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M is for Murder

Synopsis: A study in which you find out that the young man you occasionally solve mysteries with is actually wanted for murder.

Genre: non-idol au, mystery, crumbs of an unrequited love

Warnings: graphic imagery (murder crime scene), language

WC: ~3K

A/N: Okay but imagine THE trickster aka. seventeen’s swindler aka. satan’s hyung aka. yoon jeonghan as the main lead in a murder mystery? Sherlock Holmes’ successor? Color me hornKNEE-

Study 1: Yoon Jeonghan. An eccentric young man with a penchant for mysteries and a reputation of murder.

“Wanted for what?”

“Murder,” he supplies, taking a bit of his apple. The sharp crunch punctuates his confession.

His nonchalant tone and demeanor is at odds with the levity of his admission, further adding evidence to the theory that this is all some fucked up dream your sleep-deprived brain came up with tonight. You really gotta stop watching Dateline before bed.

As if sensing your speculation, Jeonghan picks out a seed from the apple core and flicks it at you.

The offending object lands perfectly above your nose bridge giving you a faux unibrow, the sticky juice keeping it adhered to your skin. Jeonghan grins, mouthing score, before taking another bite of his apple. The complete apathy he shows towards his supposed crime is baffling.

“Murder?” you repeat, as if you had misheard him the previous 4 times.

He just grunts in acknowledgement, flipping through your Netflix account and occasionally frowning at your poor taste in cinematic choice.

You continue to gape at him, mouth open comically wide, as your brain attempts to match your stereotypical impression of a vicious stone-cold killer with the current image of this Jeonghan slouched across your sofa, halfheartedly watching Family Guy.

Your brain fails to compute.

“Jeonghan, listen, if this is some weird roleplaying shit for one of our cases now is not the time-”

“Roleplaying? Really, Y/N, is that what you truly think of me? That I’d joke about this matter? When I come begging at your door, seeking refuge at my darkest hour…well, I’d never! Is this the way you treat all of your friends, my dear Freida Khalo?” he interrupts with a dramatic gasp, jumping to his feet with a flourish.

You just watch him, deadpan. Throughout the past year of knowing Yoon Jeonghan, you’ve learned that it’s quickest and less painful to let his theatrics run its full course before attempting to rationalize with him.

“The last time you invited me over for dinner, I found you splayed out across your living room floor face first in a puddle of your own ketchup-blood.”

“Not ketchup, that would be entirely unconvincing. It was a mixture of ketchup, corn syrup, and cocoa mix. It’s hard to replicate the exact viscosity of blood, you know.”

You roll your eyes as he fully proves your point, heading into the kitchen to grab a well-deserved drink. Jeonghan trails after you, grabbing two shot glasses from your cupboard. For as often as the two of you hang out, as far as you’re aware he’s never been over to your place before - the two of you instead opting to meet at your makeshift “office” downtown which was rented out under a fake alias (Jeonghan’s idea).

You don’t know how he knows exactly which cupboard is the glass cupboard, nor do you want to know. You wouldn’t be surprised if he had done a full recon of your apartment. Hell, how did he even get your address?

That was the kind of weird shit that this little gremlin did. That and murder, apparently.

Reminded again of exactly why you were sitting in your kitchen taking shots with the man in question at 2:41 a.m. on a Tuesday morning, you let out a groan before one-shotting your whiskey.

The glass makes a dull thud as you set it down on your table with a wince and a cough. Jeonghan takes a sip of his glass (as how most humans consume their hard liquor) and merely raises a delicate eyebrow at you, looking between your contorted face and the now empty glass but wisely decides to withhold comment.

This somehow manages to irk you more. You wish he didn’t have to still look so damn good sipping Walmart whiskey from a shot glass with a slutty Elmo in a skimpy green bikini branded across its front.

With liquid courage now coursing through your veins, you pin him down with a stare as you choose your next few words carefully. Jeonghan waits for you patiently with a solemn look on his face, looking purely angelic.

Again, you’re reminded of Dateline warning just how charming serial killers could be.

Fuck you, you want to say. Stop pulling me into your crazy shenanigans. Handle it yourself. I’m not interested. But those words die in your chest as you look at the man across the table, heartbreakingly handsome even in ragged clothing and running on only 4 hours of sleep.

You’d do anything for Jeonghan, but you’ve always thought you’d meant that in the least literal sense of the phrase. The same way you’d do anything for your cat, or for your weird aunt who smells like stale cookies but never fails to give you pocket money every holiday.

But you’ve just come to realize how literal your feelings truly were.

When he moved back to your town, his childhood town, last year and you met him for the first time, you couldn’t have been more appalled by the audacious flamboyance of this man.

You two were utterly polarizing - him, a connoisseur of the eclectic and fantastical, and you, a stark realist whose goal was to make capitalism your bitch.

