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wrienne · 3 years

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My Cheating, Amnesic Fiancé

Chapter 5: Amnesia

“‘Amnesic’?” you echoed.

“Yes, amnesic,” Kim Sejin confirmed. “It’s made the situation much more complicated than it normally would have turned out. He won’t sleep and refuses to eat or take any painkillers. It was a miracle he accepted any medical treatment at all.”

“Amnesia merely affects your memory,” you said confidently. “It shouldn’t disturb his basic intelligence.”

Last year, Se-Eun had been fanatic about a manhwa or manga about a protagonist who had suffered that exact ailment, which resulted in her reading up on everything about it. And of course, she had poured all of that so very necessary - no, not really, not until now - information into your brain, so you were feeling pretty up to date about the condition. There were two main types of amnesia, but neither of them would make a person lose all of his senses.

“Well, to clarify, he mistrusts everyone.” Sejin averted his gaze, then continued quietly. “The kid doesn’t even recognize his group members. It was really… tough seeing that, though it was even tougher when I was forced to send them home with him being the way he is.” He cleared his throat, then met your gaze again. You thought you saw a glimmer of tears in his eyes before he blinked and it was gone. “He barely speaks. He won’t sleep if someone is in the room. And even though he can’t eat with his broken arm, he won’t let anyone feed him.”

“The last might have something to do with hospital food in general,” you said, trying your best to lighten up the mood. In all honesty, you felt as if someone was twirling around your intestines with a giant, hot fork. “Have you tried something else? Sweets? Fried chicken?”

“Nothing works,” Sejin said bitterly. “Not even the nurses or the doctors can win him over. He’s… a bit out of it, if you ask me.”

You undid your hair and ran a frustrated hand through it. “Why call me?” you exclaimed. “Why not his parents?”

“His parents have been contacted,” he began, “but nobody has replied. And it wasn’t exactly my intention to call you. Your number was the only unfamiliar one Taehyung found among Jungkook’s contacts. Neither of us thought it would be you, considering the ID, though I am glad it was.”

“Why?” you asked, only fleetingly wondering exactly what kind of nickname you had had the misfortune of receiving on Jungkook’s phone that had made both Sejin and someone named Taehyung so surprised. Demon fiancée? The spawn of Satan? A better question would also be how he had gotten your number in the first place. You didn't have his.

“What exactly do you think I might accomplish that none of you haven’t already thought of?” you went on. “We’re just family friends. Why not get any of his other acquaintances? Or why not his girlfriend?” A little bit of your earlier jealousy trickled into your voice, weighing it down. It broke painfully, reluctantly. You cringed at the pitiful sound.

“He’s been asking for you.”

You paled. “What?”

Kim Sejin wore a dead-serious expression. “As soon as the kid regained consciousness, your name was the first thing that jumped out of his mouth. And I did call Yi-Jae almost first, but when she arrived, he couldn’t recognize her either. It really broke her.”

You almost didn't hear him. Jungkook had called for you? He remembered you out of everyone?

“I'm going in,” you said and finally opened the door.

Sejin looked like he had wanted to say something else but you were already halfway inside. Sitting on the edge of one of two hospital beds with his booted feet planted firmly into the floor and back toward the doorway, was a lonely guy dressed familiarly in a large t-shirt and loose-fitting blue jeans. Layers of bandage encircled his head, his right arm rested in a basic splint and you noticed minor scratches and bruises across his body that had mostly been patched up. A few spots of maroon sullied the otherwise white of his t-shirt. Other than that, Jeon Jungkook looked completely fine.

As soon as you entered, he spun around. What had initially been an expression of suspicion across his features melted into a face of recognition - and joy.

“(Y/N)!” he exclaimed and abruptly stood and made a movement to go to you before stopping himself. His eyes darted to something behind you and his features stiffened.

Kim Sejin had walked in after you. You were quick to gather yourself and cleared your throat. “I think I should handle this on my own,” you told Sejin. “If you could just wait outside…?”

He nodded once before quickly leaving, closing the door after him. You had still caught the hurt in the man’s eyes, however.

“Took you long enough!”

Jungkook continued toward you, grimacing slightly when he had to lean on his left leg. But he was smiling again. At you.

