his eyes again. With debt fingers and pursed lips, Youngjae trails a hand down the paperclip keeping the photo firmly to a stack of loose papers. His fingers trail down, down, down to the bottom of the picture, and Youngjae reads, dropping onto his back, “Daehyun, huh…”

Yongguk, Himchan, Daehyun, Jongup, Zelo: Youngjae repeats the names, over and over in his head, as he rings his hands nervously on his white button up. It’s probably going to wrinkle, and it’s probably going to make him look all the less horribly presentable, but at the moment, he doesn’t care, because phase one of the plan begins today. Youngjae doesn’t want to mess this up.

According to the profile, Bang Yongguk is the quickest way into the gang, and the only other place that the leader hangs out, other than the abandoned car garage they call their hideout, is the gym.

Youngjae looks horribly out of place with his rolled up, white sleeves and tan slacks, but to keep focus, he moves the small, rounded transmitter in his pocket between his thumb and index finger.

Yongguk, Himchan, Daehyun, Jongup, Zelo, he repeats again, before taking a breath and stepping through the large doorway.

It takes Youngjae a minute, or maybe even two, but he finds Yongguk, running on a treadmill.

Instead of confronting him right away, Youngjae walks straight into the locker rooms.
Youngjae’d researched this gym, quite extensively, before coming, just in case he wanted escape routes if the plan went haywire. (He knows the layout and its reputation now, just as well as he knows that Yongguk likes to carry around a dark brown duffle bag everywhere he goes.)

The gym, in itself, is seedy. The equipment isn’t the best, the employment and supervision is horrible, and the locker rooms are even worse. No one in their right mind would use them, but if Youngjae’s hunch is right, and Yongguk is hardly afraid of anyone stealing from him, it should be easy to find.

As if on cue, Youngjae turns into the locker room (there isn’t even a door) and sees a sole duffle bag tucked snuggly, adjacent to the wall.

Swallowing down whatever fear or adrenaline pumping through his veins, Youngjae quietly surveys the room. He half expects someone to slink out from behind one of the other walls-maybe one of the other gang members, maybe someone from the unit to tell him he’s doing this all wrong. The thought scares him, makes his heart beat a bit too fast, and Youngjae steps forward, ignoring it all. He tells himself he’ll do fine, he tells himself he won’t get caught, and he tells himself to slip the little device into one of the small crevices in the front, next to what looks like a handgun, oh, fuck.

Youngjae bite backs a little yelp, thinks he’s not quite cut out for this just yet, and turns just in time to see Yongguk, black hoodie thrown over his previous wife beater, and Youngjae thinks, ‘Oh, fuck.’ His hands fall to his sides.

Yongguk’s eyes are wide, but they aren’t angry, so Youngjae hopes he didn’t see him, sifting through his bag. Putting his innocent looks to good use, Youngjae attempts a bashful grin despite the fear turning his hands numb. To get the circulation flowing in his hands again, he scratches the back of his neck. “Er, sorry,” The apology is choked, smothered by Yongguk’s suspicious gaze. Youngjae tries not to think of the gun in his duffle bag, “Is this your bag?”

He’s answered with a simple nod. Yongguk steps closer. Youngjae tries to stand his ground, tries not to look too guilty.

“Sorry.” He says again, and Yongguk makes his way toward his bag, looking it over, possibly trying to decide if Youngjae did anything to it. ‘Don’t look in the front pocket, don’t look in the front pocket, don’t-’ “I don’t really go to this gym-I mean, it’s my first time here, and I didn’t know this was where people kept their bags, so when I saw your bag in here, I thought someone had left it.” Youngjae silently thanks his ability to lie, to think on his feet without making it seem too obvious. Thanks the fact that he’s just a babbling idiot in anybody else’s mind and not a threat, never a threat. “I didn’t know it was-”

When Yongguk finishes sifting through the contents of his bag (thankfully keeping a fair distance away from the transmitter), he throws it over his shoulder and tosses Youngjae a look of disinterest. “It’s okay,” and Youngjae shuts his mouth, “just never do it again.”

