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the-darklings · 5 years

Text

—𝒄𝒉𝒊𝒍𝒅𝒓𝒆𝒏 𝒐𝒇 𝒂𝒓𝒆𝒔;

pairing: john wick x f!reader

word count: 6.5k+

summary: “Tell me a story with a happy ending.”

warnings: strong violence, blood, swearing.

notes: oh wow, it’s been a hot minute, huh? I miss posting my writing on here but life has been hectic and pretty unkind this year so apologies for the inactivity. All I can say is that I got an urge to finally write for Mr Wick. This is set pre-first movie so any spoilers will be up to that movie only. For now, I decided to split this into two, so expect another part some time soon and enjoy!

children of ares series: .. | 02 |

“Tell me a story with a happy ending.”

“I can’t. People like us don’t get happy endings.”

. . .

The first time you meet him, he points a gun to your face with a sharpness that makes your pulse race.

You’re just a second behind him, but you know perfectly well that it would have been a second too late.

“Oh, for goodness sake,” Tarasov grumbles under his breath, waving his hand in irritation. “Will you two lower your weapons, we aren’t in the zoo.”

The man clad in all black does so immediately, and you idly wonder just how tight his leash is if he obeys so seamlessly.

You watch him warily as you lower your arm as well, hesitating just long enough for Tarasov’s gaze to slide your way. While you don’t want to piss off your new boss, the man in black stands beside him with a stoic sort of calmness that makes your instincts prickle with unease.

You know who he is.

You’ve heard stories about him.

Soft, terrified murmurs of his infamy—of his terrifying skill. You would rather not meet him at all, truth be told.

Even amongst killers, John Wick’s name is spoken with a degree of reluctant respect and fear.

“John, this is our newest associate. I wanted to introduce you personally,” Tarasov explains easily, pouring himself another glass of vodka. “I was rather hoping you will be able to look after her for a bit. Show her how we do business.”

You rather he didn’t. Truly.

John Wick is tall, calm, and deadly focused on every twitch of your body.

Underground world has some certains you can find in any corner of the world: money, blood, drugs, and high egos. The latter goes hand in hand with an inflated sense of self-importance and posturing.

You’re used to that. You know how to handle people with egos. Know how to communicate with those who like the sound of their own voice a bit too much.

Yet, John Wick somehow manages to be the most fear-inducing thing in the room without so much as making a sound.

His dark eyes appear almost black when they finally connect with yours. There is nothing but polite coolness to be found in his gaze.

“Sure.”

Tarasov grins wider, saluting you both with his glass, “Excellent,” he intones in smooth Russian. “I do believe this is the start of something rather beautiful.”

. . .

Three months down the line, and you’re still unsure what to make of John.

Anyone who kills people for a living should be easy to pindown. Sure, everyone has their own reasons, but at the end of the day, they’re all a little twisted.

John is a walking contradiction.

He’s cold, he’s stoic, he’s frighteningly efficient in his field. John rarely speaks, and getting more than a few sentences out of him at any given time seems like an incredible feat.

But he’s also kind in the most subtle ways, thoughtful, and always—unfailingly—has your back on the field.

Tarasov originally wanted you to do three missions together before he sent you on your own. But somewhere along the way, he seems to have concluded that you work better as a unit.

It’s odd at first. You’re not used to working with someone, and you’ve never heard of John having a partner with him either. He’s the man they send when no one else wants the contract or they simply can’t finish the job. So working with him is as bizarre as everyone's reactions when they see you together.

Most of the time, you’re not sure if he even likes you because most of the time, it’s near impossible to read him.

On paper you should never work, you know that much.

He’s older. His name is known. He’s earned the respect of some of the deadliest in the world.

You’re a nobody from nowhere. Sure, your skills are finally being utilized and by merely associating with John and Tarasov, people are starting to take notice of you, too. But doubt still lingers in your mind as you go through one job after another.

Truthfully, you’re still unsure if there’s a place for you here, in this shadowy circle of Tarasov’s gang. Though all the alternatives are so much worse you can’t even entertain the idea of a different life right now.

