Chapter Text
Jungkook wakes up before his alarm goes off. It’s an anxiety thing; on lazy mornings, he’s impossible to wake up, but when he knows he has a morning shift his body never fully relaxes into sleep, always aware of the fact that sleeping in could lose him his job.
That anxiety is so much worse when he’s in heat; he knows if he fully lets himself relax, sleep it off, he’ll sleep right through the alarm.
So he doesn’t. He has that kind of sleep where he wants to sink, wants to indulge in the plot lines of wild dreams, but he’s too aware of the fact that he’s sleeping, that he has to wake up soon, has to go to work and suffer again in another few hours.
Doesn’t make waking up any more fun. His insides are all twisted up and painful and burning.
He groans and reaches for his phone, sweat prickling on his neck. 6:23 am, perfect, only seven minutes early.
He pushes himself up, because if he lays down too long he’ll fall right back asleep and that’s going to suck too.
He regretfully undresses in the cold bathroom, the last hints of nest-comfort-warmth leaving with them. He sets the shower to cold; he knows that the cold will keep the heat at bay for just a little longer when he steps out, give him time to put on scent block patches and take his pills.
He hisses when he steps into the cold water, but does his routine diligently. He’s almost out of Scent-Strip body wash and he throws his head back in exasperation when he adds the extra expense to his mental grocery list.
He steps out of the shower, and with cold, wet, shaking hands, he tips two suppressants into his hand. He’s lucky enough to get those through the clinic; they’re free for single omegas. He’s supposed to take them with food, but he knows he’ll be too nauseous to eat so he knocks them back dry.
He slaps four blocking patches on his body: one on each side of his neck, one on each wrist. The government does not provide those, but they’re necessary in customer service, especially in heat week.
He winces through the cramps while he’s dressing, waiting for the suppressants to kick in a little bit more. As his skin heats under the uncomfortable weave of the shirt, Jungkook is reminded why he takes cold showers. Cold keeps away the ache just long enough for him to get drugged up and ready.
He rolls the sleeves of his black button up to his elbow and prepares to walk to work, careful when he locks the door not to wake up any of his roommates.
In the morning, he works at an electronics store. Shifts are short there, with only two or three people on the clock at any given moment. Pay is shit, hours are shit, but the people are worth it. His coworkers bring him painkillers, ice packs, and he does the same for them when they need it too.
The owner is a nice older woman who constantly promises to pay him more as soon as she can, who promises to give him time off for heat as soon as she can afford it.
She means it, but the internet is so much cheaper. So Jungkook takes his slightly above minimum wage paycheck every other week, and goes to work at his second job.
The shift in the morning is slow.
Mingyu, one of his favorite coworkers of all time, had his heat last week. He still has chocolate leftover in his bag, so Jungkook has been snacking on the crumbs all morning. Something about the sugar chills out the cramps enough. They shit talk alphas across the counter until someone comes in, and for the most part Mingyu deals with the customers until it gets busy.
The first shift is fine. He’s oversensitive to smells, constantly fighting down whines and winces, but it’s solidly fine.
By the time he heads to his shift at the restaurant, though, the adhesive on the scent block patches is dissolving with his sweat. The suppressants are wearing off, and if he wants any more for his next heat he can only have one for the rest of the day. The walk from one job to the other is short, but through busy streets. He sees at least two people—probably alphas—perk when he walks by, their rancid overwhelming interest apparent, even on the street. He tightens his shirt collar over the scent block patches in hopes that it’ll help them stick a little bit longer, unrolls his sleeves and cuffs them over his wrist.
Luckily, he gets a meal every shift, because the restaurant he works at is so outrageously expensive he would never be able to eat there otherwise.
He takes his plate from the kind beta who works in the kitchen and always makes sure her shift is well fed and takes it to eat in a quiet, hidden corner after the lunch rush fades away.
He can barely taste it, at this point. One suppressant isn’t enough, especially for an unmated omega with overactive hormones. He just needs calories, needs to get through six more hours and then he can go home, go back to his nest, and try his best not to grab for the cheap knotting dildo that will definitely just make it all worse.