Then he leaves, and Youngjae lets out the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

At home, Youngjae lies down on his bed with his laptop on his chest and headphones on his ears.

It’s been five hours since the gym, and Yongguk’s finally talking. Youngjae doesn’t know whom to, but the voice is husky and is laced with some kind of accent.

“How was the gym?” Youngjae has to strain his ears to hear it through the crinkling of the duffle bag.

The evident confusion in Yongguk’s voice almost makes Youngjae laugh. “Weird. I caught some stranger staring at my bag.”

“Why?” And the accent is on the tip of his tongue, Youngjae knows this, one of the guys in his unit has the same kind of accent-“Did he, like, want one or something?”

And after he laughs, something light and giddy, like he’s just made the best joke in the world, Youngjae realizes that it's a Busan accent.

Recalling the profiles, he remembers that Jung Daehyun is from Busan.

He easily matches the voice, low and almost scratchy, to his name. Then he does the same with the photo, and it fits-it all clicks together in Youngjae's mind.

The brunette laughs with him.

Two days later, Youngjae meets Yongguk at the treadmills.

The man has a routine, Youngjae notices. First, he goes to the treadmills and runs for about an hour. After that, he goes to the mats to do about one hundred and twenty push-ups, and then to the machines that Youngjae doesn’t even know the names to that are supposed to help with strength the back and neck muscles.

When all of this is over, he goes back to the treadmill again.

Youngjae isn’t familiar with exercise-he’d much rather go on a diet than do any of the things that Yongguk is doing-but for his career, he’s willing to make an exception.

The treadmill is a little huge, and Youngjae sort of has trouble finding an appropriate place to place his hands (should he grip onto the handles or should he do what Yongguk is doing and run as if the treadmill wasn’t even there?). He decides to mimic Yongguk, taking discreet glances toward the man to his right and placing his feet about an inch apart on the belt. He grips one hand on a handle and moves another to turn on the machine.

When the treadmill starts, emitting an almost murderous hum, the pace is much faster than what Youngjae had been anticipating. His grip on the handle tightens, his right hand moves to try to steady himself on the other, and his left foot is thrown completely backward. Time seems to almost stop completely in Youngjae’s mind, but even then, when he tries to catch himself, when he attempts to reach forward and turn off the machine, he only succeeds in getting his sleeve stuck to the safety handle.

A tiny yelp of despair leaves his mouth without his permission, and suddenly the machine is stopping and a hand is holding onto his shoulder steadily, keeping him from falling.

Youngjae feels his face turning a horrible shade of red, and he wants to run and maybe even hide, because that definitely wasn’t a part of the plan, and it was supposed to be one step closer to completing the mission-not two steps back. Yongguk pats him on the shoulder, and Youngjae refuses to look up. He can imagine Yongguk’s face, staring at him like some kind of freak, and he feels so fucking unprofessional, he wants to die.

“Are you-um-okay?” Yongguk coughs, and his voice is strained. Youngjae wonders why, until he looks up and sees a huge, tight-lipped smile. “I-um-I-” And then out of nowhere, his voice stops completely, and he’s guffawing, laughter leaving him in peels. The hand on Youngjae’s shoulder slips off to cover his mouth.

Then Yongguk apologizes for laughing so hard, and Youngjae smiles, too, because he doesn’t have to report a failure, and he doesn’t have to be criticized by his superiors. Even though it’s cost him his professionalism with Yongguk.

“I’m so sorry.” Yongguk says for what might be the third time.

They’re sitting on the push-up matts now, Youngjae leaning against the cool glass of the mirror nearby. He isn’t hurt, not physically anyway-his ego took a pretty big hit though-but Yongguk feels bad for laughing at him. It’s strange to Youngjae that he would. Gang members, after all, don’t usually feel bad for the things that they do. Yongguk, however proves himself much nicer than normal people. (Bullies wouldn’t even apologize for something like that.)