He had left your small community at a young age and grew up educated at all the top foreign institutions since primary school, yet balked at the idea of inheriting the family’s diamond mining business (much to his father’s chagrin). You were a product of your town’s local public school system - a hustler who ate, slept, and breathed ambition. He was a self proclaimed angel and might actually very well be considering how he managed to charm everyone into doing his (slightly nefarious) bidding. You needed at least 6 cups of coffee and 12 hours of sleep before you could even attempt to be 20% as charming as him. He liked dogs, you liked cats.

For all intents and purposes, you two were oil and water.

But one thing bound the two of you together, tighter than any life philosophy or law of chemistry: you both had a penchant for mystery. Agatha Christie, Sherlock Holmes, Scooby-Doo, you name it. You were both obsessed with making sense of nonsense - to make the impossible possible. You found in each other a kindred spirit - someone who enjoyed the game as much as you.

For all intents and purposes, you should have hated each other.

But…you didn’t. In fact, at least on your end and you suspected perhaps a little bit on his end as well, you very strongly felt the opposite. So eventually, all those minor differences came to naught and you both found yourselves seeking each other’s company once, twice, a few times, then daily. You were the Watson to his Sherlock, as he would often fondly proclaim after the pair of you would successfully solve a mystery. You two reveled in bringing each other small mysteries to solve.

But to you, the greatest mystery of all was this enigma of a man sitting in front of you. If there was one thing you learned about Jeonghan over the course of this year, it’s that trouble seems to seek him out just as eagerly as he does it. Usually his storytelling methods were always a bit more…interactive than yours (hence the ketchup blood incident), but they were harmless. Always harmless.

So imagine your surprise when he showed up breathless, in some strangers’ clothes he’d swiped from the street, knocking frantically at your door with the proposition of adventure.

A proclamation of murder.

Yet the most appalling part was not that you’d willingly let in a potential criminal at the mere sight of his smile, nor was it his unnerving indifference considering how much shit he was in for running from the cops - regardless of his possible innocence. No, the most appalling part was when your initial shock eventually dwindled to a sickening realization that you, in fact, didn’t really care if he was guilty or not. He was your person and you’d do anything for him, including cover up a murder.

The thought of how tightly Yoon Jeonghan has you wrapped around his finger sends your eyes into a rhythmic spasm as you contemplate what charges you might incur for potentially murdering a murder suspect.

Instead you sigh, mentally preparing yourself for whatever crazy adventure this man was hellbent on dragging you into this time.

“Okay, so murder. Want to walk me through how, exactly, you came to be the prime suspect of a murder case?”

“Well it all starts with a corgi, one croissant, and a missing flower pot,” Jeonghan, in full storyteller mode, leans in and steeples his fingers with the devious grin he gets when he finds something particularly galvanizing.

“Saturday proved to be a horrible day, what with my mother tricking me into joining her hot yoga class. Not that I don’t like yoga, but there was nothing and no-one “hot” about it. Talk about serious clickbait.”

Jeonghan clears his throat nervously as he takes note of your unamused expression and the way your hand without the whiskey glass twitches as if to smack the hot hell out of him. He rushes to continue.

“Back to the point. Saturday sucked so on Sunday I decided to go to the dog park for some much needed R&R. As I was on my way back home, I was walking past the alley that leads to the old churchyard when I heard the most awful keening sound. As the Second Coming of Sherlock, it was of course my duty to go and investigate. So I walked deeper into the alley, and there I’m met with the glorious sight of the biggest, juiciest, phattest butt.”

This time you do smack the hot hell out of Jeonghan’s arm, causing him to yelp and scoot a safe distance away from any other swinging limbs.

He shoots you a pout which transforms into a somber look as he recounts what happened next. “The butt belonged to an egregiously fat corgi, which also turned out to be the source of the keening noise. It was nosing and pawing at a lump of something just behind the trash bin. I tried to get closer but it kept growling and making that awful crying sound. So I then tried to lure it away with some leftover croissant I had in my pocket, but I guess corgi’s don’t like french patisseries because that only made him stress out more. As a last resort I crumbled it into a ball and threw it far away towards the churchyard, to which the chub finally left the thing by the bin to go chase after the croissant. Only the closer I came, the sooner I came to realize. It wasn’t a something, but rather a someone.”

The hairs on your arm start to raise, as you listen half appalled and half enthralled. Jeonghan barely sends you a second glance as he’s swept back into the gruesome memory.

“She was…mangled. There were dirt stains on her clothes and heavy bruising on both her wrists and throat, suggesting struggle antemortem. Cause of death: cut to the throat and blood loss.”

His face is carefully blank as he describes the body, adopting an almost clinical tone as if you two were still playing your usual mystery game.

You feel a lump form in your throat. “Jeonghan-” you croak, but he continues to speak over you.

“I had my phone out and was about to call the authorities when I saw something white and pink. She was gripping something in her right hand. I was leaning closer to inspect it when that damn corgi came back, and this time with a witness in tow.”

He let out a heavy sigh, running his palm across his forehead like he usually does when he gets frustrated.

