Chapter 1: Crash Landing Into You
Chapter Text
Chapter 1: Crash Landing Into You
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Goten regrets coming to the bar.
It was Krillin’s idea, really; he and his wife Eighteen had closed on a house thanks to the expansion of the martial arts school, and they wanted to celebrate by taking him out to dinner. Goten had hurried out of his mall shift as soon as it ended; there was no way he was going to skip out on celebrating who was basically like a father figure to him.
So he shoulders his way through the crowd into the swankiest bar he’s ever seen – well, he actually doesn’t know how swanky bars can get, but still – cursing for the umpteenth time that day.
“Just finishing up the paperwork,” Krillin texts him. “Be there soon save us seats.”
He loves Krillin and his wife, but what do they enjoy about a place where it’s so loud that you can’t hear yourself talk? He blanches as he gets himself a beer bottle, just to have something to hold in his fidgety hands, and looks around for a table. It’s packed tight in here – he’s not sure Eighteen and Krillin can even fit through the door.
And it’s Friday night. Ugh, Krillin, why.
Maybe there’s more seating upstairs. Goten is so distracted by people bumping into him from all directions that he doesn’t notice the red ropes barring entry; he goes around them, relieved to find that the second floor is much quieter.
It’s even fancier. Thick carpet. Fewer people, a quiet empty bar, and balcony seating.
Relieved, Goten places his beer on one of the tables by the wall, and walks out to the balcony. He doesn’t notice that another man is there in the corner of it at first, but then startles to see him. He’s striking, with light-colored hair pulled back into a messy ponytail, looking frazzled as he speaks into a phone.
“No, that’s not necessary. No police, Mai. Please, leave it. He’s not going to – he can’t hurt me anymore. Please? Just go get yourself something nice. Have dinner, relax, it’s Friday – no, don’t come over.” His voice becomes wry. “Keep this up and I’m firing you.”
He shuts off the phone, stares at it as if he could make it melt in his hand by the sheer force of his glare alone.
Doesn’t seem like a preposterous idea though, because he’s got a glare that could set an iceberg on fire.
The man turns toward Goten, and startles when he sees Goten staring. He’s about Goten’s height, obviously white-collar by the way he’s got a button-down stretched across his pecs and sleeves rolled up to his elbows with a black suit jacket slung over his shoulder.
For the briefest moment they stare. The man blinks, and gives Goten the look-over. “Can I help you?” he says, not unkindly. Just curious.
Goten fumbles, realization blinking into him like daylight. “Oh, sorry, uh, no – I didn’t realize it was a private party.”
“Not a problem,” the man replies with a friendly smile that means nothing – but it goes straight through Goten’s spine and leaves little jolts in all his peripheral nerves.
“Rough day at work, huh?” Goten can’t help but say, because he wants an excuse to look at him for as long as possible. He isn’t a complete sociopath though, so he says it while walking backwards away from the balcony, heading back to his table to pick up his beer and leave.
The man makes a little noise through his throat. “I can’t even...” he smiles again, apologetic. “Sorry you had to hear that. Not a fun industry.”
Sounded more like a personal stalker type of conversation than a work industry conversation, but Goten is not about to argue when he’s given something to go on. “What’s the industry?”
The man pauses. His eyes flicker down at the ground, and Goten can tell he’s deciding whether to be honest, or how much to be. He wonders if it’s some kind of government agency. “Tech. I work in tech.”
“Oh yeah? I guess it’s not as hot as it’s said to be. Don’t envy you guys.” Goten has reached the table, walking backwards. He picks up his beer and raises it as if in a toast. “Take it easy.”
The man stands there at the balcony, hair lit by fairy lights, looking at him with a helpless little smile. “Thanks. Have a good evening.”
Goten turns, just in time to avoid bumping into three men in suits stomping up the stairs. He ambles down the stairwell and only then sees the rope blocking it off, and sheepishly sets it right.
A gunshot rings out.
Screams cover the bar. The music stops. Patrons dive under tables.
Another gunshot. It’s coming from upstairs.
Goten turns and runs back up the stairs, and ducks as he hears another gunshot. Two of the men in black suits are near him, firing at the balcony. At the balcony stands White Collar, holding one of the black suits against him with his wrist twisted into dropping his gun. The two free black suits shoot, and blood pours out of the one being held by White Collar.
“Really, guys?” says White Collar. “Shooting your own side?” He ducks behind the body as they shoot again.
Goten swipes to the side and instantly disarms the black suit to his right. He then charges at the other with the black suit poised in front of him like a shield, and flinches when bullets go through the body. After tackling them, disarming them is quick. He breaks the third black suit's hand just for good measure, and doesn’t feel bad about it as he screams. Kicks away the gun.
He stands up and finds White Collar dropping the black suit that is profusely bleeding. “Police,” he breathes at Goten, and Goten fishes out a phone from his pocket. As he gives quick instructions on the line, White Collar is pushing down on one of the suits, trying to staunch the bleeding.
“Fucking hell,” he mutters. “I didn’t think they’d do it.”
Goten wordlessly helps by putting a knee on the man whose hand he broke, because he’s wiggling, while staunching the bleeding on another one.
It’s when police and paramedics swarm the building, sirens and shouts aplenty, that Goten looks up and finds the other man also looking up at the same time to catch his gaze. “Are you alright?” they say in unison.
“Uh, yeah, I’m fine.” Goten gasps when he realizes that White Collar is completely soaked in blood. Goten isn’t looking too great himself, but at least he’s wearing dark layers – the man in front of him looks like he’s been shot twice over.
The paramedics then come between them, and they’re dragged away into separate corners. A heavy blanket is thrown over Goten’s shoulder and a hot coffee is thrust into his hand as he loudly insists that he’s unhurt, please stop trying to strip me –
The other man is less fortunate. Despite his rather dignified protests, the paramedics cut open his shirt without mercy, threatening to do the same to his pants if he doesn’t get naked right this minute. Goten politely averts his eyes.
The chaos around them is unrelenting as Goten speaks to the police officer who’s come to interview him. He doesn’t have much to go on. “I just heard gunshots up the stairs, so I went up to help,” he says. “I saw guys shooting at this gentleman so I took two of them down.”
“And the other one?” the policeman says.
“Er, this gentleman took him down, I think?” Goten glances at White Collar, who is completely invisible behind paramedics. “They all kinda shot at each other.”
He ends up having to repeat his story to several police officers. At the end he is told sternly to wait around and not go anywhere, so he stands leaning against the wall and waits for the chaos to clear. It does not.
He doesn’t feel right just – leaving. Abandoning this person that just got shot at.
The worst of the chaos starts to peter out after what seems like forever, and Goten shifts when he feels a presence next to him. White Collar, no longer with a collar - or a shirt, in fact - comes to stand next to him, leaning against the wall. He seems to have salvaged his pants, but they’re dark with blood. His pecs are gleaming with medical wipe residue, and Goten jerks his gaze away because ogling a man who just got mobbed by medics who wanted to strip him naked after he almost got murdered doesn’t seem considerate.
“Christ,” the man mutters, looking despondently outside. The paramedic vans and police cars line the streets all around, and there are onlookers jammed as far as the eye can see. Camera flashes are going off, and the sirens still ring in the air.
So much for a nice Friday evening.
“Can I give you a ride home, Mr. Briefs?” a police officer comes up to them both, addressing White Collar.
The man grimaces. “No, but you can get me a shirt to wear.”
“He needs to stay for observation!” barks a medic from behind. “He might go into shock.”
Mortified on his behalf, Goten looks down at himself. “Oh, hey! I have something you can wear.” Thanks to his casual – much to his mother’s disapproval – sense of fashion, he had thrown on a flannel overshirt over his t-shirt before leaving for the bar. “Here, it’s – uh, I dunno if it fits, but at least you can cover up?” He swiftly takes off the flannel and holds it out.
The man looks at him with open surprise. “You sure?”
“Heck yeah I’m sure, you need this more than I do.”
The man tentatively accepts, glancing at Goten’s outstretched arm and chest as he takes the shirt. Sweet of him to worry about Goten being cold, but Goten impatiently gestures, so the man relents and quickly puts it on. Goten tries not to mourn the glistening pecs that go into hiding.
Down, boy, he tells himself sternly. The man’s traumatized.
“So much for a nice Friday evening,” the man remarks as he buttons up the flannel.
“Oh! Right.” Goten takes out his phone and winces to see a number of missed calls from Krillin. He dials, and his ears get blown off with a shout.
“Are you safe?!”
Goten takes his ear off the phone. “I’m fine, Krillin. Don’t shout.”
“Where are you?!”
“I’m at the bar.”
Panicked shouting rings in his ears. “I’m outside the bar! The police won’t let us go in and I thought you got mixed up in that shooting! Are you still inside?!”
“It’s fine, Krillin, it’s over. I’m just giving witness testimony.” Goten casts a quick glance at White Collar. Arms crossed – hells, he’s got those sleeves rolled up again – and one leg bent behind him against the wall, he’s watching him from between shocks of hair falling over his eyes, and that sight goes straight through Goten’s spine.
“I heard people died!”
“Well, not me, obviously.”
“When can you come out?!”
“As soon as they let me go, I guess?” He sighs. “Sorry, Krillin, I didn’t mean for your celebratory night to go like this. Are you and Eighteen okay?”
“Yes, yes, you idiot! We’re standing outside dying with worry!”
“Oh my god, I’m fine! Stop worrying!”
“YOU stop!”
Goten hangs up. The man’s face is now a full-blown smile.
“Friend?”
“Dad’s friend.” Goten scratches his head. “My dad’s been dead a while, so he worries a lot. We were supposed to meet here tonight to celebrate him and his wife closing on a house.”
The man’s smile is enigmatic. “You go drinking with your father’s friends often?”
“Oh, he’s kinda my boss. Also I don’t … really go out much.” He grins sheepishly. “Not conducive to making friends.”
“Well, seeing your track record of good results after ‘going out’, I don’t blame you.” His smile goes straight through Goten’s spine again.
“I could say the same.” Goten laughs awkwardly. “You get shot at a lot?”
There’s a strange look to the stranger’s smile. “Apparently.”
“Excuse me?”
There’s hesitation there. He hadn’t meant to say it. Goten clears his throat.
“Well, uh, I mean. I’m glad you’re okay.”
The man looks down at the floor, thinking. “I do work in tech,” he says, carefully. “I’m not… mafia or anything, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
That WAS what Goten was thinking. So he’s glad to hear that sorted out.
“But our company – we make cutting-edge technology, and it puts a lot of people out of old jobs. I didn’t think they’d go this far though.”
Goten stares at him. He stares back.
“Okay. You don’t have to answer, but I gotta ask.” Goten crosses his arms, and the other man’s eyes flicker down at them. “Why – I mean, are you really important or something? Why would anyone wanna kill you for… technology?”
The man grimaces. “I’m an engineer, so it’s kinda my invention. And I don’t have the best people skills, so… when people have grievances about it, I don’t always respond in ways they want.”
“Get outta here. Your people skills are fine.”
His smile is soft this time. This is gonna kill Goten, he just knows it. “Thanks.”
“You can go now, sirs,” says an officer, nearing them. “Are you sure you don’t need a ride home? We can drop you off in our police vehicle.”
“No, thanks.” The other man straightens, uncrossing his arms at last. He looks ridiculously gorgeous even in Goten’s lumberjack flannel. “I’ll take a cab.”
Goten eyes him. “Are you sure? You just said you’re like some kind of target.”
To Goten’s surprise, the stranger seems to consider his words. He pulls out a phone from his pocket, grimaces. “Oh. Yeah, actually my friend is coming to get me.”
That’s Goten’s cue to say farewell to his luckiest ogling opportunity of a lifetime. He resigns himself to the loss. “Let me walk you out, at least.”
No hardship for him, to spend another minute with a gorgeous man who is apparently jacked and also seems to be kinda ridiculously nice and also smart. Together they slowly go down the stairs where the floor is barricaded, photography flashes abound, and police lights spin in all directions and people are crowded outside–
“Goten!” Krillin is jumping up and down, waving his hands, while Eighteen stands looking bored next to him. “Goten, over here!”
“Hey, you two!” Goten waves at the glass wall. He turns to White Collar. “Mind if I stick around til your friend comes? I’d rather not let you loose in that crowd before you can get picked up.”
The man smiles faintly. “Not at all.”
The two of them watch the crowd crammed outside. Then Goten sees a man – a tall, handsome man with dark hair and bright, open eyes – come running straight to the door. He says a few words to the police blocking his path, and waves. The man next to Goten waves back. “That’s my ride.”
Goten braces himself. “Listen, it was nice meeting you. Er, I mean, not nice circumstances, but you know, uh. Sorry this happened to you? I uh.” He stops while he’s ahead. “Get home safe?” he says helplessly.
“Hang on.” The man fishes around in his pockets. He pulls out a piece of paper, frowns at it, rips it in half, and pulls out a pen and puts the cap in his teeth –gods, Goten’s spine is not going to survive tonight – as he quickly jots something down.
“Call me.” He pushes the paper into Goten’s hand. “I ruined you and your friends’ night.”
“Heck, no you didn’t--”
“No, let me buy you dinner. You AND your friends.” in the darkness of the barricaded bar, with flashing lights outside spinning around them, his eyes glint and Goten is immobilized. “I promise not to waste your time.”
Goten finds his voice at last. “You’re not a waste of time,” he manages, and then realizes what he’d just said. He swallows. “I just don’t... wanna take advantage.”
The man watches him with an unreadable smile. “Well, do me a favor. Call me, help me feel better about the whole thing. Please? Besides,” he taps at his breast pocket, “I need to give you back your shirt.”
Oh. Right.
Goten nods, and the man smiles and it’s the most dazzling thing he’s seen in his life.
Goten turns to where Krillin and Eighteen are watching from outside, and turns back. “I’m Goten, by the way.”
The man takes his outstretched hand firmly. “Trunks.”
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To Be Continued
Chapter 2: Meet Me Again
Summary:
The Dinner.
Notes:
Please leave comments if you enjoy -- I thrive on validation lol.
Chapter Text
Chapter 2: Meet Me Again
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It takes Goten a whole two weeks to finally scrounge together the courage to reach out to Trunks.
Here is a fact: Trunks owes him. That alone is enough to make Goten hesitate; he doesn’t want to go demanding something out of someone who is going to feel obligated. It’s not a fair dynamic.
Another fact: Trunks is obviously an important person. Even discounting the fact that he was targeted for murder, Goten found him alone in a roped-off area, which means his company doesn’t let him meet business partners for drinks without reserving a whole floor for him, which means he’s important and busy and knows lots of important people and Goten doesn’t want to bother him – or being honest, he fears that he going to FEEL like a bother among a sea of important and beautiful people, dismissed as unimportant because –
Because this brings him to the third and most worrisome fact: Trunks is crazy hot.
He looks like a porn mag out of his dreams and, between that and how smart and nice and put-together he seemed, Goten is sure he’s just going to embarrass himself monumentally within the first ten seconds of letting his stupid mouth do the talking and die before his time of embarrassment.
A dreamy man that’s perfect in every way is bound to be unattainable if not a serial killer and, either way, Goten doesn’t need that kind of drama in his life.
But after two weeks of pacing and panicking and angsting, it becomes clear to him that this is not going to go away on its own. The temptation doesn’t subside; his inner voice tells him that Trunks WANTED him to reach out and is it such a bad thing if the other party genuinely just wants to thank you?
Besides, it’s not like anything’s even going to happen. It was just a happy coincidence that he happened to be at the right place at the right time and save the life of someone who just happened to be excessively hot. That’s all that is. They’ll grab dinner, talk a bit, maybe become something of a distant friend or acquaintance that tapers off within a few years, and then – that’s done. Maybe if he’s lucky, he’ll get a wedding invitation. And get to see him marry a rich supermodel wife. And maybe attend birthday parties for a blond baby or three.
The thought envelopes his giddy anxiety like a heavy blanket. Goten sighs.
Might as well get it over with.
He asks Eighteen for a sparring session that evening, just to get the nerves out of his system. Sparring with Krillin is calming, but Eighteen is the person to go to if he wants to be injected with a healthy dose of appreciation for life.
After an hour of fearing death, he is winded enough not to care – well, scratch that, only marginally care – about the humiliation and anxiety bundled with the thought of calling. He lies panting on the mat, waving weakly at Eighteen as she leaves with an amused little smile and locks up the building.
Looking at the ceiling, he punches in the number he’d saved two weeks prior and hadn’t actually had the courage to dial.
The dial goes through.
It rings once. Goten punches it shut. He can’t do this.
His phone lights up. He rolls to his side and frowns at it. The number is calling back.
Oh shit shit shit shit.
With shaky hands he picks up the phone, because it’s like a pull he can’t refuse. It’s one thing for him to chicken out, but another thing entirely to disappoint the other man.
“Hello?” he rasps.
“Goten?” Holy shit, that voice. It’s like sex on a soundwave. He’d forgotten.
He sucks in a breath. “Uh. Hi.”
“Is now a good time?” Trunks pauses. “Is everything okay?”
“Oh. Yeah. Yeah, sorry, my phone, uh, the call dropped.” Goten scrambles up to a sitting position. “How did you know it was me?”
The voice at the other end is amused. “Not many people have my private number, and you were the only one not on my contact list yet. Easy to guess.”
“Oh.” Goten feels dumb. He’s completely forgotten what he was supposed to say.
He can hear rummaging on the other end, and movement. “What are you doing right now?”
“Uh, finishing up work.”
“Oh yeah? What kind of work do you do?”
“Um. I work as a martial arts instructor part-time.” Goten is grateful for the other man’s social graces, because if it were up to him, he would mumble a bunch of ‘oh’s and ‘uh’s and then hang up awkwardly to beat himself up all night. “On weekends, I pick up shifts as a mall security guard.”
“Really putting those muscles to use, huh?” He can hear a smile in the voice on the other end. “Is this the job with the boss who came to meet you? Father’s friend?”
It’s surreal, having a stranger remember such unremarkable details about his life. Gratified and a little rattled, Goten latches on. “Yeah. Krillin’s a master in Shaolin Kungfu. His wife is ex-military and teaches Krav Maga. I just had a session with her and barely came away with my life.”
There is wind on the other line, as if the man is walking outside. “And you?”
“I do all the others.” Goten draws little pictures on the mat with his free hand idly. “Wingchun, Baguazhang, Taijiquan, Hapkido, Taekwondo, Judo, Jujitsu…”
“Christ. A man of many talents, aren’t you?”
“Eh, my dad was a master.” Goten laughs, self-conscious. He always feels self-conscious telling people this because it feels like bragging. “That’s how he and Krillin became friends – they studied in the same school.” He dusts himself off and rises to his feet. “But enough about me. How are you doing? Did you get home okay? No more, uh, attempts on your life?”