Youngjae doesn’t really know what to do but accept his apology.

Another bout of embarrassment turns his cheeks a slight pink, but other than that, he’s able to ignore it. “I just-I don’t really find a lot of people who… who…”

“Can’t work a treadmill?” Youngjae returns flatly, and Yongguk tries not to laugh again-he can see it in his eyes. “I told you I don’t come to this gym often.”

“Do you go to any gym often?”

And Yongguk makes a very good point, but Youngjae, a sudden confidence in his voice, says, “That’s none of your business.”

The shock is evident on Yongguk’s face-is evident on probably both of their faces, and Youngjae sinks back into the mirror, warm skin jumping at the sudden cold.

Then, Yongguk smirks. Sizes him up like he’s found some kind of hidden potential.

Youngjae thinks everything is going to plan.

The next day, Youngjae stays away from the treadmill, but Yongguk still comes to talk to him-introduces himself with a gummy smile and a shake of hands.

(Youngjae tries not to reply with an 'I know.')

The day after that, the first thing that Yongguk says to him is, "Hey, were you staring at my bag that one day because you wanted one? My friend really wants to know for some reason."

Youngjae laughs, and Yongguk probably doesn't know why, but all he can imagine is Daehyun, pestering Yongguk about That Guy That's Always At The Gym Now like he always does when the older man gets home.

And Youngjae realizes that this might be the perfect time to bring up the gang, to move one step closer to the eventual destruction of the two most dangerous gangs in town.

(Even though Yongguk's may not be as dangerous as the police had led on.)

"Look, the reason why I was looking at your bag is because I thought I recognized it." Youngjae starts, laughter gone, fidgeting to take its place, "The leader of B.A.P uses the exact same duffle bag."

The gummy smile on Yongguk disappears.

Youngjae doesn't know if that's a sign to stop or continue, so he keeps talking anyway, hoping Yongguk doesn't shoot him in the face when he isn't looking. "So am I right? Are you the leader?"  He doesn't even nod. Youngjae's scared, but he tries to make himself seem bigger, squaring his chest and tilting up his chin, "I wanted to join."

Yongguk looks interested, but still, he isn't smiling-isn't smirking like he was yesterday, and Youngjae takes that as a completely bad sign.

"I need to join." He states, more urgent, which seems to catch Yongguk's attention. "I heard you guys were the best-the best of the best."

There isn't a hint of denial on Yongguk's features; he even goes as far as to nod. "But why do you 'need' to join?"

Youngjae thinks about gangs then, of all that he's studied, everything about the people who join and why. Everything about the broken homes and meaningless existence, and for once, he says the first thing that comes to his mind, says something from the heart. "I need to have something." And he thinks of all the things in the world he can call his and comes up with nothing. He has no pets, no family (not since he turned eighteen), no friends. He can't even call his job his, because right now, it's basically the unit's.

The closest thing he has to a possession is his apartment, which doesn't exactly amount to much in the nineteen years he's been alive.

"I need to be a part of something."

And, even though he's already a part of something-a part of a whole unit of something-Youngjae is telling the truth.

And Yongguk has that smirk on his face again.

When Yongguk brings Youngjae to the otherwise abandoned car garage (which is too obvious and too exposed to really be a hideout), Youngjae knows he's practically in the gang already.

It all depends on if the rest of the members like him or not though.

(For some reason, Youngjae feels incredibly nervous.

Because he really wants the others to like him.

He wrings his hands together apprehensively.)

Yongguk walks in front of him, two steps ahead, and Youngjae struggles to move his feet and catch up. His eyes take in the scenery-the peeling wallpaper and the dirtied garage door, how the street is almost entirely empty, not even a car in site. And he thinks that this is the power of a gang. This is what a gang is and what it causes: fear. Dark, toe-curling fear.

It makes people want to run and hide.

Makes people unbearably empty.

And Youngjae's going to be a part of it.

(He doesn't know why, but that brings him a sense of accomplishment. It brings him a sense of pride, but not for the reason it's supposed to-not because he was able to complete part of the mission, not because he's going to be able to report today and say 'I did good'.

