#john wiction
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Talk Chapter 16
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Thanks to @meetmeinthematinee for editing and reassuring me on this chapter <3
Mornings for John have become excruciatingly difficult. Driving away from Helen had always been hard. Leaving her office, then later her home always felt impossible. Each step away was like torture but nothing compared to the pain of leaving her at the cottage.
The drive to New Jersey isn’t much further than New York but every mile stretches on. What once wouldn’t have phased him now tears at his soul.
The only comfort he has is every hour he drives is an hour closer to the time he can turn his car around.
It’s a little after noon when he finally reaches the motel by the airport. He pulls into the lot, driving by the strip of rooms, looking for something to indicate which is Sofia’s.
He finds a window with a playing card in the window. The ace of hearts. She had used a sharpie to etch on the letter ‘V’.
His v-card. Hilarious.
John parks the car outside the window with a sigh, shaking his head as he does. He walks over and knocks on the door. It doesn’t take long for Sofia to answer.
Her hair is piled into a ponytail. She’s dressed inconspicuously. Blue jeans and a hoodie as she hides away in a sleazy motel.
“Hey, Sof.”
“Owe me big, John. This bitch is a talker.” She replies shaking her head, the start of a smile on her lips. She opens the door wider, allowing John to slip in. The motel room itself is shit but he knows that Sofia has slept in far worse conditions.
The room is adjoining, and an open door leads to a second room. John walks over, looking in. Isabella DeLuca’s are bound behind her, a rope leading from her hands to the headboard. Her head lolls in a way that tells John she is asleep rather than resting.
“She wouldn’t shut up, so I sedated her. Hope that’s okay.”
“Considering how many times Helen was sedated by her son, I have no qualms.”
That causes Sofia’s head to swing in his direction and it occurs to John that he never really went into detail with his friend.
“I’m sorry, what?”
John dips his head, “It’s a long story.”
“We got time.” She says without room for argument. Sofia shakes her head as she turns back to her room. She walks over to the small, two-person table and sits. “What the fuck, John?”
Having already sat for the past four hours, he remains standing, leaning against the wall as he does. “I should probably preface this with the fact Helen and I aren’t actually together.”
Sofia makes a face, “You’re kidding.”
John shakes his head.
She makes a large show of sighing, rising to her feet. Sofia walks over to the window and reaches just past the blinds, pulling out the card she had left in the window.
“Guess you can keep this.”
She throws it at him and John catches it with ease, placing it face down on the table as Sofia settles back into her seat.
“You’re hilarious.”
“You’re hilariously disappointing.” She shoots back, “Here I thought I was helping you save the love of your life.”
“I never said she wasn’t that.”
Sofia narrows her eyes, “So you love her. But you’re not together.”
“That sums it up.”
She rolls her eyes, “So what are you? Friends? Neighbors? Confidants?” And like Winston, he can see the moment it clicks in her head, “Oh, fuck. She’s not your therapist.”
John changes his mind about standing in that moment, pulling out the chair and sinking in. “We met in a café about seven months ago. Gave me her card, introduced herself.”
“And you thought she was pretty. So instead of asking her out like most people would have done, you booked an appointment.” She shakes her head, “Jesus fucking Christ, John.”
“She was normal. And kind and pretty. And I knew she didn’t belong in our world.” John leans forward, desperately trying to explain where his thoughts had been all those months ago. “I didn’t mean for it to turn into what it did. I just wanted to talk to her one more time, get her out of my head. But, instead, it became addicting. Being around her.
“After two months, we were starting to run out of things to talk about. And I was more afraid of losing her than I was the consequences when I told her about the Underworld.”
Sofia puts her face in her hand, “You didn’t.”
“I did. In hindsight, I think I was looking for her to reject me. To force me to move on when I wasn’t strong enough to walk away on my own. But she didn’t reject me. She wasn’t afraid or disbelieving. And it was around there that I went from being obsessed and infatuated to madly in love with her. It was also around there when I got a little out of control.”
She looks up at him doubtfully, like she can’t believe it’s going to get worse.
“I started following her.”
“John!”
“I’m not proud of it. And God knows I’ve done worse things in my life.” He shrugs, “I—again, it started small. I told myself it was just curiosity that made me follow her home the first time. And then it became every Friday. Then every weekend. Then every day. But nothing stays a secret forever.”
“DeLuca.”
John nods, “Last Friday, Hels was taken from her bed in the middle of the night. I got a call not long after saying I would get Helen back, alive and unharmed, if I killed Lorenzo, Gianna, and Santino D’Antonio. At the time, I didn’t know it was DeLuca. I didn’t have a name, an organization. Just an order and a blind promise.”
“It was two days of hell, trying to find anything on who had her. Where she was. But Hels is nothing if not resourceful. She managed to manipulate one of the guards into sending me a text, letting me know who had her. Sunday night, I was able to get her out. Took her home.”
“And Monday the contract went wide.”
John nods, “One-part revenge, one-part manipulation. Mateo still wants the D’Antonio’s dead. Did you get the file that was scanned to you? On Isabella?”
Sofia nods back, “Yeah, got it before I even landed in Rome. Isabella’s mother was a D’Antonio.”
“It’s a whole lot of political bullshit that I don’t care about.” John admits, “The running theory is that Isabella thinks she can simultaneously get revenge on her family and strengthen the Syndicate by eliminating Lorenzo and his heirs.”
“But if you eliminate Lorenzo, the High Table and the Camorra come for you.” Sofia finishes, “That said,” she looks up at John, curiously, “I heard a rumor Santino D’Antonio is dead.”
“Good.”
“Did you kill him?” John pulls out his phone and finds the pictures. He hands it to Sofia. Her eyes widen as she looks back to him, “The Camorra is going to destroy you!”
“It’s staged.”
Sofia looks back at the picture, eyes narrowing. “It is?”
“Lorenzo and Gianna have agreed to do the same. Hopefully, it will be enough to convince Mateo. If not…” He gestures with his head towards the other room.
Isabella was the contingency plan. Unfortunately, she was the contingency plan for every possible thing that could go wrong.
“How’d you get Lorenzo to agree?”
“I agreed to testify in front of the High Table that Mateo was trying to commit treason. Reverse of DeLuca’s plan. Instead of the Camorra falling and the Syndicate reaping the benefits, Syndicate will fall. The Camorra will be strengthened. And the contract on Helen will be lifted.”
Sofia nods along, handing John back his phone.
“Not bad. I can’t believe you thought of it.”
“I didn’t.” John says with a shrug, “I was more than willing to just kill them and suffer the consequences.”
“There’s the idiotic bastard I know.”
“Helen wouldn’t entertain it as an option. She came up with faking their deaths. And the plan with Isabella.”
Sofia inclines her head, “Seriously?”
His lips twitch just thinking about his love, “Hels is incredibly good at what she does. She pieced together that DeLuca wasn’t working alone long before I did. Kept telling me that he was too self-absorbed to come up with that kind of detailed plan. Kept pushing me to look at his mom.”
The other assassin leans forward, eyeing John with blatant curiosity. Like she can’t quite decide what she thinks about it all. After a minute of not being able to find whatever it is that she’s looking for, she says aloud, “I don’t get it.”
“Get what?”
“She’s smart. Pretty. Clearly cares about you if she’s willing to put up with you and figure out how to save you. You admit you’re in love with her.“
John looks away, “So?”
“So why aren’t you fucking?”
He shakes his head, still looking at the ground, “You’re worse than Marcus.”
“I’m serious. You’ve kept her around, despite the obvious dangers of our world. But you’re still keeping her at arm’s length. Why?”
John exhales a long breath. If she had only asked him that question a week ago, he would have been able to respond without hesitation.
It was safer for both of them to avoid intimacies. Of course, he can’t say he wasn’t attached to her already. The stalking negated that in itself.
But sex complicated things. It always complicated things.
Then there was the matter that she was, technically, still his therapist. And though Helen was right, they did have god-awful boundaries, enough had changed over the course of the week that he couldn’t use that as an excuse.
And, if he was already being honest with himself, he didn’t think Helen felt that way about him. She was always so professional, even when she teased him. It never occurred to him that she might have feelings for him too.
By the time he found out, they were already in over their heads with DeLuca.
And, truth be told, it didn’t matter that she held some kind of affection for him, too. She was still too good for him. And despite what she said and thought, he would always believe that.
“I thought I could keep her away from our world. That if I didn’t cross that line, no one would come for her.”
Sofia nods, genuinely looking sympathetic to his plight. “Relationships and the Underworld don’t mix. You can’t go to bed with someone when you’re both clutching a knife under your pillow, but you can’t date outsiders. You can’t walk in two worlds.” She inclines her head, “But her contract went viral. And now, for better or for worse, she’s in our world.”
John shakes his head. “No. No, Helen can’t stay in the Underworld.”
“People aren’t just going to forget, John.”
“She has a life. Family, friends. A career that she’s worked hard for. I can’t take that away from her.”
“I know it won’t be easy, but she’s already in. There’s no turning back from that.”
He blinks and licks his lips, considering a thought he had never allowed himself to fully entertain. “What if there was?”
“There isn’t.”
“Helen’s only tie to the Underworld is me.” John says aloud, “But what if I wasn’t tied here.”
Sofia’s eyes narrow, “You mean leaving?”
It was unheard of, he knew. A near impossible task, especially for someone like him. Someone who had so many ties to the Underworld and virtually none in the real world.
He nods, more to himself than to her.
“Could you really give this all up?”
“For her?” John asks, nodding, “Yes.”
Sofia shakes her head, pushing, “Don’t just say that, John. Really think about it. If you cut ties from the Underworld, you’ll be isolated in a way you never have experienced. You won’t be able to come and go from the Continental. The High Table won’t protect you from legal trouble or the police. Friendships will be compromised because you can’t just walk between the two worlds. All those markers you’ve spent years collecting will be worthless.”
“You’d have to blend into the real world. And the rules are different there. No more fights, no more killing. You’d have to follow the social rules that exist for outsiders. And it’s a whole lot of bullshit. If someone disrespects you, you can’t just snap their neck. You have to take it.”
“And you’ll be utterly alone. You may love Helen and she may love you, too, but she won’t understand. She won’t get that the rules you two live by are different. She won’t understand the extent of everything you stand to lose—wealth, status, privilege. Because you’ll be nobody.”
“And, John, you hate to depend on anybody for anything. But you’ll need to depend on her to navigate the real world. You’ll need to trust her implicitly. Have to learn to let her take the lead. You, who have spent your entire life alone, will have to figure out how to let somebody in completely.”
“Now, tell me, do you really think that you can do that? That you can give up your entire life and livelihood for this woman?”
For her to be happy? To have her life back?
“Yes.”
Sofia watches him, but he holds her gaze. He knows it wouldn’t be easy, but he also knows that he could do it. Without regret or hesitation.
After a minute, she softly asks, “Then what’s stopping you?”
“She deserves so much better and—”
“That might be the most misogynistic thing I’ve ever heard you say.” Sofia interrupts.
“What?”
“Your Helen, she’s smart, right?”
He nods, “Ridiculously.”
“Uh huh. And she’s emotionally stable?”
“She shouldn’t be, all things considered, but she is.”
“Then why are you doubting her ability to make her own damn decision about what she wants and what she deserves?”
The breath he has just taken now feels trapped in his chest. John is frozen in place as he realizes that is exactly what he had been doing. Not purposefully, but true all the same. Making decisions, calling the shots.
But that wasn’t his job.
Fuck.
“I have to go.”
…………………………………………………………………………
The drive is a blur and it’s a miracle he doesn’t get pulled over. He doesn’t touch the brake pedal until the moment he’s turning into the driveway of the safehouse.
Half his day has been lost in a car and he can’t bring himself to care as he throws the car into park. He slams the door behind him, hurrying up the stairs and into the house. Marcus looks up as John reaches the living room, eyeing him over a furrowed brow.
John ignores him, focusing instead on the sound of someone moving about in the kitchen.
Helen looks up as he rounds the corner and her mouth curves into a smile at the sight of him, “You’re back earl—mm!”
John places a hand on either side of her head, drawing her in for a kiss.
There’s a moment where she freezes, almost stunned, before Helen seems to realize what is happening. And then her arms wrap around him, reaching up over his shoulders as her lips part. She kisses back with fervor.
Her lips are softer than he imagined and, oh, he had imagined them a thousand a day for months.
He kisses her again, unable to stop himself now that he has begun. She tastes sweet and perfect and he can’t quite figure out how he’s made it this far without ever having done this.
Helen’s tongue brushes across his lip and he meets it, licking and sucking at her like a dying man.
And, fuck, he hopes he dies like this. Asphyxiated, drowning in her kiss.
Let this be how he dies.
He’s never wanted anything so badly in his life. Just release with her taste in his mouth, her body pressed to his. Oh, how he loves her.
Her hand winds its way into his hair, holding him to her. Unyielding. He growls in response, his own hands trailing down her body. Down her torso, his fingers digging into her flesh as he tries to learn and memorize the way her body feels under his hands.
“Fucking finally!” He idly hears Marcus exclaim but he literally doesn’t give a single shit.
His hands reach Helen’s waist as her teeth gently graze at his lower lip before sucking it into her mouth again.
John grips her hard, lifting her from the ground, pulling her body impossibly closer to him.
And his beautiful girl responds by tightening her arms around him, wrapping those perfect legs around him.
Good, he thinks, because they aren’t doing this here. Both for their sakes and for Marcus.
She doesn’t stop kissing him as he turns around to head back to their bedroom. Her wet mouth trails over his beard. Her lips press kisses across his face, his neck as he rushes down the hall before slamming the door behind him.
Helen unwraps her legs as the door closes and John, reluctantly, gets the hint and lowers her back to the floor.
Even as she stands, however, she doesn’t stop. Instead, she kisses him with renewed vigor. Her grip in his hair remains the same, pulling him down to her height.
He wants to get lost in her kiss.
Her warmth, her softness, her taste…
He needs to commit it to memory so he can never forget how she feels. To know what it’s like to kiss someone you love.
And no, this isn’t his first time doing this, but it’s like a puzzle is clicking into place. A realization, a moment of oh, this is what it’s supposed to be like when he kisses the woman he loves.
I love you, I love you, I love you.
He wants to say them but his lips are otherwise preoccupied. Helen controls the kiss now, as his hands rest, one on her waist, the other wrapped around her.
Her tongue circles his and John barely finds the strength to maintain his balance. They each vie for a better angle, deepening the kiss and he wonders, to himself, if she’s as weak in the knees as he is at the contact.
He wants to swallow her; to consume her.
To be swallowed and consumed by her.
Is that possible?
And he’s not making assumptions. He doesn’t want to presume that this is going in any specific direction but his heart just about leaps out of his chest when she breaks the kiss. She steps back half a step, placing enough room between them where she can reach down. He watches her tug her t-shirt over her head. She discards it without a care.
He barely has a moment to soak in the sight of her, the dark blue of her bra standing out against her creamy skin, before her arms are back around him. Encasing him.
Helen steps backwards and John finds himself kicking off his shoes as she leads him back towards the bed.
She releases his hair only for her hands to drop to his chest. Releasing the buttons on his vest, and his jacket. John’s hand goes for his belt, undoing the clasp to allow him to pull out the ends of his shirt. She pushes the shirt off of his shoulders, taking the vest with it, as she turns so that John is the one walking backwards.
His legs meet the edge of the bed and she gives him a guiding push. He lets himself sit on the edge of the bed as she has wordlessly directed.
He can barely process a thought before she has climbed onto his lap, a leg on either side of him. Helen catches his face in her hands and kisses him again.
John never wants this to end, he thinks, as she rises up on her knees so that she is a head above him.
How can she be so gentle while she is being so passionate?
She breaks the kiss, only for the sake of oxygen. Helen gasps for breath as she rests her forehead on his, her eyes flickering open to look down at him.
Dark, like a Belarusian forest, her eyes gaze at him with a mix of adoration and curiosity. But she doesn’t ask, instead, drawing her head up so she can kiss his forehead.
Affection blooms in him anew and he knows, he knows that he doesn’t deserve this.
But Hels didn’t believe in deserving or not deserving. And Sofia had been right when she had reminded him that this choice didn’t rest on him. It was Helen’s to make.
She kisses his nose and his heart skips a beat.
I love you.
The words that had been trapped in his head, his heart for months on end. Rattling around, growing louder and louder every time he looked at her or heard her voice. Every time she entered his thoughts, which was all the time.
“I love you.”
Her hand slips down to his chin, tipping his head up so that he meets her eyes. “I love you, too.”
Her lips descend on his again before he can even process her response. She deepens the kiss, wrapping her arms around him to pull herself closer to his body.
And then, it clicks. Her words settle into his head.
John moves quickly, faster than she’s ever seen him. An arm comes around her and Helen is flipped from his lap onto her back. She gasps in surprise as John suddenly appears above her, straddling her.
He kisses her back, hard. His teeth graze at her lip before he demands, “Say it again.”
Helen’s breath hitches, her hand coming around to run over his chest, stopping at his heart.
“I love you.” She tells him, holding his eyes. Leaving no room for fear or doubt or disbelief.
His heart clenches.
No one, save her, had ever uttered those words towards him before. Not once in his life had that kind of affection ever been directed his way. Not in any language, by any person.
“I love you.” She repeats, bowing her head slightly to maintain eye contact as he starts to get lost in his thoughts. Helen pulls him back, like she always does. His life, his love, his anchor.
John kisses her again, keeping one arm wrapped around her. Her skin is warm and soft and he wants to touch and kiss every inch of it.
Helen presses a soft peck to his lips before her head veers to the side. She kisses his neck, licking at the exposed flesh. Sucking it between her lips and John feels his length aching and straining against his pants. He shifts to alleviate the growing tension. It only serves to remind him that he is atop her.
He moves his hands, trailing her torso. Feeling her curves under his palm. Her skin is soft and smooth, unmarred with battle wounds. Attesting to her innocence.
Her teeth graze at his neck and his fingers dig into her flesh. He can’t help but hold on to her at the sensation.
“Fuck!” He swears and he can feel Helen’s mouth form into a smile. She kisses the spot she had just grazed before kissing his mouth again.
She arches her back and moves her hands from his body, reaching under herself to the clasp at her bra. With nimble, practiced fingers, she undoes the latch. John pushes up to give her the room to discard the garment. Helen crawls backwards up the bed and he follows her, entranced by the sight of her breasts.
He feels powerless to stop himself, surging forward and kissing the swell of her chest. He licks at her flesh, dragging his open mouth across the soft mounds until he reaches her hard nipple. He swirls his tongue around the bud, reveling in the way she takes a sharp breath at the contact. She arches her back, pressing her breast further into his mouth.