There’s another laugh, and a sound of cars honking. “Yeah, I’m fine. But your life sounds far more interesting than mine.”
“I dunno, I think getting shot at counts as interesting.”
Trunks’s laughter sounds – beautiful. Goten can’t describe it any other way.
“When are you free?” Trunks’s voice sounds far away. “I owe you and your friends dinner, remember?”
“Oh.” Goten can’t help the flushing that rises up his neck. “It’s really no problem--”
“It IS a problem. I’ve been worried that I might have offended you in some way.” A pause. “Since you... didn’t call.”
Goten doesn’t know what to say. “No, no. Sorry, I’ve just been... busy.”
“Of course.” Another pause. “So, dinner? Also remember, Krillin and his wife are also welcome. I’d love to get to know more about this martial arts school and what sounds like a match made in heaven.”
“Oh, then you’ll love the story about how she kicked his ass when they first met.” Goten smiles helplessly. “When and where?”
“Let me get you the details via text.”
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Krillin is mildly confused as to why Techbro Assassination Target Man would feel obligated to buy him and his wife dinner, and asks if Goten would just like to go by himself. Eighteen stomps on his foot and tells Goten with a manic gleam in her eyes that she and Krillin would be delighted to join. They agree to meet up at the appointed time separately, since Krillin has to do some tax things that day and Goten has to stay late for closing shift at work.
He arrives at a medium-high tier restaurant in a quiet part of town that is relatively upscale. Nice enough to feel like a treat without feeling boastful or intimidating, he notes inside his head. A man for whom a company would rope off a whole floor in a bar can probably afford better – it’s very likely Trunks is a very thoughtful man.
Telling himself not to start assuming things, he pushes the door open. Maybe he’ll look around, see where the man is situated--
“Hey buddy!” Krillin waves before he can scope out the situation, so … there’s that.
Krillin is turned around on his booth, and opposite of him sits Trunks, leaning over mid-conversation, and he glances upward. His eyes are bright under the restaurant lights, and Goten’s heart feels out of sync.
His hair is pulled back, but in a lower ponytail that looks more calm and mature. He’s also wearing a suit jacket over his shirt this time, and Goten secretly mourns the loss of view of those forearms under pushed-up shirtsleeves. Dressed like that, especially in front of Krillin who has no shame about dressing in his martial arts outfit everywhere – he should look like a stuffy corporate mannequin.
But he doesn’t. He looks like a corporate-themed porn star of Goten’s dreams, which he had been having in increasing amounts lately.
Goten goes to the booth. Since Krillin and Eighteen are seated on one side, it’s natural for Trunks to move over and for Goten to slide in next to him.
It’s so awkward.
“Hey, sorry I’m late,” Goten says nervously. “Sorry, um, I’m just gonna sit a little bit away from you – I didn’t have time to shower.”
Trunks’s smile sends another shove into Goten’s heart. “Hey, no worries. I just came straight from work myself.” He looks at the couple in front of them. “Your friends were telling me about their school. It sounds really interesting.”
“Trunks apparently used to do some martial arts when he was younger,” Krillin says brightly. “Explains a lot, huh, buddy?”
Goten squints at Trunks. “By ‘explains a lot’ if you mean taking down gunmen...”
Trunks arches a brow in turn and only slides a glass of water in his direction. That look goes straight through his chest, and Goten looks away to gulp down the water.
Is it hot in here? Christ.
“We ordered you something,” Eighteen intones, bless her.
“So we were talking about classes?” Krillin says. “We have tons of adult classes, and Goten here is a really good teacher.”
“Uh, I’m okay--”
“Maybe,” Trunks says with good humor. “I’ll have to figure out whether my schedule works, but just in case, do you have a business card?”
Krillin rummages in his pocket for his wallet, and Eighteen’s hand catches his wrist in a vice grip. She smiles placidly at Goten. “Give him yours.”
“Oh. Um, here.” Goten fumbles around as Trunks looks away politely to sip from his drink. “But like, no pressure though – I mean, you’re busy and I would hate to think you’re coming to class just to like, pay back or anything.”
“Oh don’t worry,” Trunks says at the card Goten hands him, looking at it closely. “If I just wanted to throw cash at you I’d wire you money, not take a class.”
Goten has no idea what to do with this information.
“But let’s start with food, shall we? Seconds, anyone?” Trunks smiles brightly at the couple, and Eighteen smirks.
“I’ll get seconds.”
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Dinner goes surprisingly well.
Not just well – it’s fantastic.
It’s almost entirely thanks to Trunks. Goten is starting to suspect that this guy is some kind of scam artist. How does someone so hot also talk so smoothly? He threads their entire conversation. He goes from topic to topic easily, latching onto small details that other people have dropped without realizing, remembers information about them that makes them feel important. He asks them about themselves, shows interest, and actually remembers. He smiles, makes jokes at his own expense, has a sense of humor that Goten never really associated with techbros before. He’s humble, is what.
Too good to be true, and he’s definitely going to have dreams about this tonight.
At the end of the night, the four of them stand outside of the restaurant, still laughing and chatting, and Goten doesn’t want the night to end. But – this is the end, isn’t it? He glances at where Eighteen is watching him with a strangely intense look in her eye.
“Darling,” she pulls Krillin after he’s made a joke that Trunks humors, “I forgot I have to make a grocery run.”
She shakes Trunks’s hand, winks at Goten (…why?), and practically drags a laughing and waving Krillin away.
The two stare at each other. The night air suddenly feels cool against Goten’s prickling skin, and he shivers.
“Are you cold?” Trunks doesn’t look cold at all, despite wearing just a shirt and a thin suit jacket. He begins to shrug it off.
“Oh, no, I just.” Goten rubs his arms. “I probably drank more than I should have.”
Trunks’s eyes twinkle. “Lightweight, are you?” He takes off his jacket anyway, and Goten panics as he drapes it over Goten’s shoulders.
Trunks doesn’t give him time to protest; he grasps Goten’s elbow and begins to pull him down the sidewalk, so Goten helplessly goes. He has no idea where they’re going, but he doesn’t want the night to end, so he stares down at the ground and prays that the moment lasts.
Trunks distracts from his internal screaming with: “wow, you really are a lightweight.”
Goten realizes he’s been swaying. “Sorry. Sorry. Yeah, I really can’t hold my liquor.”
Trunks chuckles. “With that kind of tolerance, you must have lots of drunk stories.”
“Oh, do I.” Goten snorts. “I was famous in college as the snuggle slut.”
“A snuggle…I’m sorry, you were a what now?”
“I uh, get cozy.” Goten blushes. “I start snuggling and kissing – on the cheek! And hugging. You should see the pictures – actually, no, you should not see the pictures.”
Trunks laughs quietly, and the amused gleam in his eyes is so beautiful. Goten gulps as Trunks leans in to peer into his face with open curiosity – poor man has no idea what dirty thoughts are in Goten’s head. “Seems that you didn’t drink that much tonight, then?”
Goten tries to hold back the blush, but it’s a lost cause. He prays that Trunks mistakes it for alcohol flush. “Er, I actually did. I start to get weird around two or three beers.” He sways as Trunks’s hand experimentally leaves his elbow. “But I don’t do it to strangers! Just friends I know are okay with it. Just a little more affectionate than my usual affectionate.”
Trunks’s hand comes back to support his elbow. “I thought you said you don’t have friends?” Trunks’s voice is light with a smile. “Or that you don’t go out?”
Oh. “Yeah,” Goten mutters. “It’s actually, uh, the reason I don’t do that anymore. There was an incident where uh… some guy thought I was coming onto him.”
Trunks raises a brow. “Were you?”
“No!” Goten frowns. “I mean, I did think he was hot, but I wasn’t actually doing anything. I didn’t even touch him, but he’d heard about my habits, so he just… assumed? That I’d start assaulting him or something? I do have an understanding of consent, even if I’m drunk.” He sighs, the chill making him shiver. “He got aggressive and started banging around in the bar, breaking stuff, so I had to… you know. Diffuse the situation.”
Trunks makes a thoughtful noise. “So your friends…”
“Either I’m too homo for them, or I’m too violent for them. Take your pick.”
A warm hand rubs his shivering arm up and down, and he feels less cold. Goten feels weirdly – protected, and maybe he’s feeling vulnerable. Maybe it’s the beer talking.
“It’s all fun and games if you’re straight, but the moment they find out that you’ve found one man hot in your life ever, they all act like you’re trying to rape them,” he mumbles.
Trunks’s voice is quiet. “I’m sorry.”
Goten rubs his face with a hand. “No, no. Sorry, stupid story.”
Well, there you went and scared him off, the little voice in his head says.
They walk in silence.
“I know it’s not my business,” Trunks says after a while, “but I think you deserve better friends.”
Goten looks up in surprise. “Oh yeah?”
Trunks is looking at a distance. “You said you didn’t try anything, so it sounds like he reacted to something that didn’t happen. Shouldn’t your friends… have given you the benefit of the doubt?”
Goten doesn’t realize that his steps have slowed. He stares at Trunks, his words carving into his chest like something warm.
Trunks also stops and comes to face Goten. Thankfully, he doesn’t look at Goten or the weird things his face is doing. He fixes his gaze on the traffic cones behind Goten instead. “It’s hurtful, and disappointing,” he says quietly. “But if your friends can’t be bothered to hear you out…” he raises his gaze and matches it to Goten’s, and it reflects the light of distant cars. “…are they really your friends?”
Goten swallows.
So the hot supermodel techbro is also open minded and not homophobic and really kinda thoughtful. Goten can’t decide if this is just getting better and better, or worse and worse. Something warm is lodged in his throat and he desperately pushes it down.
A part of him wants to ask. For him to be able to utter these words with such conviction, there has to have been something in his past – something white-hot and branded into his soul, brimming with enough pain that it has shaped into this singular truth, warm enough to pass onto someone else who needs it.
He wants to ask, but he’s afraid that if he opens his mouth, something ridiculous and wet will come out of his throat, so he doesn’t. Instead he walks again.
Trunks wordlessly matches his step again, hand on his elbow. They walk in silence until Trunks comes to a stop. Goten stops with him. They’re at a street he doesn’t recognize.
Trunks gestures at a car parked at the curb. “Can I give you a ride home?”
Goten looks around. “I can…walk home?” He can’t, because he’s lost.
“If you’re as drunk as you say,” Trunks says, “I’m not comfortable having you walk home.”
“Eh, martial artist, remember?” Goten makes little chopping motions with his hands, and earns a twinkling laugh in return.
“Indulge me.” Trunks opens the car door and gestures him in. “I’m not gonna sleep well knowing that I sent you feeling snuggly-drunk into the streets.”
Goten makes a face, which earns another laugh, and gets in the car. “It’s far though,” he mutters.
“I don’t mind.” Trunks sees Goten struggling with the seat belt with his arms stuck inside the suit jacket slung over his shoulder, and reaches over to buckle it for him. “What’s your address?”
After punching in the address Goten gives him into his navigator system, Trunks quietly revs his car. It’s a nice car – small and compact, but with smooth, comfortable furnishings. Middle-high tier, just like that restaurant, Goten notes. He rubs the leather beneath his leg.
“Should you be driving around alone?” he says as lights begin to pass them. “Seeing as you were like… targeted for assassination in a crowded-ass bar.”
“Eh, that was a one-off. Militant types.”
“…that doesn’t make it better, though?”
Trunks chuckles a little to himself. “Maybe,” he says, eyes on the road, “but I don’t really know what else to do. It’s not like I can stay cooped up in my house and never come out. I still have to live my life.”
Goten frowns. “Maybe you SHOULD take more martial arts classes.”
“Oh yeah?” Trunks’s eyes are on him.
“I mean.” Goten sits up, tries to shake off the alcoholic fog. “You don’t have to come to ours, obviously. I bet it’s not even close to where you work anyway, so yeah, definitely go to whatever’s closest to you. But if martial arts are all you’re gonna rely on … shouldn’t you have more than just a few childhood classes to get you through? I mean I don’t doubt your talent, I’ve seen you take down a gunman, but who knows what may happen next time.”
Trunks is quiet. Goten wonders if he’s pushed it too far.
“Or maybe, I don’t know, get a weapon?” he tries helplessly. “Oh! I know. A bodyguard.”
“Gohan wants me to get a bodyguard,” Trunks murmurs at the road.
“Who?”
“The friend I talked about during dinner, the one that raised me. You saw him the other night when he came to pick me up.”
“Oh yeah.” Funnily enough, their life stories mirror each other – martial arts as children, dead fathers, parental figures. “So he wants you to get a bodyguard. He sounds smart. You should listen to him.”
Trunks’s chuckle is quiet. But he sobers as he makes a turn. “Thing is, I don’t really want that kind of blood on my hands.”
Goten stares.
Trunks isn’t looking at him. “My life is… more dangerous than it looks. The breakthrough technology we’re producing is not just putting people out of jobs; it’s cracking paradigms. It’s.. scary, for a lot of people. I have received no less than five death threats since last Christmas. The shooting was a first, but I’ve been attacked before. In coffee shops and airports and the laundromat.”
Goten’s mouth hangs open. “Christ.” He then frowns. “Okay, but Trunks, you’re being dumb.”
“Pardon?”
“That’s literally what a bodyguard is for. What are you, a bodyguard for your bodyguard?” He waves his hands in the air. “That’s exactly how they make a living! By exposing themselves to danger so you don’t have to! And you pay them a shit ton of money, and boom, win-win!”
…maybe he should have cut back on the beer.
“Or if you aren’t willing to get a bodyguard,” Goten continues, because what the hell, “you should just change jobs. If I were your pseudo-father-figure-slash-older-brother-figure-slash friend, I’d be having a heart attack every time you set foot outside. That’s just cruel on your part, Trunks.”
Trunks chuckles. “I guess you’re right.”
All too soon the ride is over, and Goten suddenly hates how close his apartment is to wherever they’ve been.
Trunks parks the car. He looks thoughtfully down at his steering wheel, and doesn’t move.
Goten watches him, waiting in terrified exhilaration.
“Hey.” Trunks finally looks at Goten, and his eyes are glimmering in the street lights, his wrist exposed on his outstretched arms. “Can I convince you to come out for another thing sometime? Dinner, lunch, coffee? I want to…discuss something with you.”
Goten blinks. How could he possibly have anything pertinent to discuss with this man, other than… “About martial arts classes?”
“Maybe. Probably not. I need to think about it. But… can you? Meet me?”
Goten may be drunk, but he’s not idiot enough to turn down this god-given opportunity. “Yeah, sure.” He holds out his phone, and then immediately feels stupid. “Uh, wait, I already have your number.”
Trunks takes the phone, and quickly punches in a number. “This will get you through to my secretary. When I’m too busy at work to take a personal call, you can reach me through the work line in an emergency.”
“…you have a secretary?”
“Hm? Oh. Yeah, you heard me yelling at her that time.”
Goten thinks back to the conversation he’d overheard. “Your secretary comes over to your house?”
Trunks smiles a little as he opens the door. “Yeah, she’s been trying to get in my pants since forever.” He leaves the car, comes around to Goten’s side, and opens the door for him. “Do you need help getting out?”
What the heck even is this man.
,
,
It’s late by the time Goten finally trudges into his apartment. After getting out of the car – which Goten did sway a bit on the way of, which got Trunks to place firm hands under his arms and pull him out like a rag doll and land him gently on the sidewalk, Jesus this man is stronger than he looks – they had stood there in front of his apartment, chatting for another good hour. Conversing with Trunks was too easy; he was endlessly interested in the things Goten had to say about his boring life and insignificant thoughts.
This guy must be a scam artist, Goten thinks, as he finally reaches the door to his apartment. No way anyone can be this smooth, especially for someone they’re not trying to get something out of. He must be a Nigerian prince. Maybe he gets old ladies to wire him money before dumping them. Maybe that’s why he’s so shady about what kind of work he does. Maybe he could tell Goten was gay and obviously he owns a mirror so he knows that no gay man can resist him, so –
He throws himself dreamily onto the bed and realizes that he’s still wearing Trunks’s suit jacket.
Oops.
Oh, he still didn’t get his shirt back either.
Feeling low-key guilty like a creep, he sniffs at the jacket in search of whatever scent Trunks might be wearing. But there’s no real scent to it – perhaps he doesn’t wear colognes? Goten groans. Why does this man have to hit every single fetish he has of a man?
He considers texting to see if he’d want to come back for his jacket. He couldn’t have gone far.
But Goten is just a man, and he can only be so conscientious when a glorious fantasy-come-to-life has thrown itself in his path.
He falls asleep on his bed, fully clothed, holding the suit jacket in his hands.
,
,
To Be Continued
Chapter 3: A Favor
Summary:
A favor is asked, but Goten isn't sure who's doing whom the favor.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Chapter 3: A Favor
,
,
GT: Sorry, I crashed as soon as I got home and forgot to return your jacket
T: It’s fine. Feeling ok?
GT: Oh yeah I don’t really get hangovers
GT: Did YOU get home ok? No getting shot at?
T: Funny.
“Whatcha smiling at?” Eighteen says into his ear.
Goten jumps; the phone flies out of his hand and sails across the air, landing in Eighteen’s hand. “Eighteen!” he hisses.
She smirks. “Oh, don’t fret. I don’t need the gory details of your flirting.”
He splutters. Her smirk widens.
“So when are you meeting him again?”
He thanks the gods that the place is empty. No one likes to take martial arts classes during lunchtime. “It’s not like that. He wants to discuss... something.”
She raises a brow.
“Might be about martial arts classes?” Goten tries his best to sound casual. “I was telling him he should take it more seriously, you know, since he’s like… a target or something.” He frowns at her. “What kind of engineer gets death threats?”
She looks at him as if he’s an idiot. “The kind that’s more than just an engineer, duh.”
“Wha?”
She rolls her eyes. “So you meeting him or not?” She tosses him the phone.
Goten catches it and reddens. “I don’t... know. He must be busy?”
“Just propose a date. He did it last time; isn’t it your turn?”
She’s…got a point.
“But he’s the one that wanted to..?”
She walks away. “Be a wimp then.”
“Hey!”
The door closes. Goten takes a big gulp of air and looks at his phone.
GT: So when did you wanna meet?
GT: I’m free pretty much any day as long as it’s like lunch break or after dinner
GT: As I said, I don’t really go out, so I’m a hermit – you let me know when
T: Then what do you do for fun at home?
GT: Uh
GT: Don’t laugh
GT: I train martial arts
GT: For fun
GT: …Are you laughing?
T: No. I think it’s cute.
Goten reddens again. This man, ugh.
