BTS - BLACKPINK One-Shots [CLOSED]

Sleepy - NamJen

He holds her close for a moment before turning her around and holds her much closer, her nose on his chest, and her cheeks, and her lips, and he feels it all, every inch of her face that he can recite without looking. What's wrong, Jennie, who did this to you, Jennie, please tell me you didn't come alone hauling a cab and cried all your way here, babe, there's so much Namjoon needs to ask her but he listens to her growing sniffles and finds just as much assurance as her in her arms circling around him. There's a plea in her tightening hold: protection. She's chasing comfort, and oh if only she knows how ready he is to hand it all out.

It's funny. She's been outside but her hands are warmer than his.

"Sssh..," he whispers, "It's okay, I'm here," slowly, lowly, his left fingers relish in her strands, settling gently, or maybe not because he doesn't know how to do gentle. Her sobs intensifies, gets uncontrollable, her hitches frequent, and he feels it, although differently, the constraint of her feelings, the clutch in his own chest. His eyes are heavy but his heart—his heart, is heavier. Namjoon doesn't move, for it feels too much, so they stay like that for a while. He can hear the clock beeps softly and a door closes somewhere below. The stillness of the night amplifies every sound in the building.

It's okay, it's okay, I'm here, It's okay.

It's okay.

I'm here.

It's okay.

It takes quite some time for her to calm down, and for a long while that's all Namjoon does; calming her down. No question. No guessing. Just him trying to absorb her sorrow as much as he can, as fully as he might, and he knows how to do it, he does it often for his members, the people around him, but with Jennie it leaves a dent, he is not a ready punchbag this time; the hit hurts him too. Though she doesn't know that. And he's not ready to know that even as it happens. And still, he takes it all in. All. In. In.

Somewhere in between her last sobs, Namjoon has moved them to his sofa. The sofa isn't small, but it's meant for one person so Jennie is dangerously all over his body, her limbs crossing horizontally from his own. It's not new. They do this often. He tries to use this fact to soothe his nerves and focus solely on her, but he never could with her, and he's kinda guilty that he doesn't feel guilty even a bit. They're too close. His heart races. With Jennie, it's normal.

She breathes in snubbed sounds, notably more relaxed, which is good, her head buried in his armpit, which is bad, and his hand on her neck, way bigger, fitting, unmoving, just being there. He kisses her hair. "Did you have nightmare?" he breathes, asks in hushed secrecy that wouldn't be heard if it is any morning-er, choosing to give way to the option where it is no one's fault. He doesn't expect answer; he just says it to help her ends it, and she knows. He kisses her hair again. And again. And again. Jennie just lets him.

They don't say anything for a long time. Namjoon faintly realizes he dozed off when he has to open his eyes to comprehend what the nice touches he feels are, and sees her kissing his shoulder. "I'm sorry," her lips familiar, and Namjoon's mind clouds for a flash second. "Hm," is all he can say before he clears his throat and murmurs, "For—what?" he looks at the ceiling, and her fingers, her small, know-it-all fingers, presses gently on his neck in her innocent attempt to hug him, and he tries, really; he tries his hardest to hold onto the last watt of consciousness to at least have the needed rationale to be considerate of her condition. He wants to hug her back but just angles his arms instead, too afraid, tentative, careful. She snucks in and he notes incoherently how she fits his neck so much.

"For waking you up." She breathes in his collarbone, her voice muffled, and Namjoon cannot bear to inhale her scent this time, too close, too fucking nice, so he turns his head against her but inhales deep nevertheless. She seems to mistake this gesture. "See, you're—tired. I saw your desk. I must—I must have bothered your rest." Her voice small, cautious. She now faces him, her head's side on his shoulder and her eyes intent on his face, searching. Maybe he shouldn't wake up. Maybe he should have faked sleep when she kisses him until sleep really takes him.

"No, you're a nice surprise," he slurs, reassuringly pats her, and he wills himself to stare back, and that's when he sees it, her red eyes, and her red nose, and her swollen eyebag, so fucking close, but it also reminds him of the strain in his lungs; he instantly feels fucked up for even indulging to indecent thoughts when she needs him loving and sane. He kisses her gently—this one, he knows how to do. "Always been," and he kisses her sorry, "Always will be." Jennie hums quietly, the sound reverbrates right to his heart, hits him with fondness, and Namjoon knows, in every way that matters, only Jennie can make him feel like this. Proud. Protective. Fond. Belonging. In this level of intensity.

"Joon." She says, only she calls him that, and it feels like a permission, so he kisses her right, her lips soft, forgiving, very familiar, and he hugs her right, because she cries again, silent, one tear at a time, and it's her who chases, it's Jennie who longs, and Namjoon answers every request the way he remembers it, everytime, it's like they tune back into something they recognize by heart, and he muses in muted thought, if it is appropriate to feel indistinctly happy when kissing someone in misery. They fade into small touches and Namjoon kisses her eyes, soothing, apologetic, stays there longer than he should, knowing they both need it. He closes his eyes and touches her tears with his thumbs, memorizing it before wiping it bare.

And then they fall silent again for a long, long, long moment this time.

They watch in their own mind as something falls in place, maybe everything.

Now that they're back cuddling very close, all settled, very right, he realizes he is indeed very tired, his eyes struggle to open. He snuggles into her, she snuggles into him, questions hanging in the air but the glitters have reached the snowglobe's bottom and there's too little morning to solve everything, and it's not like she won't tell him, and maybe it is a little uncomfortable but he is too spent to shift, moving her, and it's not like she's heavy but just barely.

His last sensory information before he drifts back to slumber, very drowsy, very warm, very cozy, enveloped in all familiarities he grows to love, he builds into each other, her to his studio and his music to her: her voice whispering to his shoulder, i love you so, so, so much, you idiot, stop saying corny things you can't know, and maybe that's enough, thinks sleepily, maybe he would be doomed to misfortune for the rest of his life for the nice feelings he gets with her, universe's way to balance things out, and he's okay with that, probably, probably, and then he sleeps, his chest swells, dreams of a cab and and her crying in it.

*