“I lost my chance to examine the body up-close, but decided to stick around and wait for the cops in case I could help give them some crucial clues to the perpetrator by looking at the bruising patterns and the item in her hand. At first I was waiting in the tent, but then they asked to move me to the vehicle to go back to the station. No one would tell me why, but you know I can read lips. The officers were talking about how I was the main murderer suspect, and that I should be treated with extreme caution.”

You can’t help it as your nerves get the best of you and a laugh bubbles out of your mouth.

“Just because you found the body doesn’t mean you did it. Where’s the hard evidence? That’s such an elementary conjecture.”

You glance at him, hoping for him to confirm your statements, to laugh along with you. Don’t be silly, Y/N! Obviously I didn’t do it!

But all he does is stare back at you with those solemn, doe eyes.

“I don’t have an alibi, Y/N.”

Jeonghan says softly, and you feel your world tilt on its axis.

“I had snuck out early from my house to avoid my mom, which means neither she nor the household attendants can verify that I was home from 5-8 a.m. I was last seen at the park, but for all they know I could have murdered her, circled around through the shortcut that runs from the churchyard to the dog park, and no-one would be the wiser.”

“But surely it’s just conjecture at this point. So what if you were first on scene, or that you recognized the weapon? Sure it’s suspicious, but that doesn’t automatically pin you for murder.”

He hums, conceding to your point. ”But this young lady was choked and assaulted, throat slit from ear to ear, using a shard from my neighbor’s broken flower pot.”

You flinch at his blunt words. He glances at you but soldiers on.

“A flower pot that I helped plant when Mrs. Zarrelli threw out her back. One that has all my prints over it, that had gone missing two weeks ago only for a shard of it to be found, as the murder weapon, at the scene of a most grisly crime.”

Jeonghan leans back, arms crossed, watching you. Testing you. Waiting to see if you’d arrive at the same conclusion that he has.

“...So you’re saying you were framed,” you finish for him. He just keeps staring at you, so you take that as your cue to continue. “The preliminary hypothesis would be that there is someone out there who wants you arrested. Or detained. At the very least, occupied.”

Your brows knit together, ring finger circling the rim of your whiskey glass as your brain puzzles out just exactly what the motive could have been.

“Then again, their choice of scapegoat could have been coincidental. But it’s unlikely given the peculiar choice of a murder weapon. It was chosen to make you the culprit, not just anybody who stumbled across the crime scene. It was made to seem as if you had murdered her in a fit of emotional rage rather than out of premeditated intent.”

“Yes,” Jeonghan murmurs, the mischievous glint returning to his eyes. You pause, head tilting as you continue to puzzle out the pieces he’s laid in front of you.

“Originally, this would suggest one of two things. One, the murderer had wanted to commit the crime and needed a set-up, and had chosen you, for whatever reason, to incriminate. Or two, the murderer had wanted to incriminate you, for whatever reason, and needed to commit a crime for the set-up. Given the careful, almost painstakingly-detailed lengths the culprit has gone through to make sure you would be found at the scene of the crime, with no alibi, and indisputable evidence, I’m inclined to believe the latter is true. And if the latter is the true motive, then the heart of the crime lies not with the murderer, nor the victim. It lies with-”

“-me.” Jeonghan finishes for you, satisfied with your analysis.

“They knew where you would be, and that you would have to investigate. That means either it’s someone who knows you well enough to predict your next steps, or they’ve been watching you for long enough to ascertain it.”

“Which means either I’m trusting someone I shouldn’t be, or I’ve got myself a stalker.” Jeonghan contemplates, shooting you a bemused look.

“I must say, I’m slightly flattered. I didn’t really think I was handsome enough to warrant such a grand confession. Maybe my hair stylist was right - red really is my color.”

“This isn’t funny, Jeonghan.” You wish you could reach across the table and shake that stupid bravado right out of him. “Someone wants you locked behind bars, and is willing to kill for it. You’re already a prime suspect and running away doesn’t really help you look innocent.”

“Exactly.” he simply replies, his expression morphing into that of more devil than angel. “My secret admirer has gone through the trouble of setting up the chess board and making the first move. It would be poor manners on my part not to respond.”

The answer is so purely Jeonghan that, despite the macabre story he’d just told and the peril he’s certain to bring, it tugs at your heartstrings a little.

He shoots you that Cheshire grin that promises danger and thrill, and you’re certain he already knows your answer. Perhaps he’d known the moment you opened your door, or even before then when he’d first discovered the body and his immediate reaction was to call not the police but you. Perhaps he’d known from the moment he’d first laid eyes on you - stubbornly seated in a corner nook, reading Murder on the Orient Express at the community Christmas party.

You, who could never refuse a good mystery. You, who could never refuse Jeonghan.

You swear slutty Elmo winks at you.

“So, whaddya say? Care to join me, Watson?”

Hi everyone! Thanks so much for reading. This is my first seventeen fanfic so I’d appreciate any feedback (both good or bad!)

And as always please feel free to send in requests ~Nini

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