Without suppressants, sweat drips down his neck. Thankfully the black hides the stains, but he just hopes that the cloying sweetness of omega-in-heat isn’t overwhelming, doesn’t cause him too many problems.
He finishes the plate, convinces himself not to lick the sauce off the bottom, and brings it over to where the dishwashers are still cleaning up from lunch.
He makes sure his apron has enough pens and straws and ties it into place.
He shakes the fog out of his head, takes a breath, puts on his perfect customer service smile, and gets to work.
Namjoon doesn’t get to take his pack out very often; between all of their schedules and all the paparazzi, Namjoon gets a fancy dinner with the people he loves maybe once or twice a month, and almost never with all of them.
Tonight, he has Yoongi and Jimin. Yoongi just sent off an album and is ready to take a day or two off, and Jimin finished his end of a massive project he'd been working on.
They get to the restaurant just a few minutes after their reservation (Jimin hadn’t been able to settle on a pair of earrings) and a soft spoken woman seats them before rushing off to help someone else.
The restaurant is bustling in the dinner rush; waiters and waitresses in black deftly avoid each other and trays of food and dishes, but Namjoon isn’t very interested in them tonight.
Namjoon reaches one hand over the tablecloth to grab Jimin’s hand, Yoongi’s warmth firmly against his side.
They make small talk while they wait. Yoongi’s not proud of his album, but it’s fine, Jimin tries not to talk too much about work with Namjoon because we're not at work, hyung. Ask me tomorrow.
It’s a few minutes before someone comes to serve them.
Immediately, something is off.
He has a perfect, polished smile painted on his face, but the sweat and the pinch of his brow disclose his discomfort. He’s pretty, with big, dilated eyes, but the crinkle at the edge of his smile proves pain.
“Sorry for the wait,” he says, perfect, practiced, the wince almost completely covered up.
Namjoon pulls his lower lip into his mouth with his tongue. It’s not his business. He gives Jimin a look across the table, and Jimin clearly notices something off too.
Namjoon orders anyway; just drinks and an appetizer first. The boy’s hands are quick on the notepad, and he dutifully and perfectly recites their order before leaving with a quick bow.
Namjoon makes a face at Yoongi.
“That was weird,” he says, and Jimin agrees.
Yoongi shrugs. “As long as he gets our order right, not my business.”
Namjoon supposes he’s right, but maybe their waiter is sick. He’d hate getting sick from a negligent waiter.
Namjoon doesn’t notice the waiter’s—Jungkook, his name tag reads—hands shaking until he spills a bit of Jimin’s cocktail on the clean white tablecloth. They’re shaking, badly.
Jungkook makes a noise of shock in the back of his throat at his mistake. It’s just a drip, no big deal, but his eyes are all wide and scared like he dropped a whole plate.
“I’m so sorry, sir,” he says, pulling an extra napkin out of his apron and placing it over the spill. “I can get another if you’d like.”
Jimin shakes his head, adds, “No, it’s completely fine, don’t worry about it.” Jimin smiles, and predictably, the waiter freezes, blinking at Jimin. Yoongi snorts. Jimin has that effect on everyone.
Jungkook shakes his head, blushing impossibly redder, and scratches at his neck.
“Sorry,” he mutters again, and all but runs away.
“That one was definitely weird,” Yoongi says, but he sips his own cocktail and hums at the taste, “but the drinks are great here.”
They continue to chat, just the easy, constant chatter of gossip and updates of people who live together and share a bed.
When the waiter gets back, his smile is back and the sweat has been wiped off his face, the appetizer in his hand. His perfect smile rests on a blank face as he takes the rest of their dinner order. Despite the waiter’s earlier slip ups, the rest of the night is going well. He only drops by a few times to drop off their meal, get them more drinks, check on the food.
Namjoon only notices him again when he takes their dessert order and picks up their dinner plates.
Jungkook leans over him, just a little bit, not even in his space, and Namjoon smells it.
Heat. His eyes lock on Jungkook’s shirt collar, slipped just a little lower than before. A scent block patch is just barely visible, one corner peeled up.
Namjoon swallows, he has to look away.
