Trying not to yawn, you stir creamer into your mug. As a general rule, you don't speak to others before nine in the morning – or at least until you've your first cup of coffee. Whichever comes first. Today seems to be the exception to both extremely sensiblerules. Not only did you have an 8:00 AM meeting but the trains were running late, so you were forced to go without coffee until now. Ten in the morning.
Eyes closing, you lift the mug to your lips. The first, heavenly sip brings a sigh – bliss. The heat reaches your toes, warming your entire body as you lower the cup to the counter. The red surface stares back at you, the words 'Don't Panic' emblazoned on the side. Your lip quirks at the reminder; the quote is a nod to Douglas Adams and the daily stress of a college work environment. It's been nearly a year you've been a professor at Mandelan University.
It's taken you a while to catch up to speed, given you're the youngest professor by far. Your career in the field was short but accomplished – at least, that's what people say. To you, your experience seems woefully inadequate compared to your colleagues. Taking another long sip of coffee, you turn on your heel and walk out of the break room.
Returning to your office, your steps slow as you survey the green quad before you. It's barely the end of September – students still have free time to lounge, throwing the Frisbee and reading their books. Your building is fairly open to the outside – full of large, airy archways (read: incredibly drafty in the winter) which provide entry to both the north and south quads.
After a moment of observation, you continue your walk. Somewhat wistfully, you wish you had that sort of free time. Life since college has rushed by too quickly.
The door to your shared office stands ajar and crossing the threshold, you pause. Your receptionist, Jimin, types frantically on his computer – he barely even notices you enter, so intense is his concentration. When you nudge the door shut with your hip, the noise makes him looks up.
"Y/N!" Jimin pushes his glasses further up his nose. "Please, let me help you!"
He attempts to stand but you shoo him back in his seat. You share Jimin as a receptionist with the other three professors in the office. He's currently a graduate student at the University, and one of the sweetest souls you've ever met.
"Please, Jimin." Trying not to laugh, you walk away. "I can open a door and carry coffee at the same time. I'm ambidextrous; I use both hands."
Jimin smiles, a tiny dimple appearing in his brow. "An advantageous adaptation," he says as he sits. Pushing hair from his face, Jimin grins. "And a trait which affects less than one percent of the general population."
"I know," you say, unable to help your smile. Jimin is studying biological anthropology – different from your specialty, linguistics but still rooted in the same place. Anthropology is the study and learning of what makes you human. "I've never found it to be disadvantageous," you tease.
Jimin laughs and leans back in his seat. "Oh!" He shuffles papers before him. "I almost forgot – your 10:30 appointment arrived early. I told him to go ahead and wait in your office."
"Him?" Frowning, you pause. "My 10:30 AM, you said?"
Jimin nods. "He came in five minutes ago and apologized for being early, but said it was urgent. That's... okay, right?" Jimin glances up, worried. "Oh, darn. I didn't screw up your day, did I? It's just," he says, pushing back his chair. "Right, okay. I can make him wait out here?"
"No, no," you say, waving a hand. Glancing at your office door, your frown deepens. "No, it's fine. Don't worry, Jimin – I'll go talk to him now." When Jimin still doesn't sit, you force a smile. "It's fine," you say, striding forward. "Thank you for telling me!"
"Anytime," Jimin calls – followed by the soft thud of him sitting down in his chair.
When you glance at your watch, you see the time is 10:15 AM. Your next appointment is twenty minutes early, which is strange. Then again, your field is not exactly filled with usual people.
Reaching your door brings about a second surprise, though – feet faltering, you come to a stop.
The door to your office is closed.
Glancing over your shoulder, you frown again. Typically, your door remains shut but not if someone is waiting inside. It's s odd, for your 10:30 AM to enter your office – entirely alone – and shut the door to the hall. Peering through the frosted glass, you see no one inside. Concern growing, you slowly push open the frame.
Nothing seems amiss – your office is empty. Taking a careful step, your gaze sweeps the empty corners. No one is sitting at your desk, no one sits behind it either. No one is standing at the windows, nor by the wall.
Just as your worry grows, you hear a toilet flush.
Through sheer force of luck, your office has its own bathroom. It's the only one on your floor; you inherited it when the previous occupant vacated for a two-year dig in Cairo. None of the other professors use your bathroom, so you deduce the incumbent must be your mysterious guest.
The door flies open, hitting the wall – as though the man exiting didn't realize its weight.
Glancing up, the man meets your gaze from beneath dark, unruly hair. His expression is quizzical, something you're accustomed to – you work daily with librarians and scholars. His demeanor is strange though, as though you're the one trespassing in his office, not the other way around.
"I..." Glancing past him, words fail you. "What were you doing in there?"