It's because the thought of being on top, of being in a gang after being nothing but an insect his whole life, nothing but a coffee boy, makes him happy.)

Youngjae thinks, biting his bottom lip, 'Am I really cut out for this?' and before he can answer himself, someone is opening the garage door.

Yongguk greets the man at the door's opening with a hug.

Three feet away, Youngjae assesses the jet black hair and small eyes, the quirked smile and the slim nose, and realizes that this is Kim Himchan-born April of 1990: the gang's mechanic. Rumored to be the professional scam artist, (and considering how he looks, Youngjae sees why.)

When they pull away, Youngjae doesn't know what to do.

(He contemplates stepping up to introduce himself, but he can't move his legs.)

Before Youngjae can even make an attempt, Yongguk is whispering into Himchan's ear, and the younger of the two looks over Yongguk's shoulder to give Youngjae a once over. His eyes travel from the top of his head to the bottom of his shoes. Youngjae feels vulnerable. Horribly vulnerable. Until Himchan smiles, and Youngjae feels reassured. (Like he's good enough.

He's never felt that way before.)

A pair of five eyes are staring at him, like he's some kind of exhibit, and it puts Youngjae one edge.

He can look at every single pair of eyes and tell who's who, though, (and when their birthdays are, how many siblings they have, what schools they went to-from elementary to high school-and which positions they hold) so he feels a little pacified. Feels like he has the upper hand in the situation.

Junhong (or Zelo, Youngjae doesn't really know what to call him) plants his shoulder on Jongup's shoulder and voices what everybody else must be thinking, "Aren't you a little too geeky looking to be in a gang?"

And Youngjae would feel offended, would feel hurt and insecure, but instead he says, "Well, I figured if a fetus could join a gang, maybe I'd give it a shot."

Junhong looks like he's just been physically smacked in the face. He practically falls off the couch that he's crouching on, and before Youngjae can apologize (because that was a little mean), he hears a familiar, high pitched, giddy giggle. Junhong glares, face a brilliant red, at Daehyun, but the Busan man doesn't seem to care, because he continues to laugh. Long enough for the other three members to start laughing along.

"I like him!" Daehyun shouts over laughter, over a pearly smile taking up half his face and over eyes forming tiny little crescents.

(Youngjae feels something soar in his chest.)

"So, what are you good at?" Himchan asks, sitting more on Yongguk's lap than he is on the tiny blue couch.

Youngjae doesn't really know what to say, so he just picks at the loose bits of cushion. He doesn't think he's good at anything-nothing useful at least. He's not athletic, he can barely work a gun to save his life, he's not strong enough to overpower anyone, he can't steal, he's not good with people, and he doesn't understand mechanics.

The closest thing he's ever been good at is trickery-conniving, ill mannered lying, and he can't mention that to them without sounding completely suspicious. So, instead, he says, "I'm good at working computers," remembering the tracker in Yongguk's bag, which is just a few feet away from them, "You know, coding. And stuff."

Youngjae feels like he's talking to a wall. (Five of them to be exact-five blank and baffled walls, staring at him with the most exasperated, vacant expressions.)

"So," Jongup says, beady eyes squinting, "hacking?"

And Youngjae says, "Yeah," even though he thinks, 'not really.'

Daehyun gives him this huge grin and bumps into his shoulder, lightly-hesitantly (kind of like he's testing water, wondering how far he can go without drowning). He throws a careful arm around Youngjae's shoulders, and Youngjae leans into him, wondering what this'll turn into. "That's awesome!"

The look on everyone else's faces seem to agree.

Then Yongguk says, smirk that Youngjae's become acquainted with playing on his lips, "Looks like we have a new computer analyst."

(Phase one of the plan is complete.)

"So you're in?" Jongil asks, phone pressed to Youngjae's ear. "That quickly?"