,
,
They meet over lunch on a Wednesday in a little deli near an urban park. It’s on the other side of town, and Goten assures Trunks that it’s no trouble as the latter apologizes for making him come to his work area. It’s natural for a busy man to not be able to go far during lunch breaks – besides, Goten is curious, if not secretly excited; it feels like getting to step that much deeper into his personal life, getting to see where he works.
It’s the fanciest part of downtown, full of corporate high-rise buildings; the deli is one of the only places that isn’t one of those. Goten arrives to find Trunks waiting for him at a small table, tucked in the darkest corner of the brightly lit café. His fingers are gently rapping on the table, sleeves rolled up his arms and hair messily tied high on his head.
Jesus Christ, Goten thinks. It’s too early in the day for this.
“Oh. Hey.” Trunks notices him standing at a distance, probably staring creepily. “I ordered you the sandwich like you said. I’m sorry it’s out of the-”
“Geez, Trunks, it’s fine. Seriously.” Goten takes a seat across from him, trying not to notice the way the shadow cuts across Trunks’s collarbone beneath the open button of his shirt. Why does the weather have to be so hot? Is it hot today? He can’t tell. “You work around here?”
“Yeah, my office is right around the corner.” Trunks glances outside. “I’m, uh, not allowed to get out of this district anymore.”
“Not allowed… by who?”
“By the company.” Trunks’s fingers dance on the table, and Goten stares in fascination. “This area is under heavy security, so it’s deemed relatively safe, but… I got in trouble last time I stepped out.”
…to buy Goten and his friends dinner...
Oh gods.
“Trunks! You should have told me.” Goten says in horror. “We wouldn’t have minded meeting you here.”
“Eh, it’s kind of a corporate desert around here. Lunches all get catered into offices, so there’s nowhere for people to eat. There’s…” he twists his body to point at a street corner outside of the glass wall, “-a donut and coffee stand around that corner-” he twists back, “-and there’s this deli where we’re at, and there’s a tiny bar two streets down. Not a great selection for a thank-you dinner.”
Goten groans inwardly. He had no idea Trunks had gone through so much trouble just to be hospitable. A part of him is also busy trying to hang onto the afterimage of what he just saw – Trunks twisting and pointing at things like donut stands, like a normal down-to-earth person instead of a porn star, which shoots a tingle through his heart.
It's... cute.
Goten is fucked.
Gathering his wits, he leans forward. “Tell you what. Next time we meet, I come to you. Deal?” He looks intently into Trunks’s eyes. “I really don’t mind delis and tiny bars. I swear.”
Trunks blinks at him, sunlight scattering across his eyelashes. “Okay.”
Goten’s heart leaps at the look Trunks is wearing. It looks off-guard – almost… vulnerable.
He then realizes that he’d just asked Trunks to meet again, and proceeds to internally scream.
“So,” he clears his throat, forcing down the panic, “what’s up?”
Trunks blinks again. “Pardon?”
Was he too forward? Goten panics for a moment that he’s given the impression that he wants to rush him or doesn’t want to be here. “Oh. Like, I figure you’re busy, so. I don’t wanna waste your time?” He cringes as he says it.
Trunks regards Goten with an unreadable look. “It’s… fine. I can spare a lunch hour.”
“Oh. Cool.” Goten hopes his smile doesn’t come off nervous. “How ya been?”
Trunks sighs in a way that makes Goten’s heart skip a beat with the – intimacy of it. “I spent half the week fighting for approval over our latest project and the other half teaching my team how to set up failsafes.” He looks up at Goten’s silence. Reading his lost expression like a pro, he explains, “the most basic steps everyone should know before they go into phase 2 and 3.”
“Oh.” Goten feels simultaneously stupid and grateful. “Sounds super frustrating.”
“Ugh.” Trunks’s exasperated little smile makes Goten feel like he’s in on a secret. His chest feels impossibly full.
“So what kind of project is it?” Goten probes. “Is it a secret?”
“Hm? No no, not secret. It’s just not profitable. That’s why it’s not getting funded.”
“Why are you fighting to fund an unprofitable project?” Goten is confused.
Trunks smiles ruefully as if to himself, and props up an elbow on the table to rest his chin on his hand as he looks back out the glass wall. “I’m trying to overhaul the city’s septic pumps. I can install a design that’s much more efficient and cheaper for the residents. But that directly opposes the profit system set up by the company, so of course it’s not getting approved.”
Goten tries to back up a few steps in his mind. “You… uh… use company influence to do charity projects often?”
Trunks looks back at Goten, half his face hidden in his hand, as hair falls between his eyes. “What’s the point of being an engineer if you’re not improving people’s lives?”
Goten’s heart needs a moment.
It really… seriously… needs a moment.
Sunlight twinkles between them as Trunks uses his free hand to slide an untouched glass of water toward Goten. Goten takes it to give his hands something to do, because otherwise they might do something stupid - like try to grab Trunks’s face to pull it toward his own.
That would not be conducive to this meeting.
“I’d… love to see it sometime,” he manages. He feels like he’s overstepping, and it’s kind of a presumptuous thing to say – they’ve only met once before – but he can’t think of anything else to say that’s related to what Trunks has told him.
To his surprise, Trunks smiles and looks back out the glass. “Maybe one of these days.”
That’s… not a no..?
Goten discreetly wipes his sweaty palms on his pants.
Unlike the other night, Trunks doesn’t immediately step in and carry the conversation. He continues to stare out the window, seemingly lost in thought, one hand slowly rapping on the table, and Goten feels the seconds trickle by. He wonders if Trunks is extraordinarily stressed today. Maybe this is how he usually is? Maybe Trunks as he is right now – distracted, lost in thought – is a more genuine side of him, and he was simply performing a shit ton of emotional labor the other day. Goten has always taken pride in being raised right by a strict mother who instilled in him the appreciation of emotional labor.
Goten decides that it’s his turn to pull some weight.
“Oh! Right,” he says, trying to sound as natural as possible, “I still have your jacket. Sorry, I was gonna bring it but I haven’t dry-cleaned it yet-”
“What?” Trunks looks at him in confusion. “Why would you dry-? Oh, you don’t have to do that. Oh, right, I still have your shirt too.”
They stare at each other.
“So…” Goten grins. “Would it be weird for us to do like, a clothing exchange out here in front of your office?”
Trunks smiles. “Probably.”
“Hmmm,” Goten intones, trying to think of a solution. You can come to my house! Is the first thought that floats into his traitorous brain, and he squashes it down. Can I come to your house? Is the second thought, and he despairs.
He chugs his water, willing his red face to cool.
Trunks straightens. Goten can sense that he’s about to get down to business, and it’s not fun business. His gut sinks with dread – is Trunks about to reject him? His gigantic crush must have been obvious, after all – if Eighteen can see it, anyone can. Krillin doesn’t count.
He directs his gaze downward to avoid showing his reaction to whatever is coming next.
“Listen, when I dropped you off the other night…” Trunks trails off.
Goten nods, motioning for him to go on. It’s not exactly what he’d expected, but it’s not hard to connect the dots. Maybe he did something in his drunken stupor?
Trunks pauses. He looks around, sees a napkin dispenser on the next table over, and reaches to pull out a napkin. He starts to fold it, quickly and dexterously, his eyes downcast.
Goten is starting to get confused.
“Uh,” he says carefully, “did I do something?” He shifts, watching Trunks’s fingers fly across the napkin. “I’m sorry. I get weird when I’m drunk and I should have watched…” he watches in increasing bafflement as Trunks stubbornly continues to look down at the napkin he’s folding into a complex shape. “Did I… like… get handsy with you?” he ventures, almost fearfully.
Trunks looks up at last. “What?” he blinks. “Oh. No, no.”
They stare at each other.
Trunks finally places a hand flat onto the napkin, stilling. Goten has never seen him look so unsure, even in the face of literal assassins gunning for his life.
“I’m aware that this is… impertinent on my part.” Trunks meets Goten’s eyes resolutely. “The neighborhood where you live... How long do you plan to stay there?”
This is going in a completely different direction than what he’d imagined, and Goten is now fully lost. “I… have a year lease? I just moved in last month.”
Trunks takes an aborted breath. “Are you aware of the history of murders in the area?”
Goten blanches. “No..?”
Trunks looks down at the napkin. “It’s bad. I’m really worried for you, Goten.”
“But I’m a martial artist…?”
“Even martial artists need sleep, and those murders happen when you’re asleep and they saw their way in through your walls and chloroform you.”
“Oh,” Goten says, feeling lightheaded.
Trunks starts fiddling with the napkin again. “I know it’s not my business,” he says, eyes locked downward, “but does Krillin not – you said he closed on a house, and-”
Goten realizes where this is going. “Oh! No, he pays me fine. He’s very generous.” He hesitates only for the briefest moment, but barrels ahead. He doesn’t want to keep secrets from Trunks, especially if they’re causing him distress. “Thing is, I have a lot of debt,” he says gently. “It’s not anyone’s fault. My mom’s got a lot of health issues, and hospital bills are a bitch. And since Dad’s not around…”
Trunks looks up, his hands still.
Goten gives a helpless little smile. “I didn’t know it was that bad, but yeah, I was only able to afford it because it was a rough neighborhood. I… it’s the first time I’m even living on my own at all. Being a caretaker’s just… I love my mom, but sometimes it’s easier when you have some space, you know?”
He isn’t sure Trunks knows, actually.
Trunks stares at him. Goten can’t help but stare back at how sunlight bounces off his hair.
And then the realization that he’s overshared slowly slides over his beautiful world like a dark cloud. He pulls a face despite himself.
“Sorry, boring story,” he murmurs. “I’m super TMI--”
“Goten.”
Goten shuts his mouth. Trunks is watching him, looking more serious than he’d ever seen. “How much debt are we talking?”
“Oh, it’s so laughably high, it’s not even worth worrying abou-”
“How much?”
“Uh.. like thirty million zenni just from the proc--” Goten stops himself, his brain finally coming to a halt.
Here he is, sitting in front of a man who obviously makes more money than himself AND owes him his life – prattling on about how he is in debt.
Oh gods. What must he think of him?
“I…” he stammers, feeling color drain from his face. “I didn’t mean…”
Trunks looks away and out the window, no longer twisting the napkin – he’s deep in thought.
Goten takes back everything he’s ever thought about Trunks being a potential scam artist. If anything, Goten is the scammer here. Oh, how the tables have turned. Here Trunks is being everything good and gentlemanly – and Goten just had to open his big mouth and ruin it. No more easy conversations that last for hours; no more laughter over gentle ribbing and silly jokes. He’ll be disappointed to see what Goten really is, and politely distance himself, and–
“Trunks,” Goten says, not caring how desperate he sounds. “It’s not – I just got so comfortable talking to you that it – just slipped out. I don’t – really I don’t-”
“Would you accept?” Trunks says, glancing back at him. “If I offered help?”
“No,” Goten emphasizes. “And no one can make a dent in that kind of debt anyway.”
Trunks looks back outside. Silence stretches on, and Goten can’t stand it.
“Look, he tries again, “if I had wanted something from you-”
“How about this?” Trunks says. He catches Goten’s gaze. “You let me find you a full-time job.”
Goten’s brain stops functioning. “Huh?” he says stupidly.
“You said you’re part-time, right? At Krillin’s school? And you pick up shifts at the local mall on weekends.” Trunks leans forward. “As much as I respect your work ethic, Goten, your talents can be used for better pay. I know an agency.”
“I’ve… already used a contracting agency…?”
“No, this one is… bespoke.” Trunks spreads his hands across the napkin. Goten distantly notes that he’s created an intricate East Asian dragon out of it. “It’s the same agency my company’s used in the past for security detail for its VIP members. It will get you connected to much higher-end clientele. Which you’re free to refuse if you don’t want – but it will open doors for you.”
Goten’s throat feels dry.
“Will you let me do that?” Trunks says, looking intently at him. “I’ve been thinking all these weeks about how to repay you. I would offer a deposit in a place at a safer neighborhood, but that’s obviously not self-sustaining long-term, and I didn’t think you’d accept.”
Goten nods mutely. Trunks is right. There’s no way he would accept such generosity.
“So here’s me, finding a loophole to try to do what I can. Will you let me?”
And it’s just like that upper-middle-tier restaurant all over again, isn’t it. It’s the car ride. Helping, but acting like he isn’t. Framing it as if Goten is doing him a favor. Something feels hot in Goten’s chest, and it spreads upwards.
“Is this why you offered to drive me home?” he says, not completely trusting his voice.
Trunks smiles down at the table, looking self-conscious. “Kinda, yeah. Wanted to see what kind of financial situation you were in.”
“Trunks.” Goten’s laughter is a shaky thing. “You’re an engineer, not a billionaire. What if I’d tried to take advantage and pushed you for money?” He looks at Trunks, helplessly fond. “You can’t just… let people have free access to you like that when you’re obviously too nice to say no.”
Trunks stares up at him, looking stricken.
Then he drags his gaze away, hiding his eyes beneath his hair. “Lucky me you’re not those people then,” he says, as his fingers curl around the napkin.
Goten looks down at the dragon twirling in Trunks’s hands, his vision getting bleary as his chest rattles. Heat stings his eyes and his breath keeps catching in his throat.
“Goten?” Trunks’s hands stop their frenetic movement, and come to carefully rest light fingertips on Goten’s shaking hands. “What’s wrong?”
Goten gulps in a breath and laughs, and it crumbles away wet. “No, no. I’m just. Sorry, I’m a big crybaby.” He quickly wipes his face. “Always have been, since Dad died.” He looks up at Trunks’s huge worried eyes and offers a smile. “Not a lot of people are super nice to a poor gay kid from the boonies with a sick mom and no dad.”
Understanding dawns on Trunks’s face. His hands gently wrap around his. “As I said,” he emphasizes, “you deserve better.”
“Stop it, you sap,” Goten mutters, but doesn’t have the heart to wiggle out of his grasp. “Geez, here you are trying to be my fairy godmother or some shit. How did I get so lucky?”
“It’s just an introduction, honestly.” Trunks’s smile is dry. “It’s literally the barest minimum.”
Goten shakes himself as their food comes to the table. “Okay, so. Where do I sign up?”
“It’s an in-person referral, so I’ll have to take you there.” Trunks pushes the napkin dragon aside as a waitress sets down the tray between them. “Let me know when you’re free next week?”
Goten discreetly swipes the dragon to hide it into his pocket. “Deal.”
,
,
To Be Continued
Notes:
-The 'sawing the wall and using chloroform' tactic is actually a real thing used by serial killers in the past, in case anyone thought it was too outlandish. ;3
-If you enjoyed, comments get me out of bed in the morning! :3
Chapter 4: Friend
Summary:
Goten and Trunks call each other friend. Neither realizes it.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Chapter 4: Friend
,
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GT: And then as compensation for the trouble her kid caused, the lady asked to buy me lunch
T: Did you say yes?
GT: No, conflict of interest
T: Wait, you can tell when someone’s hitting on you?
GT: …I don’t know if you’re trying to imply that I’m dense or that you’re dense
The week goes by in a blur. Goten is more comfortable with initiating texts now and has to hide in a bathroom or a broom closet every time he does it, because he can’t help the huge grin on his face and the drowning out of everything around him when he’s looking at his phone and he is not Eighteen’s real-time entertainment, dammit.
Texting Trunks is as easy as talking to him. To Goten’s relief, they’re both able to equally carry on a conversation; Trunks asks about Goten’s day and listens to him complain about entitled parents and laughs about teenagers who had to be separated on the mat, while Goten asks Trunks about his day and listens to him sigh about fights over funding and coaching teammates who slip up out of carelessness. Trunks doesn’t go into technical details – Goten suspects he doesn’t want to bore him – but he is skilled at filtering out the complicated parts to tell a smooth story to help engage the audience, so Goten can easily relate and give his opinion. It’s probably because he’s so empathetic, Goten thinks. He can think from other people’s point of view.
His stories give a fascinating insight into Trunks as a person; despite him never saying as much, Goten can tell from the unspoken bits that he commands genuine respect from his teammates. He also seems to be a natural leader, overseeing projects and taking fights to the higher-ups for funding.
It just keeps getting better and better – or worse and worse, depending on what time of day one might ask Goten.
GT: So did you get into more fights today with the higher-ups?
T: In similar news, did I breathe air today?
GT: Hahhhh
GT: Are you sure you’re an engineer? You fight bad guys by night and corporate greed by day
GT: Are you Batman?
T: What I am, is in desperate need of a break. Wanna do dinner after the interview on Friday?
GT: Heck yeah let’s do it
Trunks’s dry wit makes him feel – close. Special. Like he’s in on a secret and gets to see a part of this well-polished professional that other people don’t get to see.
They meet on Friday after work at the same deli, from which Trunks takes Goten to a fancy building around the corner for that in-person introduction. They’re brought into a large room with sparring mats, and Goten is mildly horrified to find that Trunks is required to sit for a whole hour and watch Goten get tested on situational awareness, decision-making, reflexes, and risk assessment, on top of having to physically fight off men that ambush him with various weapons. His horror increases when Trunks is forced to spend the next hour vouching for Goten like they’re in some kind of couples’ immigration interview – which he does with gusto, despite the interviewers being wary of Goten’s lack of military experience.
It's surreal.
Afterwards, they walk another block to the tiny bar Goten had promised he was okay with and get crammed into barstools in the corner side by side.
Goten’s worries that his life is too simple and boring to be of any interest in a conversation are long gone. Not only is Trunks interested in what he has to say, but they genuinely do have things in common. Goten explains the displacement of internal organs when hit with a kick by sketching the human anatomy on a napkin, and Trunks looks impressed. He, in turn, explains the variables to the kick by scrawling out formulas on velocity, air drag, and muscle mass. Goten looks at the math equations scrawled across his anatomy sketch on the napkin, and nearly vibrates off of his chair.
They’re chatting after food has been cleared away when Trunks frowns down at his phone. “I’m so sorry, I have to take this.” He turns away slightly to talk into the phone.
Goten relaxes into the ambience, listening to the noises around him. It feels so comfortable like this, even though they’ve only met three times so far. It feels as if they have known each other all their lives in some way – as if they’re two black-and-white sketches that are already drawn out in completion together, and getting to know him is just filling in the rest of the colors. The ending is already known. All the next steps are just a formality.
He tries to mentally shake himself out of the thought, but it’s no use. It feels as sure in his heart as anything he’s ever believed, and he’s never felt like this about anything or anyone before. He should be scared, maybe, but it just feels so – right.
He eyes Trunks quietly talking into his phone, and wishes he could use his drunkenness as an excuse to wrap his arms around that lean, muscular waist, and bury his face in his neck and feel that soft hair tickle his skin, and…
He sighs. Trunks is too kind to push him away, and that’s precisely the problem, isn’t it? It would be taking advantage.