He sucks greedily at her, his hand coming up to caress her untouched breast. His fingers do the best they can to mirror his mouth, squeezing her flesh and pinch at her nipple.
“John!” She gasps his name and it encourages him all the more. He nips at her tit, grazing his teeth along before he switches attentions.
He kisses her other breast as he switches hands, groping at her. He feels his own spit in his hand as he rubs her tender flesh.
She moans, her head falling back into the mattress. Her hips grind into his and it’s all he can do to not let his eyes roll back into his head.
Even still clothed, he’s harder than he’s ever been.
Helen reaches between them, her hand slipping into his pants, under the band of his boxers. He hisses as her hand brushes against his cock.
One hand weaves its way into his hair, pulling him up from her breast so she can kiss him again.
Is she as addicted as he is? He wonders, while her other hand wraps around his length.
Her hands are impossibly soft as she runs her hand up his cock and gently back down. He feels himself twitch in her grasp and he deepens the kiss. His tongue swirls around hers before he sucks the muscle into his mouth.
He loves her clever tongue. The gentleness that rolls off it in quiet, tender moments or the lashing of the storm in the moments she takes no shit. It tastes as sweet as her.
Helen’s thumb circles the head of his cock and he thrusts into her hand.
Is this real? He thinks. Is this actually happening? Or has he finally lost it?
He’d spent so long imagining what her touch would feel like, what her kiss would taste like that it couldn’t possibly live up to the expectations in his mind. But, fuck, she was better.
She pumps him in her hand and John shoots out his own to catch her wrist, to stop her, before it’s over before it begins. Helen whines softly at being stopped but releases him, only to reach for the edge of his pants to push them down.
He obliges, discarding them with the rest before hooking his fingers at the top of her leggings and dragging them down her body, along with her panties. He crawls down her body, kissing her chest, her stomach with every inch.
He can fucking smell her arousal. She kicks them off at the ankles and John parts her thighs, getting lost in the sight that befalls him.
And, again, he has dreamed of this. Of burying his face between her thighs and driving her wild with his tongue until she is an aching, quivering mess. A myriad of fantasies slip into his head where he has done just that.
He glances up at her, watching the harsh rise and fall of her chest as she tries to regain her breath. Her tongue darts out to wet her lips as she watches him.
His lips quirk into a small smile, holding her gaze as he bows his head. John’s tongue slips between her slick folds, tasting her essence. He growls at the tangy flavor, dragging his tongue up to her clit.
Her hips jolt and John smiles against her. He kisses the soft bundle of nerves before licking her again. And again.
John’s mouth dips to her opening, pressing his tongue inside as her wetness floods his tongue and coats his beard. Just like her very presence, he thinks of how easily it will be to become addicted to this. Her taste and smell. The way she grinds her pussy against him to alleviate the tension he knows must be growing within her.
And John has changed his mind. This is how he wants to die. Drowning in her pussy as she convulses around him desperately.
Her thighs hold him in place and he would be more than happy to remain here until he either asphyxiates or drowns in her.
He moves his tongue and Helen keens, her high-pitched moan egging him on. He swallows her down and nips at her lower lips before turning his attentions back to her throbbing clit.
He takes the bud within his mouth, teasing it with his tongue as a stream of swears and pleas escape Helen’s lips.
“Fuck, John! Fuck! Please… right there. Fuck!”
He rolls his tongue over the bundle and her please turn into a shriek. He doesn’t ease up.
Instead, he continues his ministrations, bringing a hand to her opening. He teases her with a finger. He coats it in her slick before sliding the digit inside her. She clamps down around him and John rewards her by sucking her clit.
She cries out again and John slips a second finger into her.
Helen’s leg comes up and around his shoulder. She uses the position to bring her pussy impossibly closer to his face.
John breaks away long enough to nip at the soft, sensitive flesh of her thigh as his fingers stretch her, preparing her. He turns his hand and curls his fingers up and Helen almost seems to levitate with the way she arches up into him.
Her words have lost meaning, slipping into a cacophony of non-sensical begging for his cock. His name on her lips drives him crazy.
He’s torn between tormenting her like this, riding his fingers while she grinds against his tongue, and giving her what she begs for.
John decides on mercy, if only for the sake they had both waited long enough.
He removes his fingers from her and sucks them into his own mouth, tasting her again. Addicted to the taste. Crawling back up her body, he rests himself between her thighs and he kisses her.
Her breath comes out in a stutter as he thrusts his tongue deep into her mouth. He forces her to taste herself on his tongue as he wraps his hand around the back of her head, his fingers becoming lost in her hair.
“Next time,” he promises as he breaks the kiss, holding her back from following him with his grip in her hair, “Next time, I’m going to fuck you on my tongue until your throat is too hoarse to scream.”
She tries to lift her head to kiss him, only for him to yank at her hair.
“John, please!” she rolls her wet core against him.
“Please what?” He kisses her jaw.
“Fuck me!”
His lips twitch as he presses his lips to hers, slanting his mouth to deepen the kiss as he reaches between them. John takes his cock in hand, leading it to her soaking pussy.
She brings her hips to meet him as he kisses her hard enough to bruise both their lips, and John slips inside of her.
Helen whimpers at the contact, again, wrapping her leg around him to take him deeper.
John chokes on his breath. He’d waited so long for this, for her. And now she’s here. In his bed, naked, beneath him. He’s buried inside her and he wants to savor it but he wants her to come undone around him even more.
He rolls his hips and Helen’s grip on him tightens all the more. He reaches down to her leg still stretched out and brings it up. Eagerly, she wraps it around his hips, like the other one. Clinging to him.
She was already close before they began and, already, she found herself on edge again.
He hopes she knows that he’s not letting her go after this. He can’t live without this now that he knows what it feels to be inside her.
His movements, which had started gently, slowly, pick up a pace. Become more frenzied.
Nails rake down his back.
He responds with a bite to her lip, grazing his teeth along. As they part, Helen curls her head into his shoulder. Her breaths come in quick, sharp increments.
Her mouth opens on his shoulder and she bites down, making John groan. His already frenzied thrusts start to lose control as he can feel pleasure building inside of him.
Helen screams, muffled by his shoulder, as she breaks apart. Her nails dig into his back as she thrashes into the mattress, but John doesn’t stop.
He reaches between them, pressing his thumb on her clit as he continues to thrust. The action prolongs her orgasm and he feels her pussy convulsing around him.
John feels dizzy, intoxicated as his own pleasure reaches a new height before he, too, comes undone. With a cry, he feels himself release, spilling inside of her as his hips start to slow, still rocking against hers.
He gasps for breath as her pussy milks him. He turns to kiss the top of her head, her face still buried in the crook of his neck. Her breaths are still uneven.
John swallows as he wraps his arms under her, holding her to him as he rolls to his side, taking her with him.
Helen curls into him, holding him just the same. He strokes her hair, still caught up in the stunned disbelief of what had just happened between them.
It occurs to John that he has lived his entire life with one foot in the grave. Ready for death, even if not expecting it. But as she holds him, clings to him, it breaks over him at once that he is not ready to leave the world behind.
Salvation found in her kiss; heaven is where he is still buried deep within her.
Can he stay here forever?
He feels her lips shift into a smile against his neck and he kisses her head again.
Hels looks up, her eyes twinkling playfully. She reaches a hand to his forehead, brushing back sweat-soaked hair so she can see his face.
“What took you so long?”
#john wick#helen wick#john wick talk#john wick fanfiction#john wiction#john x helen wick#helen x john wick#sofia al-azwar#marcus (john wick)
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Snapshots Chapter One
Super excited to announce that the sequel for Talk has just begun! It follows just a few days after Talk ends with John and Helen adjusting to their new life together.
You can find the first chapter on A03 Here!
Or below... once again, thank you to @meetmeinthematinee for your endless support and editing this for me as we begin another journey :) <3
Something is wrong. He knows it in his bones, it courses through his blood.
John creeps up the stairs, carefully, eyes peeled as he looks around the dark familiar house. He hears nothing, not even the soft sounds of breathing. He reaches the hallway and it seems to fluctuate in length, keeping him from his destination.
At last, he makes it to his destination, turning into the doorway to find an empty room. An empty bed.
No. No, no, no. She was supposed to be there.
He jumps as he hears a phone ring.
The tone vibrates loudly, almost menacingly.
With shaky hands, he reaches to answer.
An unfamiliar voice taunts on the other end you’ll never see her again .
John slams his eyes closed.
This isn’t right; this isn’t right.
When he opens his eyes, he’s no longer in the room. Instead, he’s on an empty street. He can idly smell the sea, tasting the salty air on his tongue. It’s nearly bitter. He scans the horizon and while he does not recognize it, he notes that it is oddly familiar but he can’t place it.
He spots a house and somehow knows that is where he is supposed to go.
He sets a course for it, unsure of why. His legs carry him there anyway. It’s old and rickety and should have been condemned long ago but he walks up the path and the steps to the door. Before he can knock, a gust of wind blows it open.
It’s empty. Void of any signs of life. There are no people, no furniture. Only a thin layer of dust on a down-trodden floor.
Again, he is drawn forward, seemingly of his own accord. He finds an open door that leads downstairs into a basement.
He descends uncertainly. Nerves and anxiety pour through him even if he can’t understand what he is doing or why he is doing it.
Then he sees her.
Helen. His Helen, lying on the concrete floor. A pool of blood dried at her head, her eyes open but empty.
“No,” he says, surging forward. John drops to his knees and scoops up her lifeless body, “No, no, no, no, no, no. Helen, sweetheart, please. Don’t leave me! You can’t leave me!”
The voice from the phone is suddenly in his ear, It’s just business, John.
…
He awakens with a gasp, startling back into the real world.
The weight on his chest shifts, a small dissatisfied moan escapes Helen as she picks up her head.
She’s alive, he thinks as he closes his eyes, she’s safe. His breathing is still heavy with fear and fright from the nightmare.
Fuck, every hair stands on end and he suddenly feels ice cold, even underneath the blankets and the heat from her body.
He feels her hand cup his bearded cheek and her voice, still ladened with sleep, asks, “What’s wrong?”
Her voice relieves him all the more, but he cannot get the image of her broken body out of his head. He hadn’t been there and Helen had been taken from him.
But he shakes his head as he opens his eyes. “Nothing. Go back to sleep.”
And he should have known that was going to be the wrong thing to say because he feels the bed move as she pushes up to get a better look at him. Even as drowsy as she clearly was, Helen had a way of staring into his soul.
“Nightmare?” she guesses.
John nods.
She hums, sitting up and stretching before she pushes the covers off. “Come on.”
“It’s the middle of the night,” he says, glancing at the clock. 3:26.
“Yep.” She steps into her slippers and leaves the bedroom without another word.
He glances to the clock again and shakes his head. John climbs out from under the covers to follow her. She leads him downstairs to the kitchen.
“Sit down.” She tells him, leaving no room for argument. She grabs a saucepan and sets it on a burner.
John takes a seat at the island, “You have to work in the morning.” He reminds her as he watches Helen take the milk from the fridge.
“I’ll be fine.” She says, sounding unconcerned as she turns on the heat, “How often do you have nightmares?”
“Almost never.” At least, none that he remembers. And not for a damn long time.
She rummages in one of the cupboards and pulls down a tub of cocoa.
John lifts a brow, “Cocoa?”
“As a licensed therapist, I can tell you that chocolate holds more answers than Freud.”
He laughs softly, watching as Helen scoops the powder into the saucepan.
“You want to tell me about it?” she asks, finding a wooden spoon to stir it.
He considers the question. He knows if he says he doesn’t want to talk about it, she’ll respect it. But he’s also spent a lifetime keeping things to himself because he didn’t have anyone who cared or who would listen.
“I was back at your house the night…” he trails off.
She knows the night. When Helen had been drugged and kidnapped, taken from her bed by the head of the Italian Syndicate, Mateo DeLuca. She was taken and held hostage for two days while John searched for her.
Helen nods in understanding. She scrapes the milk off the side of the spoon and sets it to the side as she walks over to the island. Reaching across, she takes his hands.
“Go on.”
John shivers but nods, “The hallway outside your room kept growing. And I knew something was wrong but I didn’t know what. So I kept trying to reach your room. And when I finally did, you were gone and…” he pauses to give himself a moment to breathe, “I heard DeLuca saying I would never see you again.”
Helen squeezes his hands in comfort.
“And then, I was back at the house. The one where he held you. I went into the basement and I found you…”
Dead.
But he cannot say it aloud. Closing his eyes, he forces himself to continue.
“You weren’t breathing,” his voice nearly breaks. He can still see the image of her lying there. It’s been branded in his head, “And you were bleeding. There was this pool of blood and you wouldn’t wake up.”
She squeezes his hand in support.
“I kept begging you to come back to me and then I heard DeLuca again. He said, “it’s just business .””
It was a miracle that they had survived DeLuca’s demands. That they even stood there, now.
If he had so chosen, DeLuca could have killed Helen a thousand times, a thousand ways in the days that he held her hostage. He planned to have her killed even after John had rescued her.
Helen stands up, taking her hands back as she walks around the counter to where John sits. He turns as she approaches, regarding her carefully. She places a hand on his head and he finds himself leaning into it in comfort.
“I’m right here.” She reminds him. “I’m safe.”
John swallows as he nods.
She was safe.
But she almost hadn’t been.
“It’s just…” John trails off, not even sure what he was trying to say.
“It was scary. It was the first time in a long time that you hadn’t felt in control of a particular situation.” Helen synthesizes.
He nods, gratefully. Words have never been his forte but she’s always been able to get into his head. To see exactly what he wants to say even when he can’t figure out how.
“I couldn’t find you.” He mutters, reaching out to touch her. To ground himself to her very presence.
“But you did.” She reminds him gently.
After two days.
And anything could have happened in those two days. He had been so afraid that he wouldn’t find her in time. Or that he’d find her hurt and broken, a shell of her former self…. And it would have been his fault for putting her in danger, for not protecting her…
“For lack of a better word,” Helen tells him, “it was traumatic.”
John shakes his head, “I don’t know why I’m struggling so much.”
“I think several factors are coming into play. The first of which is that I’m going back to work tomorrow. I think you’re probably nervous, even if only subconsciously, that something might happen once I leave your sight.”
“It’s not subconscious.” He admits, “I’m fucking terrified. I even considered just sitting outside your office all day tomorrow, but I know… I know that won’t actually help.”
“It won’t.” She agrees. “And I know it’s confusing, but this is a perfectly normal response to going through something like this.”
Again, he shakes his head. It isn’t right. “You were the one kidnapped. Why am I the one falling apart?”
Helen leans in and kisses his nose, “Because it isn’t that simple.”
She steps out of his arms and walks back to the stove. She stirs the pot and John watches the steam as it rises.
“I don’t understand.”
“Trauma is relative.” Helen says as opens the cupboard and finds two of her mugs which she had unpacked only days before. “You’ve lived through ordeal after ordeal for the better part of your life. You became numb to a lot of things that the average person might view as traumatic—violence, death. Chaos and destruction.
“You’re a veteran,” she points out. “You’ve been in combat situations that others may have found debilitating. Think back… were there people in your unit who were uncomfortable with killing or direct violence? At least in the beginning?”
Definitely. He idly remembers a pimpled-face boy, still struggling to grow facial hair who had cried himself to sleep the first night overseas. He thinks of another who hadn’t made it through basic training before he was begging to go home.
“They grew up in comfort—with all their needs met. Food, shelter. Some of them came from loving families, I’m sure. But you grew up fighting for survival. What was bare minimum for them was near luxury for you.
“Our brains,” she continues, “continue to develop until we’re about twenty-five but the things we learn in the first years of our lives are what really stick with us. They’re formative. What might be traumatic for the average person became your baseline.”
Helen moves the pot from the burner. Carefully, she pours the hot liquid into the mugs.
“When I first met you, you were still in survival mode. In some ways, you thrive in it. But, after a while, you formed an attachment to me.” She opens the fridge and pulls out of a bottle of whipped cream—something John had never once had in his home before she moved in, insisting that it was a household staple.
“Ah, so it’s your fault.”
She throws him a wink, adding a mountain of the cream to each beverage. Helen picks them up and walks around, taking a seat on the stool next to his, handing him the drink.
“I do get what you’re saying.” John says once she settles onto the stool and sips at cocoa. “Losing…” he can’t even finish the sentence. His chest feels too heavy, his throat too tight.
“Losing me, for however short a time, was scary.”
Scary was an understatement. Terrifying, horrifying… they all fell short of the myriad of emotions that rushed him when he found her house disturbed and Helen missing from her bed.
“It was traumatic for you. And trauma takes a hold of us. Especially when it’s unprocessed. It shows up in other ways.”
“Like what?” He wants to be prepared for what may come.
“Well, the nightmares for one. But it can manifest in all sorts of ways. Flashbacks. Aggression. Sometimes people emotionally shut down, but since that’s you at your baseline, I’m not too concerned.”
He shoots her a look.
“Drink your cocoa.” She tells him.
He resists the urge to roll his eyes and does as his woman demands. It’s hot but still soothing. And he doesn’t want to admit it, but the whipped cream is perfect.
He sets the mug down and Helen giggles.
John arches a brow and she reaches out, “Got whipped cream on your nose, killer.”
She wipes it and John catches her wrist in his hand. Slowly, deliberately, he brings her hand to his mouth, sucking the finger into his mouth. All the while, never taking his eyes off of her.
Helen rewards him with the smile she saves just for him.
How close he had come to losing her for good.
And yet, if he hadn’t lost her at all, they wouldn’t be here.
They’d still be sitting across the room from one another, avoiding the heaviness of what they both felt with talk of simpler things.
And he doesn’t know what to make of that, either.
“Do you ever…” He hesitates, “Do you ever think about how we might not be together if…?”
“If DeLuca hadn’t taken me?” She’s oh-so-good at picking up on the things he can’t bring himself to say out loud. But she had proven, time and time again, to be much braver than he was.
John nods.
So does Helen, “That thought has crossed my mind.”
“How do you cope with it?”
She shrugs, “It is what it is. Radical acceptance. I can still hate DeLuca for what he did to us even if I’m grateful that it got us to this point. Life is complex. So are our feelings. And that’s okay.” She takes another long sip. “Love is beyond good and evil.”
“Nietzshe.” He recognizes, “I suppose it makes sense. Otherwise, you’d never look at me twice.”
“I’m going to get a nerf gun and start shooting you every time you make a self-deprecating comment like that.”
“What’s a nerf gun?”
“It’s a toy gun that shoots foam.”
John makes a face of disbelief, “What’s that supposed to do? Because I’ve been shot with actual bullets and I can guarantee you it never changed my behavior.”