Their waiter isn’t sick. He’s in heat. He’s an omega, and he’s working in heat. He’s not just working, but he seems, for the most part, comfortable working. He’s used to it. While his sweet, cloying, heat scent had been dominant, Namjoon also catches a whiff of distress. He has to stamp his instincts down. Jungkook looks fine, is acting fine, and Namjoon isn’t a creep. He just hates it; why is this beautiful omega distressed? Why is he working?
Yoongi has to order desserts for them. Namjoon is too busy trying to put something together.
“What’s up?” Jimin asks, as soon as he’s gone.
“He’s in heat,” Namjoon says, and Jimin’s eyes widen.
“The waiter?” he whispers, bringing his head down and leaning over the table. “Are you sure?”
Namjoon nods. “I saw, his scent block slipped off, and I smelled it, fuck.”
Yoongi leans into the conversation. “Why is he working? He should be in bed!”
Namjoon wracks his brain for an answer. Jungkook is an omega, clearly in the middle of his heat, and working with a smile. They may not have any omegas in their pack, but Namjoon isn’t an idiot. He knows what it’s like, for them; he’s probably in so much pain, even with suppressants, and he’s out here running around, talking to all sorts of strange alphas with strange smells, carrying heavy things.
He can still see Jungkook, smiling and nodding as he writes down another table’s order. His shirt collar is tight again, but he’s not collared, no extra jewelry dangling from his neck like most taken omegas.
“He doesn’t have a pack,” Namjoon says, watching him work.
“Don’t jump to conclusions,” Yoongi rebuts, “he could just hate collars, or have his pack marker somewhere else. And he might not want to be.”
Jimin nods. “Don’t start something,” he agrees, “you don’t know his deal.”
Namjoon can’t let it go. “But why is he here? I don’t understand.”
Yoongi shrugs, much less bothered than Namjoon is. “Bills don’t pay themselves.”
Namjoon blinks at him. “But… time off?”
Yoongi shrugs again. “I don’t know how that shit works.”
And Jungkook is back with their desserts, two plates balanced on one arm and a third on the other.
Namjoon isn’t going to make a big deal out of it, he really isn’t. Jungkook can make his own decisions.
But then, his hand slips as he tries to put one of the plates down.
One topples to the floor with a crash, and the other falls right into Namjoon’s lap. Chocolate and raspberry stain the front of his shirt, but Namjoon doesn’t really care.
Not when the scent of distress explodes, Jungkook’s eyes welling up.
“God, I’m so sorry, sir,” he says, trying to keep his voice level even as his throat twitches.
His body is trying to chirp, Namjoon realizes. That’s exactly what a chirping omega looks like, but Jungkook’s mouth stays firmly closed and Namjoon doesn’t hear a thing. He’s so in control of his body, so used to dealing with shit like this that he can shove his basest instincts down.
That’s what hurts the most. He’s figured out how to deal with it. He’s been alone and suffering for so long—Namjoon just wants to fix it.
Namjoon wants to wrap him up in his arms, keep him safe, make him stop chirping not because he has to but because he wants to.
“It’s okay,” Namjoon says, giving the messy plate to the busboy who melts out of the back with towels and cleaning supplies to take the ruined dishes to the back.
Namjoon stands to get the half slip of cake off of his suit. It falls to the floor and in a second, the omega is kneeling in front of him to pick up the mess with his bare hands, still apologizing. Namjoon watches him grab pieces of broken ceramic with his bare hands and his protective instincts jump into his throat.
“I’ll grab you another one right away, sir, please sit down.”
Namjoon kneels by his chair, right in front of Jungkook. He wants to keep the omega from hurting himself even more; the urge is so overwhelming. His distress pheromones are almost louder than the heat ones at this point, and Namjoon just wants him to stop.
“It’s okay,” he says again, tapping the boy’s shoulder—both because he wants to comfort him, and because his alpha is moving before he can tell it no.
“Namjoon—“ Yoongi warns from behind him, but he’s not paying attention.
The omega looks up at him from where he’s been picking bits of ceramic out of the carpet. The tears have almost spilled, his eyes wet and big and shiny, slightly unfocused. He’s exhausted. “I’m so sor—“
“Don’t you have anyone to take care of you?” Namjoon says.