He waves down the server and asks for the check before he can get drunker and do something stupid.
But when the bill comes, Trunks reaches out to intercept it before Goten can. Goten makes an offended noise and swipes at it as the server leaves, but Trunks’s hand comes to hold down his arm with surprising strength as he continues to look away and talk into the phone. Goten is flabbergasted.
The bartender, who’s been watching, leans in.
“You fuck him yet?” he says.
Goten coughs up his beer.
The bartender leans a hip against the bar counter and eyes him critically. He’s a tall young man about their age with a fuzzy mop of hair. “Overconfident, or a coward? Let me guess: the latter.” He pours rum into a glass. “Half the world would kill for a chance to hit that.”
“I’m… I’m sorry, what?” Goten chokes. He’s hot up to his ears. “You know him or…?”
“Um, who doesn’t?” The bartender gives him a once-over. “My gods. You don’t know, do you?”
Goten glances, mortified, at Trunks finishing up his call. “Um… he’s an engineer…?”
“Enginee…” the bartender snorts. “Yeah, sure. And the hottest smokin’ piece of ass in West City – do you live under a rock?”
“Look, I don’t know you but.” Goten’s gut churns. He puts down the beer and levels a serious gaze on the bartender. “I don’t appreciate you talking about my friend like that. I’m gonna need you to cut that shit out.”
The bartender slows as he pours, watching Goten speculatively.
Trunks gets off the phone. “Kompas, are you harassing my friend?”
“Now I am,” says the bartender. “Can I have your number?”
Goten blanches. “No.”
Trunks snickers as he accepts the bill that comes back his way, and Goten remembers to protest. “Hey.”
“Next time,” Trunks says, not looking up from where he’s signing.
“This guy lives under a rock, Trunks,” the bartender says, almost whining.
“I know. Leave him alone.”
Goten is lost. How did Trunks know that Goten lives under a rock? Is he really that famous? As some kind of hot supermodel engineer? Most importantly, did he just fend off a creeper for Goten?
Trying to force the heat back down from his face, he slumps onto the countertop and presses one cheek against it to enjoy the view of Trunks finishing up his drink.
“How much did you drink?” Trunks says over the rim of his glass.
“Like… three?”
“So you’re drunk.”
Trunks motions to the bartender, who leans over and takes away the rest of Goten’s beer. Trunks’s amused smile is so warm under the golden lights that Goten nearly leans up to meet that mouth in a kiss. The only way he can think of to beat down that impulse is to thump his forehead onto the counter. Repeatedly.
“Goten, what are you doing?”
“Trying to sober up.”
“Self-harm is not the answer.”
“When the other option is to grope everyone in my vicinity, yes it is.”
Trunks makes a strangled noise.
Goten groans inwardly at his big mouth. He’s going to die of shame over this when he’s sober tomorrow morning.
Life is hard. The world is unfair. Trunks is hot.
Three universal truths that are all out to get him.
Trunks tries to drink from his glass and finds it empty, and the bartender wordlessly slides a glass of water at him. Trunks takes a long swig and sets the glass down, and then proceeds to stare down at the counter before him.
Then he moves. “Let’s go.”
Goten mournfully lets Trunks pull him out of the bar. But when they step out into the cold night air, Goten’s mood lifts again because he has a brilliant idea. “I’ll take you home this time!”
Trunks shoots him an amused look. Goten then realizes what he just said. “Oh. Wait. Do you live around here? Shit. You don’t live at work. I’m so dumb. Where is home?” he looks around. “Is it nearby? Do you have a car? I’ll walk you to your car. Or to a cab?”
He can’t quite understand why Trunks is laughing, but it sounds so bright and beautiful that he can’t bring himself to mind, even if it’s laughing at his expense.
“Yes, Goten, I live nearby.” Trunks’s jacket comes to drape over his shoulder. “Let’s see if you can walk in a straight line first.”
“I swear I don’t always get this drunk when I eat out,” Goten mumbles as they walk. He’s grateful that Trunks is the understanding type.
Apparently Trunks’s home is in a high-rise apartment complex right behind his office, so the walk is very short. But they end up walking longer anyway because when they arrive, Goten is in the middle of explaining the ancient origins of Taekkyun, and Trunks wordlessly leads Goten around another block so he can finish.
But when they come around to the entrance of his apartment complex again, he’s in the middle of another conversation, so they make another round. Then another, then another, and then – Goten realizes that they’d circled the same block almost ten times, and it’s late.
They finally come to a stop at the entrance at the outer gates. In the back of his mind, Goten feels guilty, because Trunks is obviously too kind and too considerate and – he’s been doing all of that emotional labor. Again.
“Sorry, I’ve been holding you up.” He presses his cheek against the stone wall. It feels much less flushed than an hour prior. “Man, you spent the whole evening on me.”
“Goten,” Trunks says in gentle exasperation, “what else would I be doing on a Friday night?”
“I don’t know, meet friends?”
“That’s… what I’m doing?”
Goten blinks. “Oh.”
Trunks leans against the wall sideways, meeting Goten at his smooshed angle. “Well, first time we met on a Friday night, I was getting shot at, so I’d say this is definitely an improvement.” He tilts his head. “Let’s do it again sometime?”
Goten’s heart lights up like a firefly. He curses himself for how transparently hopeful his smile probably looks - his crush is probably visible from outer space.
Case in point: Trunks’s face shifts with understanding. “Oh, I see how it is.” His lip curls. “You think I’ll delete your number and act like I don’t know you anymore since I repaid the favor.”
“…No…?”
“Sounds like yes.” Trunks tuts. “I’m hurt.”
“Shut up, no you’re not.” Goten punches his arm. Trunks laughs.
Goten smooshes his cheek some more, eying Trunks, who stands with an amused look on his face as Goten hugs the wall; he looks so kind and receptive and – and –
“Can I ask you something?” he says, because what the hell.
Trunks raises a brow.
“That bartender,” Goten blurts the question he’s been wanting to ask all night. “Do you know him? Personally?”
Trunks gives him a considering look. “Why do you ask?”
“He seemed to… know you?” Goten clears his throat. “Or maybe he’s just super crass and talks to everyone like that, I dunno.” His voice gets smaller as he talks. He can’t quite remember why he thought they knew each other – but there was an easy familiarity between them. As if Trunks was almost … flirting with the bartender?
But maybe he was drunk and… yeah.
“Crass?” Trunks looks surprised. “What did he say?”
Goten drops his gaze to the ground. He doesn’t want to repeat the words. They sound distasteful on his tongue, even if they didn’t originate from him. He doesn’t want Trunks to feel – objectified.
For all the straight male friends he’d had in the past that would laugh about how they would love to be objectified the way women complain about, Goten knows better. He knows what it’s like to be seen as nothing more than a piece of meat – to be used and thrown away.
“Sorry,” he mumbles, “I’d rather not say.”
Trunks’s brows furrow. Goten curses himself for darkening what was otherwise a delightful night. “It’s not a big deal or anything,” he tries. “He just made some personal-sounding comments, so I thought maybe you were friends.”
“We’re not… I mean, I don’t really have friends.” Trunks looks lost in thought, as if he hadn’t literally just called Goten a friend more than once. Goten decides not to remind him. “He’s a classmate. And one of the only ones who weren't terrible to m-” he catches himself. He blinks down at the ground, looking surprised. “Wow,” he says with a little smile, “I must be drunk.”
Good, because Goten is now sober. They can take turns.
Trunks shakes himself. “Anyway, whatever he said – don’t mind him. He gets a little protective.”
“Protective?” Goten makes a face. Is Trunks naïve? Maybe he’s naïve.
By all means, he’s grateful that Trunks doesn’t push him to reveal what he’d heard. Yet another point to add to his inner tally of Trunks’s Charms.
“I skipped a lot of grades, so I was always the youngest of the bunch.” Trunks crosses his arms and leans heavier against the wall. “So some classmates weren’t… the nicest. And then there were a few that felt like they had to take care of me.”
Goten smiles. “Cute.”
He’s still unclear on how this translates obscene comments into protectiveness, but he’ll let it go for now. For Trunks’s sake.
“Anyway!” he detaches from the wall. “I had fun too. I’ll let you know how it goes – oh, I have your jacket-”
Trunks’s hand catches his wrist as he tries to shrug off the jacket. “You’re gonna get cold getting home. Give it back next time.”
“But I have another one of yours,” Goten says helplessly.
“They’re not technically mine.” Trunks snickers as he lets go. “Company-issue.”
“Oh.” Goten secretly mourns the warmth of his hand, and finds himself wondering what he can do next to get Trunks to touch him again.
Gods, he’s a horndog when drunk.
He looks down at the jacket draped over his person, and then a thought occurs to him. What kind of company issues suits? Do they also issue ties? “Shoes?”
“…Pardon?”
“Uh. Never mind.” Goten feels heat erupting from his neck up to his ears. “I, er, promise next time we meet, I’ll stay sober.”
Trunks laughs again. “Keep me posted on how the job search goes.” He warmly grasps his arm. “Okay?”
Goten nods, unable to choke out a coherent answer for his blushing.
Trunks smiles, squeezes his arm, and turns away. Goten stands there and looks up at the tall apartment building, realizing that he got to see where Trunks lives.
Holy shit. He got to see where Trunks lives.
He stands there a long time after, torn between feeling guilty like a creep and feeling as if he’s colored in yet another block to that sketch between the two of them.
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To Be Continued
Notes:
-Me, after every chapter: "Is this boring? Shit, it's boring isn't it???"
-In that vein, comments are always very helpful to this self-doubting author:3
Chapter 5: The Assignment
Summary:
Goten meets his client.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Chapter 5: The Assignment
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“Pay commensurate with risk,” the agency attorney says.
Trunks had been right. Goten is given a chance to reject clients – not individual clients, specifically, but based on the pay vs risk scale. Told to choose the bracket he’s comfortable with, he stares long and hard at the plot graph handed to him.
The clients falling all over the x and y axis give him a fascinating insight into what the industry looks like. The lowest on the pay vs risk scale are minor celebrities: fledgling singers and actors, maybe a TV producer or two. Sometimes, what even looks like gang leaders.
The middle is a huge spectrum. Politicians and major celebrities make up most of them with the occasional businessman who’s made enemies by putting his foot in his mouth too often. Many of these politicians, celebrities, and businessmen seem to cross into sexual or financial predator territory, seeking protection from vigilante justice.
Highest on the pay vs risk scale are three contenders that are separated by a huge margin from the rest: a crown princess of a nearby nation wrapped in political turmoil; the son of an industrial tycoon with the most notorious military contracts in the military industrial complex; and the head of R&D at the largest innovations company on earth.
He is informed that it is customary for most bodyguards to choose a range in the middle bracket. It is a logical decision; there’s a limit to how much risk a normal person would take on for money.
But Goten isn’t a normal bodyguard. He’s the hottest new face in the industry ever since his testing videos have made the rounds among potential clients. They are waiting for his answer with bated breath; if he gives the go-ahead, a bidding war will commence.
He signs off on accepting the highest bidder, no matter the risk.
T: So when does training start?
GT: As soon as the bidding war ends
T: A bidding war! Between whom?
GT: I’ll tell you after my first day of work
GT: Heck I’m excited
GT: I’m buying dinner when my new job starts, don’t you dare bring your credit card
His worth skyrockets in the ensuing week with each zealous offer that seeks to outdo the other. Goten stares in disbelief as the numbers rise real-time in the offer counter. For the first time ever, he dizzily sees a light at the end of the tunnel.
“The bid window is going to close by end of week,” the attorney says when they meet again to sign papers. “If you have moral qualms against any of the contenders, speak up now.”
Goten hesitates. Truth be told, he’s not looking forward to moving to a whole other country and having to navigate cultural landmines. And he’d rather not work for a military industrial complex guy; he doesn’t know if he’ll be complicit in getting blood on his hands.
But if he were to be honest, he’s drawn to the innovations company because –
What’s the point of being an engineer if you’re not improving people’s lives?
Goten knows. He KNOWS that realistically, not every engineer on earth can be like Trunks. He knows.
But still.
If he’s helping people like Trunks – isn’t he in some way contributing to helping people too? Add a little bit into the bucket of humanity, do something meaningful with his life? Of all the ways to put his life on the line for money, this feels like the most worthwhile way to do it.
And the idea of keeping an innovator safe makes him feel as if he’s, in some way, helping Trunks. Validating his struggles, maybe – feeling connected to him. He wonders if this is way too far on the infatuation scale to be reasonable.
To his great relief, it’s Capsule Corp that comes in with an exorbitant bid that crushes competition, ending the bidding war.
The upfront pay alone is a staggering sum. Goten deposits a portion into his mother’s bank account, hires a full-time caretaker to send to her home, and sets up a repayment plan with the debt collections agency. He then has to take a moment to stand outside of the bank so he can bite back tears.
It feels as if he’s stepped into a whole new – brighter – world, guided by the sexiest and kindest man he’s ever met. He goes with fierce determination to the agency office to meet his new partner and handler, ready to lay down his life for this new job and do Trunks proud.
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The handler is a lean man with sharp eyes. He leans lazily back in his seat as he offers them an array of nonlethal weapons to choose from. “They’re a deterrent first,” he says as Goten’s partner picks up a pair of nunchucks, “and last resort after that,” he says as Goten straps a long bo to his body. “If you come into contact, don’t get fancy. Go for the balls.” He pauses. “Or the eyes. But mostly the balls.”
Is this guy related to Eighteen?
“Training starts today. You do the personal history and relationships,” he points at Goten’s partner, “and you do logistics and coordination,” he points at Goten. “Together you’ll draft up a tailored plan for your client. Figure out their schedules, habits, and patterns, and work out surveillance, home assessment, travel coordination. Decide amongst yourselves how to divide shifts.”
Goten breathes out slowly. He can do this.
“One more thing.” The handler looks directly into their eyes. “You’re professionals. You do NOT befriend your client. You do NOT grab a bite to eat, you are NOT their shoulder to cry on, and you do NOT ‘hang out’. You are there to guard their lives, and you cannot do that if you’re IN their lives. Understood?”
The two bodyguards nod, grim.
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It’s ass crack of dawn when Goten meets his partner Tien outside of the intimidating high-rise of Capsule Corp Inventions and Engineering in the middle of downtown. At 28 floors, it’s one of their smaller buildings, but that’s not saying much.
“Nervous?” Tien says as the two shiver in their coats. It’s a dark gray morning.
“Yeah.” Goten shifts on his feet. “I hope I don’t mess it up.”
“I’ve seen you fight; you’re a beast.” Tien chuckles. “But yeah, it helps to be experienced. I’ve been doing this for more than fifteen years. You’re still in your twenties, right?”
“Almost thirty, but yeah.”
“Oh boy, only twenty-nine? To be young again.”
“Oh please, grandpa, I’ve seen your monster muscles.”
They stand to attention as the handler approaches. “Mr. Tien and Mr. Son. Ready?”
Goten isn’t sure they could be more ready if they tried. He has all the master plans, maps, transport logistics, and surveillance information at hand, while Tien is ready with the information he’d gathered on the client’s daily routines and professional relationships.
“Exchange notes inside; it’s freezing out here.” The handler sticks his hands into his pockets. “You have seven hours to figure out how to divide duties and split shifts, familiarize yourselves with the workplace and its people. Let’s introduce you before he starts his meeting marathon for the day.”
Goten glances around as they follow him into the building. It’s incredibly close to the area where he’d met Trunks the other day – he wonders if he’d be lucky and run into him on the streets.
It’s a pathetic thought to have, he knows. But as he scans the sleepy faces shoved in scarves walking along the pavement, he can’t help but peer at them in hopes of finding a familiar one.
“So, the social aspect is easy,” Tien says as they climb the steps. “He reports directly to executive, but seems to not be the type. Doesn’t really like to attend business dinners or networking events, and when they have big reveals, he hangs back from giving speeches. Doesn’t even seem to carry around a business card. For a hot young celebrity inventor, he’s really shy.” They go through the x-ray machines, scanners, and bag checks. “Father is deceased. No siblings, no love life, no close friends other than a pseudo-adopted brother figure.”
The main open-floor office is huge. Goten takes a moment to admire the view of downtown from the large tinted windows. He informs Tien of escape routes as they pass by them, taking note of computer desks littered with coffee mugs, personal toys and gadgets, and complex blueprints. The office is quiet with bleary eyes and messy bedheads going in and out of break rooms, laboratories, and conference rooms, all of which are outfitted with shining glass panels.
They come to a stop in front of a door at the end of the open-office area. “His private office,” the handler says. “His apartment is across the street, but he practically lives in this building. He’s hands-on, so you’ll be moving around a lot as he goes between conference rooms and helping his reporting managers with their projects.”
Tien touches the large glass panel. “Bulletproof?”
The handler nods. “After the recent threats on his life.”
“Christ,” Tien mutters.
Goten silently agrees. What the hell kind of work do they do in here? He thought Capsule Corp was a civilian company.
Through the glass panel, they can see a number of men and women standing around in the private office, which looks surprisingly spartan for someone as high up the corporate ladder as the head of research and development. It’s mostly open floor space with a workbench in one corner, a couch pushed to another, and a small desk with a computer in the back. No coffee table, flowers, photographs, decorations, snacks, any creature comforts or personalization that he’d seen in individual workstations out in the main space.
“For someone who practically lives here,” Goten says, “he really doesn’t get comfortable, does he?”
“Probably a personality quirk.” The handler looks and sounds bored. It seems to be his default setting. “He’s known to be a bit high-strung.”
Goten decides not to pursue this line of conversation. He’ll find out soon enough.
A woman notices them through the glass and comes out alone. Keeping the door open, she holds out a hand with a whisper: “Welcome. I’m the secretary. They’re almost done.”
Tien shakes her hand. Goten follows, with: “I thought he wasn’t due to start his meeting marathon yet?”
“Oh, this one doesn’t count. It’s just a daily standup.”
Goten nods sagely, wondering what the fuck that means. Tien’s serious face betrays the fact that he also has no idea. Goten makes a mental note to ask Trunks to teach him techbro lingo; he’s never used it on Goten, but he’s fairly confident at this point that he’s been holding back on purpose so Goten wouldn’t feel stupid.
… And there he goes again, thinking of Trunks in the middle of a workday. He mentally shakes himself.
Then a voice leaks out of the open door. “All good here? No one has more blockers I need to get out of the way?”
Sex on a soundwave.
Goten whips his head around to stare through the glass.
The people in the room shift, readying to leave, and the man at the very back finally moves from behind the solitary desk – and – yup, there’s that unreal hair.
It had been Tien’s assignment, yes, but why hadn’t Goten at least done the most basic research on this client’s personal identity before arriving? Lead researcher at the most prestigious innovations company in the world, important enough to be targeted for assassination? Breaking paradigms, improving people’s lives?