“A stick of gum?”

John is silent for a long time, and for a second you worry that he may not have heard you over the sound of the wind, but you don’t dare to lift your gaze from the scope in front of you.

Patience you know well. It’s one of the very few areas where you and John are equals.

“Realistically, one,” he finally mutters, his voice low to a point you have to strain to hear. Blinking, you suppress a grin, adjusting your position as you wait for your target to appear.

“Just the one?” you repeat with obvious disappointment. “Huh.”

John’s breaths are quiet next to you, thoughtful, “Sorry to disappoint but choking is the only viable option,” he points out a little dryly.

You hum contemplatively, trying to think of your own spin on this scenario. It has become a bit of a game between you. When you first started working together, John’s company was near painfully boring, especially on long jobs. So you came up with the idea of challenging him with ordinary objects and drilling him on how many people he can realistically kill with them. Of course, he has to fully justify his reasoning for each casualty—that’s half the fun right there after all.

He still likes his space and peace to this day, but at least now you get him to talk with you regularly on jobs.

“See if it were me,” you begin in an unhurried drawl. “I would put slow-acting poison in the gum. Maybe even add a dispersing agent into it, so anyone the target comes into contact with would die as well. Multiple dead, I won’t even have to break a sweat.”

“Sounds dangerous,” he points out idly, but the challenge in his voice is clear. “And highly volatile. How can you be sure it won’t accidentally kill your partner or anyone else that needs to be kept safe?”

“Antidotes, John, c’mon now,” you shoot back playfully, your finger moving to rest against the trigger when you spot slight movement in the building opposite to you. “Oh, the party is a go. Target twelve o’clock.”

You both watch as the men file into the room, chatting and pouring drinks as both parties sit themselves down around the room. A typical setting for deal negotiations. Of course, Tarasov doesn’t want any negotiations to happen at all—hence why you and John are here, and ready to rectify that.

“You have a clear shot,” John speaks beside you after a long pause, and it still unsettles you how composed he is during jobs and outside of them. It’s like nothing can ever affect him. With every job, every interaction, you begin to understand more and more why the nickname The Boogeyman is starting to catch on. “Take the shot.”

You do.

Inhaling deeply, you line the shot and it pierces the air with a deafening whistle that shatters the hotel window to pieces.

Panic reigns and the men scatter like cattle. Some try to find where the shot came from, but by the time they come anywhere near the window, you and John are already walking down the fire exit in a calm, unhurried fashion. The target is dead, and that’s all either of you care about.

“You’ve gotten better.”

It’s not praise, not exactly, more of a tepid assessment. But you take what you can get with John nowadays. In the beginning, it unsettled you, but now you just know that’s how he is.

“Marcus is a pretty nice guy once you break past that prideful demeanour of his,” you joke with a slight laugh as you both get into his car. “I think he tolerates my pestering because of you, to be honest.”

You feel John’s curious gaze on you, and when you turn to glance at him one of his eyebrows is arched slightly. “That so?”

“Drive on, Wick,” you say instead. “I’m starving. I wonder what it is about doing this job that always makes me so damn hungry.”

. . .

“You’re a pain in my ass, I hope you know that.”

John only grunts in reply.

You half drag him with you through the front lobby of The Continental as you slowly approach the reception.

Charon welcomes you with his typical placid smile and a polite nod of his head.

“Mr Wick and Miss Vipress,” he greets politely, unfazed by all the blood covering you both as you stagger to a stop in front of his desk. “Pleasure as always. A room for two?”

You nod your head briskly, shifting on your feet till more of John’s weight is leaning against you. “Thanks,” you mutter, sliding the golden coin across the smooth wood. There’s still specks of blood on it, but Charon takes it without batting an eye.

“Will you be needing a doctor tonight?” he questions with a tilt of his head, ever the helpful hotel concierge.

You’re shaking your own head before he’s even finished speaking, and glance at the still dazed John beside you. He’s already looking better than he did fifteen minutes ago—less pale and clammy—meaning that the poison is slowly but steadily leaving his system.