“Jesus fuck,” Yoongi says, and Namjoon realizes that might not have been the right thing to say.
The omega’s eyes go sharp. It’s a flick of a switch: from terrified and overwhelmed, to terrifying, assertive.
He puts the last piece of plate and cake into the towel he’s been collecting shards in, wraps it up safely, and stands up.
He’s tall; taller than Jimin and Yoongi for sure. Namjoon has to look up at him from where he’s knelt down.
“I can take care of myself,” he says, voice deep. Namjoon shivers. “Someone will be over to finish cleaning this up in just a moment, and I’ll get you another dessert.”
His face goes back to the perfect, polished smile they saw when they first got here, and Jungkook walks away with his back straight.
“You’re such an idiot,” Jimin says as soon as he’s out of earshot.
Namjoon blinks. “I think I’m in love.”
As soon as Jungkook rounds the corner into the staff room he falls against the wall, leaning all his weight onto his forearms, held above his head. He’s tempted to hit it with all his might. He pulls his fist back, so ready to just get it out of his system, but his muscles don’t want to. He’s fucking exhausted.
He’s breathing through tears, through fucking chirps, and he just wants to go home. His suppressant is wearing off, his insides punishing him for not being the perfect socialized specimen it wants him to be. He’s sweating, his black shirt soaked in some places and damp in all the others. His feet hurt; his shoes are cheap, bought on sale last year. He didn’t even splurge for nice insoles, and that fact alone is about to make him cry.
His ass is fucking leaking slick because of that stupid, archaic alpha. He’s hungry again; his last meal was hours ago, but the thought of eating makes him nauseous. He just wants to curl up in his nest but he has an hour and a half of his shift before he can go home, and then he has to do it again tomorrow. He’s losing it. He’s so tired and everything hurts.
Someone else enters the staff room, and Jungkook stiffens, wipes his nose and tries to cover his eyes before turning to the door.
He untenses when he sees who it is. Seokmin; Mingyu’s friend, another omega.
“I’m so sorry,” he says, “That guy sucked, I’m taking his table for the rest of the night, but I’ll make sure you get the whole tip, okay?”
Jungkook is going to cry again. He’s so nice. “Okay,” he squeaks, and Seokmin is already digging through his locker for something.
He presses a familiar pink pill into Jungkook’s hand. His eyes widen, but Seokmin just smiles. “Mine have been super short lately,” Seokmin says, “I have extra.”
He gives Jungkook one more bright smile, pumps his fist in the air, gives a “fighting!” and heads back out to do Jungkook’s job long enough for Jungkook to feel more like a person again.
He takes the extra two pills, thanks his lucky stars for Seokmin, and by the time he heads back out onto the floor the asshole alpha and his friends are gone.
Someone else brings Jimin and Namjoon their new desserts with a big, bright smile and tons of apologies.
Jimin assures him it’s fine, but Namjoon is silent.
“That was a fucking mess,” Jimin says, carefully cracking the sugar on top of his creme brûlée.
Namjoon doesn’t even taste his cake. Yoongi says something in response, but Namjoon isn’t listening.
Sure, the omega can take care of himself, but why would he want to? Why isn’t he home? He understands that he hurt Jungkook’s feelings with his comment, but was it really that bad?
“Was what I said really that bad?” Namjoon asks, in the middle of whatever Jimin and Yoongi are talking about.
“Incredibly,” Jimin says, “you just implied he’s incapable of independence.”
“I didn’t mean—“
“Doesn’t matter what you meant, Namjoon. He’s clearly a grown ass adult.”
Namjoon takes a bite of cake. He swallows before responding, focused on some point in the distance. “But working while in heat… can you even imagine working on your rut? And aren’t heats supposed to be like, ten times more painful?”
Jimin shrugs and takes a bite of his own dessert. “Doesn’t give you an excuse to be an asshole.”
The smiley waiter is back quickly with the check, lots of bows and smiles. He discounted the meal due to the damage to Namjoon’s suit.
Namjoon tips 200%. He doesn’t see Jungkook again; at least, not that night.