Hells, he feels dumb. He should have put two and two together.
“He’s… he’s the one?” he asks stupidly.
“Yup.” Tien crosses his arms. “I know he’s young, but he’s a genius. Thirty years old and already head of R&D, and that’s based on merit.”
“Head of… of Capsule Corp Inventions and Engineering, West City Branch?”
“What? No. The whole thing. Capsule Corp Global.”
Goten can’t breathe.
Standing over notes scattered on his desk, Trunks looks up at the rest of the office. How is he so radiant this early in the morning? “Okay, I’m in meetings for the next seven hours, so if anyone needs me… I trust you to use my emergency number responsibly.” He begins to roll up his sleeves. “Fayra,” he calls, “if I say EOD, it’s end of day. It isn’t Right Fucking Now. Take your breaks, okay?”
“You’re one to talk, boss,” a woman smiles.
“Did you get the accommodations you asked for?”
“Uh… HR said-”
“Fuck that, I’ll talk to them.” He looks thoughtful as he hums. “Skale, I’ve noticed your team working late these days. Is something wrong with the deadlines?”
“We just keep running late, boss,” answers a man.
“Come talk to me when you see me back in my office. We want everyone going home at a healthy hour.”
“Boss, don’t you go home at 11pm every day?”
“Shut up.”
The men and women boo and snicker. He gives them a long-suffering look as he rakes his fingers through his hair up his forehead, which sends jolts up and down Goten’s spine.
Goten takes in deep breaths. This is not the time to have a heart attack.
“Okay, that’s – wait, right. I’ve been bad about answering some of your messages these days, and I notice days later that you never followed up. Don’t do that.” He lets his hand fall, and his hair falls with it. “I’m just swamped and forget that I only answered you in my head. If I don’t reply within five hours, just start yelling. Don’t be polite and wait. Okay?”
Chorusing the affirmative, the people in the room shuffle out. The secretary leads the security team in, and they line up at the back of the room. Goten tries not to stare at Trunks bent over the desk again, hair falling over his eyes, lips moving silently as he scribbles some kind of formula on his notes.
He silently curses under his breath. How does this man keep getting sexier and sexier?
“Sir,” the secretary whispers.
Trunks makes a distracted sound. “…and to the back of the base, sorry Mai, one second – and then connect to the RT-II combustion portal.” He pauses scribbling. “Good morning, Mai, how can I help you?” he says at the notes.
“You have new security detail,” the secretary says softly.
“Again?” Trunks begins writing again. Goten stares in fascination as his pen flies across the paper as he talks. “Mai, we’ve been over this. It’s too dangerous for th-” he looks up, and his words die in his throat. Goten has never seen him look so stunned in his life.
He cracks an uncertain smile. “It’s a pleasure,” he says, “sir.”
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To Be Continued
Notes:
THANK YOU to all those that have commented - comments give me life and breath and love. <3
Chapter 6: More Than I Want To Be Your Friend
Summary:
Trunks and Goten have a heart-to-heart about the new assignment.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Chapter 6: More Than I Want To Be Your Friend
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The deli is silent.
It had been rather quiet that day as well, when the two last met in here. But today it’s absolutely empty, because – well – there’s a scary-looking bald guy in a suit equipped with nunchucks standing guard at the door, and a scary-looking young guy in a suit wearing a bo standing inside, next to a sculptured Adonis who sits unmoving at the window. Unlike last time, when he was sitting in a shadowed corner bisected by sunlight, he’s out in the open where he’s haloed by the soft gray of the clouds.
Apparently at Trunks’s position, seven-hour meeting marathons are the norm. Goten had gone over it with Tien during those seven hours outside of his glass-paneled conference rooms – Trunks comes to work at 6am and goes home at 11pm on a normal workday. How had he managed to come out to dinner with Goten more than once? While looking so… nonchalant about it? As if he’d ACTUALLY gotten off work?
He is dizzied by Trunks’s thoughtfulness.
Looking down at Trunks, pale hair wispy in daylight, he wonders if this is how he normally looks after his meeting marathons. He said lunch got catered into offices – does he often come out here to sit surrounded by silence, so utterly exhausted? Had he felt like this that day too? When they’d met, and Goten had broken down in tears and Trunks had been so, so kind? Folding that beautiful paper dragon, giving Goten comfort, offering him a lifeline out of debt?
Goten bends over without thinking. “Are you okay?” he whispers.
…That wasn’t very professional, was it?
Trunks’s gaze slides toward him silently, and Goten’s heartbeat makes itself known.
He clears his throat. “You should eat,” he whispers. “Like. Get sustenance. Like a normal person. Who needs sustenance. To live.” He gives up on sounding intelligent, and resorts to a meaningful stare.
Trunks looks both confused and amused at once. “Why are you whispering?”
“I’m not allowed to talk to you like a friend.”
Trunks blinks slowly. “Am I allowed to talk to you?”
Goten straightens. “Of course, sir,” he says at normal volume.
Trunks drops his head over the table.
Goten feels bad for him. He bends over again. “It’s for your own safety,” he whispers. “Can’t get too chummy with a bodyguard.”
Trunks peers up at him through unruly hair, and it’s adorably cute. “How did this happen?” he murmurs, resigned.
“Capsule Corp won the bid…?” Goten isn’t sure what else there is to say. “They took all the highest-rated bodyguards of the season. That’s me and Tien, with two more as secondary.”
“Of course they did.” Trunks drops his head onto the table again. “They’ve been freaking out since the latest assassination attempt.”
“The guns?”
“The acid.”
“The what?!”
“Oh.” Trunks goes still.
Goten’s disapproval intensifies by the second. Trunks guiltily slides his gaze away.
“Trunks,” Goten hisses.
Trunks’s shoulders sag. “They put security detail on me three weeks ago. He… got stabbed in the hand, catching a knife, so.”
Goten’s jaw is on the floor. “What the heck,” he whispers furiously. “So? What happened?!”
“So, I felt bad,” Trunks says at the table, “and I shook off security and went without for another while.”
“What!” Goten near-shrieks. “Wrong response, sir!”
Trunks slumps further over the table. “Yeah, I know,” he mutters. “Then I got attacked with acid while getting out of my car-”
“Trunks!” Goten grabs the table.
“It was fine!” Trunks says desperately. “I dodged it.”
Tien glances inside. Goten sheepishly signals for him to stand down. Tien goes back to looking outside.
Goten turns back to glare at Trunks. “And you didn’t tell me.”
Trunks stares into a middle distance, hunched and unmoving. Goten follows his gaze and finds a napkin dispenser one table over. Glancing between Trunks and the napkin dispenser, he slowly reaches over and grabs it. Trunks blinks in confusion as Goten holds it out slow-motion at him.
After what feels like an eternity, Trunks finally reaches out and pulls out a napkin, watching Goten put the dispenser back on the next table over. Then Goten lowers himself onto a knee to meet him at eye level.
With a great sigh, Trunks sits relatively upright. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I’m trying to remember why I didn’t tell you, but my brain is fried from seven hours of non-stop talking.” He looks tiredly at Goten. “I didn’t want to worry you. I assume that was the reason.”
Goten stares, lost for words.
The fact that Trunks keeps skipping security to protect his bodyguards is absurd enough, but taking Goten’s rhetorical chiding literally… is another layer of unexpected.
He’s… different. Goten knew this already, of course, but…
Watching Trunks begin to fold the napkin, Goten starts to get the impression that maybe being superhuman gorgeous isn’t the only thing that sets Trunks apart from most people. That there’s a lot more to him that’s different, and Trunks had been keeping a tight lid on them.
Well. He’ll find out eventually, he reasons. So he settles for sighing at Trunks. “Please don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Not… tell me those things?”
If it were any other person, Goten would be backpedaling – questioning everything about their friendship up to this point. Wonder if maybe they weren’t as close as he’d thought. But with Trunks, he gets the feeling that that’s the wrong approach. It’s not about their friendship or Goten as a person – it’s about who Trunks is as a person.
“I know I’m not allowed to be buddies with you right now,” he says, “but these past few weeks we’d been texting almost non-stop. And all this time you were getting attacked and almost dying and-”
“I didn’t almost die.”
Goten’s glare shuts him up.
Watching Trunks’s guilty face, Goten gives a dramatic sigh. “I now see why Capsule Corp paid so much for me and Tien.” He levels a glare at Trunks, who looks away sheepishly. “They need to compensate for your devastating lack of concern for your own safety.”
“Yeah,” Trunks mutters. “I should have guessed he’d pull something like this.”
“Who’s he?”
“Oh.” Trunks twists the napkin. “Just… the company.”
Goten eyes him, wondering at how little he actually knows of the man before him. Trunks had been so kind about showing interest in Goten’s life, but Goten had been so busy being in his head – fantasizing about his body, imagining kissing him, having x-rated dreams about him.
Christ, he’s a bad friend.
Could he even be called that? Friends didn’t have x-rated dreams about each other, did they? Gods, is he some kind of creep? Having these kinds of thoughts about someone who’s been nothing but kind and gentlemanly – who probably definitely has no idea of Goten’s dirty, dirty thoughts.
Goten looks down at the paper napkin under Trunks’s hands, now taking the shape of a horse-deer. What else does he not know of his now-client? “I heard that your invention… the one that’s getting you in trouble. Is just you?”
“Yeah, it’s just me. I wouldn’t put my team in that kind of danger.”
“…so you knew it would be dangerous.”
Trunks only puts on a guilty smile.
And yet Capsule Corp is sweating to protect Trunks over this… personal pet project because he’s just that much of an asset. And Trunks is wielding this power to try to help people.
Goten looks at him long and fond. “Let me guess. Capsule Corp won a bidding war for you too?”
Trunks smiles a little. “They did, actually.”
The creature is now developing a dragon-like face.
At last Trunks slows his hands and sighs down at the napkin. “I’m sorry. I know you’re upset-”
“I’m not upset about being assigned to you, Trunks.” For a genius, this man sure is dumb. “I’m upset that your life is in so much danger and YOU DON’T SEEM TO CARE THAT MUCH.”
At that, Trunks’s hands still. “Huh.” He looks up into a distance, blinking at the air.
“What. What is that look.” Goten narrows his eyes.
“How much is a… normal amount? To care?” Trunks says uncertainly at no one in particular.
Goten gapes at him.
Trunks’s eyes finally come down to meet Goten’s, and his face shifts as he takes in the look of disbelief. He drops his gaze onto his napkin and resumes folding. “Anyway,” he mutters, “I’m not super happy about this either.”
“…Why?”
“It’s dangerous. For you.”
Goten thumps his forehead onto the table. “Unlike you,” he moans, “I signed up for this.”
Trunks folds the napkin, silent.
Goten peers up at him suspiciously. “What is it now.”
“What. What is what.”
“What’s going on in that head of yours?” Goten makes a face. “Spit it out.”
Trunks opens his mouth, then hesitates. Goten intensifies his glare, and Trunks’s face turns grim. It’s the same face he’d worn when asking Goten how much Krillin paid him for his job. “It’s… risky.”
“I’m aware.”
“No, I mean – yes, physically risky, but there’s also a professionalism issue.”
“What do you mean?”
Trunks stops his hands and looks at him seriously. “The person that introduces the potential bodyguard to the agency is automatically excluded from the potential client pool. It creates a conflict of interest.”
It takes a moment for that to sink in. “You’re saying …my assignment was a mistake?” He tries to wrap his mind around it. “Do I need to… report back to my handler and ask them to restart the bid?”
He thinks back to the money he’d sent to his mother. The full-time caretaker. The debt repayment plan.
Maybe things had been too good to be true.
Trunks is openly torn. “Can I ask-”
“Shoot, ask.”
“How much more… did Capsule…?”
“More than twice as much.”
Trunks is very still. The only movement is the set of his teeth coming to slowly bite down onto his lip. Which is insanely hot. “That bastard,” he breathes.
“…Who’s the bastard?”
“Nothing. No one.” Trunks swiftly begins to fold again.
“Trunks,” Goten says, trying to hide his distress, “if this is a problem, I can let the handler know-”
“No. It’s not that. It’s…” Trunks stops again. “It’s not – necessarily against policy. I mean, a longstanding bodyguard is inevitably going to develop rapport with the client, so it’s not that clear-cut. It’s just about…” he hesitates. “…whether your relationship is close enough to cloud judgment.”
Cloud judgment.
Goten watches him in silence, turning the question over and over in his head.
Are they friends enough to make this a liability? Are they close enough that this creates a conflict of interest? Saying yes sounds conceited – Goten knows he can’t possibly be that high up Trunks’s list of close people. He deals with important people all the time.
But even if they were closer friends than he’d hoped – Goten doesn’t see why that’s a bad thing.
A bodyguard’s job is to protect Trunks. Goten wants to protect Trunks. This seems like the opposite of a conflict of interest. Both interests point in the same direction: protect Trunks.
“I think I’ll be fine,” he says at last.
Trunks’s face is almost imploring as he looks at Goten. “It’s your choice. But Capsule Corp HR doesn’t fuck around, Goten. We were kinda friends before this, and if we – no, not we; I can get away with it since I’m the client. But if YOU ever slip up – if they so much as catch you calling me by name – you could lose your assignment. And I honestly don’t know how that might impact your reputation or career.”
Goten’s vision feels bright again, and something warm unfurls in his chest. He looks at Trunks, fond. “I can be professional.”
Trunks stares at Goten.
“What, you don’t believe me?” Goten smirks. “Sir?”
“You… didn’t even take a minute to think about it.”
“I don’t need to.”
Trunks slowly closes his eyes. Takes a deep breath.
“Alright.” He presses one palm flat onto his napkin, and uses the other hand to rake through his hair. “Alright,” he says again, as if to himself, and raises his eyes to stare outside at the gray world. His eyes look bright and glassy – distant.
Lonely.
Surely it’s his imagination. But Goten can’t stop his fingers from seeking out Trunks’s fingers, pressing them warm under his own – just the way Trunks had done for him when he was having a breakdown in this very deli weeks ago.
Bright eyes come down to meet his in surprise.
“It’s not forever,” Goten says, low and earnest. “Whatever your company is going through – as soon as we cross that hurdle, they’ll want to scale down the pay or get rid of bodyguards altogether. Then I’ll be rotated out to the next highest-paying client, and then we can be like before.”
Trunks doesn’t answer. He looks down at their hands without a word, and his face is – not exactly closed off, but there’s something unreadable on it shadowed by a curtain of hair. It’s a valiant fight to stop his fingers from reaching out to sweep that hair aside so he can peer up into his eyes.
Goten settles for picking up the napkin to marvel at its complexity. It’s a goddamn Qilin.
“Are you sure you wanna do this?” Trunks says at the mythic animal as it dances in pale daylight. “I mean… yes, the pay is higher, but there’s a reason for that. The risk is also higher.”
“So you’re in that much more danger.” Goten leans in to place his face directly in front of Trunks’s. “And you’re telling me to walk away.”
Trunks’s eyelashes flutter. “I’m sorry. I know I’m overstepping – it’s not my business, and it’s your career, but-”
“No. I appreciate it, Trunks. But listen.” Goten levels his gaze, as earnestly as he can, and softens his voice. “Your life is in so much danger that your company is paying twice as much as the competition to win the best of the best. And if that best is me, I’ll do it. I wanna do that more than I wanna be your friend. I want you to live.”
Trunks doesn’t answer. For a long moment, he stays unmoving as Goten takes in the way he glows against the gray skies.
Deciding that he’s acted unprofessional for long enough, Goten gets back on his feet. He straightens his tie and suit jacket, adjusts the bo strapped to his back, checks his earpiece, and leans over Trunks to whisper: “Eat.”
Trunks bends over the table, and doesn’t move.
When at last he looks up again, he is wearing a polished, friendly smile. He tilts his head at Tien. “Do you two have lunch figured out? As I told you, there’s really nothing around here, and – you’re not allowed to leave me alone, right?”
“We didn’t actually figure it out yet.” Goten squints. “But that’s not something you should worry abo-”
“I’ll get my secretary to add your headcount to the office catering.” Trunks rises. “That okay with both of you?”
Feeling lost, Goten nods slowly.
Trunks doesn’t look at him as he walks out the door. “Mr. Tien, Mr. Son,” he says cheerfully, “let’s head back, shall we?”
Goten quickly pockets the Qilin and follows him out the door into the vast gray world.
,
,
To Be Continued
Notes:
Thank you to those of you that have been commenting - they really keep me going :3
Thank you also to those that have been checking out other writings and giving other pairings a chance <3
Chapter 7: Glimpses Of You
Summary:
Several months into being Trunks's bodyguard, Goten’s hold on professionalism is more tenuous than Trunks’s. But Goten can’t bring himself to care when he is carried away with finding out more about Trunks – including what makes him angry.
Notes:
Due to several people kindly taking the time to give me lovely comments on this story, I was inspired to turn this short little fluff-piece into something more complex. Hence the extra downtime since the last chapter - I had to add in all the necessary layers. Hope you enjoy this chapter!
A massive THANK YOU to those that have been, are, or will be (<3) leaving me comments - they motivate me to keep going!
Chapter Text
Chapter 7: Glimpses Of You
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“Before we end the meeting,” Trunks says, holding up a stack of papers, “why are smoke tests in the yellow for the closed beta?”
The room falls silent. “The… Cx-2 program keeps glitching,” says a woman, timidly.
“So what are we doing about it?”
She sweats.
“Nothing?”
“We were hoping, uh, next time they’d come back green.”
“You just… hoped?” He looks around the room at guilty faces. “Is this what you all do when you think I’m too busy to read reports? Hope?” His voice is calm, but everyone in the room flinches.
Trunks is pale. It’s looking like he’s spent the night at the office again under Tien’s watch. He puts down the papers, looking tired. “So no one tested it.”
“I don’t think my team knows how,” says a man, hesitant.
“And you didn’t teach them; why?”
The man looks sheepish. “I learned it forever ago when I was still a noob…”
Goten hears it: he was embarrassed about not knowing the basics, so he chose to pretend to know. Instead of asking.
It seems to be a running theme in corporate offices, Goten is learning. No one takes responsibility. Everyone pushes it on someone else. And if they’re found out, they always have an excuse. Goten is baffled by corporate culture.
Trunks is the only anomaly in this phenomenon, as he readily admits to not knowing things – but he’s an anomaly in a number of things.
Like right now, when he asks his reporting managers: “Do you all know how much money I make?”
Everyone looks at each other.