“We’ll be fine,” you say wearily. “But if you could send us up some X7 and Aspirin later, I would appreciate it.”

Charon hums, noting your request immediately in a notepad in front of him.

“X7 will take a bit longer but consider it done,” he responds pleasantly, sliding your room key across the table. You grapple for it, clenching it tightly between your bloody fingers. “Enjoy your stay,” he adds as you turn to go.

You grunt some vague pleasantry back but your mind is only focused on getting John to the hotel room before his legs decide to give out on him.

By the time you make it to your room on the third floor—Charon has mercifully put your room only a few doors away from the elevator, and you make a mental note to thank him for it tomorrow—your arms are trembling from the strain. John falls on the couch heavily, a harsh groan rattling free the moment he does, indicating just how bad he must be feeling.

His dark, half-lidded eyes track your movements as you stumble towards the bathroom, grabbing the complimentary first-aid kit found in every room. A certain, intent sharpness you’re used to seeing is missing from his gaze and you snap your fingers in front of his face a few times.

“Hey, you still with me?”

John nods his head and groans as he sits up, leaving you once again impressed with his silent strength. It seems like things that would kill ordinary men ten times over barely leave a dent on John. Some part of you can’t help but be slightly envious of the fact that he’s really as brilliant and as unstoppable as everyone makes him out to be.

He shrugs off his jacket under your command, leaving him in only a shirt and a tie and you loosen it, hurriedly wrapping it above his bleeding forearm.

“See, poison is a bitch when it’s not done by yours truly,” you mutter under your breath, carefully tracking his breathing patterns. “Aren’t you a lucky boy to have me on hand?”

His answer to your poor attempt at a joke is a half-hearted glare, and you smile weakly, grabbing a small blade from your boot to cut off his shirt sleeve. The white material flutters towards the ground and you grimace at the deep gash running at least eight centimetres down his arm. It looks angry and inflamed; a side effect to the potent poison the blade to make that cut was laced with.

You brush the damp strands of loose hair away from his sweaty forehead, and press your palm against his skin. A pleased hum escapes you and you nod your head, satisfied, before turning to sanitize the needle you’ll be using.

“The fever is going down,” you tell him when you feel his silent question hang in the air between you. “That means the antidote is working. You should be back to normal in another hour or so. Gelsemine though? Jesus. I miss the days when people used Thallium and thought they were efficient poisoners.”

You grab your belt, taking it off with a hurried jerk as you offer it to John who looks up at you in confusion. “For the pain,” you supply, shaking your hand a little.

“Just get me something strong,” he grunts, pointedly shifting his gaze to the table where a bottle of something that looks like whiskey sits untouched.

Clicking your tongue, you shake your head, “Not if you want to start vomiting blood. The poison is still in your system. Alcohol will make it worse and likely kill the antidote too. Take it.”

John looks away and you roll your eyes, dropping the belt to the ground as you step between his legs to get better access to the wound.

“Right, okay, this will hurt.”

John doesn’t say anything—not that you expect him to. You start with cleaning the cut first, and John’s fingers sink into the couch but he remains stubbornly silent. His eyes focus on a spot just above your shoulder as you work quietly. Cleaning wounds is meticulous work, and your line of work assures that you’re always meticulous. By the time the needle finally pierces John’s skin, it already looks better.

His jaw clenches tightly as you move the needle in and out of his skin. You know it’s excruciating but he makes no protests aside from occasional soft grunt of pain. His blood is warm on your fingers and you work as quickly as you can without messing up, a slight tremor shaking your hand.

“How,” he begins before clearing his throat. “How did you get involved in all of this?”

You make a small sound at the back of your throat, unsure if he’s trying to distract himself from pain or truly asking because he wants to know.

“How does anyone get involved with this sort of thing,” you answer dully, not taking the bait. “We’ve known each other for almost a year and you’re only asking about my tragic past now? Tsk, tsk.”