Coming to a stop, the man quirks a brow. "I was using the bathroom," he says, resuming his stride across your office. "What did it look like I was doing?"
You remain frozen while the man sits in your chair, easily crossing one leg over the other. Forcing yourself to move, you shake your head to clear the cobwebs of conversation.
Stopping behind your desk, you look at your guest. "It looked like you invited yourself into my office to use the bathroom. An act typically frowned upon in most social situations."
"Ah." He holds up a finger. "Not true. In Scotland, it used to be law that if a stranger knocked on the door to your toilet, you were obligated to let him enter. How's that for societal norms regarding bathroom privacy?"
You stare in disbelief. "Debunked," you say at last, lowering into your chair. "Complete nonsense, probably stemming from the fact that Scotland has the reputation of being overly hospitable. Where have you been," you ask, incredulity seeping into your tone, "that you believe hogwash like that?"
His lips twitch. "The Amazon doing fieldwork. Strange, how urban legends spread, isn't it?"
You stare at him a moment. "But – you're the one spreading the rumors," you point out, wondering if this man is fully sane. "People like you are the ones spreading rumors! You waltz into the offices of strangers, sit down and spout nonsense, pretending its fact!"
"Ah, right. I did do that – didn't I?" Unconcerned, the man leans back in his seat. "Nice office."
"Okay," you say, cutting him off. "Why are you here?"
"Your receptionist didn't tell you?"
"No." Annoyed, you tap your fingers on top of the desk. "I usually request Jimin doesn't. I've found it more productive to ask people what they want."
Amusement enters his gaze. "A valid point," he agrees. Steepling fingers beneath his chin, the man narrows his eyes. "Let me get right to the point, then. I have five questions for you today, Mrs. Y/L/N."
"Mx," you correct. "And proceed."
"Noted. We have the full hour together, am I right? I'd hate for us to be interrupted by your significant other for lunch, or something similar."
"We have the full hour," you say, irritation growing, "and I'm not in a relationship, so the point is moot."
His dark eyes gleam. "Ah, you've answered my first question."
Well.
Trying not to react, you take a large sip of coffee. Your cheeks heat despite yourself, uncertain why he has such an effect on you. This man is impertinent, annoying and much too confident – which is oddly attractive, in all the worst ways.
"My second question," he continues, leaning forward, "is about your most recent work. How did you discover the error?"
Discomfort worms its way into your thoughts. You feel this way anytime someone references your supposed masterpiece; imposter syndrome rearing it's ugly head once again.
The work he's referencing is your most famous publication to date. It's what landed you this job at the University, as well as a dozen other opportunities. You discovered a verb error in a document translated from Latin in the thirteenth century – one which changed the entire meaning of the paper. The discovery, once brought to the light of academia, sparked much controversy and discussion.
"Well." You shrug, trying to remain neutral. "It was an accident, really. Few people nowadays bother to read the original document. There's a tendency towards universal academic language which honestly, I find crippling. Whenever possible, I prefer to read the document in its original language. That's how I uncovered the error."
The man's eyes gleam in satisfaction. "I see. So, on to my second question –"
"Third."
"Third question," he corrects with a smile. "You read Latin?"
"Fluently."
"Hm." The man leans back in his chair. "Outside of the University, what kind of hobbies do you pursue?"
"Why?" you ask with a frown. "Are you looking for a tennis partner, Mr. Brooks?"
The man blinks, barely reacting to the name. "Hardly," he says. "The answer to my question...?"
"Oh, this and that," you say, purposefully vague. "I like to be active. I read a lot, transcribe a bit. The usual."
"Indeed." He pokes his cheek with his tongue, seeming to war with his next and final question.
"One more question," you remind, utterly pleasant.
His smile sharpens. "My last question. Why did you leave the Enlightened?"
Not having prepared yourself for this possibility, you go utterly still. Panic courses through your veins; it's been a long time since you discussed the Enlightened.
For good reason; the Enlightened have a policy of complete silence regarding membership, and aren't queasy about enforcing said rules.
"That..." You blink, stumbling for words. Noticing your slip-up, the man lifts a brow. "I don't know what organization you're talking about."
"I see." Sitting back, the man smoothly uncrosses his legs. "My mistake. I apologize."
His gaze is shrewd, though and you know he understands.
You're not being truthful. A moment passes while you sit in silence. Running a finger over the edge of your mug, you attempt to pull yourself together. It's impossible for this man to know about your connection to the Enlightened: a fabled group of knowledge-seekers whom no one – living nor dead – has ever been able to prove.
Still, the mention of their name reduces your many questions to one.
"Now," you say, tilting your head. "If you're done with your questions, I have one of my own."
"Go on," the man says, waving a hand.
Running your tongue over the back of your teeth, you glance at the door – and then to him.