“Sorry, I was watching paint dry,” you said automatically, your brain and tongue having gotten used to quick retorts with Jungkook. You couldn’t believe your eyes. Jeon Jungkook was happy to see you?

“Because that seems healthy to do.”

“Heard you got ran over,” you said, ignoring him as you tried to get a grip of the situation. He was amnesic, you would have to keep that in mind all the time. He had probably lost at least the last five or so years while with BTS. That would explain why he remembered you, since your relationship practically predated the dinosaurs.

But when had there been a time in your life when you two were happy to see each other?

“Yeah, accident,” Jungkook said as he halted in front of you. “Or so they tell me.”

This close, you could see some dirt still left underneath his ear, and he smelled of alcohol, the city and disinfectant. You tried not to look too concerned, adopting a casual pose with your arm crossed over your chest. But inside, your emotions and thoughts were in turmoil.

“You do look great for someone supposedly hit by a car,” you admitted after conspicuously eyeing him up and down. “Barely a scratch.”

“That’s what I was trying to tell them.” He lowered his voice and leaned closer to you, almost causing you to flinch backward at the sudden lack of space between you. “I don’t trust anyone of them. I mean, I get that my arm needs bandaging and that I need rest. I can feel that, physically. But there were six or so guys crowding me just recently, people I have never seen in all of my life, that were all incredibly concerned. They were telling me everything would be alright, that they could help me get better and that they were happy I wasn’t dead. But all I could think about was: ‘How long have they just been sitting there, watching me?'”

“What’s so bad about that?” you asked and frowned. “Even if you don’t know them, didn’t it feel great waking up to people waiting for you?”

“No,” he said quietly as he averted his gaze. “Not when I don’t know them and they keep telling me how much I do.”

There it was: fear. You could read it in his mere voice.

“Then I guess it’s my turn to try and convince you,” you said carefully. “You’ve gotten amnesia, Jungkook, that’s why you can’t remember them. But for years now, you’ve spent almost every day with six guys, training, performing and living together. They are your hyungs. The seven of you are BTS, one of the biggest, most popular K-pop groups in the world. You stood on a stage in a completely filled stadium just a few hours ago. Are you sure you don’t even feel a tiny bit of recognition?”

“No. All I know is you.”

You felt your breath hitch in the back of your throat and your face flush with color. That had been an unexpected response.

Jungkook seemed as if he were waiting for you to reply but you couldn’t find your voice. With a frustrated sigh, he backed away from you and sank down on the ledge of the same hospital bed he had sat on when you entered. He leaned his torso forward, placed his elbows on his thighs and rested his head in the palms of his hands. You remained standing, as paralyzed.

“You are all I can think about,” he murmured after a long pause, then grimaced. “I think I was angry with you and that I had something really, really important to tell you. I was… I was going to see you but that’s about all I can recall. Everything else is too blurry. It hurts just trying to think about what I had for breakfast - I can’t even begin to imagine having been friends with those guys, even less performed with them a couple hours ago. I am just so confused and paranoid and--”

His voice broke, and he ceased talking. Your heart ached seeing him like that. He didn’t react when you moved closer, or even when you sat down next to him. He simply hid his face in his hands. You were tempted to reach out and touch him, comfort him, but even before you raised your arm, you recalled his eyes when he had looked at Park Yi-Jae. You recalled the ease with which he had moved to let her kiss his cheek.

This was wrong. Everything had gone so terribly wrong.

Still, you draped an arm over his shoulder blades and gently squeezed his bicep with your other hand. He tensed slightly, then relaxed as you began speaking.

“We’ll sort this through,” you told him softly. “One step after another. I don’t know how, and I doubt I’m even nearly enough qualified to help you, but I will do my very best. I refuse to see you break because of this.”

“I… I have wanted to become a singer for so very long...”

His voice was only one step above a whisper. It took all your willpower not to embrace him and hold him until he told you to stop. You knew it wouldn’t be right.

“I know,” you replied. “I won’t let you lose this opportunity. I’ll help you through this, Jeon Jungkook.”

One of his hands found yours, and clamped around it. “Even though I’ve been horrible toward you for the last ten, fifteen years or so?”