You feel his eyes focus on you, and pull on the needle harder, tightening the stitches much to John’s clear discomfort.

You’re both silent for a long moment after that, and much to your surprise John doesn’t push further. Most people would.

But John Wick is not most people, you’ve come to find.

He’s the type of man who never tries to make passes on you, never makes unnecessary comments about you or your appearance, and always insists on two beds. If there’s no spare bed, he always offers to sleep on the couch or the floor—the only exception to this rule is if he’s injured himself.

“My parents,” you speak softly before stopping. There’s a sudden tightness in your chest and throat as you swallow, gripping John’s arm tighter so you don’t slip with all the blood coating your hands. You feel his attention turn to you, and work to control your breathing. “They worked for Tarasov when he still ran his drug operation in Moscow. Everyone owned him. He practically ran the city. People were watched, police bought out. I didn’t know about any of it. My father was tasked with the export of drugs from and into the country. My mother worked directly in one of his drug houses. Keeping the books.”

You pause, breathing deeply, and grab the nearby towel to wipe away the blood on John’s arm. Hesitating, you glance up at him. He looks alert again, sharp, and you wonder if you should continue.

This man is already lethal—the last thing he needs is leverage over you.

But—

You move towards the desk where the bottle of whiskey is sitting while you wipe your own hands on a towel, hiding the visible trembling of your fingers as you resume your story.

“They decided that it would be a good idea to have a side gig on the side,” you continue, your words flat, emotionless. By now, you don’t feel grief when thinking about your parents. Just anger. The destructive, bubbling sort of rage that festers under your skin every day. “My mother started adjusting the numbers. Little by little. Nothing Tarasov would notice. Never more than thirty thousand rubles per shipment. That may sound like a lot but actually, it’s less than five hundred bucks. Seems laughable now when I think about it. For us, of course, every month that kind of money made a big difference. We didn’t need many luxuries. But they say your greed grows as you eat.”

You turn back towards John, bringing the bottle over to him. Sitting down on the table in front of him, you pour some of the whiskey on a fresh towel and press the soaked material against his arm. John’s expression twists slightly but you can tell from the way his eyes focus on you seconds later that he’s listening intently to your every word.

“They started taking a bit more every month,” you whisper, swallowing your anger, “More and more. Just a bit. But penny after penny and it all adds up. Tarasov eventually found out, of course. He gathered everyone who works for him and had my parents shot in front of them. That’s how you keep sheep in line. You scare them till they’re too afraid to do anything, even help. I don’t blame them though. Those people had nothing. Elderly. Orphaned kids. Immigrants. Fear and hunger are all they’ve known. And well, after...”

Your head dips, and you nibble on your lip for a second, tasting blood. For the first time in a long time, the coppery tang makes you feel queasy.

“Tarasov came to our flat that same afternoon. Had me make him dinner practically at gunpoint,” you explain further, a sardonic smile twisting your mouth as you meet John’s steady stare. So far, he hasn’t made a sound. “We discussed my parents' debt to him. He could have just had me shot too of course. But he said he didn’t want that. He said that my talents with chemistry were too valuable for him to waste. So he gave me a choice. I work for him until my parents' debt is paid off or….”

For the first time since you began your story, John speaks, “Or?”

You chuckle under your breath, removing the towel from his arm, and lightly press your fingertips against the tender flesh.

“There’s many uses for a healthy, young woman, John,” you state flatly, your lips stretching into something that could never pass for a smile.

You can’t exactly pinpoint his expression, but you know it’s not pity. Perhaps it’s sympathy or even compassion. Some deeper understanding that can’t be expressed with words alone. But for once you feel like John is looking at you openly and without that uncrackable armour he usually wears like a second skin.

“I’m sorry,” he says, at last, his voice almost gentle. “About your parents.”

You scoff, taking a swing from the bottle and wince at the stinging burn the drink leaves in its wake. “They were stupid idiots,” you deadpan harshly. “I love them dearly. But they were fucking idiots.”

John nods once because you both know you’re right, and you swallow shakily, blinking your eyes rapidly.

For a few minutes, it’s quiet between you. You expect it to be awkward yet somehow it isn’t. In fact, it’s almost peaceful.

“Anyway, I made my choice and here I am,” you mumble, carefully pouring him a tiny amount of the drink. He should be fine to drink it by now. Probably. “Tarasov said that once the debt is repaid, I’m free to go.”

“And you believe that?”

Your eyes meet as John takes the glass from your hand.

“No,” you reply frankly, your smile pained. “But when you have nothing, you have to believe in something.”

. . .

You settle into an odd little routine, you and John.

Tarasov gives you a mission, you go, accomplish the impossible somehow and get to go on breathing for another day.

The longer you work together, the easier it becomes to correlate. Your only weakness—if one can even call it that—is that you’re both stubborn individualists. He’s a brute, relentless strength to your sly, vicious subtlety. That’s what makes the fact that character-wise you couldn’t be more different so stupidly hilarious to you. The only real arguments you have is the way in which the job should be approached.

That thought makes you chuckle and you wince in pain immediately after. The ice pack against your jaw shifts slightly, and you shift in your seat, trying to get more comfortable. Most of your body aches painfully, but your jaw feels especially sore. One of the idiots has managed to get three heavy hits in before John splattered his brain all over you. In return, you’ve been forced to kick John out of the path of a bullet hail.

He’s the one who pressed ice against your jaw while you were busy cleaning his bruised and bleeding knuckles.

Then you sat in silence, digesting another job well done, and basking in the tranquil air of the hotel room while the pain-reducing solution you’ve made works its magic.

And odd routine indeed.

“Hey,” John’s voice breaks the soft tranquillity, and you jerk up, realising that you’ve come dangerously close to dozing off. “Do you ever think about getting out?”

You blink slowly, clearing your head as his words register. Then, confusion blooms, “Out? Get out of what?”

John doesn’t look at you though. His heavy gaze focuses on something outside, out of your sight. The slopes of his profile have become familiar to you—the raven hair, dark eyes, the small crinkles that appear around his eyes on the rare occasion he does smile. He’s not standoffish in the way others often accuse him of being now. If anything he looks softer somehow, more human than a weapon Tarasov boasts of so smugly. More than a living nightmare so many fear.

He looks like a man. Simple as that, and when he finally turns to face you, you see the fresh cuts and bruises on his face. Just a man.

“Getting out of this life,” he replies slowly, his voice rougher from the lucky hit one of the guards managed to get into his throat. “Getting away from everything. From Tarosov.”

It strikes you then that John is asking from a genuine place of interest—something he rarely indulges in with you, considering nine out of ten times all conversations between you are started by you.

The second thing that strikes you is a genuine surprise. John is not the person you would ever expect to hear this type of question from. It’s private, it’s raw; he knows about your debt, about the chain around your neck. Better than most, perhaps better than everyone. But because you respect him enough to at least give it actual thought, you consider his question for a long time.

It takes at least five minutes until you finally speak and when you do your voice sounds hollow in your own ears, “I never wanted this life,” you begin softly, your voice thin. “I never asked to be involved in any of this. I didn’t ask for my parents to take me from country to country, never allowing me to settle down anywhere or make friends. When they kept secrets and were barely home. I didn’t ask for adventure, or danger, or even wealth, John. But—”

John stares at you, considering you, no doubt analysing your words, and you swallow the sudden lump in your throat at his show of keen interest.

“But,” you repeat again, your tone harsher. “I’m here, and I have to make the best of it. I’ve never been good at anything in my life. But if there’s one thing I’ve learned about myself in this last year is that I’m very, very good at this. I’m starting to think that violence is in my blood, and I don’t know what that means just yet but…”

You exhale, eyes fluttering shut and you only open them after counting to ten inside your head. Slow and steady as you meet his gaze straight on. “So to answer your question: no. No, I don’t think about it. Even after I’m finished dealing with Tarasov, I don’t see another path for myself anymore. It was taken from me.”

John peers at you for a long, long time after you fall silent. You’re not sure what he discerns from your expression or what he’s searching for, but you doubt he finds it as his obsidian eyes eventually slide away from you and towards the window.

The sun is rising in the East.

Milan is beautiful this time of year.

You sit together through the sunrise, not saying a word.

Years later, you would look back on this as the last true moment of peace for an interminable number of years.

. . .

Separation comes only two short months later like a punch to the face.

Tarasov’s argument is simple: he needs two jobs done on different sides of the world. One requires the lethality John is infamous for, another requires the most subtle of touches; a snake’s slyness.

Tarasov needs the Boogeyman and the Vipress but for vastly different things this time.

John must sense your unease—this will be your first solo mission after all—and he stops you as soon as you’re both out of earshot of any prying eyes.

“You’ll be fine,” he says so simply, effortlessly, with enough confidence in his low voice that for a second you believe him too. “It’s the perfect job for you.”

“Of course I’ll be fine,” you shoot back with forced nonchalance. “I’m not that helpless.”

Your smile is forced, and John knows it too.

He doesn’t point it out because deep down John is kind—no matter how ironic it is for a deadly assassin to be that.

For once, you expect him to say something else but he doesn’t. One of Tarasov’s men shouts him over because his flight is leaving in three hours. John’s gaze lingers on you for an insignificant second but he still walks away, leaving a cold kind of silence in his wake.

His name burns at the back of your throat as dread bubbles in the pit of your gut.

But you don’t call his name out.

. . .

It doesn’t go bad.

It doesn’t go well either.

It goes thoroughly and wholly to shit.

You grasp at your shoulder where blood is still pouring freely, and your eyes sting with tears of pain as you make your report to the silent Tarasov over the phone.

They have known.

They have prepared.

The target got away at the last moment.

You are lucky to still be alive.

“Better you weren’t then,” Tarasov purrs in Russian, the letters curling like a death grip around your throat. “Report to me tomorrow.”

“But—”

The line goes dead.

You pull the bullet out yourself. Through gritted teeth and sweat dripping down your forehead. You cry twice and throw up once before you pass out from pain and terror. Still, you manage to patch yourself up.

The lack of John’s presence stings in an unexpected, violent way when you wake up, bleary-eyed and shivering.

You have gotten dependent on him and his help.

Now it feels like a weakness.

Now, you hate yourself for shaking in terror as you make your way to Tarasov’s new office in New York.

You’re strong (but not strong enough), you’re smart (but not enough), you’re—

You wonder if you should pray, or perhaps plead for help from some higher power. Tarasov as good as admitted that you will be dead by the end of this meeting. There is no helping you now.

Sickness cramps your stomach and you dry heave in an alleyway behind his office. Your vision swims, your blood rushes in your ears and for a second you consider simply lying down on this cold, dirty ground and letting the world consume you.

You failed, you fucked up. First solo mission and you failed in the most spectacular way possible. The target got away. There’s no one to blame but yourself.

You’ve considered poisoning him, but that seems so unlikely to succeed now. His lackeys will never allow you to walk through the office door without ransacking you, nor would Tarasov be stupid enough to let you anywhere near him.

Death, now more than ever, seems like an inevitably.

John will save me.

A harsh bark of laughter tears from your throat at the sudden, invasive whisper of your mind. How pathetic. To mess up is one thing, to know that there’s close to nothing you can do to rectify the situation is another, but to actually hope someone else will save you…

Even if you are to allow yourself the overly indulgent thought, that still doesn’t change the fact that John is in Europe right now. Half a world away—too far away.

John.

Knees quaking, you stand up.

Squaring your shoulders, and ignoring the burn of pain in your left shoulder, you start walking.

John would face this with dignity, with that same cool detachment he does most things.

John would not quiver in some dingy alleyway. He would not cry like some pathetic idiot because of his own mistake. He would face it, and he would fight back.

Your forehead presses against the freezing wall of the building as you pull yourself together piece by piece.

You are no longer that same girl who wept over your parents because you have no idea where they are buried, or if they even had a burial. If perhaps their bodies have been thrown onto the streets, or woods, or simply fed to the dogs.

That girl has been killed by your parents' stupidity.

Now only the Vipress remains.

Vipress who is a master poisoner, whose name is no longer whispered with mockery but with reluctant respect that’s starting to rival John’s.

With every step, you stand straighter, walk with more confidence. Your shoulder throbs terribly but you step into the building as through a fog.

Tarasov greets you with a glass of vodka and a wide grin.

The hardness of his gaze is chilling though, and you try to keep your cool demeanour, emulating John as much as possible. Two other guards lurk in the dark corners of the room, and you still entertain the thought that you can take them if it comes to that.

Your heartbeat is so deafening in your ears, you barely catch Tarasov’s words.

“Sorry?”

His grin stretches even further, and he tuts, “My, my, I almost forgot. How’s the shoulder?”

He doesn’t sound like he cares. But not answering would be a stupid thing to do. “It’s fine, sir.”

Tarasov makes a small sound at the back of his throat before his fist strikes your shoulder with enough force that you crumble to the floor. A cry of pain manages to escape before you bite your cheek, hot blood flooding your mouth as you tremble on the floor before him.

“Oh, my,” Tarasov comments in sharp Russian as if surprised by your predicament while one of his guards hands him his glass. “Seems like you’re not as ‘fine’ as you say. You’ve disappointed me, (Name). Greatly.”

Tarasov pats your head, the contact heavy and patronizing, as he jerks your head up. He stares at you with a hum, shaking his head as his powerful features rearrange into a look of genuine disappointment.

“Stand up,” he orders sharply and lets go of you, allowing you space to stagger to your feet. “It would be undignified to shoot you like this. Believe it or not, my hopes for you were high and you’ve been rather useful to me. I at least respect that.”

The two guards shift in the dim room, and you bare your bloody teeth on instinct, lowering your blood-covered hand from your shoulder. If they want to fight...

Tarasov laughs genuinely this time, loud and booming, suddenly reminding you of your father. “You’ve got fire, little viper. I will need that ferocity for our expansion. But you also fucked up. Badly. But you will never fail me again, isn’t that right?”

You don’t answer, staring at him through a pain-fueled haze. Tarasov ‘tsk’s and the back of his hand strikes your face with numbing force. Your lip splits on contact, one side of your face tingling with raw pain as your head snaps to the side.

Few droplets of blood hit the pristine floor, and you stare at it dumbly, breathing harshly through your mouth.

“I grow impatient,” he mutters coldly in clipped Russian. “Isn’t that right? I expect an answer. What did you think I will kill you? No, no, my dear. Not yet. You’ve made a mess but it can be sorted. How severe your punishment is going to be, however, is entirely dependant on you.”

Swallowing thickly, you lift your eyes to his, “I won’t fail you again.”

Tarasov laughs again, and salutes you before drowning the half-full glass in one gulp. He exhales, looking rather pleased with himself.

“Of course you won’t,” he hums pleasantly, and pats your injured cheek with heavy intent. “Because if you do, I will have John himself put a bullet in your pretty little head. Now get out of my sight and don’t come back till I call for you.”

. . .

The knock on your door comes two days later.

You aren’t expecting guests so the first thing you do is grab your poisoned needles and your gun.

Gripping the familiar weight in your palm, you cautiously approach the door, levelling the gun against the wood. “Who is it?”

“It’s me.”

Your hand drops instinctively, and you crack the door open, only to find a familiar pair of dark eyes already staring at you. Your fingers tremble slightly as you open the door fully and John’s familiar stocky frame comes into view.

He, in turn, takes a good minute to no doubt take in your bandaged shoulder and bruised face. Even though you added ice the moment you left Tarasov’s office, one half of your face is still swollen. Ugly, blotchy bruises litter your skin and you swallow shakily upon noting the hard, near frightening intensity in which John is taking in your injuries.

“Why did you come?” you finally force out, and clear your throat when your voice cracks a few times. “Didn’t you have—”

“What happened?” John speaks instead, and there’s an icy undercurrent to his words you’re unused to hearing from him.

Turning away, you walk deeper into the room, and John follows you silently.

“I figured you would know. I’m the talk of the town,” you mutter dryly, and feel a stab of anger at the thought.

When you turn to face him, John’s expression is still oddly severe though his demeanour appears as calm as always. You’re not quite sure what to make of it.

“I do know what happened on the mission,” he replies, his mouth a tight line, and voice dropping into almost whisper. “I want to know about this.”

He reaches out and for a stupid—purely idiotic second—you think that he’s going to touch your face; maybe run his thumb over your tender jaw to soothe the pain.

But John stops halfway and allows his hand to drop back to his side, patient and quiet as he waits for your explanation.

There’s an odd tension in the air that you can’t quite pinpoint. The relief of seeing him, at knowing he cares enough to at least come and see you, is already enough. Which doesn’t explain why you feel a distinct stab of disappointment at the realisation that he’s not going to hold you or comfort you, regardless of how naive it would be to expect something like that from him. That hard demeanour of his is near impossible to crack through most of the time.

“Tarasov wasn’t happy,” you settle on the easiest explanation you can give him. “Reminded me that I will never fail him again or he will have you shoot me next time.”

John’s expression twists. “I—”

He cuts himself off and you smile sadly, wincing when you scabbed lip stretches too wide. You know what he was about to say. That he wouldn’t do it—that maybe he simply couldn’t. Even in the world of killers, there are grey areas no one likes to tread on. Friends, family, associates.

But you also know the truth.

You both work exclusively under Tarasov’s contract. John would have to do what he’s told regardless of his own feelings on the matter. And maybe even if he does care, even if he considers you an actual friend, it won’t be enough to deliberately place himself in danger by showing disobedience.

“It’s okay,” you say softly, and you wonder why you sound so sad without even meaning to. “We do what we’re told. We don’t ask questions. We just pull the trigger, right? It’s who we are. We’re made for violence and isn’t that fucking sad? We don’t even question it anymore, John. Do you think—”

His head tilts, his loose hair brushing against his forehead. “Do I think what?”

You exhale slowly, shaking your head, and give him another tiny smile. Somehow even ignoring pain is easier with him beside you.

“It’s nothing. It doesn’t matter.”

For a moment, it looks like John will say something else but he stops himself at last second and nods his head as if accepting your words.

The distance between you feels like a ravine even while you spend the entire evening in the same room, breathing the same air. But perhaps that’s just the endless paradox between you.

. . .

It doesn’t happen overnight. Or days. Or even weeks.

It’s slow. So much so that you don’t notice for a long, long time and by the time you do, it’s already painfully clear that there’s no going back.

Much like the name John wears, much like the man himself, it creeps up on you. Little by little. Bit by bit.

There’s no groundbreaking moment, there are no fireworks. There’s just the knowing that sits deep in the pit of your stomach. It’s a foolish, idiotic thing. You brush it aside because you know better. Because you’re not naive enough to hope for anything in a world like this.

Hope is a dangerous thing, and you’ve had yours broken too many times to rely on it anymore.

So you don’t.

You know not to expect good things anymore, to never try and rely on anything or anyone. Every good thing you’ve ever had has either died or been taken from you.

So you really should have known that this would never last.

. . .

Tarasov’s imposed “time out” lasts for three months.

It marks the beginning of the end.

And it starts with an accident that turns into a tragedy.

. . .

an: wooo, I hope you all liked that. I’m sooo rusty it’s not even funny but I hope you found some enjoyment in this. Also sorry for the very slowburn relationship I suppose? This isn’t super romantic. But considering the type of man John is (and the fact that he’s younger here) I actually don’t see him falling for someone immediately? Also, I love angst so....this is gonna be exactly that! Thank you for reading everyone!!

#john wick #john wick x reader #john wick imagine #keanu reeves #john wick fic #fic: children of ares

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