Her lips twitch, “Hmm. You’re right. Negative reinforcement may not be the way to go with you. We could do the reverse—every time you say something good about yourself, I’ll give you a kiss.”
He arches a brow, “I can just say things I don’t believe.”
“Fine. This isn’t a quick fix. I expect it to take some time but, eventually, you may start to believe those little affirmations.”
“So if I say I’m great…”
“Then I,” she scooches her chair closer, “would have to reward you.” She cranes her neck, and he meets her part way, accepting the softest of kisses against his lips.
“I could get on board with this.” He says as she pulls away.
“I’m sure.”
He sips at his cocoa. It’s still so new, all of it.
Two weeks ago, he had been sleeping alone every night. It was a good change. The best change, but he still wasn’t entirely used to sharing his life. Or his thoughts and feelings.
And it’s new for her, too.
Even if life with Helen feels as natural as breathing, it’s new. And there’s a learning curve.
He had some practice with telling her what was on his mind, but he had spent so long hiding his feelings for her, he occasionally has to remind himself that it’s okay.
“I love you.”
“I love you, too.” She rests her head against his shoulder.
He loves her so much. He’s never had anything like this before. Something so beautiful and complex and utterly breakable.
Helen is utterly breakable.
In turn, so is he.
He never realized just how easy it would be for him to fall apart until he lost her.
And now, it’s all he can think about.
Who would he be if she wasn’t there?
And, a darker thought that clouds his mind, what would he be if she wasn’t there?
He fears something far darker than the Baba Yaga would emerge if he lost her. He shivers and amends if he survived losing her .
He wasn’t sure he would want to live without her, in any context. If DeLuca had killed her rather than held her hostage, John can’t imagine wanting to live.
He wouldn’t shoot himself or take pills or anything to that active extent… but he thinks he might go mad. Like a rabid dog until someone was kind and merciful enough to put him out of his misery.
And like she can sense that he is going down a darker rabbit hole, Helen slips off her stool and stands next to him. Her arms wrap around him, squeezing his middle tightly.
He feels his own arm lift to wrap around her as she buries her face in the crook of his neck.
“I’m here.” Helen reminds him. “I’m here and I’m safe and I’m yours.”
He exhales a breath and tightens his grip, hugging her while simultaneously pulling her up onto his lap. He buries his face in her hair, inhaling her soft scent. Like peaches and cream.
“I’m sorry.” He should be so much stronger than this.
“For what?” Helen pulls back enough to look at him.
For this.
For falling apart.
For not being strong enough.
For not being the good man you deserve.
For waking you up in the middle of the night.
For everything.
“I’m having a harder time with all this than I thought I would.” He shakes his head, “I got you up at three in the morning because I had a fucking nightmare.”
“Baby, you don’t need to apologize for being human.” Her hand strokes his beard, “I get it. We had a crazy couple of weeks.”
He glances down, “Yeah, but you’re not falling apart the way I am.”
“You’re not falling apart. You’re adjusting. And you’re also forgetting, I mentally prepared myself for this. And I knew you would be coming.” Helen shrugs a shoulder, “And quite frankly, it could have been worse .”
His stomach rolls at what she alludes to.
The entire two days she had been gone, he wondered what could be happening to her. He imagined every vile and terrifying possibility, prepared to burn down all of New York to find her.
“But it wasn’t.” She says forcefully, breaking through his thoughts to capture his attention. “And now, we’re here. And we’re both safe.”
They were.
He still has enemies, but he is out. And, frankly, no one will care about him if he isn’t in the game.
So why couldn’t he wrap his brain around that fact?
“It’ll take time.”
“How much time?” He asks, wondering if his desperation is audible.
“I don’t know. Everyone processes things differently. But it could be a little while before you’re able to make peace with it all.”
“And until then, what?” He’s so used to her having the answers. A part of him knows it's unfair, but the other part just wants Helen to tell him that it will be okay, “I live with PTSD?”
“Technically, you don’t have PTSD. Symptoms have to persist for at least one month for that diagnosis. Until then, it’s just acute stress.” She gives a small smile, “But I know that’s not the point. You will have to live with it… for now.”
He had been afraid of that. He didn’t want to live with it. Especially now that he finally had Helen, now that she was finally his , he didn’t want to waste time processing shitty memories.
“But,” she leans her head against his, “You don’t have to go through it alone.”
John closes his eyes, resting his head. Breathing in her soothing scent once more.
Because she is right. For the first time in his entire life, he could truly say that he isn’t alone. He has someone in his corner who loves him. And he no longer cares that he doesn’t deserve her. He’s never letting her go.
Not for the world.
She’s his for as long as she will have him. And while John would never describe himself as a proud man, he is certain that he’s never begged for anything in his life. It almost surprises him when the words fall from his mouth desperately, “Don’t leave me.”
“Never.” She promises, “You’re stuck with me, Jardani.”
John holds her tighter.
Everything will be okay.
#john wick talk#john wick snapshots#john wick fanfiction#john wick#helen wick#john wick fanfic#john wiction#badass helen wick#therapist! helen wick#retired! john wick#let them be happy
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Talk Chapter 17
Chapter 17 on AO3
He only leaves the room for the sake of getting water for each of them. They had torn the rest of the covers off the bed, leaving only a sheet for Helen to lay under. John slips on his pajama pants, forgoing the shirt as he leaves the room.
His cheeks are flushed and he’s grateful that the beard hides most of it as he prepares for whatever comments Marcus is going to have. As he reaches the juncture of the kitchen and the living room, however, the assassin is nowhere to be seen.
He looks around and spots a piece of paper folded in half with his name on it on the counter.
John flips it open.
While I’m thrilled you finally got your head on straight, I have no interest in listening to you do the nasty. Figured I’d give you two some privacy. Be back in a few hours.
PS. Fuck this up and I will kill you myself.
John sets it down, lips twitching into an almost-smile. If he fucked this up, he’d beat Marcus to the punch.
His thoughts drift back to the woman in his bed. The naked woman in his bed.
He fills two glasses of water and turns back, unwilling to waste any time. They had wasted enough of that.
In the midst of their afterglow, they had talked a bit. Kissed some more.
"What changed?" She had asked.
"Had a talk with Sofia. She pointed out I was so concerned with what I thought you deserved; I never took into account what you wanted."
"Remind me to send her a thank you card."
And then, Helen had pushed him to his back and climbed on top of him.
Who was he to deny her anything?
Instead he had watched as she guided his length inside her before she began riding his cock. That sight of her moving, his hands on her hips, her breasts bouncing would forever be etched into his head. And after they had both come undone, Helen had collapsed on top of him.
Sweating and gasping, his softening cock still inside her. Helen wrapped her arms around him the best she could manage. She kissed his chest before whispering, again, that she loved him.
And, fuck, but those words did something to him.
Aside from reducing his refractory period to next to nothing, they made him feel safe.
A feeling as foreign as love, he'd never really felt safe with anybody. The orphanage had been a disastrous experiment in human suffering. Tarkovsky Theater, under the Director, hadn't been any better.
It had taken him years to trust Winston, Marcus, and Sofia. But it was different. He didn't trust them with his life so much as understand their own sense of loyalty would keep him from betrayal.
And that aside, he had never trusted any of them with his heart.
He's never been so vulnerable as laying naked in bed with her. But he isn't afraid. Despite all assumptions of what it would be like to actually give in, he doesn't feel an ounce of fear.
He has never felt so at peace in all of his life.
John pushes open the door and feels his breath leave his lungs at the sight before him.
The white sheet covers most of her body, tucked around the swell of her breasts. Her dark hair is spread across the pillow, her eyes are closed.
He’s captivated.
He’s always captivated by her but, fuck . How could one person be so beautiful, so perfect?
Her lips stretch into a smile, “What are you doing, John?”
“Looking at you.”
Helen’s eyes open, taking him in. Softly, she demands, “Come here.”
Helpless to resist, he closes the door behind him and follows her. She’s like a siren.
He sets the glasses on the bedside table before placing a hand on the far side of her. Helen’s hand reaches up, caressing his cheek, as he bends low, bowing his head to brush his lips against hers.
The thought sticks in his head again: I love you, I love you, I love you .
And as they break apart, as he rests his head against hers, he remembers he doesn’t have to keep it to himself anymore.
“I love you.”
She hums, “I love you, too.”
John kisses her again before reaching for her water. He hands it to her and sits back, giving Helen the space to sit up.
She takes a sip, “Did Marcus give you a hard time?”
He smirks, “Marcus decided to disappear for a few hours.”
“Oh no! I didn’t mean to make him uncomfortable and—”
John leans forward and cuts her off with a kiss, taking great joy in the fact he can do that now. “He’ll be fine.” John assures her, kissing her head before scooting further up the bed so he can rest against the headboard.
“Still…”
Her concern for making Marcus leave is adorable.
“He’s probably out antiquing or hitting up farm stands. I’m sure he’s having the time of his life.”
She inclines her head before leaning into his side, resting her head on his shoulder. His fingers trail across her naked back until his arm is wrapped around her.
It feels so natural to hold her, which is strange, he thinks. He has no experience holding anybody. He can’t quite make sense of it but decides it doesn’t matter.
The only thing that matters is holding on to this feeling.
His heart races at the thought.
He meant what he said to Sofia. He would leave the Underworld, happily, to be with her. If she’d have him.
John swallows, unsure if he should wait to broach the topic until things have settled between them. He had only just told her he loved her and though he was inexperienced in terms of pillow talk, he was fairly certain you weren’t supposed to bring up serious topics.
Helen reaches to the side and sets down her glass before snuggling back against him.
“What are you thinking?” She asks.
He can’t lie to her, but he pauses. If he told her he’d rather not talk about it yet, she would let it go. But a part of him didn’t want to drop it.
“Hels…” He blinks, licking his lips, “If… if I could get out, would you wait for me?”
She seems to take on his meaning immediately. Helen lifts her head from his shoulder, looking up in surprise. Her words are nearly breathless as she asks, “Is that an option?”
“It’s rare. Most people… they don’t want to leave the Underworld and the privileges it affords. But I think I could do it. After DeLuca is taken care of and the contract is dropped, I could…” he nearly stumbles upon the word, “retire.”
The word sends a wave of warmth through his body. The thought of spending his nights with Helen rather than stalking the streets of New York was intoxicating. Dinner ready and on the table when she got home from work, pouring her a glass of wine and talking about her day. Evenings spent with Helen curled up watching tv, or her feet in his lap as she reads on the couch or building a fire out on the deck to sit by.
And when Helen was at work, he could focus on his bookbinding. Or reading. Keeping the house…
“And you could leave… without consequences?”
“I don’t think it would be simple.” He admits, “I’m on retainer for a few organizations but I think I could get out of it.”
Helen licks her lips, almost nervously, “Have you… thought about this? Really thought about this? Not just in a post-sex glow.”
“Yes.” He says with resounding certainty, reminding her, “I’ve talked about wanting a normal life before.”
“In the abstract, yes. But that’s very different.”
She doesn’t sound critical so much as curious, John notes. But the fact she hasn’t answered his question is still burning in his mind.
“A couple weeks ago,” he says softly, “you asked me what it would look like if I got to change my life how I saw fit.”
“You were evasive.” She remembers.
He was. Trapped between lying and making her uncomfortable, he had twisted his words. Prevaricated and told a half-truth to keep her from demolishing his walls.
“I would have you.” He whispers, aware of the way her breath hitches, “It’s you. It’s always you, Hels. You’re all I want.”
Her hand reaches up to touch his face. John turns to kiss her palm.
Helen’s eyes are watery and she swallows, “You know, I’m not always easy to be around. You’re used to me psychoanalyzing you once a week. It would be every day. I can’t turn it off.”
“You’re already in my head every moment of every day.” He takes her hand and presses a kiss to her wrist, her forearm.
“I can be manipulative without even trying.”
John rises to his knees and kisses her shoulder.
“Manipulate me, then.”
He presses an open-mouthed kiss to the crook of her neck, reveling at the soft whimper she rewards him with.
“When I’m stressed, I get really touchy and clingy.”
“Promise?”
A small laugh escapes her as he kisses her way up her neck. “I’m serious!” She sets her hands on his shoulders, leaning back, looking serious again. “You’ve been in this life so long… I don’t want you to make a decision you might regret.”
He won’t, he is certain. But, in a rare moment of emotional clarity, John realizes something: this is about her.
He thinks back a few nights to when they had stayed up late, confessing their sins to one another. To the words she had said in the moments before she had shared her own past with him.
I am utterly terrified of letting you down.
It had broken him then; it breaks him now.
“Hels, I love you.” He meets her eyes, “And without you… I probably would live my entire life in the Underworld, looking over my shoulder. But I don’t want that. I want you.”
Helen swallows, scanning his face or any sign of untruth or uncertainty. When she finally responds, it’s a whisper, “You’re sure?”
His lips twitch, “More sure than I’ve ever been.”
He leans in, capturing her lips once again, before he lowers her to the bed.
…
It comes as a surprise for John that it is not merely the act of sexual congress that satisfies him but the time after the fact. The afterglow as Helen had put it, wherein she cuddled just a little bit closer to him and they spoke in soft, hushed tones.
The small, satisfied smile on her face was what he was living for at the moment. That, and the way her fingers traced patterns on his chest.
He catches her hand in his and draws it up to his mouth, pressing a kiss to each fingertip.
She sighs contentedly, leaning back to watch him.
This , he thinks, could be his life.
He’s tempted to never move again but there are still things to be done. Enemies to be eliminated. And it also occurs to him that Helen had been starting to make dinner when he burst through the door hours ago.
“You hungry?” He asks.
“A little.” She admits, “But I don’t want to move.”
He knows the feeling all too well. With a final kiss to her palm, he slips out from under her arm. “Come on. I’ll make you dinner.”
“You’re gonna cook for me?” She sounds pleasantly surprised by the realization. Good, he thinks. He’ll cook for her every day if she lets him.
“Mhmm.” He offers a hand and pulls her to her feet.
“I feel spoiled.” Helen snatches his white button down from the floor, teasing him with a look like she’s daring him to try to take it from her.
John just smirks as she slips it on, walking to his suitcase to pull out a plain t-shirt and a clean pair of sweatpants. He watches as Helen carefully does up the buttons that he already is making plans to undo. Later.
After she’s eaten.
The shirt falls halfway down her thighs and he tries, he really tries, to get the potential image of it hoisted over her hips while he fucks her against the wall out of his head.
Fuck .
She slips her underwear back on and glances up at him.
Her lips twitch, “Food, John.”
“Hmm?” He meets her eyes.
“You have to eat food,” she explains, “Before you can eat me.”
And now he has that image in his head. Helen, leaning against the wall, her leg hoisted over his shoulder as he eats her out. Or, in a chair, her legs spread enticingly as he falls to his knees and buries his face between her thighs…
She rolls her eyes, “Come on, baby.”
He flushes at the pet name but follows her. Back down the hall and into the kitchen. Despite his haste in departing, Marcus had saved the vegetables Helen had chopped up and placed them back in the fridge.
John grabs the vegetables and the chicken and sets them on the counter.
“Wine?” Helen calls from the living room.
“Sure.”
“Red okay?”
“Yeah.” He finds the microwave rice cooker under the cabinet and pours in half a cup of rice. Helen comes around the corner carrying two glasses of wine.
It’s a sight to behold: Helen, in his button-down, hair-mussed, carrying two glasses of wine.
He puts the cooker in the microwave and hits the button as she reaches him, handing John the slightly less-full glass. John sets it to the side, instead, wrapping an arm around her waist as she laughs, holding her glass up so it doesn’t spill.
“John!”
His name, alone, on her lips makes his heart swell.
It’s so different than the way anyone else says his name.
He presses half a dozen kisses to her face while she laughs, squirming in his arms. With a final kiss to her lips, he lets her go.
Helen smirks, slipping back to lean against the opposite counter as John forces himself to get back to work. He keeps it simple with a chicken and vegetable stir-fry.
“Gotta say, you look pretty good cooking dinner.”
He can’t help the smile as he glances over his shoulder, “Oh yeah?”
“Mhmm.” Helen takes a sip of her wine, “I’m really into the whole housewife thing you got going on.” John rolls his eyes but that just eggs her on. “I’m serious. Make me dinner. Maybe a back rub. I’ll fuck you for ten minutes, then roll over and go to sleep.”
He snorts at that, before turning to walk over to her. She bites her lip as he reaches for her, hands digging into her sides before he hoists her up and sets her on the counter almost effortlessly.
“Just ten minutes?” He teases back.
“Maybe a bit longer. If you’re good.”
“Sweetheart, I can be very good.”
Helen reaches around, cupping the back of his head, drawing him in for a kiss. They’re nearly the same height like this and she takes full advantage of the fact that neither one of them are craning their heads.
A part of her is still surprised that it isn’t awkward. New relationships were supposed to be awkward, although she also considers that this isn’t a typical new relationship. Their foundation had been laid months ago. Their friendship built upon that bedrock, tested through implicit trust and unwavering devotion.
And while she felt like she should, she couldn’t bring herself to feel guilty for how they got here. Especially when her misdeed was barely a tremor of a wave in the ocean of the Underworld.
She fell in love with her client; John killed people for a living.
They would figure the rest out, together.
Helen rests her head against his with a gentle sigh, overwhelmingly content.
With a final peck on the lips, John turns back to their dinner as Helen watches.
Transferable skills, she thinks, as he quickly dices up chicken. His skill with a knife was unparalleled. He adds it to the skillet before finishing the vegetables she had been in the middle of when he came home.
She’s more than happy to sit back, drinking her wine, watching him work.
He’s efficient, quickly pulling together a meal which they eat on the couch, finally taking a moment to catch up on their day. His discussion with Sofia that had led him, as Helen so kindly put it, to getting his head out of his ass. The hours Helen had spent analyzing Santino before he had been picked up and skirted away to the spa.
By the time they hear the sound of tires on gravel, they’re already finished eating, bowls set on the coffee table as Helen sits perched upon his lap, an arm around his shoulders and his wrapped around hers.
The door opens slowly, hesitantly and Helen lets out a little laugh as Marcus calls loudly, “Is everybody decent?”
She resists the urge to quip not morally , instead taking pity on the assassin who had kindly disappeared to allow them privacy, “Yes. It’s safe to come in.”
They hear the door shut and Marcus rounds the corner, hand a few inches away from his face in case he needs to shield his eyes.
John feels his cheeks heating up and, again, is grateful that his flush is mostly covered by the beard.
“Glad you two finally got your shit sorted.” Marcus says, walking around before falling to sit in his chosen chair, “You came pretty close to losing her to another today.”
John blinks, unsure of what he means. Other than Marcus, Santino was the only other man Helen would have seen and he knew her well enough to know she would never go for that type.