“Oh, so that you remember?” you asked while laughing. “I was starting to think you were a lost cause. Well, shoot, there goes the plan I had for using your pretty face to make money in a very illegal way.”

He chuckled, but wouldn’t show his face yet. “That’s dark, (Y/N). Cruel too. You don’t need any more money.”

You laughed again, feeling tremendously better now. “I’m just trying to lighten up the mood. We’re in a hospital, you know.”

“Thank you for telling me,” he said sarcastically. “I wasn’t aware of that until just now.”

“No problem.” You couldn’t help but smile, even as you tried to regain a serious tone. “Jungkook, even though you can be a stupid brat more often than not, I have to admit that you’re one of the most head-strong, unyielding and hard-working people I know. If you can’t make it through this, I don’t think there’s anyone out there who can.”

Finally, he lifted his head and turned to look at you. There were no tears staining his cheeks, but his cheeks and nose were rosy and his brown eyes glittered, like he were just on the brink of crying. You gave him your gentlest smile then scooted away, feeling your heartbeats hasten and your skin grow warm underneath the weight of his gaze.

“Thank you.”

His hand wouldn’t release yours. Your heart was racing and slammed against the inner side of your ribcage so hard you thought it was trying to break out and run away - at least you were in the right place to get a cardiac arrest.

But still, he had simply thanked you. Why were you getting so weird because of that?

You cleared your throat and pointedly looked at his hand. Jungkook eyes widened in surprise and he quickly let go of you.

“So,” you began as you stood up, eager to get some distance between you two. “The first thing we need to do is get you something to eat and drink. And then you need to sleep. By the way, why aren’t you in a hospital gown?”

“I’m not hungry, and I don’t want to wear one,” he replied. “It makes me look sickly and dying, which I’m not. I’ve just injured my arm, that’s it.”

“Well, I don’t think sweaty, bloody clothes are the most optimal to rest in. I will have to find some new clothes for you to wear,” you said, scrutinizing him from head to toe. He was athletic and lithe, yet tall enough that he probably had to size upwards in most brands. While spending a moment trying to figure out the most optimal clothing store, you realized that since they lived together, his group members probably knew where he had his wardrobe. You decided you would go there as soon as possible.

“You don’t need to spend money on me,” he said, his voice suddenly harsh, his face hardening to stone.

You frowned, but decided against prying. He needed to sleep as soon as possible.

“Don’t worry,” you told him, “I won’t. I’ll find something fresh you can loan by tomorrow. Are you hungry? Should I return with some fast food or something first?”

“You’re leaving?”

You nodded and checked your phone. “I have to go to school in less than six hours. I can try to come at lunch tomorrow, but most likely, I won’t be here until late afternoon. So you’ve got to tell me now if you want fried chicken or not. I’ll even buy some Pepsi if you’re sweet about it.”

You stood with your back against him as you searched for your parents’ driver in the contact list. You were waiting for him to pick up when Jungkook spoke.

“I won’t be able to sleep without you here.”

You opened your mouth to make fun of him when you saw his expression. It was that frightened expression you remembered from a long time back.

You knew you couldn’t leave him.

“Fine,” you said as you canceled the call. “But I will have to leave early in the morning. I can’t miss school.”

“As long as you wake me before you go.”

Jungkook looked at you with eyes you could not help but sympathize with. Yet you understood, he had to rest.

“I will,” you lied.

“You promise?”

“I promise.”

Satisfied, he began lifting one leg after the other onto his bed when you stopped him. After taking off his boots and helping him with the paper-thin blanket, you washed your hands, face and mouth in a basin that was in the room. By the time you thought you wouldn’t smell like noodles anymore and you started drying yourself with a paper towel, you heard light snoring from behind you. You couldn’t stop yourself from smiling. Jungkook must have fought back sleep for a long time while mouthing off the doctors and nurses.

You unzipped your jacket and hung it over one of seven chairs in the room, together with your purse. You set an alarm on your phone and plugged it into a socket that until then had powered an ugly bedside lamp. And finally, you found yourself sitting next to him on the other hospital bed in the room, watching his peaceful face.

You weren’t in love with Jeon Jungkook. You truly weren’t.