“I make 35% more than all of you,” he says. “I made sure to take no more than that, because I knew coming into this company that I possess at least that much more than you all in skillset.” He bends over his desk, leaning on his hands as he peers up at the occupants in the room through his hair. “You all get paid more than your direct reports. Do you all have the additional skillset to justify that? Do you think maybe you should?” He pauses through the answering silence, and looks down at the notes strewn about beneath his hands. He begins to stack them into a neat pile. “If any of you fails a task I asked of you,” he says, “I can step in and do it myself.” He straightens to look at the people in the room. “Can you do that for your teams? Lead by example and coach them? Or do you just push papers around and hope that your one smart gal never goes on vacation?”
There is an uncomfortable silence in the room.
“I’m sorry, guys.” Trunks puts down the papers, looking tired. “I don’t know how to say this nicely. I want to help you, but I can’t if you won’t let me.” He rakes his hand through his hair, and – Goten can’t help but watch the way soft hair falls between his fingers. “There’s no shame in not knowing things. But if you can’t admit to not knowing things because you’d rather save face than learn – guys, I need you to be better than this.”
There are murmurs of “sorry” in the room.
Trunks closes his eyes. “Mai, do I have a slot open today?”
“No, sir. Meetings all day, and then a business dinner at 6pm.”
“Department all-hands at 6pm, please.”
“Yes, sir.”
She leaves the room, and Trunks goes to the side of the office where the engineer jumpsuit hangs. “I’ll demonstrate tonight. And if you still don’t get it after, ask me for a 1:1 and I’ll walk you through it.” He waves the managers away. “Have a great Tues – Wednesday? What’s today? Anyway, see you all later.”
The people file out, looking embarrassed and guilty. Goten and Tien politely blend into the walls, and Goten tries not to smile at how the engineer jumpsuit dwarfs Trunks as he threads his arms through the sleeves.
It’s been a new phenomenon, realizing that they’re not exactly the same size. They’re close, but – Trunks is slightly smaller. It – makes Goten’s heart skip a beat whenever he thinks too hard about it. He isn’t sure why, and he refuses to examine it because, well, professionalism.
It’s not a noticeable difference anyway. Goten had gone months without noticing, because with his insanely good looks and charm, Trunks feels larger than life. He commands a room with such mastery – but Goten is starting to wonder whether this is natural for him, or whether it’s something he’s had to learn, just like he’s had to learn to invent machines.
Because as patient and kind as Trunks is to his reporting managers when they interrupt his day with questions and pleas for help – as smooth and charming as he can be at business meetings – he always looks so exhausted after. Like now, when he finishes zipping up the jumpsuit and leans against the wall to close his eyes.
The secretary reenters and immediately dims the lights. “Where are your pills?”
“I ran out,” Trunks mutters, not looking up. “Didn’t have time to refill.”
“You should have told me. You know I can do that for you.”
“You’re my secretary, Mai. Not my maid.”
“So you’d rather just suffer?” she sighs. “You need to go home. You worked all night last night.”
He cracks an eye open. “Do we have the results back?”
“It’s bounced. They’re meeting about it now.”
“And you didn’t tell me?!” He peels himself off of the wall and grabs his work gloves from his desk. She sighs, but follows along with Goten and Tien as Trunks strides out of his office. Crossing the open office space, Trunks stops walking when he rounds the corner and sees a worker holding a weird-looking pipe while near tears. “What’s going on here?”
“I took the CX-atombot apart and can’t put it back,” the man says in a fluster. “It’s been three days and my boss-”
Trunks holds out a hand. The man hands over the pipe in confusion, and Trunks walks on while swiftly disassembling the pipe.
The executives’ greetings are a mix of grave and confused as they see him entering with a half-deconstructed pipe in hand, dressed in an engineer jumpsuit with work gloves on. He takes a seat closest to the door and motions for them to keep going. Goten and Tien take places in the back as the CEO lectures the room on business practice and profits, and Trunks silently takes apart the pipe under the table the entire time.
Trunks had told Goten, upon their first meeting, that he was not good with people. Goten had not believed him.
But now, after being his bodyguard for several months, he can see it. While taking care to talk to people of lower standing than himself with kindness, Trunks becomes a rebellious little mutt when it comes to people above him.
Like right now when, after twenty minutes of corporate-speak, the executives turn to Trunks and he’s still looking down at the pipe instead of even attempting to look interested.
“Can you please pay attention?” The white-mustached CEO knocks on the table. “Did your mother not teach you it’s rude to fidget while others are talking? Being mentally handicapped is no excuse for bad manners.”
The executives look at each other. Goten exchanges glances with Tien.
Trunks looks up. “I’m sorry, I’m too handicapped to understand anything you just said. Can you dumb down your question?”
Goten would like to announce to the universe that he loves a man who takes no bullshit. But also, this man’s good at making enemies. Christ.
He knows that Trunks isn’t necessarily trying to humiliate people when he asks for clarification. Because he stands by everything he does and says, it’s difficult for him to wrap his mind around people speaking obtusely on purpose. And being embarrassed or resentful when they’re called out for it.
So… yeah. Trunks is fucking impressive, but he’s also fucking thick.
“Just so I’m clear,” he says to the room, “you want me to downgrade the core and make it dirtier, less efficient, heavier, and more complicated, patented with limited materials, with planned obsolescence built in. Am I correct?”
The room is silent.
“Well, it’s not QUITE like-” begins the CTO.
“Is that a no?” Trunks cuts. “I don’t have to make those changes?”
“Considering the political climate-” tries the COO.
“It’s a yes-or-no question,” Trunks says.
A beat of silence; then the CFO sighs. “Yes.”
Trunks puts the pipe on the table. It’s fixed.
“It’s been nine months,” says the CTO. “We can’t keep getting bounced back like this! It’s terrible for our image.”
“It’s not great for Congress’s image to keep bouncing us either.” Trunks runs a hand through his hair and makes a face as he realizes he’s got work gloves still on. “What is it this time?”
“The reservoir is 2.19 Liters instead of 2.2 Liters,” the secretary supplies.
“That’s their issue? That it’s not a round number?”
“The resubmission deadline is also tomorrow EOD.”
Trunks tenses. “Well, that one’s new.” He slowly takes off his gloves. “Alright. I’ll fix it overnight.”
The executives burst into murmurs.
“You can’t,” says the COO. “It’s not just a recalibration, is it? You have to literally break it and rebuild it.”
“I can if I start now,” Trunks says.
“This is a huge waste of company resources,” says the VP of Sales. “You spending so much energy on-”
“I’m not using up company resources.”
“But it’s Capsule’s logo on it,” argues the CEO.
“Yes, it is.” Trunks tosses the gloves on top of the pipe. “You’re welcome.”
The executives look at each other.
“Let’s be honest,” the CFO says. “This deadline says it all. They’re not even trying to pretend anymore. They’ll just keep moving the goalpost until you give up, or...” She glances at Goten and Tien. “This is just unacceptable, your life being put on the line like this.”
“What she means is,” the CEO says, “do you have any idea how much those bodyguards of yours are costing us each month?”
“Get rid of them, then.” Trunks’s voice is near a snarl. “I never asked for them, did I?”
Goten stares up at the ceiling. A tense silence sweeps the room.
“Now, let’s not get emotional-” starts the CTO, as the CEO says, “Your tantrums aren’t going to-”
“Gentlemen,” the CFO snaps. They fall quiet.
The CFO softens toward Trunks. “Look, we’re doing our best. But this invention of yours – it’s revolutionary, Trunks. And people aren’t ready for that kind of change.”
“We’re not asking you to give up,” says the Business Director. “Just… water it down. Meet in the middle.”
“So the corrupt politicians and their friends can find a way to profit off the tech.” Trunks stares down at the pile in front of him. “By selling products and services to make up for the flaws I add to the system.”
No one answers.
Trunks grabs the pipe and gloves with finality. “I’ll fix the reservoir.” He holds up his hand, silencing protest. “I know it’s a temporary measure. But I’ll do it tonight, get it back on your submissions shelf tomorrow, and meanwhile… I’ll think on it. Give me a few days.”
“Us inviting your opinion is a courtesy, not an obligation,” says the CEO. “If this keeps up, we’ll have to accept the military contract.”
“You accept that contract, and I’m done here.” Trunks stands up. “If I wanted blood money, I would have stayed at Red Ribbon Inc.”
He leaves like a tornado. Goten and Tien and the secretary follow in a hurry, leaving behind grave murmurs in the room.
Halfway through storming through the open-floor office, Trunks realizes that he’s walking too fast for the secretary and stops. “Sorry,” he breathes, and makes a small noise as he closes his eyes.
“You know, this would all be easier if you just accepted that promotion.”
“Don’t you start too, Mai.”
“It’s your right, and you’re qualified.”
“Right. Me, talking about profit margins, spending forecasts, synergizing with leaders in the field. I’d rather strangle myself with a power cord.” He begins to walk again. “Where did this atombot pipe come from? Was it a guy? Do you remember, Mai?”
She does not.
Goten lets the silence go for a few seconds before deciding to lean in. “That one, sir.” He points at a man pacing by the window. Trunks goes very still.
He moves again when Goten is back to a distance. He strides toward the man at the window and hands him the fixed pipe as the man sputters and blushes, then turns to head to his own office. “What’s the next meeting?”
“It’s customer-facing.”
“Send the CTO, I’m busy.” He shuts the door.
Goten and the secretary sigh in unison.
Tien claps Goten on the shoulder and wordlessly leaves to take his place back outside of the main office. Goten stands next to the secretary outside of the bulletproof glass, watching Trunks dim the lights and lean against the wall, pressing his hands into his eye sockets.
“He’s gonna gouge out his eyes, doing that every time he gets a migraine,” Goten murmurs.
“Welcome to my boss’s exemplary self-care routine,” the secretary says dryly.
Silence.
Goten hesitates. “I have some migraine medication on me.” He glances at her. “Is it okay if I give it to you? I’m not giving it to him directly.”
She stares at him. He offers a sheepish smile.
“My mom gets them a lot. I carry lots of meds by habit.”
The secretary mulls over it for the briefest of moments before holding out her hand. He places a small packet of pills on it.
She looks down at it, then back up at him. “This is expensive medication, Mr. Son.”
“Don’t tell him.”
She gives him a long look before turning to slip through the door. Goten watches her approach where Trunks stands with his head bowed. She begins to speak, and then – Trunks looks up and stares directly at Goten.
Goten looks away in a panic.
They don’t text anymore. Goten can’t complain, because he was the one to suggest that they be professional. And Trunks had kept his word – had kept Goten safe. Ever since that day at the deli, he’s never once called Goten by name. He’s never once looked him in the eye and spoken to him as an individual. He is the perfect client; he treats his bodyguards as if they don’t exist, which makes the job easier for them. It’s as if the months of friendship between them hadn’t happened.
Not… that Goten expected anything different.
He gets to see more of Trunks than before anyway. Gets to see him bite back at the executives. Gets to see him inquire personally at HR about the health of a worker who was injured at the workplace. Gets to see him stop by a ‘wet floor’ sign while people shriek and dodge away from a broken water sprinkler on the ceiling, roll up his sleeves, pull out a chair, and stand on it like some kind of repairman with a screwdriver between his teeth while water gets in his eyes.
So. He really can’t complain.
The secretary exits the office, and together they stand outside of the bulletproof glass again.
“So,” she says without looking at him, “how long have you been lusting after my boss?”
Goten chokes.
The secretary looks unimpressed when he looks at her in panic. “Don’t worry, Mr. Son. He doesn’t know.”
Goten is still busy trying to get air into his lungs. “Really?” Wait. Wrong answer. “I mean…”
“I’ve been trying to get into his pants forever, though, so you can get in line.”
Goten chokes again.
She watches him as he sputters, as if waiting for a response, and he has no idea what he’s supposed to say. He tries to remember: professionalism.
He breathes in, stalling for time, and squares his shoulders. “I don’t think this is appropriate to discuss on company grounds-”
“But it’s true, right?”
Eighteen, he thinks.
“…It’s just medication,” he tries.
“You stare at him every chance you get.” She eyes him. “My boss doesn’t notice, because he doesn’t look at you; but I do.”
…Help, he thinks.
Alas, there is no Eighteen to be his foil, nor Krillin to throw off the situation with his clueless laughter, and Goten is on his own. He lets out a long breath, gathering his thoughts.
I’m a professional, he reminds himself.
“Ma’am, I’m a bodyguard,” he says with the sternest voice he can muster. “I am not going to start gossiping about my client-”
“Oh, please. The last four bodyguards all had to quit because they developed a massive crush. You’re not new.”
He can’t breathe. “What.”
“He makes the straightest of the straights question their sexuality. It’s alright, Mr. Son. It’s understandable. I mean, look at him.”
Goten can’t tell whether his blood is rushing to his face or his heart or somewhere else. ”Ma’am…”
“Well?”
“Well what,” he croaks.
“Do you have nothing to say?” she eyes him. “About what I just said.”
He thinks back to what she’s said. It takes him a while.
“…He’s not some cash register you get a turn at by standing in line,” he says at last.
She turns and stares at him. He stares back.
A slow smile quirks up her lips. “Is that right?” she gives him a sidelong glance. “Protective, or possessive? I guess time will tell.”
“Indeed,” he mutters, refusing to take the bait. Eighteen would be proud.
Together they watch Trunks lean against the wall, unmoving.
“If the former,” she says, not looking at him, “you can prove that by taking him home tonight after business dinner.”
It takes Goten a moment to get his mind out of the gutter and realize that she meant taking Trunks to Trunks’s home, not Goten’s. He tries to push down the fluster creeping up his chest. “Isn’t he supposed to come back to work on his thing tonight?”
She scoffs. “Let’s be real. That fix takes nine hours at top speed. He’s been here since yesterday morning. He’s not gonna make it.” She sighs. “And even if he somehow pulls it off… you know how these go. It’s not even gonna pass.” She looks at him tiredly. “At this point, he’s just being stubborn.”
“So… you want me to go against his request?” Goten says carefully. “You know I can’t say no to the client, right?”
“You and I both know that that’s not true, Mr. Son.” Her smile is sharp. “He’s the asset your client pays you to protect. And I’m telling you, on behalf of your client Capsule Corp, to override the asset’s wishes and take him home.”
Goten shifts, feeling uneasy. “I know I’m authorized to override his wishes in an emergency, but – is this an emergency? Is there real danger involved?”
“He’ll probably fall asleep while welding and drill a hole through his hand. Does that count?”
“That’s a hypothetical, Miss Mai.”
The lights flicker back on inside Trunks’s personal office. Together they turn to watch Trunks roll up his sleeves as he circles the machine he’d pulled out to the center of his lab-office, eyes sharp with concentration.
It’s really not fair, Goten thinks.
The efficient energy core Trunks has invented – and been getting death threats over – is still stalled in the government oversight committee. There is an unspoken understanding in the company that it will never pass; Goten had imagined a rich company like this lobbying – bribing – their way through it, but somehow that hasn’t been happening. Every time it goes for approval, it gets bounced back with some arbitrary reason that has the innovations team banging their heads and screaming for a full seven minutes while Trunks stands silently with his head in his hands. Then he goes to work that night, making the changes alone, as if determined to prove that he’s not going to let them tire him out with this bullshit. As if daring them to dismiss it again. And again. And again.
Goten loves this rebellious act of malicious compliance in him. The older executives ask him to slow down, change the design, sweet talk the politicians, make deals with the military – but he stubbornly goes back and makes every stupid change the committee demands, making them look more and more unreasonable. But.
“He knows it’s not gonna work,” the secretary says softly as Trunks begins to pull the machine apart. “He just can’t accept it. The idea of injustice – corruption – when he’s been following the rules – a world that is unfair and doesn’t make sense.” She glances at him. “Look, I know what you’re thinking. I’m his secretary and this is an overreach. But I’m also his friend, and my job as a friend is to look out for him. And sometimes that means being the bad guy.” Her gaze turns heavy on Goten. “So which type of admirer do you fall under, Mr. Son? A yes-man who only wants to earn brownie points at the expense of his well-being? Or someone who’ll do what’s best for him, even if he doesn’t appreciate it?”
Goten wants to argue. But he swallows it down – because professionalism.
“I understand,” he says.
,
,
At 6pm, Trunks holds the promised demonstration for his entire department, patiently taking questions and explaining like a schoolteacher, and then goes home to freshen up. Goten is waiting with the car when he comes back out with damp hair to attend the business dinner, and notes that he looks even more tired than before.
Trunks stays at the dinner only long enough to shake hands and make apologies and charm people before leaving again. Having received the same orders from the secretary as Goten, Tien goes ahead to sweep the apartment and gives Goten the green-light before retiring for the night.
Goten revs the car quietly, hoping against hope that Trunks falls asleep and becomes too groggy to protest about their destination. And Trunks seems to be dozing - but when they reach the empty streets of downtown, his head snaps up. “We’re going the wrong way.”
“Miss Mai asked me to take you home,” Goten says, gut filling with dread.
Trunks stares at him through the mirror. “Turn around.”
“But-”
“Mr. Son.” Trunks’s voice seethes low. “Turn around, and I’m not asking you again.”
There is such venom in his voice – it takes him aback. He’s never been at the receiving end of Trunks’s focused attention in the past months, let alone such anger.
A moment of hesitation is enough for Trunks to move decisively. Goten’s panicked plea of “Trunks, wait-” is drowned out by the wind as the car door swings open at 50 miles per hour.
Goten nearly screams out a string of curses as he swerves unto a curb and brakes. The whole stop takes less than two seconds, and Trunks is already swinging his legs out of the car and briskly moving toward the office as Goten shuts off the engine. He runs out and circles around the car to catch up.
“What the hell?” he shouts, coming around to block Trunks’s path up the stairs leading up to the looming building. “Do you have a death wish?!”
The sharp look Trunks gives him startles Goten into silence. Trunks is radiating fury.
As Goten falters, Trunks swerves around him to badge himself in. The locks click open, and the dark lobby floods with lights.
Trunks is a pragmatic person, isn’t he? He knows that staying up for a second night fixing this isn’t going to make a difference, doesn’t he? Goten briefly considers trying to reason with him – but something tells him that that’s a bad idea right now.
Goten quickly follows him into the elevator. “You have to understand,” he implores, “your secretary is really worried about you.”
“If you fear repercussions from my secretary, rest assured that I will be having a talk with her.” Trunks pulls out his cell phone without looking at Goten. “Right now.”
Oh fuck.
The elevator opens, and Goten hurries to keep up before finally coming around to block Trunks’s path to the main office. “Trunks-”
“Mr. Son.”
Silence trembles between them. Eyes locked onto him like a blade, Trunks slowly lowers his phone from his ear. He snaps the phone shut.
“Move,” he says, low and dangerous, “or I will move you.”
Goten’s spine tingles, and he curses inwardly. Trunks is well and truly pissed.
He stands aside.