Youngjae's at his apartment again, laying front first on his bed, leaning on his elbows and kicking his feet in the air behind him. With the chief's words in mind, Youngjae thinks about the gang-B.A.P in general. Earlier in the day, the others had tried to convince him to move in, to stay over despite the fact he had no clothes, no toothbrush, no bed. They said they were willing to share their stuff with him, willing to do anything because Youngjae was apart of their family now (and the simple thought of that makes Youngjae smile, because he never really had a family before. Never really had a mother or father or brothers.

They're all long gone.)

Youngjae thinks about how easily it was for the five of them to accept him, to welcome him with smiles, just because Yongguk said he was apart of the gang now, and he tells Jongil, "Yes." Yes-that quickly. "What's phase two, sir?"

"Get them to trust you."

Youngjae thinks that'll be easy.

(In the back of his mind, he sees the five of their smiles and shakes his head.)

The next morning, instead of heading to the gym, he heads to the garage.

He doesn't know who will be there, doesn't know if Yongguk was betting on him going to the gym first, but Youngjae doesn't feel like exercising today. He feels like getting this over with. Feels like getting out before he's too far in. Feels like completing the job, so he never has to be "coffee boy" ever again.

Jongup's manning the door today. When he sees Youngjae, he has an entirely too big smile on his face that makes Youngjae want to die inside for lying to him.

(He's not attached. Not already. It's too early to be attached.)

"Morning Youngjae!" The younger boy says with a wave, like Youngjae isn't standing right in front of him-like he can't see him, hands practically shoved in his face. He waves a little bit longer. (He only stops when Youngjae waves back.) "You're not going to the gym today?"

Youngjae moves to stand next to Jongup, where he's sitting on a black folding chair, and says, "I'm assuming Yongguk hyung told you about the treadmill incident." even though he doesn't really need to assume. He heard it all-how Yongguk couldn't stop laughing as he told the story, how Himchan tried to tell everyone to stop laughing even though he was giggling himself. How Daehyun said, through that laugh of his, 'oh my God, I need to meet this guy.'

As Youngjae predicts, Jongup smile cracks into a full on guffaw.

With a smile of his own, Youngjae continues, "Then you should know I'm never going to the gym again."

Then Junhong chimes in, doe rag secure around his dark blue head of hair, "But why?" and Daehyun follows with a, "Yongguk's gym stories are hilarious now because of you; don't stop!"

(And the agency really wasn't kidding about how close knit the entire group is. Wasn't kidding about how their entire lifestyle relied on group trust and mutual reason. How they have a dysfunctional need to stay as close as possible to each other.

Youngjae almost feels bad about breaking that all.

But then he thinks about the recognition he'll get from doing this, and he feels a little better.)

"Where's Himchan?" Youngjae asks, looking around the inside of the garage. It's bigger on the inside-vast and spacious. There are multiple cars placed strategically around the area, in places that'll block entryways, places that would be hard for other people to maneuver around if they weren't used to being there. (Places that Youngjae notes, memorizes, makes sure he can move around if he ever needs to run.)

He counts the doors on either side of the garage and wonders where they lead, wonders if those are the rooms that they sleep in or if Himchan is in either one.

Youngjae takes a mental picture of the place, makes sure he remembers to report all of this, in great detail, just in case.

Daehyun, without saying a word, points up, and for a moment, Youngjae doesn't know what he's trying to tell him. Until he looks up and realizes that he's answering him.

There's a great, big overhang right at the top of the garage, and Himchan's right in the middle of it, running around carrying bundles of paper in his arms.

The look on Youngjae's face must look completely amazed, because Daehyun chuckles then, low in his throat. Youngjae snaps out of whatever daze he's in at the sound. "That's our work space. Himchannie mostly uses it to hang around his car designs though." And Youngjae thinks about lazing around up there, computer in his lap and legs tossed up on a couch rather than a crowded apartment, and it's practically heaven on earth.

"That's where you can do your cyberstalking." Daehyun says, elbowing him in the shoulder.

(Youngjae's not going to get attached.

He refuses to get too attached.)

He won't.

Part 2