"Who the fuck are you?" you demand.
His eyebrows shoot up, unable to contain his surprise. "Excuse me?"
"Who." You remove your hand from your mug. "Are you? My 10:30 AM was Professor Lilac Brooks. You, sir, are neither female, nor is your first name Lilac."
His lips twitch, much to your irritation. "A wild assumption on your part, Y/N."
"A wrong one?"
"No."
"I rest my case."
"Case?" he repeats, oddly amused. "I wasn't aware I was on trial."
"You are now." Scowling, you pick up your coffee. "You're being tried for lack of common decency, ridiculous deception and – using other people's bathrooms!"
His lips are pressed tightly together, as though to keep in his laughter. "You're unusually concerned about that last part, aren't you?"
"Unusually? Ugh, never mind. Just – tell me who you really are."
"Alright," he says, hiding a smile. "Professor Min Yoongi, at your service."
"Min Yoongi..." Trailing off, you frown. "The archaeologist, Min Yoongi?"
His smile widens. "Ah, so you have heard of me?"
Rolling your eyes, you place your mug on your desk. "You didn't tell me who you were," you point out. "How would I have known if I had or hadn't heard of you?"
"Another excellent point!" Yoongi says. "See, this is why I need your help in the first place."
"Right." Somewhat dazed, you shake your head. "Which brings me to my next question –"
"I thought you only had one?"
"Shut up, Professor. Which brings me to my next question – why are you here?"
Some of his previous cockiness disappears. "I wasn't lying," Yoongi says, voice dropping. "I really do need your help."
"Uh-huh." Skeptical, you tap at your desk. "And you couldn't have made an appointment like a normal person? Speaking of which," you say, glancing at the door. "Where is Professor Brooks?"
"I stopped her in the parking lot and reminded her your meeting was next Thursday, not today. She was incredibly grateful for the correction by your assistant. Aka, me."
Your jaw drops. "You did what?"
"You're welcome."
"I'm – I'm not thanking you, you idiot!"
"Not yet," Yoongi says hopefully. "You will be though, once I describe to you this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity."
Groaning out loud, you lower your head to your hands. Your headache from earlier, nearly disappeared, is back with a vengeance.
"Headache returning?"
Abruptly, you stop rubbing your temples. You didn't speak to a soul on your way into the office. After finishing the Motrin bottle in your bathroom cabinet, you headed straight to your eight 'o'clock meeting, which means – incredulous, your gaze lifts to Yoongi.
"Did you..." Your eyes narrow. "Did you go through my trash while you were waiting for me to return?"
For the first time, Yoongi appears somewhat chagrined. "Um. Well, define trash."
"Out." Exhaling, you rise from your chair. "Out," you repeat, pointing at the door. "Now! Get out of my office!"
Yoongi stands so quickly he nearly capsizes his chair.
"Okay – okay, I'm sorry about the trash thing. It was an accident," he continues, even as you march around your desk. "I was throwing out my gum and saw the empty canister on top. I notice things, I can't help it!"
"Don't care," you say, grabbing him by the elbow. "Get out of my office before I call my receptionist to come throw you out."
Yoongi pauses, his eyes bright with amusement. "Your receptionist? He's what – 5'8"?"
"I..." Pausing, you glance from the doorway to him. "You and Jimin are the same height."
Yoongi's face darkens. "We are not."
"Lord."
Dropping his arm, you pretend it's because you're uncomfortable – not because the way Min Yoongi smells is distracting. Like coffee and some kind of mint soap.
Taking a step back, you cross your arms. "You have five minutes to convince me of this 'once-in-a-lifetime' opportunity."
Yoongi frowns. "Can I have six?"
"Oh, look at that. Ten seconds wasted."
"Okay, okay." He shoves a hand through his hair. "Have you ever heard of the Pirate Barbaras? You know – demon of the seas, scourge of the Spanish Armada and British Navy? They say he accumulated the most treasure of any pirate of his time."
When you hear the name Barbaras, it's hard to contain your skepticism. As soon as the word 'pirate' is uttered, your expression shutters. Min Yoongi is – how should you put this? – infamous in the archaeological world.
He's capable of brilliance, but equally so of folly. His accomplishments are varied: the Mesa Sierra treasure, the lost Arc of the Binding, the famed Grail of Abetan. Along the way though, he's suffered a tremendous amount of mishaps. Bad luck seems to follow him lately, with each of his searches turning into wild goose chases.
"Listen." Yoongi exhales, as though he knows what you're thinking. "The treasure is real. I can promise you that. And," he adds, placing both hands on your desk, "I have a map to prove it."
His hands are so close you can feel the heat of his body, butterflies fluttering at the casual proximity – traitorous bastards, the lot of them.
"If you have a map," you say, pulling yourself together. "What do you need me for?"
