His Bodyguard || K.TH.

2. New Job

"You know, if you hate me so much, you should just punch me."

Taehyung's trying to aggravate you again. You can tell with that pout on his face. Maybe he's sad about something.

But he continues to peel stickers off the sheet and smack them onto your hair, knowing full well that it'll be a pain to pull them off later. You don't tell him to stop. You don't say anything, move, flinch, blink. And you know it makes him more upset that you don't indulge in what he wants– a reaction.

"Dad said I'm not allowed to punch anyone," you say out of the corner of your mouth, continuing to do your multiplication homework.

It's hard to do the questions without using your fingers or the chart, but your dad said you don't need them. You can do it in your head. It's still hard.

And Taehyung can't even help you. He can barely add and subtract.

"Why are you such a goodie-two shoes?" He whines, getting mad and he sticks a rainbow sticker harder to your scalp, knocking your head in one direction enough for it to hurt. You still don't move away from him. "You're no fun. You don't need to listen to adults all the time."

There's silence.

Your pencil scratches against the paper as you solve the whole page of questions. Taehyung continues his antics with sticky fingers until he runs out of stickers and huffs, arms falling into his lap. He looks up to find your hair decorated in sparkles, slices of cake, rainbows, stars, unicorns.

It's pretty, but he almost feels bad. It'll hurt to brush them out later.

In his full frustration to squeeze a response out of you, he shoves you with all the might in his arms. But you don't waver. Not pushed. Not flinching once. Like a wall. A wall of focus and concentration at age eight, miraculously continuing to do your homework like he didn't even touch you.

Taehyung wants your attention. He wants you to look at him. He wants to cry. But he won't. Or at least, he'll try his best not to.

"I know you can beat me up, dumbo! Just do it! Just punch me and I'll leave you alone forever!"

The corner of your mouth moves again. "Dad said I'm not allowed."

"You're stupid!" He tosses the empty sticker sheet at you, but the paper is light in weight and doesn't even come close to hitting your face like he intends. It flutters to the ground in front of him and he falls onto his back, onto the floorboards and whines, kicking his legs up in a storm of anger.

Three times six is eighteen. Ten times seven is seventy. Five times nine is forty five.

The pencil in your hand never stops moving.

–

Bang!

The Glock 17 semi-auto pistol in your hand lowers - it's a simple handgun, but one you're used to using. The bullet hole is right in the center of your target, exactly where you were aiming.

You're relieved, having been afraid that your skills deteriorated without practice, but you're glad you came here to brush up on it.