Trunks enters the office, crosses the empty open area, strides past the messy cubicles and lab spaces, and finally reaches his personal office, while Goten silently trails him all the way.
Trunks pauses, hand on his door. Takes a great breath.
“Go home, Mr. Son,” he says quietly at the door.
Then he damn near slams said door at Goten’s face.
,
,
To Be Continued
Chapter 8: Compromise
Summary:
Faced with an emergency situation, Goten defies opposing orders from client and asset to present a compromise of his own.
Notes:
Thank you for reading and commenting :3
Chapter Text
Chapter 8: Compromise
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Goten watches Trunks precision-welding on the floor of his lab-office as the night deepens.
His work gloves are long forgotten, and his engineer jumpsuit is half-unzipped with sleeves rolled above his elbows. His goggles are gone who knows where.
One of Trunks’s little habits that Goten now has the privilege of knowing is that he has particular… preferences… about being touched. For seeming to be such close friends, his secretary never seems to touch him casually – unless it is from the front and deliberately telegraphed. And despite being obviously loved and respected by many of his teams, Trunks never joins in on hugs and back clapping and shoulder-to-shoulder jostling in company events. He’s always standing a bit off to the side, arms crossed, leaning against the wall, watching, and deftly maneuvering out of the way when someone stumbles into his direction. It makes Goten question all the ways Trunks had acted so… normal… about touching him when they’d met in the past.
And this extends to inanimate objects too; he dutifully wears all of his safety gear when he starts work, but when he gets deep in focus, he gets annoyed and starts to strip them off without realizing it. He starts taking off his work gloves around the third hour; he takes off his goggles when things get particularly frustrating, and it is a lucky day when he only rolls up the sleeves of his protective jumpsuit instead of abandoning it altogether. Once he’d tossed off his jumpsuit and tried to unbutton his shirt beneath, and only stopped when he realized he wasn’t alone in the room thanks to Tien pointedly clearing his throat.
Goten has no comment on this.
In hindsight, it explains why his sleeves are always rolled up, why his hair is always pulled away from his face. For all his gentleness when he was touching Goten to offer comfort – Trunks seems to not do well with wispy touches. His shirts are always tightly fitted, and Goten is starting to get the impression that it’s NOT for the purpose of showing off his pec muscles – though it is a nice side benefit for Goten’s viewing pleasure. Or torture. Whichever.
…Not that Goten has reason to tuck this information away for himself or anything.
Pale blue light bounces off of Trunks’s bare wrists as he works; he’s remained barely moving for the past three hours, and the motion-detection lights of the office-lab have turned off. Alone in this large, silent office after everyone else has gone home, he’s fixing this thing that is going to better people’s lives, which none of the bigwigs at his job cares about. Building things from scratch with his hands. Sweating and cursing and focusing and looking so goddamn beautiful.
Goten has spent the past three hours thinking. Frustration, he can understand. But there was something – bone-deep and visceral about Trunks’s anger. It had made him think of a cold night outside of a restaurant when Trunks had spoken quietly about friends that didn’t give the benefit of the doubt. Some experience from his own past had seared pain into him, and Trunks had used its leftover warmth to help Goten feel less alone that night.
What if Goten had glimpsed a raw wound tonight, not the leftover warmth? Something that was still red-hot and scalding inside of Trunks?
The way Trunks had looked at him through that mirror in the car – the moment Trunks realized that he was nothing more than an asset, an object to be carted around against his will – it still makes his stomach turn.
The secretary had meant well, Goten knows. Hell, Trunks probably knows. But overriding the asset’s wishes – is that really what it means to take care of him? Is it really a choice between indulging Trunks’s destructive tendencies for Goten’s selfish gain, as opposed to helping Trunks while shouldering the burden of being the bad guy? She’d lain out the choices as if the latter were the noble choice, but Goten doesn’t feel noble at all. He feels like a shit person.
What if… allowing Trunks his choices IS taking care of him?
Watching Trunks interacting with businessmen at the dinner table had reminded him of their first dinner together; Trunks had been similarly charming – a social lubricant all on his own, never out of things to say or ask, always making the other person feel interesting and cared about. Goten had seen it as a sign of empathy and intelligence.
But now that he knows how much Trunks hates these business meetings – and is still able to exhibit the exact same behavior – he finds himself mulling over Trunks’s sheer… strength of control.
With an impossible deadline looming, Trunks still calmly walked his department through a lecture, crawling under machines and drawing diagrams on white boards. He attended a business dinner with a friendly smile and warm handshakes, inquiring about family and making jokes. Then he came back in the eleventh hour to cross an unrealistic finish line, dozing deep enough to make use of his spare time but not enough to miss the fact that he was being taken in the wrong location. He’d even managed to hold onto that line of professionalism despite being so angry – the very line his bodyguard was merrily trampling all over. He never let go of that last thread of control.
For a man so high up the hierarchy in such a prestigious company, Trunks has surprisingly little control of his life, doesn’t he? He barely has a moment of privacy, monitored as he is with bodyguards trailing his every step and listening to his every conversation. Pulled into meetings where he must talk more than he wants; buried in paperwork that results in migraines; called around to laugh for people he doesn’t like. Goten thinks back to his own desk back at his little apartment, full of paper animals twisted into perfection by Trunks’s frantic hands during his virtual calls.
The only time Trunks seems to feel comfortable in his skin is when he’s tinkering in silence, plopped on the floor of his office with his sleeves rolled up, but – even that is now becoming a source of strain as he’s being chased by these ridiculous deadlines. That easy smile he’d shown Goten during their brief meetings are like forgotten gems, tucked away in memory. Goten hasn’t seen it since.
Maybe… maybe he’s able to behave in such a perfectly controlled manner in society because it’s the only thing he still has control over. His mannerisms and facial expressions. Within the boundaries of his life, where more and more things seem to be spiraling desperately out of control for him – maybe his body, his autonomy – it’s the only thing he still feels like he owns.
And Goten had tried to take that from him.
Trunks suddenly moves. Darkness breaks as the motion sensors activate and the lab lights whirr back to life. Blood spurts bright and gaudy under them as he sits back with a dismayed look.
Shit, was she right? Did he fall asleep welding?
Goten watches, tight with tension, as he tries to think of what to do. He can’t exactly interfere – this is not within bodyguarding duties.
And Trunks had made it very clear that overstepping was not appreciated.
All Goten can hope for, especially after having messed up so badly just a few hours prior, is that Trunks would take care of himself so Goten doesn’t have to.
But he doesn’t.
Trunks only gives the machine a disapproving glance, as if it’s personally disappointed him, before pulling out a tissue from a tissue box and wrapping it haphazardly around a pumping wound on his hand and diving back in between the churning teeth of blades and flashing lights.
Then he pulls back because he’s bleeding faster than he can work.
He slowly turns off the machine as blood runs in rivulets down his wrist. There is defeat in his shoulders as he leans against the wall, waiting for the bleeding to slow.
Fuck me, Goten thinks.
Trunks looks up in unmasked surprise when Goten knocks and enters.
“Where… did you get that,” he says faintly as Goten sits down next to him on the floor with a first-aid kit.
“I carry it with me.” Goten holds out a hand. “My mom hurts herself a lot from balance issues.”
Trunks stares at the outstretched hand, looking confused, so Goten gently grabs his wrist to pull the injured hand onto his lap. He replaces the blood-drenched tissue with a pad of fresh gauze and wraps his hand firmly around it to staunch the bleeding.
Silence holds between them. Trunks looks like a prey animal caught in a trap while Goten uses his free hand to silently clean the blood off Trunks’s exposed wrist and arm. Watching his skin glisten under the medical wipe residue, he is reminded of the first night they’d met – when Trunks had watched him, curious and a little guarded, offering small smiles and conversation despite having just survived a literal assassination attempt.
His chest tightens at the memory. He’d do anything to get that smile directed at him again.
The open office space outside feels so large, so empty. But he reminds himself that Trunks is right here next to him in this lab, and – the oppressive feeling of loneliness lifts, maybe just a little, at the thought.
Trunks breaks the silence. “Have you been here… the whole time?”
“Yeah,” Goten says, just as quietly.
Trunks breathes in. “You don’t have to do that.” He looks away at the floor. “Tien leaves as soon as he makes sure I’m alone in the building and everything’s locked.”
Goten really has no answer to this. He peels off the gauze to peer under it. “You need stitches.”
“It’s fine.”
“You… didn’t even look.”
“This is normal.” Trunks starts to pull away, and looks ambushed as Goten holds firm. “I… do this all the time.”
“Getting half-skewered is normal for you?”
Trunks only blinks. It reminds Goten of an afternoon in a little deli where he’d looked genuinely uncertain of how much he should be caring about being killed. He sighs and begins to carefully clean the wound.
Seeming to realize that he’s responded incorrectly, Trunks looks away, tension in his shoulders. “I usually dodge before it gets through. Just an off-day today.”
“You’re tired.” Goten places clean dressing on the wound and gently wraps his hands around it again. “You’ve been working too much.”
“I’m fine.” Trunks pulls again without looking. Goten holds firm, and uncertain eyes finally come to meet his.
“I’m not done.” Goten tapes the dressing onto his skin and picks up a roll of bandage wrap.
“If you wrap it I can’t use my hand-“
“If you leave it with a gushing hole you also can’t use your hand.”
“No.” Trunks’s other hand catches Goten’s wrist with surprising strength. Then Trunks lets go quickly, looking away. “I need to be able to reach into the crevices with both hands.”
Goten blinks, trying to imprint that grip in his memory. “Is that something I can help you with?”
Trunks looks at him in surprise. “This… is gonna take all night.”
“I can stay all night.”
Trunks is speechless.
“So?” Goten prompts.
“No.” Trunks looks away. “It’s not… something anyone can just come in to help with. You have to know what you’re doing. Which is why I’m doing it alone and need both of my hands.”
Goten sighs. Silence fills the air between them.
“I’m sorry,” he says quietly.
Trunks goes very still.
“I thought this kind of thing was normal for you. Your secretary forcing you to prioritize your health, because it’s for your own good and all that. I didn’t know you hated it so much.” He squeezes a little. “I won’t do it again.”
The tension in Trunks’s arm slowly bleeds out, and his hand finally goes limp in Goten’s. Goten’s heart flutters as he realizes that Trunks’s hand, just like the rest of him, is slightly smaller than his. He subtly adjusts his grip so it fits more neatly into his palm.
“It’s…” Trunks seems to have trouble finding the words. Which isn’t surprising; he’s been awake for too long. “No, it’s not your fault. I – Mai and I – put you in a difficult position.” He stares down at his hand wrapped in Goten’s. “I…took out my frustrations on you.”
“No you didn’t.” Goten uses his free hand to sandwich the one he’s holding, trying to think up a solution that can be helpful without trampling over Trunks’s wishes. He stares at the wall, vaguely aware of Trunks watching him.
“Alright,” he says at last. “Since you don’t want me to, I won’t wrap your hand.” He looks back to meet surprised eyes. “But you’re gonna start bleeding again if you move it too much. If I leave it, will you wake me up when it starts bleeding? So I can help you with that?”
It takes Trunks a moment to catch onto what Goten is implying. He looks at him in disbelief. “You… wanna sleep here?”
“You have a couch.”
“But-”
“If you don’t want me here, let me wrap your hand.” Goten gives Trunks a pleading look. “Trunks, I can’t just go home knowing that you’re gonna bleed out as soon as my back is turned.”
Trunks opens his mouth, hesitates, and swallows down his words.
“I… need to concentrate,” he says slowly. “I get distracted easily. You’ve seen me.”
Goten glances out the bulletproof glass. “I can sleep out there in the main office. I’ll be out of your way.”
Trunks looks scandalized. “What.”
“I don’t mind sleeping on the floor.”
“No.” Looking torn, Trunks looks down at his own hand sandwiched between Goten’s larger ones. “I can’t… ask you to stay overnight just to tend to a minor injury every few hours.”
“It’s not minor, and you’re not asking.” Goten squeezes a little. “Please?” he says softly.
Trunks reacts as if he’s been burned. He looks away tensely, looking around as if not knowing where to place his eyes. Then his gaze falls on the machine in front of him, and his face shifts with despair as he takes in how much more work needs to be done.
“Maybe it’s not worth it,” he says faintly, as if not hearing himself. His gaze drops and he leans against the wall again. “I’m not gonna make it.”
“Hey. No. You can make it.” Goten squeezes. “You just need to take breaks and eat and hydrate – here, let me-” he gets to his feet and leaves Trunks on the floor to exit the personal office. He crosses the main open-office space, goes into the snack room, and scoops out an armful of food. Grabs a few bottles of drinks along the way.
Trunks looks bewildered as Goten comes back in to dump the haul onto his desk.
“Take breaks,” Goten orders. He goes back to the door.
“Go-”
Goten stops. Looks back at Trunks.
Trunks looks away again at the floor. “You don’t have to stay. I’ll – wear safety gear and be careful. Go home.”
Goten leans his back against the door and offers a smile. “I’ll be right outside.”
As his hand turns the knob, he sees Trunks’s gaze lift to finally come land on him.
He can’t be blamed, really, for the fact that he stops in his tracks. Who can just walk away when Trunks is looking at them like that? Helpless, as if he doesn’t know what to do with them? He hadn’t looked at him like that since the deli all those months ago.
Then Trunks is looking away again. “Use the couch,” he says softly, “if you’re gonna sleep.”
Trying to calm the fluttering of his heart, Goten schools his expression and slips back in. He unbuckles his bo strap and rests the weapon against the couch within easy reach.
“I’m a quiet sleeper, but if I annoy you, just wake me up and kick me out.” He lies down on the couch, crossing his arms and snuggling into the cushions. “Don’t forget the safety gear.”
He determinedly closes his eyes so Trunks doesn’t feel stared at. It is a long time until he hears a sigh, some rustling noises, and welding sounds resume.
The lights go back out as the motion sensors stop detecting movement. Goten cracks his eyes open to watch pale blue light reflect off of Trunks’s downcast eyelashes. His wrist peeks out between a work glove and a sleeve of the engineer jumpsuit, pulled back down to cover his arms.
Goten had never looked at someone at work and been so enraptured. Perhaps he’d never met someone who works with such passion as Trunks does.
This is probably the closest he’ll ever get to being in close quarters in a private space with Trunks as long as he has this job. It’s not ideal, but having Trunks sitting across the room from him, looking so focused and in his element and not putting up that polished face – Trunks, giving him permission to stay and watch over him – it soothes a little corner of the longing in his heart.
He falls asleep ridiculously easily for a man in a suit sleeping on his client’s couch. He thinks he feels something warm come over him during the night, but he can’t be sure.
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To Be Continued
Chapter 9: Who Takes Care Of You
Summary:
Goten sees the aftermath of Trunks being pushed to his physical limits.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Chapter 9: Who Takes Care Of You
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Dawn is cold and gray outside the windows when Goten wakes with Trunks’s suit jacket draped over him.
The office is unlit but for the pale blue light in the corner. Where Trunks is still on the floor, exactly where Goten had left him eight hours ago, screwing something into place.
Christ.
“… Did you work all night?” Goten whispers.
Trunks looks up. “Hm? Oh. Yeah, I’m almost done.”
His gloves are back off. His jumpsuit is half unzipped, sleeves rolled back up, and his shirt is half unbuttoned beneath that. Who knows where his goggles went.
Goten’s eyes go to the garbage can that’s been dragged out to the middle of the space. Full of bloody tissue papers…
…Holy shit.
“Trunks.” He sits up in alarm. “You promised to wake me up.”
Trunks's lip is between his teeth as he finishes screwing. "Hm? What." He blinks up at where the lights have come back on, and then looks at Goten in confusion. Then his face breaks into a sheepish smile. "Sorry. You were sleeping so well, so…”
“Christ.” Goten rises. “That must hurt like hell."
Trunks follows Goten's gaze to his hand. "Oh."
Goten internally facepalms. “Did you eat?”
He only gets a blank look in response.
Goten outwardly facepalms. “You got up to cover me with your jacket, but you forgot to feed yourself.”
“Listen, it’s done and that’s what matters.” Trunks rises with a sway. He goes to the wall and turns off the motion-sensor lights, plunging the office back into a cold gray lit by the dawning sky.
Walking unsteadily to his desk, Trunks bends over the office phone. “Good morning, Mai,” he begins, not noticing how Goten pounces from the couch and rushes to speed-clean the wound on his hand. “Get the submissions team down here please. I have the remodel ready to go.” He blinks down to see his hand being rapidly wrapped in bandages. “I… also upgraded the… Xenoparticle filter. So tell them to add that in."
Goten detaches at the speed of light as Trunks turns around and begins stripping. He stares up at the ceiling, reminding himself that Trunks is actually dressed under that ridiculous thing.
A blood-red sunrise finally bursts into the room. Trunks turns to stare down at the scarlet squares of light on the floor where his tools are strewn about, blinking as if noticing the mess for the first time. He begins to pick things off the floor, stacking them into a neat pile of organized chaos in the corner of the workbench. Every time he bends over, Goten can see down his half-open shirt at those ridiculous abs, and he – missed his chance to tell Trunks, didn’t he. So now he has to pretend not to have eyes.
How is this his life.
He goes to Trunks and gently pulls a wrench out of his hand. “You rest. I got it.”
And he means it, because he really needs Trunks to stop bending over.
Trunks, being Trunks, does not cooperate. “That’s not your job,” he mutters, picking up a screwdriver. “Where did I put…?” he frowns down at it.
“Put...?” Goten prompts, evading his gaze as Trunks bends over again to rummage through the mess.
“The… screwy thing. Steak. Bone…? Meat.”
Goten holds out a T-screw.
“Oh. Thanks.” Trunks puts it away and looks around, fidgeting with his hands.
“What are you looking for?”
“The white…” he draws a square in the air. “Square,” he says, uselessly.
Goten pulls out a tissue from the dispenser and holds it out. Trunks takes it and begins to wipe down the workbench, and stops.
“What do you need?”
“Slippery… liquid," Trunks says slowly, frowning at a wall. He makes no further attempt to explain.
Goten scans the room until he finds a cleaning solution. He grabs the squirt bottle and holds it out, and Trunks accepts it without comment. He goes about wiping down the workbench, muttering to himself. Words like "slippage" and "stability modules" slip out under his breath, and then he's hurrying back to his desk to bend over it, scribbling notes.
Goten watches, torn between being impressed by how fast Trunks’s mind leaps, and being scandalized at his state of undress. Someone please make this man wear multiple layers.
They both look up when the secretary strides in.
She pauses at the sight before her: a mess on the floor, her disheveled boss bent over a desk with a cleaning solution in one hand and a pen in the other hand, fatly wrapped. His bodyguard, sporting a massive case of bedhead, staring up at the ceiling and refusing to meet her eyes.