But you might have just begun falling for him.

#wrienne #ao3 #bts fanfiction #MCAF

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believerindaydreams · 5 years

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that long-awaited diner scene

sweet lord I can’t possibly keep writing at this rate

but this does get the story to exactly where I wanted it

Her name is Gabriella Lopez, and there is nothing remarkable about her, nothing at all, except that she is the only waitress willing to make the long drive out to this lonely, profitless diner. There was a town here, once, but the world moved on and the people with it. A few mornings, she’s seen more than three customers walk through the door. Not often.

The live-in owner is also cook, and gas-station attendant, and one of the few men she’s met who hasn’t tried making love or hate to her. Not because of any special virtue, the old misanthrope: but at this time in her life, that’s good enough to suit. The odd truck driver or lost tourist, she can handle them.

She can certainly handle this soft, tired specimen who’s all but passed out on her counter, gratefully drinking up tepid air from their solitary wheezing fan. He couldn’t threaten anything more menacing than a hamburger.

Without asking, Gabriella brings water; and waits for him to say the thing they all say.

“No ice, huh?”

“Ice water isn’t good for people, on a day this hot. Makes them sick. You cool off a little first, maybe I’ll let you have a few cubes in the second one.”

“Maybe you won’t want to give me anything more, for free,” he says. Rests his head on one arm, as he looks at her- studies, judges, appraises. “You want any dishes washed? I’m pretty hungry, I’m willing to work for a meal.“

She gestures at the sign behind the counter, next to the one advertising homemade pie (her employer’s pie is a horror that shouldn’t be wished on anyone, even weary migrants). We do our own dishwashing. Anyone too cheap to pay can enjoy a free trip in the paddy wagon.

The police hate driving out this far, and told her last time not to bother calling for anything short of murder. But this man doesn’t need to know that. “Sorry, no. So you might as well drive on, you’d have better luck up in town.”

“If I was driving,” he says, and drains the rest of the water down his throat while she’s thinking about that. “It’s a long walk I’ve been on, you wouldn’t believe the inhumanity of some people. Serves me right! To think I trusted that blonde...just her and me and my good friend, you know how it is? And then they run off this morning together, leave me stranded... Senorita, I am very tired. Something to eat would come very welcome.”

She eyes him back, as boldly as he stared at her. A black and white jacket that would fetch precisely nothing at a flea market, unmentionable corduroy, a dull necklace with a saint’s medal dangling off it. Even the hat looks cheap. “Maybe we could arrange some sort of trade. That bag you have, for instance, that looks like it might be worth something...”

He scoops it up, holds it with the tenderness a child might lavish on the new puppy. “Do you ask this from everyone who comes in here?”

“Only the ones who say they can’t pay up.”

Something flickers in his expression; he laughs suddenly, slaps a big handful of change on the counter. “So you are too smart to be taken in, then. Fine by me. Maybe some other time I’ll do better- but believe me, this has been a very long day. Three eggs, over easy, plenty of hash and soft bacon and buttered rye toast. And a coke, with ice this time.”

Words rise to her lips, that he is much more attractive with that glint in his eye, and his posture no longer hunched with exhaustion, but laidback and easy. But telling a man he has reason to be confident is asking for trouble. She goes and shouts out his order instead.

Half an hour later, he has demolished two platefuls and is toying with a last piece of bacon, while she keeps him company with a cup of ill-brewed coffee. He knows her name and why she’s here; she knows he goes by Tuco and that a certain pretty little blonde will be in for deep trouble, if the two of them should ever cross paths again. They have hammered out a price that neither of them quite consider reasonable, for her to drive him the rest of the way to civilisation after her shift is finished. One of her better days on this job.

Then the door bangs open, and she feels a familiar tang of fear at uniforms and guns. Even though she’s done nothing wrong, even though the four of them talk of promotion in loud, satisfied voices and lug in their handcuffed prisoner with the pleasure of sated hunters. Gabriella goes silent, dishes out coffee and pie without comment.

Tuco has no such inhibitions, and keeps glancing at the scruffy-haired captive with the rubbernecker’s purposeful curiosity. “He doesn’t look so good.”