Yoongi pauses. It's clear from his expression he's not accustomed to asking for help.
"Well," he drawls, looking down at his hands. "There's this one part of the map I'm stuck on."
"Oh?"
Yoongi's gaze lifts, all sharpness fading. "Alright," he says. "I keep coming to the same conclusion but each time I visit the location – nothing. I'm all out of ideas and I – well, I need your help."
For an unrestrained moment, the word yes is on your lips. Realizing this, you reign it back in and clamp your mouth shut.
Of course, the answer is no. It has to be – you can't seriously consider joining such a harebrained scheme. You can't just... leave, giving up everything you've worked so hard for and jet off on a treasure hunt with the laughingstock of the field. Besides, fieldwork is something you swore off a long time ago, no matter how tempting the offer.
Still, you hesitate. "Why my help?"
"I'm so glad you asked." Reaching grandly into his bag, Yoongi's fingers close around something – and he stops. "Actually, you know what – we just met." Swiftly, he shuts the flap of his bag. "The clue I need help deciphering is in Latin."
"Latin?"
Yoongi nods. "Apparently, Barbaras was a bit of a scholar before he became a crime lord of the seas. He wrote a clue in Latin, because –"
"– it was the universal academic language of the time," you finish. Yoongi has a translated map – apparently, a poorly translated one – and needs your help to understand.
But no, you can't. The type of work Yoongi is talking about no longer concerns you.
Yoongi's expression changes the longer he watches you. "You're going to say no," he says, as though you've already told him your answer.
"Stop doing that!"
"Sorry." Yoongi smiles, but it's smaller than before. "I'm a dual social and archaeological specialist. I can't help but analyze, it's in my nature."
Jaw tight, you turn and stare out your window. Internally, you know the conversation has ended. Min Yoongi needs help – help you can't give, which means you're no longer of use.
Picking up your mug, you drain the last of your coffee.
"I'm sorry," you say, turning back. It's strange to find that you genuinely are. "Your six minutes are up, and I'm still not convinced."
Yoongi's gaze flicks to the mug in your hand. "You started counting too early," he says. "By my count, I still have thirty seconds."
"Yoongi..."
"No, no." His expression is earnest. "This will be fast, I swear."
When you say nothing, Yoongi takes this as a sign to continue.
"Here's my offer – no bullshit," he says. "You help me find the treasure and we split the recognition 50/50. You get half, I get half. And," he adds, seeing your mouth open, "before you say no. Before you dismiss me and go on with your life, let me ask – haven't you ever wanted to do something more? Something amazing, unique and unprecedented? Your life is good because it's safe. But..."
Yoongi stops, glancing again at the words on your mug.
Moving closer, the back of his hand brushes yours. "I may not have gone where I intended to go, but I think I have ended up where I needed to be." Yoongi's gaze lifts to yours. "Douglas Adams, although not from the same novel as the one quoted on your mug. What I'm trying to say is sometimes, you need to take risks to get rewards. Be lost to be found. Y/N." His gaze intensifies. "Do something crazy. Take a risk with me."
Silence stretches between you, and you find yourself at a loss. Something is happening, something unspoken and wild which makes you want to say yes – but you know that you can't. You know that's just the adrenaline talking. Know it's just the remnants of your youth, when you dared to do something as reckless as this... and then were forced to pick up the pieces.
"I..." Hesitating, you swallow. "That was longer than thirty seconds."
Yoongi stares and after a long moment, he nods.
"Right." Adjusting his bag, he slowly turns towards the door. "I understand, Y/N. Thank you for letting me use your bathroom, anyways."
The moment you see his back, your heart becomes erratic. Yoongi's hand wraps around the doorknob (if you were thinking rationally, you'd realize hes moving too slowly), about to leave when you blurt, "Wait!"
Yoongi pauses.
"I." Frantic, your thoughts chase one another. "50/50, you said?"
Yoongi releases the knob. "You drive a hard bargain, Y/N."
"I'm in," you say, bulldozing your reservations. "I'll help."
Yoongi's smile reappears, as though it never left in the first place.
"Excellent," he says, twisting the knob to push open the door. His grin has returned. "I'll send an email with the details."
"An email?"
Arching a brow, Yoongi retracts a hat from his bag. He squashes this on top of his head – a tropical pattern; odd, given your academic surroundings.
"Of course," he says, deadpan. "All my carrier pigeons are occupied."
Your smile disappears. Already, you're mildly regretting your decision. Giving a wink, Yoongi steps into the hall and disappears.
His boots echo down the hall, saying goodbye to Jimin before the door shuts behind him. Once he's gone, you collapse, walking around your desk to sink down on your seat.
This is a terrible idea.
And somehow, you can't contain your excitement.