She makes several attempts at speech before settling on: “What the hell is going on here?”
Trunks blinks up at her, then down at the liquid solution in his hand. “Cleaning…?”
The secretary swivels toward Goten, who continues to find the ceiling absolutely fascinating. She turns back to glare at her boss. “Did you stay up all night?”
Trunks blinks again rapidly, as if trying to orient himself back into reality. “It’s… over there.” He waves toward the machine in the corner.
She crosses the room to carefully pick up the finished device. “I’ll make sure they get it in,” she promises. “You go home.”
“My team has some deadlines today that I have to supervi-” She makes as if to smash the device against her raised knee. “Ohmygodokayfine!”
The secretary sighs. With a stern look, she walks over to his desk, puts down the device, and touches his face.
“You’re hot.” She pointedly buttons up his shirt.
Trunks blinks. “Mai, no hitting on your boss.”
She gives him another unimpressed look before turning to Goten. “Take him home, please.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
The door closes behind her, and Trunks and Goten stare at each other.
Goten approaches the desk and gently pulls the cleaning solution out of Trunks's hand. “Let’s get you outta here."
“But-”
“Sir,” Goten says sternly.
Trunks gives him a blank stare, his brain clearly out of service. Goten murmurs into the comm link to summon Tien.
“Tien’s gonna sweep the premises and clear your place,” he says, strapping his bo back on. “I’ll bring the car. Stay here.”
When he comes jogging back, Trunks has all but collapsed over his desk, head pillowed in his arms.
Goten slowly perches on the arm of the couch, fingers laced on his lap, and watches shoulders rise and fall. The scarlet sunrise is tinting to orange, slanting through the window and painting warmth onto the wisps of hair scattered over narrow shoulders.
Who takes care of you? Goten thinks, watching gleaming rivulets of hair tumble over pale eyelashes. While you take care of everyone else?
His mother doesn’t seem to be it, because he’s the one calling her to ask if she’d eaten, admonishing her for not sleeping enough. Reminding her to stay safe, stay on the premises, don’t go out too far.
It makes Goten’s heart feel impossibly soft, watching these exchanges, because it reminds him of his exchanges with his own mother. Every time he visits during the weekend to take care of her, somehow he feels closer to Trunks, even though they’re cities away during those times.
Fighting the urge to cover him in his suit jacket, Goten rises to approach his sleeping form. Going down on a knee, he gently shakes his shoulder. "Hey," he whispers, "wake up. Gotta go."
Pale eyelashes flutter, and Trunks wakes with a start, drawing himself back sharply.
…How does this man never relax?
Trunks blinks at Goten with a confused frown, so Goten pulls him up gently. It's both relieving and alarming, how easily he allows Goten to manhandle him.
Mai was right; he has a fever.
She falls into step on his other side as they walk a zombie Trunks through the massive open office. “I need to do something for the next few hours," she says, "but then I'll need a food and beverage check. Shall I ask Mr. Tien?”
“No, I’ll do it,” Goten answers quickly. It means he gets to deliver to Trunks’s apartment. “I got enough sleep on the couch.”
“Right.” She eyes him. He sweats a little, realizing that they're going to have to talk about last night.
“He needs stitches,” he says, steeling himself. “With your permission, ma’am, I’d like to escort him to an urgent care facility.”
Her sigh is loud enough to bring down the building. "What a surprise."
He doesn't meet her eyes as he pushes the doors open for them both.
"I'll set up a house call," she says as they near the elevator. "The doctor is safe and vetted, so you don't have to stay for him."
Goten subtly tightens his grip on Trunks as they enter. “Is he always like this when he's tired?”
“Sleep deprivation hits him like inebriation. He won’t remember anything from today.”
Goten stops halfway through entering the elevator. The secretary looks at him impatiently.
“You said…” He swallows. “You said you think I…” he can’t look at Trunks.
Is this okay?
It’s kind of a gut-twisting thought, through and through. Goten isn’t sure which is worse: the idea that he’s seen as a creep lusting after her boss, or the idea that somehow he’s still allowed to be alone with Trunks at his most vulnerable.
He looks at her desperately, and her lip quirks up.
“I have every confidence that nothing untoward will happen when you’re alone with my boss, no matter how vulnerable a state he’s in.”
“Somehow that doesn’t sound like a statement of trust.”
“Not in you; in him.”
He fits himself inside the elevator on Trunks’s other side as she punches in the floor. “The bodyguards with the crushes didn't leave because of a crush, Mr. Son. They were injured on the job.” She watches the numbers blink as the elevator descends. “Thing about inebriated states is, your inhibitions get lowered. Which means no strength control.”
“…What do you mean?”
She smiles at Goten. “He broke their hands.”
The elevator opens, and Goten needs a moment before he remembers to step out.
When first they met, Trunks had disarmed an armed assailant without blinking an eye. And he had been ready to physically remove Goten from his path without hesitation the previous night – Goten, whom he knew was the highest-ranking martial artist in the industry. Whom he'd seen in action during the interviews and tests.
Amid the mix of emotions, the biggest one is relief. Trunks can defend himself even when he’s drunkenly tired. But… at what cost?
How dangerous is it to simply exist as who he is – that he's had to learn to defend himself so well? Against his own bodyguards? The people he’s supposed to be able to trust with his life?
How lonely is Trunks’s life, really?
Goten is thoughtful as he drives slowly to avoid jostling Trunks dozing in the back seat. He is curled up sideways, as if hiding from the world, as he sleeps.
Targeted because he cares too much. Threatened because he’s too smart. Betrayed because he is too beautiful. None of this is his fault, and it feels devastatingly unfair. Trunks has every right to be a mean, jaded person at this point. And yet…
After parking the car, Goten takes a moment to watch him sleep before finally going around to the back to open the door and gently wake him. He has to practically drag him out of the car – his breathing is labored, and he's radiating heat.
Tien greets them with an affirmative that the apartment is clear, and looks down at Trunks in surprise. “Is he okay?”
“He’s really sick.” Goten shifts to sling Trunks’s arm over himself. “Overwork.”
“Oh man. Do you need a hand?”
“Nah, I got it. See ya tomorrow.”
Tien leaves without argument. Trying not to think about how neatly Trunks's waist fits into his hand, Goten tightens his grip and leads him into a surprisingly modest apartment.
It's neat, full of natural light. Some organized chaos in the corner – looking relatively un-lived-in, except for a half-finished machine in the living room, which Trunks immediately starts pitching toward. Goten pulls him back in surprise. "Whoa, wrong way."
Trunks doesn't seem to hear him. Looking around quickly, Goten grabs a notepad and pen from the kitchen counter and holds them out. “Write it down.”
Trunks blinks at him.
“Write it down, and you can come back to it later.” Goten puts the pen in his hand. “Then you don’t have to do it right this second.”
Trunks complies without a word. After a look-over at the design he's scribbled, he finally slumps, the tension bleeding out of his shoulders. This time, he doesn't protest as Goten steers him toward the bedroom.
Goten stops at the entrance of the bedroom as Trunks enters. Tien has already swept it; Goten has no reason or excuse to be in this space. He squints at the bright open window, and wishes he could – do something about that – but.
He does not step in.
He quietly closes the bedroom door and stands outside until the doorbell rings, revealing an elderly doctor on the other side. And after ushering in the doctor, he spends another few minutes pacing outside of the apartment building before finally sighing at himself and leaving.
,
,
To Be Continued
Notes:
As always, please let me know if you're enjoying the story :3 They keep me going!
Chapter 10: Looking Out For You
Summary:
Goten goes through physical and emotional reminders of what it means to look out for Trunks.
Notes:
This story is now bumped from Teen to Mature. Added angst and mature themes will be explored because I cannot help who I am.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Chapter 10: Looking Out For You
,
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“You’re dead!” Eighteen shouts. “You got hit by two!”
"It was just a graze!" Goten protests, diving to avoid a dart that narrowly misses him.
“Shame, Goten!” Krillin boos from the side. “Come on, get your feet moving!”
“First of all,” Goten pants, leaping out of the way of another dart, “why do you have these scary needles in your martial arts school with children?!”
“He’s talking, honey.” Eighteen levels another dart. “Looks like I’m going too easy on him, huh?”
“Yeah, get his heartrate up!” Krillin laughs. Goten shoots him a betrayed look as Eighteen escalates.
They are in a training room at Krillin and Eighteen's school. Goten had stopped by to use their shower and changing facilities before being pulled into a spar with Krillin. Which was fine – relaxing, even – until Eighteen decided that she missed having some excitement in her life and further decided to make that Goten's problem.
“Secondly,” he yelps as he evades another dart, “why are you endorsing this, Krillin? What if she gouges out my eyes and I go blind? Then I’d lose my job and become homeless and come to leech off you and become the scruffy weirdo that scares away all your students! Is that what you want?”
Krillin’s laughter bounces through the walls. “Your lovely auntie is trying to make you stronger, bud!”
“By throwing darts at my dick?!”
“So far, I give a zero out of ten,” Eighteen says, sounding bored as she dusts off her hands. “Okay, that’s the last of them. Bring them back.”
“What am I, a labrador retriever?” Goten scampers around the mats picking up the darts. “Also, why do I get a zero? I dodged all of them!”
“Because you let them all go to the person behind you.”
“Why would there be – oh.”
Eighteen tosses her hair as he sheepishly hands her all the darts. “Tranquilizing poisons are all the rage right now in the war trade. You never know. You said he was hit by militant types, right?”
Goten sighs. “Okay, but you have to let me use a weapon then. If we’re simulating real-life situations.”
“Wimp,” Eighteen says. “Fine.”
He takes out his bo and takes a wide stance, giving it an experimental twirl. Krillin whistles.
“Damn. He looks just like his dad when he does that.”
“He was a handsome devil, wasn’t he?” Eighteen smirks.
Krillin dabs his eyes. “My heart.”
“In honor of that, let’s go all in.” Eighteen’s smile is wicked. “Krillin will be your damsel in distress.”
“How on earth does that honor anything?!”
Eighteen readies another round of darts while Krillin plasters himself to Goten's leg.
“This isn’t even realistic,” Goten complains. “Trunks takes up much more vertical room.”
“Oh, was that a height comment? That’s it, honey, show him no mercy.”
“Get ready, sucker.”
“Save me, hero!”
“I hate both of you,” Goten groans as he spins his bo desperately.
To Goten’s credit, Krillin gets hit with zero darts. But Goten gets hit with a few nicks here and there as he bounces the rest with his weapon.
“Weak,” Eighteen calls. “You can’t twirl faster than that? Boo.”
“This is way too ridiculous a situation for anyone to actually use in real – hey, stop aiming for the dick!”
“Make me, coward.”
Goten’s phone rings. He flails.
“Hey hey hey, time out time out. Work call.”
Krillin makes a disappointed sound. Goten huffs as he takes out his phone. “Hello?”
“Mr. Son?” It’s the secretary. “…Is now a good time?”
“Yeah?” Goten pants. “Er, yes ma’am. I was training. I’m available. Food and beverage check?”
“Meet me at the supermarket down Fourth Avenue.”
Eighteen gives him a knowing look as he gets off the phone. “You’re in so much trouble.”
“Traitor. Whose side are you on?" He puts his bo away. “Ugh, good sessions, guys. I think.”
“Bring back gossip!” Krillin hollers as Goten jogs out of the training room. He waves and steels himself against the sinking feeling in his gut.
He’s in so much trouble.
,
,
The check turns out to be a midday grocery run with the secretary. It’s just a formality, but he dutifully keeps an eye on all the foodstuffs she picks up for Trunks.
After ensuring she got everything on her list, she takes another leisurely turn about the supermarket.
“So,” she says, picking up a tomato and inspecting it, “what happened, Mr. Son.”
“He, uh, hurt himself while welding.” Goten fidgets. “So I slept on the couch. In case he needed me to…” It sounds incredibly lame when he says it aloud. “…to tend to it through the night.”
She looks at him, incredulous. Goten can’t blame her for it.
“And? What about my orders?”
Goten braces himself. “I’m sorry. I tried to drive him home, but he got really upset and...”
“So you folded.”
“With all due respect, ma’am, I think that was for the best.”
“Letting him destroy his health to prove a point was for the best?”
“Yes.”
She puts down the tomato. “Care to explain?”
“I don’t think he would have slept anyway.” Goten squares his shoulders. “You know what he’s like. Wouldn’t he have just gone back to the office without a bodyguard?”
She is silent. Then she turns, and he follows as she reaches the supplements aisle.
“I know what he’s like, yes." She inspects a bottle of vitamins. “He’s self-destructive.”
“He was crunching on a deadline for something that’s important to him. That's hardly destructive.”
“Slippery slope, Mr. Son.”
“I get that he doesn’t really take care of himself,” Goten acquiesces, “but is it really taking care of him, treating him like his wants don’t matter? Just for one night of sleep – is it really worth taking away his agency?”
She sets down the bottle firmly. “A healthy respect for boundaries only works if the other party is capable of taking care of themselves." She moves into the pasta aisle. "I’ve known him long enough to know that this does not happen.”
“If you’ve known him for a long time, you know how important a sense of control is for him.”
“What do you know of control, Mr. Son?” She whirls around to level him with a glossy stare. “You think you know him so well because you’ve watched him for a few months? I’ve seen him live through hell.” Her voice is low with venom. “Did you have to watch him faint from forgetting to eat? Get sick from forgetting to sleep? Regularly peel him off of – what looks like a goddamn murder scene, Mr. Son, because it doesn't occur to him that he will DIE if he lets his injuries bleed out? All the times I've had to call a locksmith because he-" she takes a sharp breath and looks away.
“He needs someone to keep him in check,” she whispers, tremulous through gritted teeth. "Remind him that he's – human."
They’re at the meat aisle. Several shoppers pass by with curious glances – but they fade into a blur of background as Goten looks down at a woman who stands trembling from years of pain, feeling an eerie sense of calm. Remembering a chilly night when a man had offered him kindness, eyes glimmering with warmth left over from a pain long past, scalding hot.
“And I’m sure that’s why he trusts you so much, Miss Mai."
She looks up at him, eyes glassy with tears.
“Whatever happened in the past, it’s clear you’ve been good for him,” Goten says gently. “But he’s a grown man now, and he knows what choices he's making. If he chooses to – deprioritize himself, sure, encourage and remind him – hell, nag him, yell at him." He gives her a helpless look. "But we can't make his choices for him. No one likes feeling like they have no control over their life.”
“Are you… lecturing a woman right now on bodily autonomy?”
“I’m saying it’s insult to injury,” Goten says patiently, “to be stripped of autonomy, then told to be grateful for it.”
She looks at him, stricken.
“If it’s life or death, of course I’d intervene,” Goten concedes. “But I don’t get to say it’s for his own good. Because if he hates it, it’s not for him; it’s for me. And the least I can do is be honest about that.”
Silence hangs between them.
With a flourish, she turns on her heels. He follows.
“You're the first to challenge me on this," she says with a little smile, and he doesn't know how to respond to this. He wordlessly follows as she makes another idle lap around the supermarket.
Eventually she slows down, and they stand side by side in front of the fish tanks. Her voice is a wisp of weariness when she next speaks.
“Have you ever cared about someone, Mr. Son," she says, eyes on the swimming fish, "who doesn't care about themselves?"
Goten's fingers tighten on the grocery basket.
"Where do you draw the line?" She turns to look at him, and Goten is rattled by the bald grief in her eyes. "How do you care for someone," she whispers, "who gave so much love away that they forgot how to love themselves?"
It takes a long moment for Goten to work through the lump in his throat.
“It's not simple, I'm sure," he says tentatively. "I know you're doing your best, and… if he's that kind of person, surely he's also the kind of person that understands you beneath your actions – even if he's angry at the moment." He swallows. "I just think… caring about someone means caring about things that are important to them. If it's important to someone I love, I’d want to help them to the finish line. Instead of telling them to… give up."
She stares at him for an infinite moment. Then her eyes shift away, back toward the silvery fins of the fish. "Love, huh?”
…………Fuck.
Goten feels nailed to the spot. If she asks a vulnerable question right now – he’s probably going to fold and admit to some inappropriate truths.
He keeps his eyes on the fish, his nerves crackling in his ears.
Today might be the day he loses his assignment. Not because he disobeyed his client – but because he has admitted to having some very inappropriate feelings toward the asset. Steadying his breathing, he quietly reminds himself to accept his fate with grace.
But she doesn’t ask.
"I see that your hands are intact," she says instead at the fish tanks.
Goten blinks down at his hands. "I… don't believe in groping unconsenting parties?"
“You'd be surprised." She rolls her shoulders, sounding tired. "Apparently he's so bewitching that they just can't help themselves when the opportunity arises."
Goten makes an appalled noise. "That's not a thing."
A wet little laugh leaks out of her. She beckons, and together they walk up to the register, side by side.
He eyes the boxed and canned food he heaves onto the checkout counter. “Does he always eat like this at home?”
“Does he eat at all at home?” She makes a tragic face as she pays. “The only upside to him practically living at work is that I’m there to make sure he eats. This is just for, well, situations like now.”
Goten tries to imagine it. "Does anyone take care of him? Does he go home to family?"
“No. He doesn't like people seeing him like this." They head out the door. "He barely lets me drop off food. Frankly, I'm shocked he let you stay overnight."
Goten tries not to let his heart jump at that. “He… gets sick often?”
“Overexertion.” They approach the car. “He works too much, his body gives out, he gets sick and learns his lesson, then immediately forgets said lesson, rinse and repeat every few months.” She pauses as he opens the trunk and starts to load up the car. “There was… a brief period, a few months back. When he stopped doing that. But obviously that didn’t last.”
“A few months back?” Goten’s heart thunders in his chest.
“Yes. A new friend, right before you joined. He was…” Her gaze slides away, wistful. “Well. Screw them, because he got even worse after.”
“Why? What do you mean?” Goten can’t help the edge of desperation in his voice. “What happened? Did he say?”
“Who knows. He stopped talking about them. I guess they left, just like everyone else.” She slams the trunk. “Maybe he has the right idea, not bothering to try anymore. They’re never worth it.”
Something twists in Goten’s chest. “Why do you say that?”
“Didn’t I tell you he had to break his own bodyguards’ hands?” She turns to lean her hip against the car. “It’s not his fault. But – nothing about him is average, Mr. Son. And sometimes, some people are even drawn to that.” She smiles sadly. “But it never lasts. When the novelty wears off… he’s alone again.”
,
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To Be Continued
Notes:
This chapter has been inspired entirely by a past reader comment made in passing. If you're enjoying the story, please drop me a comment to let me know - I adore reader interaction and take all questions and remarks to heart, and it inspires me to keep going.
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