“That’s what you get for resisting arrest,” one of the cops says. “Bullet wound right around here,“ he says, slapping first his own thigh, then the prisoner’s back. “You’re lucky we took the time to bandage it, little fish. Don’t worry, it’ll hold up until we get back to town...and if it doesn’t, cheer up, we won’t bother you with the dry-cleaning bill.”

The prisoner doesn’t respond, and it’s not clear to Gabriella whether the man’s stolid or faint or both; his bloodless lack of expression could mean either. Tentatively, casually, she pushes another glass of water down the counter. He leans forward to cup it between cuffed palms, until his wrists are slapped down hard.

“We told you not to make any sudden movements, remember? And from where I’m sitting, near any kind of movement would count as sudden.”

“Now, Joe,” another of them drawls. “Man’s gotta be thirsty. Tell him he can have a drink, long as he can do it with no hands.“

There’s general laughter all around, at that; and Gabriella hates them all with a slow rage, all the more potent for its meaningless fervour. Whatever this man’s crimes are, she wants him to get away, knows he won’t. This is for real. No one in their right mind gets in the way of an arrest, that doesn’t happen-

Tuco blows the paper wrapping off a straw, the way a kid does.

Walks over to place it between the prisoner’s lips. He sips, gratefully. And the tone of the room changes as surely as if someone had flicked off the light switch. She can’t guess what made him do it, amongst the raised voices and violent movements, cops encircling close to ask him hot searching questions.

Anybody like that, anybody like her, ought to know better. Not get themselves hurt, maimed, imprisoned maybe, for the sake of a stranger they don’t even know. Unopposable authority, the inevitable blow, and she can’t stop herself crying out, as Tuco hits the floor hard and lets out a wail-

and then, the miracle happens.

Just a man, who makes no noise as he enters, but attracts everyone’s attention nevertheless. A man who points his gun at no one, but projects an air of instant, surefire violence. His voice is quiet. Nobody misses a word.

“So you thought to catch me out, then. Get Blondie, and wait for me to walk into the trap. Well. I’m here.”

The foremost officer, the one who’d backhanded Tuco, doesn’t waver an inch. “You’re under arrest. We can do this politely, or not-”

Gabriella blinks; and in that blink, four men die.

This can’t be real. There can’t be this much blood everywhere, soaking the white walls and blue stools and brown floor a scattered crimson. These can’t be four trained law enforcement officers lying here, lolling like broken dandelions. No one man could have wrecked this much devastation so quickly. It’d take an act of god.

“Angel Eyes,” Tuco says, a little weakly; and Gabriella runs over to help him rise. “You took your time getting here.”

“Blondie screwed it up,” Angel Eyes says, tucking his gun away. “We hit the trail early so you wouldn’t get caught in the crossfire, and considering what a hash he made of the situation, it’s just as well you weren’t there. Tell me something. That long, beautiful resume he fed me, years of expertise as a bounty hunter, was that all complete nonsense?“

“Uh,” Tuco says, chewing his mustache. “It’s like this, you see-”

“It was nonsense,” Blondie interrupts, tossing aside his handcuffs. “The hell are you doing here? I said I’d handle it, I was handling it.“

Gabriella has no idea what happens in the next five minutes, a rapid back-and-forth of recriminations, disagreement, sardonic tones as though these men plan crimes with each other every day. They realise eventually that she’s there and listening, and then the argument trails off abruptly.

(She ought to be afraid of them, maybe. She knows she isn’t.)

“We’d better get out of here,” Angel Eyes says, and helps Blondie to rise with a tenderness that belies all the preceding insults. Tuco downs a cup of milky coffee, piles food from the dead officers’ plates into a ziplock bag. He pauses for a moment, then slashes the lining of his pack with a red-handled knife. Tosses her a crumpled handful of dirty, unmarked twenties.

“We’re the good guys. Honest.”

Which is the one detail she keeps to herself, when the other officers show up and the investigation starts; the one detail she hugs to her heart in ecstasy that night, as she yields to sleep in a dingy apartment.

“An angel, he said. An angel, and a man, and the one caught in between...”

#70s au #the good the bad and the ugly #based among other things #on my irritation with a Heinlein novel in which dishwashing is the answer to all woes #whump #violence happens

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