“Oh, hush.” Helen says with a grin, “It was light flirting at best.”
Marcus shakes his head, “Sweetheart, I don’t understand a lick of ASL, but that wasn’t light flirting.”
John blinks again, “ Ares? ” he asks in surprise.
Helen hums, “If I were fifteen years younger, she might have given you a run for your money.”
He’s not quite sure how to process that, shaking his head. He should have fucking guessed Santino’s bodyguard would have no qualms hitting on John Wick’s woman. Hell, it probably made it all the more fun for her.
“I didn’t know you could sign.” John comments.
“Back when I did family counseling, I had several families with deaf kids.”
“All I know was there was a blur of hands and Santino turned red as a tomato watching whatever the two of you were saying.”
“She’s fucking hilarious.”
“Do I want to know?” John asks.
“Probably not,” Helen’s spare hand trails down his chest, “But I can give you the highlights of some of her suggestions later.”
“Agh,” Marcus says, putting up a hand for her to stop, “I take it back. Go back to pining. I’ll gladly take that over suggestive flirting any day.”
“Gotta get used to it.” Helen says. She kisses his cheek once before climbing out of his lap, taking her wine glass from the table and walking over to the liquor cabinet. She grabs an empty glass and raises it towards Marcus in offering.
Marcus shrugs but nods, before turning to look at John, “Sofia knock some sense into you?”
“Figuratively speaking.”
“The fact that you have to distinguish that it was figurative blows my mind.” Helen says as she pours herself a hearty second glass.
“Eh, Sof is great. But she’s got a mean left hook. And a right hook.”
“And no sense of self-preservation.” John adds.
“Fun.”
“Everything went alright with Isabella, though?”
Nodding, John says, “Sofia’s got her in lockdown in a motel just outside the city. If all goes well, we won’t even need her but if DeLuca tries anything…” They still had their leverage.
Helen hands Marcus his glass before she takes a seat next to John. “How likely to do you think that is?”
“DeLuca’s gotta be planning on something. The moment the contract is lifted, he’s got to know he’s dead meat.”
John shakes his head, “He wants a marker.”
“From you?” The surprise in Marcus’s voice is evident.
“I’m not happy with it, but he won’t be able to use it. It’s a catch-22.”
“What’s a marker?” Helen asks.
John thinks of how to best explain it, “It’s a promise for a future favor. One sealed by blood.”
“DeLuca’s making you promise him a favor?”
“Not exactly. There are stipulations associated. Namely, you can’t kill the bearer of your marker.” John says, “So if he were to use the marker, I would be able to kill him.”
She shakes her head, “The Underworld really is built on mutually assured destruction.”
“It’s the only way to make killers play nice.” Marcus quips. “There have to be rules and strict consequences.”
Helen sits back, considering the implications. Looking for loopholes. “ You can’t kill him because you’ll have given him the marker. Could you have someone else kill him?”
“Conspiring to kill someone with your marker brings the same consequences.” John explains.
“But you haven’t given him the marker yet. So, could you conspire to kill him now?”
He has to resist the urge to smirk at just how fucking adorable she is trying to make sense of their bizarre world.
John shakes his head, “Intent has been expressed to give him a marker, so no. If Marcus were to leave this conversation and go kill DeLuca, someone could claim that I influenced it. It’s called ‘Willful Interference’ . It’s not quite a death sentence but you can still get in a lot of trouble with the High Table for purposefully interfering with another’s marker.”
She nods slowly, thoughtfully. “I could kill him.”
Marcus chokes on his wine and even John is taken aback at her statement.
It takes John a moment to recover. “ Absolutely not. ”
“Wait a minute…” Marcus says, rubbing his chest, “That’s actually brilliant. Helen isn’t bound by the High Table.”
“No.”
“Just consi—”
“No!” John says again, looking between them incredulously, “This isn’t up for discussion.”
Helen rolls her eyes but drops it. It’s far too easy, John thinks, but he’s not going to address it until they head back to New York.
“I don’t like the idea of you going in to face him alone.” Helen comments, “Promise of a marker or not. DeLuca’s sneaky. And no offense, baby, but picking up social cues is not your strong point.”
“Full offense, John. She’s right.” Marcus adds. Helen shoots him a look and the older assassin shuts up. “Could you leave Isabella tied up and take Sof with you?”
“I think that’s unnecessary,” John shakes his head, “I’m fine with social cues.”
Helen makes a face, like she’s trying to be polite, “You’re really not. And that’s not a judgment, but you don’t always pick up on things.”
John rolls his eyes, “I’ve made it this far.”
“Barely.” Marcus mutters.
“I get that you want to handle this on your own, but I really think Sofia should go with you.”
“You think I’m that bad at picking up on social cues?” John asks, a little offended. No, he wasn’t a political person by nature, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t piece shit together. And he was an expert at picking up behavioral cues from those around him, particularly other killers.
Helen sighs, “John, do you remember the day we met?”
“Of course.” He would never forget it.
“I bought you a coffee and gave you my cell number.”
John nods once.
“Oh, boy.” Marcus says, looking at John almost amused.
“I bought you a coffee,” she repeats, “And gave you my cell number.”
John nods, “Yes. And I called you.”
“Mhmm. You called my office and set up an appointment.”
Again, John nods.
“This is going to be harder than I thought.” Helen says setting down her glass of wine. Marcus grins at her.
“Believe me, sweetheart, it’s harder to watch .”
“I don’t understand.” John blinks.
“Yeah, I got that.” Helen says, and she tries again, gesturing with her hand, “I wrote my personal cell phone number on the back of my card.”
“Yes.”
Her shoulders sink, making John wary. She looks to Marcus, who shakes his head, “This is getting painful.”
“Yeah,” she mutters before looking back to John and emphasizing, “I gave you my personal number and bought you a coffee.”
“This has been established.”
Marcus finally takes pity on Helen’s feeble attempts to get John to connect the dots and says, “For fucks’ sake, man, she was hitting on you.”
John makes a face and shakes his head, “No, she wasn’t.”
Helen arches a brow and stares at John intently.
“No, you weren’t.” John says, suddenly with less certainty.
She nods.
“Oh, god. You were hitting on me?”
“The penny drops.” Mumbles Marcus.
“Yes. And then you called my work line and I figured I had misread things and you just wanted a therapist. I mean, no offense, but after sitting with you for twenty minutes, it was clear you needed someone to talk to.”
“You were hitting on me.” John repeats completely dumbfounded.
“Took me months to realize that you had a thing for me,” she says, glancing to Marcus in amusement before turning back to John, “but by then, you were already my client.”
“Jesus.” John sits, blinking rapidly.
“Think he needs a minute.” Marcus says before finishing his glass of wine. “And I’m making the executive decision. Take Sofia. Find somebody at the Continental to watch Isabella.”
He finds himself nodding in agreement, still a little dazed by the sudden realization that he could have had her seven months ago. All this could have been avoided, but then, he thinks, they might not have ever reached this point.
Would he have been able to be honest with her in a different setting? To open up and tell her the truth about who he was and what he did?
The line between them, which had finally been demolished, was what helped him when he decided to risk it all and tell her the truth. The boundary protected his heart even as he bared his soul, until he was ready for the rest.
He couldn’t be certain that, without it, he would have ever revealed his hand to her.
John glances over to the woman in question. Her teeth are biting into her lower lip bashfully. Shaking his head, he drapes his arm over the back of the couch and Helen scooches closer, leaning into his side. He kisses her head.
“Never thought to bring that up in seven months?” He asks.
She shrugs, reaching up to the hand draped around her. “Wasn’t relevant. I was trying to maintain some semblance of professional boundaries.”
He has to resist the urge to roll his eyes, “And how’d that work for you?”
“All truth is subjective. While I’m feeling pretty great, the American Counseling Association would definitely frown upon my actions of late.”
John snorts, pulling her closer so he can kiss her head.
“They’d probably also frown on how many people John’s killed.” Marcus adds.
“Oh, definitely. Intent to kill is a big one for them. Knowing he’s killing people on a weekly, sometimes daily basis, would definitely get me in more trouble than sleeping with him.”
Marcus smirks, “Glad to know you’ve given it thought.”
Helen just smiles, resting her head against John’s shoulder. She closes her eyes for a moment, content to just breathe John in.
It had been a good day. A wonderful day. But a long one. An exhausting emotionally charged day. One she hadn’t been fully prepared for, especially when John had left for the day.
But he had come back.
And they were still figuring things out. The revelation that John wanted to leave the Underworld had staggered her but filled her with excitement and anticipation all the same. They still needed to talk, but they knew where they both stood now. Together.
She opens her eyes and presses a kiss to his collarbone.
He strokes her hair, lovingly.
Had anything ever felt so right?
“You look tired.” His voice is soft and warm.
“Wonder why that would be.” She smirks when the small visible part of his cheek flushes pink.
“Gross.” Marcus comments but they both ignore him.
John slips his free hand under her legs, drawing her onto his lap before he stands, lifting her with him. She laughs, softly, at the ease which he picks her up.
“Goodnight, Marcus.” She says as John nods his own goodbye.
“Goodnight, sweetheart.”
John carries her back down the hall, to their bedroom. He closes the door behind them and Helen smirks and warns, “Careful, John. Keep carrying me everywhere and I might get used to it.”
“Good.” He tells her, kissing her head before laying her down on her side of the bed. “Get used to it.”
Her own cheeks flush and he feels momentarily victorious. This impressed her? He hadn’t begun to try.
The world would be hers.
He’d expand the library in his house to make room for her books. He’d make her dinner every night and breakfast each morning. Bring her lunch when she’s working. Take her away on the weekends. She loved the ocean, he knew. He’d buy a house somewhere by the sea for them to escape to on vacations.
Or bring her back here, where they first acted upon their feelings.
Take her back to the café where they met, only this time, he won’t leave without a kiss.
He’ll do whatever she wants so long as she looks at him the way she is right now.
He might never deserve her, but he’ll do whatever it takes for her never to regret it.
..............
Once again, thank you to @meetmeinthematinee for her wonderful editing skills
#john wick talk#john wick#helen wick#john x helen wick#helen x john wick#otp: daisy#overheard at the continental#the matrix has queue#john wick fanfic#john wick fanfiction#john wiction
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Talk Chapter 6
AO3
I was so overwhelmed from the comments from the last few chapters, I managed to spit out another chapter :)
Love you all
...
Waking up from sedation is becoming a bad habit although she isn’t unhappy about the haziness. In the moments before opening her eyes, she could almost believe that she was wrapped in blankets, floating on a cloud rather than the concrete floor.
She tries to open her eyes, but they’re drawn shut, her lids just a bit too heavy to be opening right now. That’s alright, she decides.
She could stay like this a little longer, in the fugue-state that offered more comfort than reality. Embrace the warmth of her dream-like state.
She’s hopes Nick and Frankie are back today. Playing cards with them would break up the monotony of waiting for John…
John.
John was coming.
The last thing she remembers is the phone call. The warning that John Wick was coming. She had tried to hold on, to keep them from moving her. But they were going to sedate her. She thinks she had tried to escape but she couldn’t remember anything else.
They’d sedated her again.
Fuck.
She forces her eyes open to take in her new surroundings, wondering if she’d get the chance to send John another message…
He’s there. John is sitting in a leather armchair, eyes closed, under a wash of orange light.
Is the sun rising or setting? She really isn’t sure. And she can’t bring herself to care, looking at John.
He looks exhausted, slumped back. His hair is a little wild and there’s blood on his face. She sees no injuries and is momentarily relieved that the blood does not appear to be his.
He was always so put together in her presence. It's unnerving to see his suit rumpled and a giggle escapes her unwittingly.
John’s eyes open and he inhales, blinking awake.
“Are you laughing?” He asks, voice rough from sleep. John pushes himself up in the chair so that he’s fully upright. He rubs a hand over his eyes and it occurs to her that she’s also never seen John actually tired before.
“Sorry.” She whispers, covering her mouth with her hand. “You look like shit.”
John stares at her incredulously and then a small smile forms on his face. “Yeah, well. Hell of a weekend.”
“Yeah? Can’t say I did too much.” Helen draws the blankets in a bit tighter.
“Cold?” John asks and reaches out to touch her forehead. The warm of his hand feels like a godsend and she finds herself leaning into his touch as she nods. “Do you need more blankets?”
She shakes her head, “Nah, don’t want to overheat.”
He nods. “How are you feeling?”
She hums thoughtfully before deciding on “Hungover.”
“Hungover?” He repeats.
“Oh, yeah. Definitely. Mouth is dry, a bit nauseous, head is pounding, and I woke up in somebody else’s bed with no memory of how I got there. All signs point to hungover.”
Only Helen, he thinks.
“I’ll get you some water. Dry mouth and nausea are common with sedation.” He removes his hand, reluctantly, from her face and stands up.
Helen nods, “Yeah, they sedated me a lot.”
John stops at the way she says it, turning before he can get her water. “What do you mean?”
“They sedated me whenever I was annoying. And I was very annoying.”
He feels his nails biting into his palm as he inhales sharply, “You know, provoking your kidnappers isn’t a great idea, right?”
“I didn’t provoke them. Just went all psycho-dynamic on their asses.”
John blinks. “Freud?”
“Mhmm. Most of his shit’s been disproven, but nobody likes being told their main problems in life come from their mommy issues. And DeLuca has a shit ton of mommy issues.”
John opens his mouth and closes it. There’s nothing to say to that right now so he turns on foot and heads back to the bathroom. He fills a cup with water while looking into the mirror.
She was right. He did look like shit. His hair hadn’t been combed, he had bags under his eyes. There’s blood on his face, in his hair, and on his clothes. His suit was rumpled.
He probably should have showered and changed while Helen slept off the sedation but he couldn’t bear to leave her side. No, instead he had collapsed into the chair and barely moved for nine hours, drifting in and out of sleep now that she was safe.
He tried not to give too much thought to the fact that Helen was in his bed.
Helen. Was in. His bed.
Sleeping in his bed.
Now awake in his bed.
John swallows. He can’t think about it. He has to focus on the matter at hand.
DeLuca is still out there and, until he is taken care of, Helen is still in danger.
Exhaling, he heads back to the bedroom and tries to ignore the way his heart races at seeing Helen propped amongst his pillows.
She smiles at him. She shouldn’t be, he thinks. He’s the one who got her into this mess but there she is, quiet and non-judgmental. Smiling at him the way she always does, accepting the water from he hands her.
She drinks it down with a soft moan that his body isn’t prepared for. Helen sets what is left of the water on the side table. She reaches up and pushes back her hair, her fingers getting stuck in the mess. So goes three days without a shower or a hairbrush.
“Thanks.” She says, looking up at him.
John nods, “I had the Doctor stop by last night when I got you home. He left meds in case your head hurts.”
Helen nods, “I didn’t feel that during the first few sedations but it’s throbbing now.”
“You don’t remember getting it?” John asks, grabbing the meds off his bureau. He pours one out into his hand and caps it as he walks over to her.
“Getting what?” She reaches to her face, her fingers trailing until they reach her bandage. She winces at the touch, “Oh. Yeah, forgot about that.”
“What happened?” John asked as he handed her the pills and the water from her table.
Helen tries to push up so she can fully sit. She winces at her own weakened state and John moves closer, moving an arm around her to help her sit up against the headboard. He tries not to focus too much on the way she feels with his arm around her.
When she’s upright, he hands her the meds.
She swallows the pill, chasing it with what was left of her water. “The guys who were watching me got a call that you were coming and they needed to move me. They were going to sedate me for the move, so I tried to run when they opened the cell. I made it to the stairs but one of them grabbed my foot and I fell.”
He regrets asking almost instantly, if only because the rage swelling inside him is incapacitating. The fact that he killed the men who tried to move her is suddenly not enough. He wants them to suffer, to hurt. He should have made them die screaming.
But, at the time, his only concern had been getting Helen to safety.
And now they were dead, and as much as he wished it, he couldn’t bring them back just to kill them all again.
But the others would pay.
Anyone else who took part in stalking them, kidnapping her, guarding her. DeLuca would suffer.
John feels a hand on his and she asks, “Do we need to do some meditations here, or are you good?”
Nothing like Helen’s no bullshit policy to pull him back into the presence.
“I’m here.” She says softly when he’s back with her, her hand squeezing his, “I’m here and I’m safe.”
He swallows at the feeling of her soft hand, wrapped around his in comfort.
She was just kidnapped, sedated multiple times, and subject to DeLuca firsthand. If anybody had the right to be losing grip of reality right now, it was her. Instead, she was doing what she always did and taking care of him.
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. We all have our ways of coping. I insert humor into bizarre situations, you picture killing people with your bare hands. Whatever gets us through the day, right?”
He’s pretty sure that’s not a therapeutically appropriate response but he breathes a little easier for hearing it. She’s ridiculous and he loves her.
He loves her so much and he came so close to losing her.
“Thank you for coming after me.” She says and it breaks him all the more.
She shouldn’t be thanking him. It was his fault she had been taken. His obsession which had grown out of control, his lack of focus that stopped him from seeing that others were following her.
He should be on his knees begging for forgiveness and, for anyone else, he might have to. But there was no blame in her eyes. No judgement.
She wasn’t even looking at him any different than when they met each week.
And because he’s not sure how he can begin to apologize for something so unforgiveable, he asks, “Did you doubt I would?”
“Not for an second.” Comes her gentle reply.
Her faith in him is far more than he deserves.
“We kept coming up with dead ends.” He says softly, beseechingly. Like he hopes that she’ll understand that he’s so fucking sorry. “He didn’t give a name. Only a job. And I kept searching, but he was like a ghost. I didn’t know what to do and then I got this text from an unknown number--”
“From Nick.”
John blinks, “I’m sorry?”
“Nick. One of the guys guarding me. Won a bet with two of the guards and told them I’d ask you not to kill them if I could use their phone. So no killing Nick Russo or Frankie Morelli.”
"That was you?"
She inclines her head.
He’s not quite sure what to do with that new wealth of information. The fact that she was able to convince her guards to let her have a phone, that she made a bet with them, and she had bargained with said guards for their lives…
John knew Helen well enough to know she wasn’t going to fall apart easily but there was a difference between keeping it together when in a high-stress situation and gaining the upper hand when you have no control.
“You told the guards I wouldn’t kill them?”
“I told them I’d ask you not to kill them. I made no guarantees. But, while we’re on the subject, I’d rather you didn’t kill them. Frankie’s basically a baby trying to support his mom and little brothers, and Nick… Nick’s had it rough, but I think we made some real progress addressing his repressed homosexuality.”
John’s head hurts. It really does.
All this time, he had been worried about Helen handling being kidnapped. John knew a lot about psychological torture and, sometimes, being trapped in a cage is enough to make you feel like you’d be better off dead.
But no, Helen had been the one caged, but she had been playing the game as if she were a part of the world.
“You’re incredible, you know that?”
She looks up, over those long lashes and it’s almost too much for him to look at her. Baring her battle scars while still looking like an angel as she sits in his bed.
“I really didn’t do much.”
“I was losing my mind. Didn’t have a name or any indication of who had you, and you just figured your own way out.”
“I figured out how to get you a message. I didn’t manage to escape.”
“You did exactly what you needed to do.” His hand turns in hers, tentatively. Giving her the space to pull away.
She doesn’t, only pausing to readjust her grip.
John sits back down, on the edge of the bed. Her hand is in his.
He doesn’t think he’s ever held hands with someone before.
“What did he want?” Helen asks after a moment, “In exchange for me, what was DeLuca trying to get?”
John exhales, “Political advantage. There are very… complex laws associated with the Underworld.”
“That’s where the High Table comes in, right?”
He’s pleased that she remembers, “Yes. The High Table is our council, of sorts. There are twelve seats for the twelve largest factions of organized crime. The Russian Mafia, the Chinese Triad, Los Zetas, the Sicilian Mafia, the Camorra. A few other bigwigs, too. But under all these big factions, there are hundreds and thousands of smaller ones, each trying to become a contender. But it’s virtually impossible to uproot one of big ones. Especially the ones run by families. Now, DeLuca belongs to a smaller crime network.”
“The Syndicate.”
John nods once, “Yes. Based in Rome but with branches all across the world. Italy already has two very predominant mafias. No one is really looking for a third large contender. DeLuca has it in his head if he can destroy the Camorra, he can gain control of Rome.”
“Except he lacks the intelligence and commitment to actually run something of that caliber.”
His lips twitch, “Yes. But, to his credit, he was right. If the D’Antonio family collapsed, it might be impossible for the Camorra to stay afloat. They’d lose their credibility; secrets of the family would go to the grave. A new challenger could rise. Probably not to the level of the High Table, like DeLuca thinks, but enough.”
Helen nods, piecing it together for herself. “So, DeLuca tried to send you after the Camorra, protecting himself from any backlash.”
John nods, not quite ready to reveal just how close he had come to openly declaring war against the High Table in order to save her.
She huffs a small laugh, which leaves John taken aback.
“DeLuca didn’t come up with that plan.”
“Oh?” He asks, cocking his head to the side.
“For something so carefully thought out, that had to have come from his mother.”
Again, John feels his lips curl into a small smile, “Is this going back to the ‘mommy issues’ you mentioned?”
Helen nods, “Oh, definitely. That umbilical cord is stretching from Rome to New York. His mom killed his father in order to get him in charge of Syndicate.”
John blinks, rubbing at his head, willing the dull ache to go away. “Exactly how long did you spend with DeLuca?”
“He lasted about eight minutes in my charming presence before having me sedated.”
The I love you on the tip of his tongue goes unsaid.
“I should start having you run all my mission preps.”
“You really should.” Helen agrees, closing her eyes as she leans back against the headboard. “But then, who would counsel my rebellious teens, depressed businesspeople, and wayward assassins?”
“Who indeed.”
He’s worried about what he has to tell her next.
John had been so concentrated on finding her that he hadn’t had time to plan out his next steps. There were a few dozen people who had to die to ensure her safety, DeLuca being number one on his list.
She wasn’t safe so long as DeLuca was alive. And the mobster had gone underground shortly after he had recovered Helen. A smart move on his part, John acknowledges.
Without DeLuca having Helen, there was nothing to stop John from targeting him.
But that meant that John had to track him. Hunt him down. Kill him and any other associates who might know about Helen and who she is to John.
He knew she promised those two guards who helped her that she’d ask him not to kill them and he was… considering it. He didn’t like the possibility of loose ends but saying no to Helen was an impossible task. One he was certain he might never master.
All in all, there were a few hundred reasons why she couldn’t go back to work.
There was the injury card he intended to play hard and fast.
The trauma that she hadn’t processed yet.
The fact that DeLuca’s whereabouts were unknown.
And while John was more than willing to stand guard outside her office, it was impractical for both of them.
He needed time.
John exhales, bracing himself for the argument that will surely erupt from this. Preparing himself to be strong enough to actually say no to Helen. “You can’t go back to work yet.”
Without opening her eyes, she says, “Try that again, in the form of a question. I might be more receptive.”
John swallows, “I can’t—I can’t do what I need to do unless I know that you’re safe. Will you please stay home from work until I can resolve the situation?”
Her eyes crack open, “How long are we talking?”
“A few days.”
He’s certain he can find DeLuca in that amount of time. He already had the Technician running searches remotely, already had Winston with an ear to the ground.
She was awake now and the last of his worries had been abated. Which meant that John could do what he did best. He could go out to the city. He could take out DeLuca and his soldiers and send her back to her world, knowing she was safe.
And he’d keep an eye on her. As often as he could manage without putting her at risk again. And he’d let her go.
His heart already ached at the prospect but what else could he do?
Helen lets out a small sigh, “Alright. All things considered, I should probably take a few days off anyway.” She inclines her head, “Don’t suppose you happen to have my work phone?”
John feels his face involuntarily wince, “Um, yeah, about that…”
“What?”
“DeLuca had it. Pretty sure he dropped it somewhere so that it couldn’t be tracked back to him.”
She rubs at her head but takes it better than he would have. “At least tell me he left my laptop alone?”
John nods, “I took that just in case. It’s in my car.”
Her eyes flutter shut again and he can tell she’s fighting the exhaustion.
“I’ll have to call my clients for this week.”
“Later.” John says, giving her hand a soft squeeze. “You need to rest.”
“I’ve been sleeping for god knows how long.”
“You’ve been sedated.” He corrects gently, “You’ve slept but you haven’t given yourself space to rest. You’re body’s still reeling from what you’ve been through.”
Her eyes don’t open but the corner of her lips twitch into a smile, “Look at that. You’ve been doing your homework.”
“I have a bookshelf dedicated to you.”
She hums at that, “I’ll want to see that later. And the rest of your library.” She cracks open her eyes, “You’re going to regret letting me into your home, John Wick.”
He already does, he thinks to himself. It occurs to him that seeing her here, like this, might be something he’s unable to recover from. He doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to sleep in his bed when the image of her lying there, amongst his pillows and sheets, has been unwittingly branded into his head. He might never get over the feeling of holding her in his arms and carrying her up the stairs and down the hall.
And it might take him time to track down DeLuca.
Days in which she’ll eat in his kitchen and lose herself amongst his bookshelves. He can see it now and it tears him apart.
While he has ceased to believe that life is fair, it’s inordinately cruel to have her like this, in ways he’s only dreamed, only to be forced to cut off contact.
But what can he do?
She needs to be here for her own protection but once the threat is eliminated, she needs to be as far away from him as she can be.
“Get some rest.” He tells her, wondering if the dull ache in his heart would worsen or improve if he left her presence.
He starts to stand but she holds fast.
She peers up at him with those big, brown eyes and he’s ready to fall to his knees.
“Will you hold me? Just for a minute?”
He really wishes he had it in him to deny her. But he doesn’t.
He nods and John releases her hand, moving around to the other side of the bed. He crawls over and under the covers which she has lifted for him.
This isn’t romantic, he tells himself. It’s not sexual or any other perverted pleasure.
This is comfort, like she’s shown him a hundred thousand times before.
John tries, hard, to push any other thought from his head and not to concentrate on how small her body feels as he wraps an arm, gently, around her.
She reaches up and takes hold of his forearm, hugging it to her as she nestles under the covers.
He hates himself for reveling in delight when she has suffered so much because of him. It’s his fault she was hurt at all, his fault she’s drained from trauma. And he’s the one benefitting, touching her in ways he’s only dreamed about.
But then, he thinks, he’s been Hell-bound his entire life.
And, if he’s right about finding DeLuca and tying up loose ends, he’ll only have days left where he can even bask in her presence.
Maybe, he can have this.
A minute, an hour of pretending the world wasn’t waiting outside his door. Pretending that this was more than just comfort.
It might hurt more, in the long run, to know how holding her feels like. But John can’t bring himself to care.
……………………………
He’s not sure when he fell asleep but it’s the dull vibrating of his phone on wood that wakes him up.
For a moment, he had forgotten where he was, what he was doing. He forgot her soft request for him to hold her while she fell asleep, keeping her safe and comforted after the ordeal.
All he can smell is her. She’s warmer now and, while usually heat makes him uncomfortable while he sleeps, it was different with her.
Helen had turned, at some point, her face now buried in his chest, her body curled into his while both his arms hold her tight.
A part of him wishes to stay like that forever.
But the phone buzzes again.
Helen stirs in his arms and he’s simultaneously in awe that she’s real and pissed that somebody is calling, waking her.
He disentangles his limbs from hers and she whines softly as John rises from the bed, tiptoeing quickly. He snatches the phone and hurries from the room, closing the door behind him.
Marcus.
“Yeah?” John answers, walking down the hall to the nook that overlooks the rest of the house, just above the stairs. He rests a hand on the balcony edge and leans down.
“You know I prefer to mind my own business whenever I can.”
John finds himself blinking at the unusual greeting. “Yes. It’s one of the few reasons I put up with you.”
Marcus hums at that, “I hate to ask, John, but what the fuck is going on?”
He stands up a little straighter, eyes narrowing, “What are you talking about?”
“My phone hasn’t stopped ringing since the contract came out.”
John’s stomach drops.
Surely, he thinks, DeLuca isn’t that stupid…
“What contract?” He forces himself to ask.
“Some woman no one’s ever heard of. Helen Kingston.” John thinks he might throw up but Marcus continues, “As far as anybody can tell, she’s a civilian but under known allies, you're listed.”
John swears, pushing his hair back from his face. Any remnants of sleepiness are now gone as he takes the stairs two at a time until he reaches the basement.
“When did it go live?”
“Half an hour ago. I’ve already fielded half a dozen calls from people trying to get information on who she is.”
“What’d you tell them?” John asks, propping the phone between his cheek and shoulder as he grabs a case for his handguns and a duffle for ammo. He opens each and begins selecting from vast array that hung on his wall.
“I didn’t tell them anything. I just asked them all if they really wanted to take the chance of going after a target who could be related, in any way, to John Wick.”
“How much is the bounty?”
“Four million.”
A string of swears escape.
Four million was considered a high price for a life. A payout of that amount, in a single kill, was usually reserved for difficult cases. Government officials with bodyguards or military targets trained to kill.
A four-million-dollar bounty on a civilian would be impossible for most assassins in the greater New York area to pass up. Even with him listed as an ally.
“Who is she, John?”
“Honestly?” John checks, emptying a shelf of various size rounds into the duffle bag, “She’s my therapist.”
He’s met with silence and John can’t help but smirk at rendering Marcus speechless. Funny, considering it was only two days ago when telling Winston a fucking nightmare.
“You know, I was joking all those times I told you to seek professional help.”
John shorts, “Yeah, well. Too late.”
“So now half of New York City is out looking for your therapist?”
“Seems so.”
He can almost feel Marcus rolling his eyes despite the distance between them, “Why would anybody target your therapist? In fact, I’m inclined to call her up and offer her a raise if she can make you less fucked in the head.”
“It’s complicated.”
“Isn’t it always?” Marcus huffs a sigh, “Any idea where she is? The contract went live half an hour ago. I’m sure somebody’s already after her.”
“Upstairs.”
“She’s at your house?”
John zips the bag with the ammo shut. “Also complicated.”
John closes the lid on the gun case. He has a handful of Kevlar vests packed away in a trunk. He hoists out a few and drapes them over his shoulder as he grabs the case and the bag.
“Clearly. You know, I’m pretty sure fucking your therapist is an ethics violation of some kind.”
John ignores the comment. “Fancy earning a marker?” He asks, heading back up the stairs and crossing the large expansive living room to get to the front door.
“Depends. How much work am I going to have to do?”
“Minimal.” John lifts the trunk of his car and starts rearranging things. “Babysitting while I take care of the idiot who thought targeting her was a good idea.”
Marcus hums, thinking it over. “Is she going to be a pain in the ass?”
“Most definitely. She’ll have you mindfucked so fast you won’t know up from down.”
“Not doing a great job of selling it.”
John closes the trunk and walks quickly back into the house. He still has to pack clothes; food.
“I can almost guarantee no bodily harm and you won’t be bored. That’s a rare combination.”
Marcus grumbles for a moment but John didn’t doubt him. “Text me where I need to be.”
“Make sure you’re not followed.”
Marcus snorts in a way to signify no fucking shit and the call drops.
John lets out a breath as he hits the kitchen. While he’s bugged out in the army, bugged out from squatting, and run away more times than he could count, he’s never had to pack like this in his house. It’s almost unnerving to be choosing food from a fully stocked kitchen rather than grabbing the jar of peanut butter as he runs.
Fucking DeLuca.
What the hell was that bastard thinking?
John had already wanted him dead for daring to touch Helen and now this?
What could this possibly do for him? Four-million-dollars was a lot to spend on revenge and, while the smaller mobs did well for themselves, most didn’t just have that kind of money sitting around.
DeLuca’s reasoning, however, was the least of John’s concerns as he packed up his kitchen.
He had safehouses all over the globe, most listed under different names. A handful over the tristate area but he was reluctant to have Helen that close to the hub of assassins now gunning for her.
Fuck. He stops bagging up boxes of energy bars and pauses.
How the hell was he going to tell Helen there was a four-million-dollar bounty on her head?
Hey, remember that conversation we had earlier where I told you I would take care of DeLuca with a couple days? Well, now a couple hundred assassins are looking for you, so that plan is off the table. Sorry!
He doesn’t know how the fuck he’s going to explain this new round of bullshit and goes back to grabbing boxes of crackers and bags of rice.
“Are you… packing up your kitchen?” He doesn’t startle easy, but he hadn’t even heard her on the stairs.
John turns, in surprise, and his heart nearly jumps out of his chest.
Helen, hair wet from the shower, had traded in the nightgown for one of his white, cotton shirts and a pair of his sweatpants, drawstrings pulled tight, then folded several times over.
Her skin, still damp, forces the shirt to cling to her.
He looks away, “Yeah.”
“Is this some sort of weird coping ritual or did the shit hit the fan?”
John almost hates the way she can read him so easily.
“Shit hit the fan.” He says, glancing over his shoulder, gauging for reaction.
There isn’t one. Not really. She just nods, and honestly, he wishes that she would try to protest or argue or roll her eyes. Anything. Blame him, yell at him. Complain about the situation, whine and ask why they had to move but she doesn’t.
“When are we leaving?” She asks.
“Fifteen minutes.”
Again, she just nods, “Want to point me in the direction of your library? I’d like to raid it before we bug out.”
The casualness in her voice makes his head and heart hurt. She shouldn’t be this accepting.
He swallows back the urge to start an argument because that is the last thing they need when people are searching for her.
“Top of the stairs, just off of the little alcove.”
She spins on her heels, like nothing is wrong.
John forces himself back to packing. Time, it seems, is always against them.
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Talk Chapter 19
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It was over, but not done.
There were still so many things to do before John could drop everything and go home to Helen.
He starts by calling Nick.
“H-hello?” Jesus, the boy really was afraid of him.
Ironic, John thinks, considering he owes this kid more than he can ever hope to repay for allowing Helen to contact him during her imprisonment. And then looking out for her at the cost of his job, possibly his life if DeLuca had found out.
“It’s done.” He says, “DeLuca’s going to be picked up by Adjudication. Are you able to stay until someone gets there to pick up Isabella?”
“Yeah, yeah. Of course. The, uh, the bounty’s dropped then?”
He exhales and, fuck, it feels so good.
The bounty is dropped. The contract is closed. And while he doesn’t think either of them will ever be truly safe, no one is coming after her anymore.
“Yes.”
“Good. That’s, that’s good.” Nick sounds relieved, too. The younger man pauses for a moment and then tentatively asks, “Would you do me a favor, Mister Wick, sir? She told me if I ever wanted to talk… I just was wondering if you could ask her to call me. When she’s back and settled and shi—stuff. Stuff.”
And, god, Helen was just that good. And it had started as manipulation, he knew. A way to save herself when he wasn’t there to do the job but there was no doubt in John’s mind that Helen would meet with Nick every week, for as long as he needed.
“Yeah, kid. I’ll pass it along.”
“Thank you.”
John pauses, thoughtfully. “When Isabella’s been picked up, head over to the Continental. Ask for Winston. New York is always busy. I know they’re looking to hire another Sommelier. It’ll pay more than Syndicate; I can guarantee that. I’ll put in a good word for you.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
He shakes his head, in disbelief of himself. He knew Helen was his reason, but John couldn’t quite pinpoint the moment he had gone utterly and completely soft .
Maybe she’d have some insight to that, he thinks, smiling to himself.
And, because he doesn’t want the knowledge that he has gone soft to spread, he adds, “Don’t fuck it up” and ends the call.
After all, he isn’t done in the Underworld.
For starters, the contract had been dropped but that didn’t mean the memo had gotten out. And that needed to happen before he brought Helen back home. The last thing he wanted was to bring her back only to have some kid target her because they ignored the notice.
The hotel buzzes as John walks through the front door.
He ignores it, as he always does, approaching the front desk. There’s a small queue that has gathered in front of Charon, but the Concierge waves him up.
“The Manager is expecting you. He is in his office.”
John nods his thanks and turns towards the hall where he’ll find Winston, only to run into Verdugo.
The other assassin looks him over, regarding him with vague interest. He’s carrying a weapons bag, slung over a shoulder. A duffle bag resides in his other hand.
He’s leaving, John realizes. Verdugo was a drifter.
The only thing that had kept him in New York was the possibility of a substantial bounty that has since been removed.
Verdugo breaks the silence first, “I’ll admit, when I heard you were trying to get the bounty removed, I didn’t think you could do it.”
John raises a brow.
Because what the hell is he supposed to say to that?
Oh, no worries. Totally get it. You wouldn’t have wasted both our time if you had only realized sooner that you couldn’t kill my love?
“It was just business.”
Now that, John thinks, is something he’s grown very tired of hearing.
The Underworld, for better or worse—and right now, John Wick was very much leaning towards worse , was all about money and advancement. Status.
The values he has been exposed to, he realizes, had been very self-serving. No wonder so many narcissists and hedonists thrived in the Underworld.
And John had survived because he was so self-reliant. He had thrived in a world where favors are currency by being willing to help others and avoiding asking for any help in return. It made him rich, in more than just money. The pile of markers in his collection is unparalleled.
But he still went home alone. To an empty house. In an empty life, where escapism had been his only fulfillment.
Drifting.
In control but, somehow, still empty.
Until Helen had forced her way into his head, laying claim to his heart.
And suddenly everything that had once seemed so complicated and out of reach was within his grasp.
In that moment, he pities Verdugo.
A man, so much like him in so many ways. A drifter. Free of roots and obligation. Making a name for himself by virtue of skill and competency. But hollow like a tin soldier.
Verdugo will move on to the next contract. The name Helen Kingston will be replaced with another unfortunate soul, who John is certain will not be as lucky.
And he’ll make his money and build his legacy.
And he’ll go home alone. To an empty house. In an empty life.
John wants to kill him along with anyone else who had hurt or threatened Helen’s life, but it occurs to him that might be a mercy. And maybe Verdugo doesn’t deserve mercy but John didn’t deserve mercy, either. But it had found him.
Still, he feels the need to say, “If I ever see you anywhere near her…”
“You won’t.” Verdugo assures him, “Be seeing you.”
“No.” John says, “You won’t.”
He leaves Verdugo standing in the hall as he makes his way to Winston’s office.
The old man doesn’t even look up as John walks in. “It would appear that you had a busy day.” He says as he practically collapses into one of the leather chairs.
“Busy week.” John amends, “I think I finally understand the phrase thank god it’s Friday .”
Winston smirks, rising to his feet, “Drink?”
He shakes his head, “No, thank you. I’ve had enough today, while playing politics. Did you happen to hear from Sofia?”
“Yes,” Winston says, pouring himself brandy, “I already sent someone to collect Mateo. And Isabella. She said you got a confession from the former.”
“Lorenzo plans to force the counsel to convene on Monday, here in the city.”
“He wants justice meted out swiftly.”
“That makes two of us.” John agrees with a nod. “I want this done and in the past.”
“Understandably. You managed the impossible this week.”
“Didn’t think I could do it?” John asks, thinking of his conversation with Verdugo and the time that had been wasted pursuing Helen Kingston.
“On the contrary,” Winston says, taking the seat next to him, “You made me a great deal of money.”
John arches a brow.
“You successfully removing the bounty was the long odds over at Dex’s. Fifty to one.”
And, fuck, but that makes him laugh. He didn’t realize how much he needed that after the stress of the day, “How much did you put down?”
“Five grand.” Winston looks at him strangely and it occurs to John that he’s probably never laughed in front of Winston before.
“Well-played.” He says, shaking his head in amusement. While he never intends to tell Helen of the betting odds placed on when she would die and by whose hand, he can’t help but think that she’d get a kick out of it. Either that, or she’d be pissed she never got a chance to get in on the action.
Yeah. That sounds right.
“I know the rumor mill will have heard that the contract was dropped,” John says, “but is it possible to get Administration to send out a mass message? To confirm it, and make sure anybody working solo is notified?”
“I’ll see to it myself.”
John nods gratefully. That would make him feel much better about taking her back to the city. Although he’s already mentally preparing himself for the wave of anxiety that will surely hit the moment, he leaves her alone to go back to work. He tables that particular worry for now.
“I have another favor to ask.”
Winston rolls his eyes, “Indeed?”
“Nick Russo. Ex-Syndicate. He burnt some bridges today to help keep Helen safe. I’d appreciate it if you considered him for the second Sommelier position you were considering opening up.”
The old man hums, “I’ll meet with him.”
“Thank you.”
And just like that, two things are checked off his list.
Winston was good like that. As Manager, it was his job to be accommodating and helpful and ensure everyone was getting the best services that could be offered to those serving the High Table. But it was also more than that.
For decades, Winston had been a mentor to him.
After being introduced by Charon, Winston had immediately taken to the young, reckless assassin. He’d seen something that others had brushed to the side.
And John had been skeptical. Untrusting.
But Winston had been relentless. He offered sound advice that John found hard to ignore. Slowly, John had found himself utilizing the Manager. After moving back to New York, it became clear that Winston knew the city and its inhabitants better than anyone.
Somewhere along the line, John had begun to trust him.
Winston had tried to line John up for Management but had accepted his decision when John, respectfully, denied interest in such a path. While Winston mourned John’s lack of ambition, he continued to serve as a mentor.
Arguably, the closest thing John had ever had to a father-figure.
John doesn’t doubt, for a moment, his decision to retire. He will miss very little about the Underworld. But Winston would be counted amongst them.
And while John doesn’t particularly want to have this conversation, he owes it to Winston to be the one to tell him.
“I’ve decided to retire.”
Winston’s head turns sharply, “Pardon?”
John sits up straighter in the chair, “I’m retiring. As soon as everything has been taken care of, I’m leaving the Underworld.”
“Jonathan, you have obligations.” Winston says, shaking his head, “You can’t just retire .”
“Lorenzo is freeing me of my contractual obligations. I intend to reach out to Viggo to make arrangements as well.”
“Lorenzo D’Antonio is letting you walk away?” The surprise is evident in his voice.
John nods.
“Miraculous in itself, but you cannot expect Viggo to do the same.”
“I won’t take no for an answer.” John says softly, “One way or another, I’m getting out. And I’ve made up my mind about this. It won’t be changed.”
He leaves no room for argument. Bittersweet as it may be, there is nothing that can change his mind anymore. Even if Helen didn’t want him, he would have left to keep her safe. His enemies wouldn’t have used her against him if he was no longer a problem.
But Helen did want him. She loved him, beyond all reason.
“Whatever will you do?”
John feels his lips twitch. Aside from keeping house and devoting the majority of his time to ensuring Helen’s happiness—that she never regrets choosing him, he really isn’t sure. He knew he didn’t have it in him, nor did he have the credentials or the qualifications, to work in the real world. At least, for most occupations.
And, truthfully, he was tired of the constant work.
Hating his life and coming home to an empty house, John had filled his life with work. Work until the point of distraction. Which meant extra jobs, far beyond working for money. He worked to kill people and time, respectively.
Decades of working seven days a week, every day of the year.
He’s looking forward to the break.
Maybe he’d pick up a hobby. He’d continue to bind books through the coldness of the winter. Maybe he’d even start to sell them or volunteer with a library to fix old tomes.
Maybe, come springtime, he’d actually open the pool in his backyard which had been closed and unused since he first moved in.
He planned to cook for her. Maybe he’d get into that. Learn to make things from scratch. To bake.
The possibilities were endless.
“I don’t know.” He answers honestly and he’s… surprisingly okay with that. The uncertainty would usually throw him for a loop, but John finds himself completely and unexpectedly happy not knowing. It was freeing.
“Are you—”
“Yes.” John interrupts before Winston can say sure . “More sure, more certain than I have ever been about anything in my life.”
Winston nods, slowly. He doesn’t understand, John knows. The old man probably won’t ever understand why John was giving up the wealth, the prestige, the permanent get-out-of-jail-free card that existed for the members of the Underworld.
“When?” He asks.
“As soon as possible. I plan on testifying Monday. I’ll meet with Viggo after and inform him of my intentions.”
“It will not be easy.”
“I don’t expect it to be. But it won’t matter. Whatever Viggo demands, I’ll do it.”
And he would. Nothing would stop him.
They sit in silence as Winston seems to digest it all. It’s odd, he thinks. He knows Winston disapproves, just as he had when John had first told him about Helen. But Winston knows that John doesn’t give a fuck about approval. No one’s opinion influenced him, save Helen’s.
He missed her.
It had only been hours since he had last held her in his arms, and he missed her.
Was this what it was to be in love? To crave the presence of another in any and every form? To hold them in your mind’s eye even when you are away?
How did people stand it, living like this?
And yet, John acknowledges, he would not give it up for the world.
“I find myself at a loss for words.” Winston says after minutes of silence. “I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. You were ready to burn New York to the ground to find her. Ready to declare war on the High Table to get her back.” The old man shakes his head, “And you seem certain. I know your mind will not be changed. But I feel the need to ask you, once more, Jonathan: is she really worth it?”
John thinks of her smile.
The kindness in her eyes.
The warmth of her touch.
Her quick wit. Her inquisitive nature. The way she just accepted things as they were. The way she shut him down when he was starting to bullshit himself. The books he had mentioned in passing on her bedside table as she made the effort no one else had to understand him.
John nods, “She really is.”
……….
He parks the car and John feels another wave of relief wash over him. The fact that it’s over, that Helen is safe keeps hitting him again and again. And now, he’s within feet of her.
John slips out of the car, admiring for the first time since they moved to the Vermont safehouse how bright the stars were when there were no lights around.
The front door opens and Marcus steps out, his bag in his hand.
“I take it everything went well?”
John nods. “You leaving?”
Marcus nods back, closing the door behind him. “After everything, I figured you two could probably use some time alone.”
He’s grateful for Marcus’ reasoning. While John had no intention of kicking Marcus out, he’s right. The only thing John wants to do is wrap Helen up in his arms and never let her go.
“Thank you.” He says, “For everything. I’ll never be able to re—”
“Don’t.” Marcus shakes his head. “I was happy to do it. More for her sake than for yours. You’re still kind of a dick but… she makes you almost tolerable.”
John huffs out a laugh, “Who would have thought.”
“That the only person capable of taking you down was a therapist who can barely form a sentence fragment without coffee?” Marcus exhales in disbelief. “Mind-boggling. Call me when you two get back to the city.”
“Will do.” John promises as Marcus throws his duffle into the trunk of his car as he makes his way up the short stairs and into the cottage.
John slips off his suit jacket, hanging it by the door. He undoes the buttons on his vest, one by one, as he walks down the hall towards the living room. He tugs that off, too, draping it over the couch.
She’s not in the living room or the kitchen. He continues down the hall towards their bedroom. The door is open and, sure enough, Helen is in bed. Her back leans against the headboard, a book is open in her hand.
John leans against the door, undoing the top two buttons of his shirt.
Before him is a sight he could spend an eternity gazing in wonder at. Her glasses have slipped down the bridge of her nose as she reads. He watches as she reaches for her bookmark without looking up, turning the page as she inserts it.
Without a glance, she smiles, “Hi honey, how was your day?” She asks as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. He loves her for it. For making him feel some semblance of normality amidst the bullshit and the chaos.
John swallows even as his lips twitch in amusement. “Oh, you know. Bitch of a commute. Faked a powerful man’s death. Tried my hand at politics. Not a fan. Then I took down a mafia boss.”
She sets her book aside before removing her glasses. Helen scans him up and down, assessing for injuries.
His heart swells with love and adoration. It consumes him and makes it almost difficult to breathe. He doesn’t know what he’s supposed to do with all these emotions flowing through him.
And, like she can sense he’s overwhelmed, Helen stands up. She crosses the room, her dark eyes gazing into him.
He wonders if she can see his soul. And if she can, will she change her mind about him? Will she realize how truly terrible, how awful he is?
But as he looks into those brown eyes, all he sees reflected back is love.
She loves him, he thinks, even though he doesn’t deserve it. He was a despicable human being. One who had dragged her into the depths of Hell. Even still, she never wavered.
Helen was stronger than he ever hoped to be.
And she loved him. Despite everything.
It staggers him.
Helen reaches him and he cannot help but fall to his knees before her. His arms wrap around her middle, seemingly of their own accord, and he buries his face against her stomach. John’s breath escapes him in a shudder as her arms come up around him, holding him.
She strokes his hair and he can barely hold back a sob.
“I love you, John.”
And, fuck it all, the dam breaks.
He’d lost her, this week.
Someone had taken her, stolen her from her bed. Had hurt her to get to him. Had put a bounty on her head for the sole purpose of manipulating him, simultaneously activating agents to find her and kill his beloved.
Verdugo, who promised to make it quick.
Kate, who would have obliterated Helen until there was nothing left.
The kids in the alley, looking to make a name for themselves, would have killed her.
Along with the hundreds of others who had searched for her, even idly.
He had spent a week feeling out of control, out of his depth. Unsure of how to save her, hating himself for putting her into that position. Terrified that one wrong move could lead to her death.
“I’m sorry.” He chokes out, aware that his tears are soaking into her shirt.
She steps back, only to drop to her knees, too. Her arms wrap around him in a tight hug as he rests his head at the crook of her neck. A hand comes up to cradle his head.
“You have nothing to be sorry for.” She assures him.
He swallows, heavily. He’s not sure when he last cried but it had to have been decades.
“It’s my fault…”
The arm around his back tightens and she turns her face to his head.
“I’m so sorry I didn’t… didn’t protect you better… and---”
“Hey,” the hand on his head moves to his cheek and she leans back to look at him. Her thumb strokes a tear, “You didn’t know. You had no reason to suspect that I would be targeted. But you know what?” Her fingers massage his neck, “I’m glad I was.”
He tilts his head in disbelief.
“If DeLuca hadn’t have taken me,” she says softly, “I would have seen you for an hour this week. And an hour next. And the week after that. And that would be it. I would have loved you from afar because that’s all I could do.
“But now,” she runs her fingers down his face, “I can hold you. And kiss you. And love you. And that is more than worth the price of spending a couple uncomfortable days locked in a basement and a couple more hidden away from the world.”
John shakes his head, because she is unreal sometimes. “You deserve so much be—”
“ We don’t get to decide what we deserve, John. That’s never been up to us.” She echoes what she had told him that day in her office. Hours before she had been taken. “But we do get some say in how we’re going to live.”
John finds himself swallowing, his breath hitching as he tries to breathe in. “And how are we going to live?”
“Well,” Helen says with a soft smile, “We’re going to start by hiding away for the rest of the weekend. And you’re going to make good on your promise to fuck me on your tongue until I can’t scream anymore.”
He can’t help but chuckle at how serious she sounds but fuck . Yeah, he’s definitely doing that.
“And then, we’re going to go home. And instead of picking my lock to sneak inside and watch me sleep, you’re going to fall asleep next to me. And instead of leaving before daylight, you’re going to wake up with me. Every day.
“We’ll take weekend trips to Vermont, every now and then. I’ll make you go antiquing with me.” He laughs at that. Helen smiles back, continuing, “And I’ll make you take me to that other house you’ve got in Maine.”
“It’s on a lake.” He tells her, thinking she might like that. He’ll buy a boat. Or a few, unsure if she’d prefer a motorboat or something like a kayak. Whatever she decides, she’ll have. She’ll never want for anything so long as he is breathing.
Helen moves so that she is high on her knees. Her hands reach to cup either side of his face and she leans in to press her lips to his forehead.
“We’re going to have a really good life.” She promises and fuck, he believes her. “And we’re going to be so fucking happy.”
She kisses her way down his face, slowly. Tenderly.
Her lips reach his. How, he thinks, can a kiss be so gentle? So different than anything he’s ever experienced.
It was glorious when she kissed him passionately. It drove him wild when her teeth nipped at his lips or her tongue greedily sucked at his own.
But she’s being so soft that it might very well break him again.
She didn’t look at him and see the Boogeyman. Even knowing who he was, she didn’t let it influence her opinion of him.
He felt human in her arms, in her eyes.
He loves her for it. Among the plethora of reasons that he loved and adored her.
John wraps his arms under her thighs, rising to his feet, and pulling her up with ease.
She kisses the corner of his mouth as he carries her over to the bed. “I love you,” she whispers as he lays her down.
They both undress, taking their time.
The initial desperation has faded and while John is certain it will come back again, he is more than content to take it slow.
When they are both naked, John revels in the warmth of her skin. He kisses his way around her body, allowing his hands the time to memorize every curve, dip, and swell of her body. And she lets him, like she knows how badly he needs this.
And she probably does, he thinks. She’s always been in his head.
Helen’s hand reaches the top of his head, stroking back his hair as he kisses every inch of skin he can reach from his place atop of her.
His open-mouth grazes across her collarbone and John soaks in the way her hand tightens in his hair, her sharp intake of breath as his teeth scrape against her skin. He wonders what other sounds he can coax from her body… He’ll spend forever finding out.
John kisses her lips again. How addictive that feeling, that taste has become.
One hand tilts her head, allowing him to deepen the kiss while his other stretches down her perfect body, dipping between her thighs. He cups her core, feeling the warmth radiating from within her. He dips a finger between her folds. She’s soaking and it’s all for him .
He kisses her harder, feeling his lips bruise as he gently circles his clit with his finger.
She moans into his mouth and he swallows it down.
I love you , he thinks, and has to remind himself that he can say that now. He doesn’t have to keep it bottled in. He wonders how long it will take until he can say it without hesitation. Until it spills as easily from his lips as it comes to echo in his mind.
“I love you, Hels.” He tells her, kissing down her jaw.
“John!” She cries out as he continues to toy with her sensitive clit. He reaches down, coating his fingers in her slick heat before pressing them into her opening. His thumb takes over rolling over the sensitive bundles of nerves.
Helen whimpers, her nails digging into his back. He nips at her throat with his teeth. She’s marked him well enough. Now it’s his turn.
He wants to claim her. To leave his mark all over her so that anyone who sees her will have no doubt that she is taken. One day, he swears to himself that he’ll put a ring on her finger, but until then, he’ll be content with this.
More than content.
He sucks at her neck and plays with her clit until she is a moaning, writhing mess. Before she can reach her release, however, he removes his fingers from her pussy and brings them to his lips.
Helen shudders as she watches him suck her essence from his fingers.
His own cock twitches at the taste.
When he is done, she grabs his hair and yanks him back for a kiss. She sucks on his tongue, tasting herself and he’s never been harder in his life.
..
John takes his heavy cock in hand and brings it to her entrance. He pushes inside slowly, inch by inch. Letting himself focus on every sensation. The way her pussy yields to him, clenching around him. The way her stomach tightens and her breath stutters. Her grip around him.
He closes his eyes as he finds himself completely buried inside of her. His hips cannot go any further.
The hitch in her breath delights him. John draws back out, reveling in the soft changes in her breath, before he drives back in. Helen cries out and he kisses her neck. Her pussy tightens around him at the sensation.
He’s never needed anyone the way he needs her.
He knows he never will again.
This woman is everything to him. She is it for him. And he’ll love her with every fiber, every atom of his being until he dies. And then beyond.
“Fuck, baby!” She cranes her neck, giving him more access.
He makes a mental note of how much she loves the attention he’s paying to her throat. He nips and she arches her back, crying out yet again. Clenching around him, again.
John rolls his hips, careful to ensure steady pressure to her clit.
Because it’s about her. It’s always been about her.
He lifts his head, turning her head back to him so he can kiss her yet again. Languidly drowning in her as he takes his time fucking her, bringing her to the edge yet again.
Helen swears, her nails biting into him. Her hips meet his, grinding against him as she moans. His thrusts increase in speed and John feels Helen’s entire body seem to tighten.
And all at once, she breaks around him, crying out as a wave of pleasure slams into her. The way her pussy throbs around him is enough to make him lose his resolve and he soon finds himself spilling inside of her with a loud groan.
His eyes lose their focus as his head drops down to the pillow, nestling in the crook of her neck as he breathes heavily. The rush of immediate pleasure leaves him but he is left feeling glorious as he lies on top of her body, still buried inside of her, still feeling the aftershocks of her own orgasm milking him.
With an exhale, he raises his head to look back at her. Her beautiful eyes gazing at him.
Helen reaches up. She pushes back the hair which had fallen into his face before wrapping her hand around to the back of his head, guiding his forehead to rest on hers.
“I love you, John.”
“I love you, too.” He says, swallowing back the emotions that overwhelm him.
And he’s never going to let her forget it. She will never have the opportunity to forget or doubt that he loves her. That she is his everything.
What she said earlier was true: they were going to be so fucking happy.
And he was going to do this right.
John kisses her cheek, “How about I buy you dinner?”
Helen smiles back, “After all this, you better.”
......
One more chapter of this installment to come
thanks to @meetmeinthematinee for reviewing and editing <3
#john wick talk#john wick#john wick fanfiction#john x helen wick#helen wick#john wick prequel#overheard at the continental#the Matrix has queue#john wick fanfic#john wiction
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Talk Chapter 7
AO3
Helen learns about the hit that’s been ordered
John addresses the guilt that’s holding him down
John packs up quickly, filling the car pretty much to the brim, holding on to the knowledge that he really doesn’t know when he’ll come back.
By putting a contract out on Helen, it was no longer a matter of killing DeLuca and ending this. The contract was open. Whether he was dead or alive, people would come for her.
And while dead was the only way John wanted to see Mateo DeLuca, the fact remained that only he could remove the bounty on Helen. DeLuca, he thinks, or the High Table.
But the High Table wasn’t going to give a shit that Helen Kingston was a civilian. That she hadn’t done anything.
A hit was a hit.
He isn’t sure how he’s going to fix this.
John goes back down to the basement, to his workshop, and found a book hidden among the masses. It’s a newer book that stands out among his bookbinding collection. Larger than most.
He selects it and heads back to the main floor. John lays it open and takes out his phone to prepare to send the message.
As technology got better, so had hackers. Even phones issued by the Continental were subject to being hacked or tracked. He, Marcus, and Sofia had set up a failsafe years ago.
Even if the phone was hacked, it would take years to crack the code they came up with.
He opens the book and finds the first letter he needs, capitalized. He types in the page number, followed by the line that the word is located on, and finally counts out how many words into the line it is.
John hears Helen’s footsteps on the stairs and spares a glance upward. She has a tower of books piled into her little hands. He withholds a smirk and instead, shakes his head. “Just those?”
“This is as many as I can safely carry.” She replies, walking towards him and setting the books on the side of the table, “But rest assured, I’ll be back to steal more.”
He says nothing to that because he can say nothing. Every plan he’s had is screwed up now. His original thought, to separate himself from her, is in shambles now that every assassin in New York knows her name.
She peeks at his phone, “Is that an Ottendorf cipher?”
John feels himself inhale sharply. Why does she have to know that?
It’s such a small thing, really, but she says something like that and his heart starts to stutter in his chest, making him all the more aware of just how much he loves her. He loves her and he can’t have her.
But she says that and he’s lost.
“Yes, but modified. Do I want to know how you know about Ottendorf’s?” John asks, instead.
“I was a paranoid child.” She says, glancing over the book he has chosen, lifting the cover without closing the page to better assess. “All my childhood diaries were written in some kind of code.” She glances up at him, a small smile on her face, “I made up my own cipher when I was eleven to pass notes to my friends in school.”
It occurs to him that she’s never mentioned her own childhood before. Of course, he knows a bit. Between his actual stalking and the time spent on the Continental database, finding every piece of information on Helen Kingston, he was bound to find some things.
Like citations from Elementary school where she got her class to mutiny against a teacher or the handful of detentions she got for backtalk.
But they’ve never talked about her early life before.
Their lines had always been blurred but this was one they hadn’t crossed.
John glances back to his book, “Quite the little rebel.”
She shrugs, “We talked about it last week. What are rules in the face of meaninglessness?”
“And here I thought we were stepping away from nihilism.”
“You’re stepping away from nihilism.” She corrects, “I’m quite content with the idea that there’s no plan or grand design.”
His lips twitch, “There’s still some food left in the kitchen if you want to grab something before we go.”
She hoists her books back up, “Alright. I’m going to drop these in the car first.”
John nods, continuing to compose his message. The Ottendorf cipher was difficult to crack because not only did you need the right book, you needed the right edition, the right printing. It was also a bitch to decode because it required time and accuracy. He, Marcus, and Sofia even took it a step farther by using the first letter of every word rather than using the word itself and often wrote in shorthand.
That said, it was a bitch to put together.
He manages to type out the address of his safehouse and hits send.
John types up a quick message to Winston that he was going off the grid until further notice as he goes back up the stairs. He changes quickly, forgoing the suit for something more casual. Jeans and a t-shirt are oddly discomforting but a three-piece suit would stick out in the middle of nowhere.
Once changed, he checks his phone one last time before powering down.
By the time he finishes, Helen is outside, leaning against the car, eating an apple.
He makes a mental note that they’ll need to stop and pick her up some new clothes because the sight of her dressed in his makes it hard to breathe.
“Ready?” He asks.
She nods, pushing off the car and opening the passenger side door. “Do I want to know about the matching holes in the windows?” She asks as she climbs in.
“Probably not.” He admits.
Helen shoots him a smirk as she buckles in. He’s grateful when she dives into one of the books she had brought rather than asking him questions. He’s still not sure how to broach the subject.
She knows something is wrong, he’s certain, but she hasn’t asked.
Not that he’s offered information. He wants to keep it from her, to protect her for just a little bit longer but he can’t. It’s not fair to her.
Every so often, he catches her looking up from her book, checking road signs and overhead passes that give off locations, directions.
Her curiosity is palpable but, even now, she’s playing the therapist. Not pushing, just waiting for him to get there on his own.
It’s not right. She shouldn’t have to do all the work for them. He tries to bring it up, pushes himself to say something, anything, the next time she looks around curiously.
Half an hour passes.
Then an hour.
Then two.
He gives himself until the clock on the dashboard hits the hour mark. Then he watches as that arbitrary deadline passes, too.
At quarter past, she looks up at one of the signs and he forces himself to choke out the word, “Vermont.”
Helen looks over at him, an eyebrow raised. “Vermont?” She repeats.
He nods, “I have a safehouse there.”
She looks back at the road ahead of them, “Are you ready to talk about it?”
No, he thinks. But it doesn’t matter. They need to talk about it. She needs to know what’s going on.
What was the expression she used? Quick, like a band aid?
“DeLuca put a hit on you.”
He glances over, gauging for a reaction and is met with a simple nod. “How much?”
That, John thinks, should not be her primary concern but he answers anyway, “Four million.”
That makes her head shoot up, repeating the number while staring at him, “Four million dollars?”
He nods, once.
“Jesus.” She mutters, shaking her head, “For four million, I’m tempted to turn myself in.”
John’s hands tighten on the steering wheel, his knuckles turning white, “That’s not funny.”
“I’m not laughing.” Helen rubs at her temple, “Fuck.”
That about covered it, John thinks.
He waits. She’s kept it together this long but news of a bounty on her head has to be enough to snap her out of the idle calm she’s been sitting in. He waits for her try cry or get angry or scream but, no. She shakes her head and looks back to the book on her lap.
He can’t help himself. “Seriously?” He asks, looking between Helen and the road, “You have a four-million-dollar bounty on your head.”
“Yes.” She agrees.
“There are hundreds of assassins looking for you right now.”
“I gathered.”
“Helen…” he cuts himself off, before he says something stupid.
She closes the book and leans back, facing him the best she can in the moving vehicle. “Do you think it would help?”
“What?”
“Do you think it would help if I broke down right now? If I started crying, do you think it would help either of us? Freaking out will not help me handle everything that’s going on. And it won’t affect the guilt that you’re clearly experiencing from something, and I can’t emphasize this enough, was beyond your control.”
He flounders for a moment, opening and closing his mouth as he searches for how to respond to her, “You’ve been kidnapped.”
“Mhmm.”
“Held hostage, sedated, been forced to play mind games with mobsters,”
“Seems like it was only yesterday.”
“And now you have a four-million-dollar hit out for you and you’ve barely reacted!”
She shrugs. She fucking shrugs and John wants to pull off to the side of the road and fucking shake her just to see if that sets her off.
“We all process things differently, John.”
“What have you processed?” He asks, unable to keep the frustration from his voice, “You’ve been eerily calm this entire time!”
She waves a hand, “I started processing it before it even happened. Maybe, if it had been completely out of the blue, I might have had a more visceral reaction. But let’s be real: this was going to happen at some point or another.”
“You were going to be kidnapped at some point or another?” He asks incredulously.
“Given the circumstances, it isn’t a large jump.” She points out. “You’re the Boogeyman. You might not understand all the fear people have when it comes to you but you recognize it. Fuck, I saw firsthand how terrified of you DeLuca’s men are. But you don’t present with a lot of exploitable weaknesses. And, regardless of how I entered the picture, it’s easy to see we have unhealthy boundaries.”
It takes him nearly a minute to process everything that she says and, when he does, he’s shaken.
“You’re saying you knew you were going to be kidnapped because we supposedly have unhealthy boundaries?”
Another shrug, “I wasn’t blind to the possibility that I could be targeted as a way to get to you. And there’s nothing supposedly about it. Our therapeutic relationship has been fucked since the beginning.”
John does a doubletake and looks over at her. “No, it hasn’t.”
Helen snorts, “One month in, I told you to forgo Tarasov V. Regents. A single phone call from you and I could have had my license revoked and my practice disbanded.”
“Isn’t trust the basis of a good therapeutic alliance?”
“There’s trust and then there’s putting my career in your hands. But if you don’t think that’s enough to indicate our God-awful boundaries, we could talk about your late-night stalking habits.”
John’s head flies to look at her.
“Traffic, John.”
He swerves and narrowly misses driving off the road.
His mind reels. She’d never mentioned it before and neither of them has ever brought it up. He operated somewhere between the assumptions that she didn’t know and that she would never mention it if she did.
He asks gruffly, “What did DeLuca tell you?”
She snorts at that, “Please. DeLuca doesn’t see nuances. He’s just convinced we’re sleeping together.”
“Then how--?”
Helen glances over, her voice softening, “Give me some credit here, John.”
He swallows, “How long have you known?”
“Five months.”
Since the beginning.
He watches the road, suddenly hyper-aware of the pounding of his heart, the hairs on his arms that are standing on end, and the tension filling his body.
He’s unable to look at her. He wonders if he’ll ever again be able to look at her, knowing that she knew. This whole time, she actually knew.
How many times had she asked him if he was planning for a late night, supplying him with coffee, all the while knowing that his late night was going to end sneaking into her home and watching her sleep?
And she had known? For five months?
And no, John Wick wasn’t the kind of man you took a restraining order out against, but she knows him better than anyone. One word from her and he would have disappeared.
Morbid curiosity and confusion get the better of him. “You never said anything.”
“You would have stopped.”
It really isn’t fair, John decides, that she can read him like a book despite his prevarications and evasions. But she answers him, and he can barely understand her.
“And that would have been a bad thing?” He can’t keep the incredulity out of his tone.
“I weighed the pros and cons.”
Now John can’t help but look at her. Calm as ever, her eyes remain kind and non-judgmental. “You weighed the pros and cons.” He repeats.
She nods, once, and John really isn’t sure what the hell kind of pros she came up with to sit back and just let that happen.
“Do you really want to have this conversation right now?” She doesn’t sound exasperated, only concerned. “I’m pretty sure you’re about to pull the steering wheel out if we keep going.”
He considers it, but John is pretty certain that the only thing worse than talking about it would be to stop. He wasn’t certain he’d be able to sit in his anxiety now that it was known.
“Yes.”
“To having the conversation or to yanking out the steering wheel?”
He shoots her a look but is a bit relieved that she’s still making jokes. She gives him a smile.
“I figured it out fairly quickly, I think.” She admits, “I woke up one night and just had a gut feeling that I wasn’t alone. Saw your reflection in the window but it was the middle of the night, and I was tired, and so I just went back to sleep.”
“Probably shouldn’t have been your first instinct.”
He doesn’t even have to look to know that she is rolling her eyes again, “You really want to start talking about instincts and poor decision making?”
She has him there.
“Anyway, you were gone when I woke up. At first, I thought it might just be a one-off. You’re a paranoid bastard. It made sense that you wanted to see where I live, gain a little bit of perspective. Trust that I wasn’t some sort of sleeper agent out to kill you or some shit. But then you came back.” She looks back to the road, almost thoughtfully. “And you kept coming back. So, I sat down and thought out a list of pros and cons.”
“And the pros outweighed the cons?” The disbelief is apparent in his tone.
“Yes.”
This, John thinks, has to be the most surreal conversation he’s ever had in his life. Casually talking about the pros and cons of stalking his therapist, with his therapist. Only for said therapist to decide that there were more pros than cons.
“What possible pros did you find?” He asks more out of interest than validation.
“What would you have done if I addressed it in session?”
He blinks at her answering his question with a question. Truth be told, he’s not sure what he would have done but walk out and never come back seems like the most likely.
“You would have run.” She says, matter-of-factly but somehow still manages to make it sound nonjudgmental. “Which, given your history of disorganized attachment, is perfectly understandable. But, it would have been a drastic step that would have pushed you farther away from the healing process.”
“After all this,” John bites, “You still think I can be healed?”
“We've talked about this before, John. There is no "perfect healing" when it comes to trauma. Things can and they will come back up. But I think that you can get to a point where you can let go of the things that have haunted you for so long.” She lets out a breath, “But nobody can get there on their own.”
John shakes his head, “And healing me is worth having your space violated?”
She huffs, “Believe it or not, it isn’t all about you, John.” He glances over and she shrugs. “I— I sleep better on nights you were there.” Helen pauses, then adds, “You keep the nightmares at bay.”
Her words cut him like any knife, but he feels it so much deeper than any cut.
Nightmares.
His thoughts seem to erupt in too many directions at once for him to even follow?
Nightmares?
She’s known for so long.
She sleeps better when I’m there.
What does she have nightmares about?
How the hell have I never noticed that she has nightmares?
Not like she would’ve fucking told you. She’s your therapist.
But she says I keep the nightmares away…
She know; she knows; she knows.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
He can’t handle it, can’t process it right now. Especially while driving. He needs a moment. Or a few thousand.
How can someone’s presence simultaneously sustain him and destroy him?
They pass a highway sign advertising food, gas, and lodging.
It wouldn’t hurt to fill up the tank. They still had hours to go. And she needs food. Real food, more than just an apple.
“Can you eat?”
She smirks knowingly at the abrupt change in conversation, “Yeah. Probably should.”
He nods to himself, pulling off on the exit ramp. Focusing on finding food, on providing, was much easier than letting himself sit in his own thoughts.
But even as he switches focuses, keeping an eye out for one of the places advertised, he can still hear her in his mind.
Your abrupt change in subject indicates that you’re afraid. Are you afraid, John?
They both knew the answer to that. He was fucking terrified.
He catches sight of a diner and pulls into the parking lot. They’re far enough from the city that he isn’t too concerned that anyone from his world will see them, but he hasn’t put it out of his head that he could have been followed. Even watching the rearview constantly hadn’t helped to ease the paranoia that came after having Helen taken.
John puts the car into park and Helen shoots him a grin, gesturing to her outfit. She’s still wearing his shirt and sweatpants, drawn tight. “Hope you don’t mind that I’m hard-core scrubbing it.”
He blinks, “I don’t know what that means.”
She rolls her eyes and gets out of the car, “Come on, John.”
He follows her into the diner, which boldly advertises breakfast all day. He keeps his eyes peeled and steps directly into the space behind her as he assesses the patrons.
A few bikers, a teenage group of friends, and two couples. It was late enough that the actual dinner rush had died down.
“Stay close to me.” He mutters and she shoots him a look over his shoulder, as if to say, seriously?
He nods.
Helen rolls her eyes but murmurs, “Fine.”
“Two?” A waitress asks.
“Yes.” Helen replies as John nods once, adding, “The back booth, please.”
She gives him a look, as well, but grabs two menus and gestures with her head for them to follow. Helen starts to sit on the near side of the table but John gives her a tap. She sighs quietly but goes to the far side, against the wall, and scoots into the booth. John sits next to her.
“You want anything to drink?”
“Just water, please.”
“Coffee.” John says.
The waitress walks away and Helen leans into the corner, “We’re hours away from your place; hours from the city. Do you really think we’re going to run into trouble here?”
“I’m not taking any chances.”
“I’d roll my eyes but if I keep doing that, I’m afraid they’ll get stuck.”
He shoots her a look and pushes the menu towards her. Helen only grins in response but takes the menu and looks it over.
He peruses it idly before turning his attention back to the people in the diner.
The teenagers looked normal but he had been trained to kill when he was their age. No one blended in quite like a teen.
The bikers had plates from South Dakota. He had checked all the license plates on their way inside. How many assassins lived a nomadic lifestyle?
Fuck, there had been a time where John, himself, had lived like that. Riding under the hot sun, funding his travels by killing at night.
The couples seemed inconspicuous but there was nothing to indicate that it was anything more than a cover. How often had he posed with Sofia as a couple on complicated cases?
The waitress comes back with his coffee and her water and he’s sick to his stomach, thinking of a thousand ways they could be poisoned.
“Know what you want?”
Helen orders first, offering a kind smile to the older woman.
She’s so trusting, he thinks, and that terrifies him.
“And you, hon?” She asks John.
“The southwestern hash.” He pushes his and Helen’s menus across the table and the waitress takes them, eyeing him.
Was the waitress a part of the Underworld? A spy for people leaving New York?
Had he made a mistake by choosing some place only a few hours out from the city?
But she turns and walks away.
Everything else has him on edge.
He acknowledges that he’s paranoid as he picks up his coffee and swallows it down. The burning almost helps to alleviate the frustration.
Over the course of the weekend, he’d lost her. He’d lost the woman he loved to an unknown enemy; had clung to the idea of finding her to keep him going. And Helen had managed to save herself. And things weren’t fixed by getting her to safety, but they were better.
And now, DeLuca was pulling this new shit.
While most of the older, more disciplined assassins were smart enough not to go up against him, he wasn’t naïve to think others wouldn’t come.
He had been a young, stupid assassin once, after all.
He’d made his share of stupid decisions trying to make a name for himself.
And what better way to make a name for one’s self than to go up against a renowned assassin?
He remembered his training well.
The Director had beaten it into their heads: it only takes one bullet.
One well-aimed bullet, one perfect blow with a knife and even the best would fall.
John would die for Helen, happily, a thousand times over. But things were fucked and dying for her wouldn’t be enough to keep her safe with a bounty on her head.
And he didn’t know where DeLuca was.
He didn’t know what it would take to remove the bounty and—
Her hand lands on his thigh and he nearly drops the coffee mug in his hand. Quickly, he sets it down, glancing over to her.
Her hand is on his thigh.
Fuck.
“Tell me five things you can see.” She says and he knows better than to ask questions when she’s using that sort of tone.
He blinks, swallowing as he looks around, “Uh, there are thirteen people in this room, aside from us. There’s the exit sign. A clock. An old license plate on the wall. And you.”
“Four things you can feel.”
“The seat we’re on. The scratch of denim. The air circulating. Your hand.” He tries to keep his voice from breaking at the last. Her hand is on his thigh.
“Three things you can hear.”
He listens, intently. “Murmur of conversation. The sounds from the kitchen. Coffee being poured.”
He can tell what she is doing. Simultaneously distracting him from his paranoia and grounding him in the moment.
“Two things you can smell.”
John breathes in and stutters on the exhale. There are many scents in the diner that he can distinguish, but none more powerful than her. Bathed in his shampoo, his body wash from her shower. She smells like he does and it makes his head go a little fuzzy when he thinks too much about it.
He swallows, deciding he is not going to say that. “Uh, I smell the grease from the kitchen. And my coffee.”
“And one thing you can taste.”
“The coffee.” He says, before he can start to think of what he wants to taste.
“Good,” Helen praises and she squeezes his thigh, “Are you with me?”
“I’m here.” He wonders if he’s flushed.
Helen had, once again, pulled him out of his head. Stopped him from going down a darker path and it wasn’t right, he thinks, that Helen is having to calm him down.
“Are you?” She asks, raising her hand from his lap up to his face. She cups his jaw and turns his head to face hers, “Because you look like you’re still lost in your head.”
“I’m sorr—”
“Don’t be. You have no reason to be sorry, John.”
He doesn’t deserve her. Not her love, not her friendship. Not even her help. She’s too good for him, but now, neither of them have a choice. He got her into this mess and now she won’t survive without him.
“This is my fault.”
“I’m not exactly blameless, John.” She removes her hand and he immediately mourns the loss of her touch, “I kept you on as a client even after knowing what you do. I knew you were sneaking into my house at night and I didn’t do anything to stop your or dissuade you. I’m positive that I don’t have the best security at my house.”
“It’s not the same th—"
“John.” She interrupts him again, “Look, we can go back and forth for eternity about where the blame goes. But it’s not going to do us any good because, ultimately, it lies with DeLuca.”
Helen pauses, giving him a moment to ingest what she has just said, before she adds, “I know you’re not used to being scared. And I know it feels like a lifetime since things have been out of your control. But everything is going to be okay.”
“You can’t know that.”
“I can. Because no matter what happens, no matter what horrors and traumas we face, no matter what loss we experience, we still get up in the morning. We figure things out, we adjust our tactics, and we do what we have to.”
He almost believes her but his fear lingers.
He offers a small smile, “Is that how you managed to stay so calm when DeLuca had you?”
She smiles back, adding teasingly, “I figured you’d be stressed enough for the both of us.”
John relaxes his posture, still on guard but no longer feeling fight or flight instincts that had been drowning him since their arrival.
Their waitress walks over and Helen calmly smiles, thanking her as they’re passed their dinners.
John waits until the waitress has gone to respond, “I’ve had missions go south, but not being able to find you, not knowing who had you…” he shakes his head.
“You crave control.” Helen says understandingly, “With your life, in general, of course. But primarily, over your emotions. So you ignore them until something sends you into overdrive.”
“What’s the solution there?”
She reaches over with her fork and snatches a bit of hash from his plate, “No easy fixes, unfortunately. We’ve already talked about rational verse irrational thoughts. The next step would be directly talking about your reactive attachment but I don’t think you’re fully ready to address that.” Helen tells him as she pops it into her mouth.
“What the fuck is reactive attachment?”
She swallows, “One day, I’ll let you read your file.” She takes a sip of her water, “Okay, attachment crash course: attachment is, basically, the bond that develops from person to person. It starts when you’re a baby and the relationships that you have in your early years tend to be large indicators for the rest of your life.
“Babies have needs that have to be met: being clothed, being fed, changed, and cuddled. When these needs are met by a consistent caregiver, babies start to develop trust. They can recognize their caregiver, they feel secure in knowing that, even if their person leaves them, they’ll come back.
“But, these needs aren’t always met. And, when kids don’t form secure attachments, it effects their relationships growing up. If not addressed and treated early, it transitions into adulthood.”
John couldn’t remember that far back but he still remembered the tribe. The orphans were taken care of. They weren’t abandoned but they sure as hell hadn’t been loved, either. He remembered, not too long before he was sent to live under the Director’s care, being in the orphanage and telling one of the little ones to stop crying.
Nobody cared.
It was best to learn that lesson early than to waste tears on someone who would never come.
“And what does that look like?” John asks.
“Being withdrawn from social interaction; not asking for help when you need it because you don’t trust anyone to come through for you; feeling like you don’t understand the world around you, like everyone else is in on something that must have skipped you; not seeking comfort; avoidant behaviors; a tendency to shy away from intimate relationships.”
John exhales a breath he hadn’t known he was holding. “Jesus.”
“When kids with RAD—reactive attachment disorder—start to form connections, they typically go one of two ways. There’s the disinhibited, where the kid with RAD ends up becoming overly emotional. They search for affection in anybody who pays them the slightest bit of attention.”
That didn’t exactly describe John so she continued, “There’s also inhibited. Those kids avoid any emotional bond, they reject kindness and relationships because they don’t trust it. Even if a kid likes someone, they eventually reject them before they can be rejected.”
John swallows. Just that morning, he had been thinking about how to disentangle himself from Helen. He had justified it by telling himself it was to protect her. From him, from his enemies.
But Helen was still there; still sitting by his side. Still trusting him with her life despite everything.
“When kids with RAD grow up, relationships—even friendships are strained. There’s a fundamental lack of trust that’s based in fear. You avoid close relationships; avoid personal relationships, period.”
“I didn’t avoid you.”
She inclines her head, “Yeah, well…” She takes another bite of her dinner.
“Well, what?” He’s almost afraid of the answer with the look she’s giving him.
“It isn’t unusual for someone with RAD to over-attach themselves to one or two people in particular. Those relationships tend to be a bit obsessive.”
And now, he needs a drink. He preferred to savor bourbon, but he was ready to down a bottle to avoid this particular conversation again.
He can’t help but wonder if she knows just how far his obsession for her goes. If he told her he loved her, would she say that she already knows? After all, she knows everything else about him. Or would she smile sadly, empathetically, and tell him that she cared for him, but not like that?
He wasn’t sure which would be worse.
John had accepted a long time ago that he would love her forever. That he would never feel for another what he felt for her.
A part of him is… almost angry. He loves her but it isn’t because of his trauma.
She’s kind and good and so damn empathetic. But she’s more than that. She’s clever and unyielding. Smart and funny and so damn beautiful, inside and out.
And he isn’t sure he can give a reason why he loves her but he doesn’t want his feelings for her, his obsession, his love for her to be tainted by the abuse he had suffered.
“I don’t want to be defined by that trauma.” It slips out before he can think better of it but Helen takes his words in her gentle way. Her head tilts to the side.
“Do you feel like you are?”
“Sometimes. At least, that I’m a product of it.”
Helen nods, thoughtfully, “You are… distinguished by your trauma. It has shaped you, just like every other experience you have been through, you are changed by it. But you are far more than the sum of your past, John.”
John shakes his head, “The things I feel… they’re not normal.”
Again, her little hand finds his, resting atop the back of his hand. She squeezes in comfort.
“That doesn’t mean they’re not real.”
Ultimately, John thinks, he’s still fucked in the head.
But it’s a little easier to live with that fact with Helen at his side.
#john wick talk#john wick#helen wick#john x helen wick#helen x john wick#otp: daisy#overheard at the continental#john wicktion#john wiction#john wick fanfic#john wick fanfiction
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Talk Chapter 14
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The moment John reaches the city line, he turns on his phone. Yet again, he is met with a cacophony of vibrations as his phone loads with the unread messages that have accumulated over the past twelve or so hours.
He waits until the barrage has ended before hitting the speed dial option that will bring him directly to the Continental. He orders a day room to set up shop, as well as a request for the technician to start researching DeLuca’s mother.
He’s transferred to Winston long enough to find out the name of Mateo’s mother. Winston barely gets a sentence out before John has said a goodbye.
When he is done, he dials Sofia.
It’s already evening in Morocco and he can hear loud music in the background when she answers.
“You’re lucky I’m picking up considering you don’t answer any of your texts.” She says loudly, over the pulsing rhythm.
John feels his lips twitch at the annoyance in her tone. “Been busy.”
“So I’ve heard.” The background noise gets quieter and he hears the sound of a door closing. “Rumor has it, you’re killing anybody even considering taking the Kingston contract.”
Good. While he doesn’t have the time to actually go ahead and kill every person seeking out Helen, he wants anybody considering her contract to think twice.
“Hearing many rumors in Casablanca?”
“Oh, you went global , John. Everybody everywhere is talking about it.”
John sighs at that and shakes his head, “Is there really nothing more interesting happening anywhere?”
“I’ll break it down for you because I know you’ve had a lot of head injuries: everybody looks at you like a monk. You don’t date. You don’t fuck around. Everybody just kind of assumed you were celibate. I've even heard rumors that you made a deal with the devil to be powerful at the cost of giving up sex.”
“Then, a contract goes wide. Some woman no one’s ever heard of. Never set foot in the Underworld yet seems to have a connection to John Wick. Everybody waits for a response. Only you disappear off the map for twenty-four hours. And nobody can actually find Helen Kingston.”
“Then, you resurface and start killing anyone who’s even looked at the Kingston contract. So, no, John. There really isn’t anything more interesting happening anywhere.”
John lets out a breath.
This, he realizes, is quickly becoming his newest fear. That even if, somehow, he can get them both out alive, he’s going to have to face the rest of the Underworld.
He’d warned Helen before he left that he still had enemies. Ones far worse than DeLuca. The Syndicate heir was ambitious, but DeLuca truly didn’t care whether Helen lived or died. Others would. Others would make it their mission to make her suffer just to see how John would react.
She was already trapped in ways she couldn’t possibly understand and that terrified him.
“But I take it you’re not calling to find out what the rumor mill is pelting in Casablanca.”
“No, I’m not.” John says, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel as he waits for the pedestrians to cross in front of him. “I need a favor. There’s a bottle of Romanee-Conti ’72 in it for you. Plus expenses.” He’s more than willing to give her a marker if that’s what this takes, but he has a feeling that the rare vintage plus the intrigue of it all will be enough to capture her attention.
“Color me intrigued. What’s the job?”
“The man who’s hired the hit on Helen is Mateo DeLuca of Syndicate. I have reason to believe his mother, Isabella DeLuca, is the one who is actually calling the shots. Only problem, she’s in Rome.”
Sofia hums, “Is she well-guarded?”
“I don’t know.” John answers honestly, “But I need her in New York yesterday.”
“An exchange. His mother for your girl?”
John drives on, inclining his head at the question, “I’m certain it won’t be that simple. But yes.”
Sofia hums and, again, he can hear her moving. The background noise increases slightly, “I can be to Rome in five hours.”
“Perfect. If you can get her when she’s going to bed—”
“No one will be the wiser until morning. This isn’t my first extraction, John.”
He nods to himself because of course it isn’t .
He isn’t a micromanager. He never has been, but the stakes have never been quite like this before.
“You care if she’s bruised?”
John considers it.
He typically liked to keep things as clean as possible. He didn’t do extractions or espionage or anything else that called for more tact and forethought than a bullet to the head.
But Isabella DeLuca was the force behind Mateo. Arguably, the force behind Helen’s abduction.
“Not in the slightest.” He says finally, “Although I don’t expect she’ll put up much of a fight. She’s a bureaucrat.”
Sofia groans, “I prefer it when they fight. Bureaucrats just whine.”
“I get it. I’ve spent more time dealing with politics the past few days than I have in my entire life.”
“Never thought I’d see the day where John Wick had to talk nice to people. Then again, never thought you were going to get your v-card punched, either.”
John rolls his eyes at Sofia’s ongoing joke. There wasn’t much else she could get on him but his decision to be largely celibate fascinated his friend. Truthfully, John didn’t think too much about sex or carnal pleasures. He didn’t prioritize fleeting experiences.
But then, the assassin’s voice softens, “How is she? Your girl. Does she understand what’s going on?”
John nods before remembering that Sofia can’t see him. “Yeah, she gets it. And she’s…” unbelievable. Ridiculous. Brave and clever and tougher than he ever gave her credit for, “In the past week, she’s been kidnapped, held hostage, and forced to go into hiding because half of New York is out to kill her. And despite all that, her biggest concern is that something could happen to me .”
It still boggles his mind.
“How long have you been together?”
He isn’t entirely sure how to answer that and there’s far too much to explain over the phone. He decides on, “It’s complicated.”
“Isn’t it always?” She asks and John is glad that she isn’t going to chastise him for not knowing better. “Hang on.” He hears her switch languages to Arabic. While John isn’t fluent in that particular language, he knows enough to hear the word ‘airplane’. After a minute of back and forth, she is back on the phone, “I’m headed to the airport now. The concierge is finding a pilot as we speak.”
“Perfect.” John says with a sigh of relief. “Thank you.”
“Where am I taking her once I have her?”
He thinks, quickly. There were too many eyes in New York for him to chance it getting back to DeLuca. Likewise, he was certain his house was being watched. Even though it technically wasn’t under his name, enough people knew about his residence in Jersey for it to get around. And there was no way in hell he was bringing Isabella anywhere near Helen.
“There’s a private airstrip just outside of Newark with an adjacent motel. Keep her there. If I don’t talk to you before then, I’ll plan on meeting you there tomorrow, at noon. I’ll probably be offline when you land.”
“I’ll get her there.”
“Thank you, Sof.”
He hangs up and concentrates on the road ahead, even as his thoughts spin. He hates having to depend on anybody. That said, he does trust Sofia to get the job done. To take care of it and troubleshoot any unforeseen problems on her own. That knowledge helps with the distaste he feels for needing help. It was easier to accept the help, too, knowing it would benefit Helen.
John makes it to the Continental and leaves his car with the valet. Walking into the lobby, he spots Verdugo sitting in an armchair by the fire, reading the newspaper. He imagines the assassin is likely still the number one contender targeting Helen, considering John hadn’t been able to touch him the day before.
He feels his hand already itching for his gun but he knows the rule.
He recites the rule, to himself, again and again as he passes by.
No business conducted on Continental grounds.
He can’t falter on that, not here. The moment Verdugo sets foot outside the hotel, he’s fair game. But not here.
Charon already has a key card placed on the counter when John reaches the counter. John places a coin down and they make a quick exchange.
“Mister Dexter sent you a fax and the Technician has compiled the information you asked for. I’ve taken the liberty of sending it all to your room.”
“Thank you.” John says, thinking back over the past few days. For everything that the Continental staff had helped him with. “For everything, this week.”
“Of course.” The Concierge replies with ease. John takes his key and starts to walk off when Charon calls to him, “And Mister Wick?” He waits until John turns, “I wish you the best of luck with your… task.”
John nods his thanks and proceeds down the hall and up the stairs. The day room was almost identical to the one he had stayed in while waiting for news of Helen just days ago. Two folders layfolders lay on the table when John walks in.
The first is much smaller. John flips it open and finds only two sheets of paper, reporting the updated odds. In large capital letters, it advertises Kingston Contract Odds .
John forces himself to swallow as he reads through it.
Verdugo remains the top contender, but the rest of the list is very different than the one he had seen yesterday morning.
Fuck, he thinks, was it really only yesterday?
He sighs, reviewing the changes. While he had eliminated a great deal of the assassins targeting Helen, even more had dropped out of their own accord, it would seem.
Good.
But more would always come, as evidenced by the papers in his hands.
More names he didn’t recognize. Junior assassins and street kids looking to make a name for themselves.
He’d try to make time to eliminate more. Keep reminding people exactly who they were messing with by going after a woman they knew to be his.
John takes out his cell phone, again, ignoring the dozens of text messages that would be left unread until he had the time to deal with them. He finds Santino and drafts a new message.
J: Need to talk. Today.
He reads it over after and sends. Before he can even set it down, it vibrates in his hand.
S: Intriguing. You know where I live.
John turns off the screen, setting the device to the side as he opens the second folder.
Pictures of Isabella DeLuca on the arm of her late husband at scores of different events over the years. A birth announcement of their son. A copy of a marriage certificate. A degree from Sapienza University of Rome in business sciences and another in political science. A transcript, providing proof of excellent marks and scores.
She was bright, it seems, adding to Helen’s theory that Isabella was the true brain behind Syndicate.
He continues going back into her history, but he doesn’t make the connection until he sees her birth certificate.
Isabella Carlotta Giovinco.
Daughter of Stefano Giovinco and Valentina D’Antonio.
He whips out his phone and dials Winston speedily.
“Hello again, Jonathan. Have you—”
“Valentina D’Antonio.” John says quickly, “What’s her relationship to Lorenzo?”
“Valentina?” Winston repeats, “She was his older sister. The eldest child of Claudia and Enzo D’Antonio.”
“And that would make Isabella DeLuca his niece?”
“Yes.”
John closes his eyes, “And you didn’t think that was pertinent information to share when DeLuca asked me to kill the D’Antonio’s?”
“Killing family is not an unusual practice, Jonathan. But, honestly, it slipped my mind. When Isabella was never, herself, a D’Antonio.”
“But her mother was.” He shakes his head, “And in those days, everything was patrilineal. Heir’s weren’t chosen based on age or conviction; they automatically went to the oldest male.”
“Which, in Valentina’s case was her brother, Lorenzo. She married one of her father’s lieutenants, if I remember correctly. They had several children, one of which being Isabella. It was quite the scandalous thing when Isabella married Dante. She had to renounce the Camorra at her own wedding to be accepted into Syndicate.”
“A lesser gang.”
“But one that quickly rose to prominence. It’s second only behind the Camorra in Italy.”
John pinches the bridge of his nose. He fucking hates this bullshit.
There’s a knock on the door and a beeping as the door unlocks. Winston enters and John lowers his phone, shutting it off.
“So, before Isabella, