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arece · 1 year

Note

Reader dies instead of John fucking load on the angst

Remember Me

♤ Summary: What if you died instead?

♤ a/n: THIS ISN'T CANNON!!! A what if that I personally think is even more painful than the original. I find it concerning how I find angst so much easier to write. This is a long one (2.2k) The masterlist

♤ Warnings: ANGST! John Wick violence, death.

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“Please, stop this.”

“I can’t.”

***

You begged him, followed him, did everything you could to try and stop him from doing this but it didn’t matter. Forever stubborn, a trait you no doubt got from him. Many mannerisms you had came from John. From the glower you do unconsciously to your dry humor.

But that all didn’t matter, not anymore. John had a plan, one where he might not make it out alive but the Marquis would go down with him, one where you’d be free in a way he was never able to attain. This was for you, he’d do anything for you.

“Fire!” He shoots just as Caine does. They both miss. He hears your whimper from beside Winston and it takes everything in him not to flinch back from the sound. He can feel the blood dripping down from the graze on his arm, a patch of red blooming from his white shirt.

The Harbinger calls them back twenty paces. He takes a breath, a quick glance to see the almost agonizing worry painted on your face. For you. “Fire!” It felt much faster this time, it was. It had to be realistic, like they were planning to kill each other.

The growing pain in his left shoulder knocks him back a step but otherwise he doesn’t react. Caine grunts, slightly hunched over and holding at his side. Painful yet not fatal, they took another ten paces and it was time.

“Those who cling to death, live.” A bittersweet truth he clung to until there was you. Caine gives a barely visible nod, “Those who cling to life, die.”

“Fire!”

The shot to his stomach winds him to the point he falls to his knees. It won’t kill him, a few inches upwards and would have, he wouldn’t reveal that just yet. You cry out and Winston nearly has to hold you back. He has to close his eyes, tempted to tell you he was fine but he can’t show his hand. He wasn’t done yet, he had to win.

“¡Alto!” Vincent eagerly calls out. I claim the last shot.” He grabs a bullet before storming up to Caine with a sick sort of glee. “Your weapon, give it to me,” he demands, holding his hand out. “Is my daughter free now?” He carefully asks.

Caine’s part of the deal is fulfilled, he and his daughter were now free like you’d both soon be. “Oui. You and your daughter, enjoy.” He rips the gun from Caine and quickly reloads it. “You lose,” he confidently calls out before being cut off by Winston’s mocking laugh.

“You arrogant asshole. He didn’t shoot.” Vincent snaps over to John but it’s already too late. “Consequences,” he spitefully said before shooting him straight in the head. It was all over, he finally ended it all.

You’d be safe, he could be with you, that is if you forgave him for leaving you behind. He was aware it was his fault, that it was something he should’ve never done, but at the time he felt it was the only thing he could do to keep you safe. After two years, he finally got you back.

“John,” a soft whimper behind him. He looks up to see you holding your stomach, a few inches upwards. The Marquis’ gun went off, hitting you as collateral. You nearly fell back until Winston grabbed ahold of you.

Caine stepped back, The Harbinger leaving, it was not the time to finalize the terms. “No.” John feels nearly hysterical as he clumsily makes his way to you, dragging you from Winston into his arms. It felt like he wasn’t even there, this wasn’t real.

He pushes down on your wound, desperate for it to go away. You cry out from the pain, “I know, I know. I got you, kid.” Winston has to turn away, tearing up at the sight of just how fragile you looked.

John felt himself growing frantic, nearly losing himself already at the idea of losing you. He tries to gather you into his arms, just like that time you were sick. Just like that time, you’d be fine. He was overreacting, the Doctor would tell him it’s something minor. It won’t be like his Helen.

But you stop him, crying quietly now as you hold tightly to his hand on your stomach, “you’re free now?” You ask in an uncharacteristically small voice that has him nearly sobbing. “Yeah,” he brushes your hair back just like every time he’s done before.

It was foolish, you know, but you just wanted him to comfort you one last time, “you’re not going anywhere?” John slightly chokes, pulling you closer, as if holding you to him and refusing to let you go would keep you here. “You and me, kid. I’m not going anywhere.”

“I missed you.” Your eyes flutter shut and you cuddled into him like you did whenever you had a nightmare. It was almost enough to convince John that’s what this was, you were just sleeping. But the lack of your chest rising and the soothing sound of your breaths had him finally breaking down.

No matter how hard he tried to do right by you he failed, every time. He did all of this to save you, left you for two years to protect you, reunited with you, only for you to die. You had begged him to stop, gave him so many opportunities to put down his gun and just live for you and he refused. His never ending need for revenge killed you, he killed you.

The background was a blur, he couldn’t hear anything, focused on solely rocking you back and forth, pushing your hair back every time it fell into your face. He ignored the blood he smeared on your face as he brought your head closer - your blood - and kissed your head softly.

You. His daughter, his kid, his baby. He missed you too, there was never a moment he didn’t, even now he missed you more than anything. Winston tried to step closed and he held out your knife threateningly. He didn't care, no one got near you right now except for him.

“Johnathan,” He calls out softly, red rimmed eyes of his own. “The first time I saw her in two years and she’s already gone.” He didn’t bother looking up, trailing a finger over your cheek that was already growing cold.

“I missed so much and it’s my own fault,” he glances up at Winston, “I’ll never get that time back.” He gathered you close and stood, he was going to bring you home and you were never going to leave again.

He nods for his jacket and Winston drapes it over you, covering your fatal wound just like he wanted. You were sleeping. It hit him suddenly that he never told you he loved you and it was almost enough to send him back to the ground.

He should’ve just done what you had asked, whatever you wanted. He held you securely with Winston by his side, both ready to bring you back.

***

(y/n) Wick

Loving daughter

“You and me, kid.”

Something you’d probably scoff at but it felt right. Dog refused to move from your grave and John had half the mind to stay with her. Even the Bowery King had shed a few tears, having to leave soon after due to not being able to handle the emotions.

“Always said he was dramatic,” he could almost swear he heard you say. You were next to Helen, a little family he wanted to join. He didn’t know what to do without you, lost in a way he’s never been before.

Losing a child is a pain you never get over, a gaping hole that never fills. He was angry but had no one left to blame, no enemies to kill. For once, John was forced to sit and deal with his grief and god if it wasn’t the most painful thing he’s ever felt.

He carried so much guilt and regret for what happened between you, so many mistakes he’d never be able to go back and fix. Winston’s reassurance of how much you had loved him didn’t help.

You admired and loved a monster, both John Wick and the Baba Yaga. It had gotten you killed. Everything John Wick loves dies. You were doomed from the moment he accepted that coin, the moment he placed his jacket over you in that car and decided he would do anything for you.

He felt that he cried out everything he had left, numb besides the anger he held towards himself. This was his own doing. Eventually he forced himself and Dog to go to your apartment, the place you lived when John forced you out of your home.

It felt empty - lonely. It was enough to break his heart all over again, he drove you to this. He collected the few photos of yourself in the apartment, his own only of your younger years. He couldn’t stand the thought of the last image he had of you being older was dying in his arms.

As he brushed over your belongings he came across a small box. He opened it to see a bunch of folded up papers held down by a gold coin. A gold coin he recognized, the coin that led him to you, to your death. He picked it up and was tempted to throw it away before pocketing it. He’d keep any part of you he could get, even if it reminded him of his mistakes.

He picked up one of the folded papers; a letter dated back to a few days after he left you.

John,

I don’t think I could ever forgive you. I trusted you.

I never believed that I could belong anywhere, everyone seemed to leave eventually.

I knew that day would come with you, I just didn’t expect it to hurt so much.

He swallowed, skimming through the letters, varying emotions of resentment, hurt, and confusion in each. It was painful, but one John wholeheartedly deserved. He may have been what you wanted but he wasn’t what you deserved, you deserved more.

He reached the last letter in the pile, it was written just a week before you hunted him down, a week and a few days before you died.

John,

I think I get it now. Though it doesn’t make it hurt less, I at least know now that you did care. You wanted me to be safe but what you seemed to never understand is that I felt safest with you.

All I wanted was you. I’ll always carry that hurt for the potential what could’ve been but I can cherish the time we did have together, when I had someone who cared for me so deeply.

I hunted down the Continental Doctor to trade for that coin you gave him - something to remember you by - and he gave it to me for free. I think he understood.

Everyone seemed to do that better than us. We always struggled to actually talk to each other, resorting to desperate actions. Maybe that’s what led us here today.

I hope you find that peace and freedom you always longed for, the kind you couldn’t get with me. That’s part of the reason I think we would’ve never worked, all I brought was chaos and pain, something you never needed more of, what you were trying to escape. For that I’m sorry.

Now, I’ll try to fix our mistakes, learn from them and speak openly. I don’t know if I’ll ever be brave enough to send these to you but if you do find them I hope you know that I love you.

I love you and thank you for being the dad I never got. Even if it was for a short time.

Love,

Your daughter.

John fell down onto your chair, crying so hard he couldn’t make out the words on the letter. He held it away from him, scared he’d stain it with his tears.

You got to heal but for the wrong reasons, without his apology and the full knowledge of his love for you. You were right, you both struggled with words and he should’ve tried harder. You always struggled feeling like you belonged and he didn’t do enough to reassure you.

He wished he could’ve told you just how much he cared for you, how much he loves you. How he’s sorry.

***

Although no matter what happened next it would never be fully happy; but if John were able to heal the slightest bit, accept, and move on, it would’ve been better. Though that’s never how John worked. He solely relied on his anger, looking for someone to blame, looking for a fight. Something he knew how to do.

He chose to direct his anger towards the entire High Table, to wipe them all out. Winston tried to fight him on this, convince him that it wouldn’t be what you wanted. But you weren’t here and you were gone because of the High Table and him. Either way they’d both go down for taking you away.

A suicide mission. But what else was there left to live for? He lost all that brought meaning to his life, he killed it, watched as it slipped through his fingers, helpless to stop it all. Helen, and now you.

He didn’t believe in much anymore but he hoped, hoped that when he did finally get to rest, it’d be with you.

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arece · 11 months

Text

The Way Things Go

♤ Summary: You begin to forget. The storyline

♤ a/n: This isn't a request, I'm just feeling angsty. Who still gets covid in 2023? I do and I'm sorry. (1.9k)

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John’s home being burnt down left you very little, and not of monetary value. No, instead it gave you nothing that was explicitly his. You had the coin but that only brought you comfort for so long.

You were having one of your off days, something that became a frequent part of your life since his passing. Curled up on the couch, covered in your softest blanket and Dog, you watched the rain patter against your window.

Your phone vibrated with another call, most likely from Winston. You continued to ignore it, letting him reach your voicemail. Days like these were not good for speaking with him, you could never tell if it would end with you snapping or hysterically sobbing.

Your relationship with the man has never quite recovered. You found the only way to stop unconsciously blaming yourself was to hold it against him, and he was willing to let you resent him if it meant you were no longer your own enemy.

It was hard not to blame someone, if you let it go what of him did you have to hold onto? You were fiddling with the coin, silently pleading with yourself to let it be enough but it wasn’t.

The first to leave you was the way he spoke, afterall he did it so little. Imagining how he said your name, it never managed to sound quite right. It hurt the most when you couldn’t even fathom how he called you kid. The way the letters were pronounced was always wrong.

Then it was how he smelt, something you could no longer even describe - all you could remember was it made you feel serene, smelt of home and safety. Things you weren't even aware you knew until you began to forget it all.

Your breaking point was his face. You would try to picture his face and it started to blur. No matter how hard you focused, how tightly you squeezed your eyes shut, he never came back into focus. You had no pictures for reference, no clothes, nothing to spare yourself from forgetting it all.

You could feel yourself become lost in grief, it felt like the first night of his death all over again. You were alone, without him there. You were alone for two years when he left you but then at least you knew he was out there, somewhere. Alive.

A knock sounded at your door, it seems it had been happening for a while and you missed it in your contemplation. You could hear your door opening, you didn’t bother to lock it, you didn’t have anyone to worry over your safety anymore.

“You’ve been missing for four days,” Winston slowly kneeled into your field of vision by the side of the couch. Has it really been four days? Time usually slowed down while you were missing him. Hours ticking away agonizingly slow as you waited for the painful episode to end. Maybe it was fast because you were welcoming the ache, it was all you had left of him now.

“I’m tired, Winston,” you whispered, nearly taking all your effort to do so. You couldn’t sleep, closing your eyes only served to remind you how you can’t see him. The episodes always hit the hardest after your good days, you always want him when you finally manage to feel fine.

I know, my dear.” He brushed your hair back gently, the gesture reminding you of John and bringing tears to your eyes. “I’m beginning to forget.” A tear slipped out and Winston rubbed it away, “what are you forgetting?”

“I can’t remember anymore, I can't see him. I can’t speak about it because how do you talk about a ghost?” You could feel yourself becoming more worked up, voice slightly cracking and a lump growing in your throat making it harder for you to speak. “He’s always there but it feels like a cruel trick. I’m losing him all over again.”

Your breathing grew labored and Winston pulled you down from the couch into his arms as you began to cry. “I think it’s time for you to go back,” he softly whispered once you started to calm down. You slowly pushed yourself from his arms, uncomfortable with anyone but him giving you affection. “Back where?”

“To the Ruska Roma.” You felt yourself becoming irrationally angry at the mention of John’s other family, his real family, the one he purposely kept separate from you. “I don’t belong there, he made that clear enough,” you couldn’t help but let your ugly bitterness show.

Winston began to stand, giving Dog a pat on the head before making his way to the door, “well, I believe it holds all the answers you need.” You lifted yourself from the floor, glaring at him in a childish protest. He smiled softly to himself, you were hurt but you would be fine.

“Have I ever told you I hate how cryptic you can be?” He opened the door, laughing. He really did hope you’d go, it’d be healing in a way you’ve been needing for a while now, a way he couldn’t do with the barrier between you two. “Multiple times, dear.”

As soon as the door shut you felt the smile drop from your face, the temporary distraction wasn’t enough to erase your grief. You brushed your thumb over the shining coin, you took care of it, never letting even a speck of dust taint it.

It’s not like they’d even welcome you if you went, did they even know you exist? Probably, word spreads fast when it comes to things that pertain to the Baba Yaga. You weren’t sure if you could handle any negative reaction you’d get from the people John considered family, but Winston thought it would help and you were growing desperate.

***

Your hands shook as you entered the once familiar church. You nearly felt sick when you could remember a blurry John getting dragged out. Just when you began to second guess yourself, turning to leave, a voice called out to you, “come on in, child. We’ve been waiting for you.”

The priest gestured for you to come and you slightly hesitated. As you made your way over, you could feel others staring you down. It made you want to leave, them waiting for you could also be a bad thing. Once you got to the altar the priest touched your forehead, it took everything in you not to flinch back at the contact.

He hummed, looking at your expression before muttering to himself, “the exact same.” Before you could question him a woman accompanied by a few men came in from the back. “Ah, so she shows her face! Something he was never good at.”

You were confused, stepping back as she rapidly approached you. “He did not speak of me? Figures, man of not many words, too busy running away from everything.” She slapped your back harshly in greeting, laughing when you swatted her arm from you.

A man with graying hair, face covered in tattoos and piercings stared into your soul, “I am Klaus.” You were unable to hold back your baffled look, this exchange the furthest thing from what you were expecting. “(y/n),” you responded slowly.

“Imagine my surprise finding out I am an Aunt, let alone when it’s at his last visit before his death.” You wince, looking to the floor at her blunt mention of his death, something you're struggling to acknowledge is real, let alone saying out loud. She grows apologetic, sympathy showing in her expression.

“I am Katia. Come now, I’ll show you to the family.” She reaches to grab you by your arm but you quickly pull away, fumbling at her bewildered expression, “he didn’t- I’m not actually his daughter.” Your voice cracked at the admittance.

But Katia simply scoffed, throwing her hand up in exasperation, “and I’m not actually his sister. Blood does not make family, love does. He loved you, did he not?” You didn’t even hesitate with nodding, although he made mistakes you don’t doubt the love John held for you. “Then you were his daughter and you are my niece.”

After showing you off to hundreds of people she brought you to a small corridor, stopping you at the entrance. “I think this is what you’re really here for.” She opened the door allowing you in but not following after.

You watched as she closed the door but froze when you turned around, breath stuttering. There on the wall was a portrait of John, he was younger but it was him. The wave of emotions that hit you were harsher than you expected, quickly blinking back the tears before they could obscure your sight of him.

As you sat on the bench you couldn’t help but cry at the emotion you felt at your core - relief. Relief that you could see him again, the slope of his nose, the angle of his jaw, his eyes. You had a piece of him back.

You found yourself staying at the Ruska Roma longer than you expected, practically living in the room. You would stay there for hours, just staring, memorizing. You feared that as soon as you left you’d blink and forget it all over again. It probably wasn’t the healthiest, but it was what you needed.

On the fourth day the door finally opened, Katia slowly sitting beside you, also looking at the portrait. You only look away to see what she had placed on your lap.

“It was his before he left.” You lift the jacket to your face, breathing in the scent you swore was there. Maybe it was your own delusion but you swore you could recognize the comforting smell, even if it was many years old.

Placing your cheek against the fabric reminded you of his hugs, feeling the phantom squeeze of when he’d hold you tightly to him. “You remind me of both of us.” You opened your eyes, seeing that her stare was locked on the painting.

“I resented him for leaving me behind. I see that anger in you,” when she faced you, the sadness in her eyes was reflected in your own. She softly held your cheek in her hand, brushing her thumb under your eye, wiping away any potential tears.

“I didn’t doubt you were his for a second when you arrived. That same confident, stoic demeanor.” You laughed with her, watching as she blinked away her own tears. “You even do that little furrow he did.” She moves her hand to poke at the space in between your eyebrows.

“I’m beginning to forget him. I can’t leave him behind, not again.” Katia grabs the jacket from you, moving to throw it over your shoulders. “You are a part of him, he lives on through you,” she stood from the bench. “Each time you breathe, that’s you remembering a part of him. The most important part.”

You held the jacket tighter to yourself as she stood beside his portrait. “I won’t make you leave but I will help you move on. I will not let you freeze in your grief, he would have never allowed it.”

“What do you mean?” Katia scoffed, rolling her eyes at the portrait as if it was actually John, “he may have not told you about us, but he spoke of you. He ensured that you’d have a lot of people looking after you, consider yourself the most protected person in the world.”

The pain in your chest grew tenfold, you had always thought he kept you hidden, a buried burden he’d rather not acknowledge. This entire time he tried to keep you separate from the underworld while at the same time making sure if you did get dragged back in you would be protected.

“He was never one for family, but he played the father role naturally.”

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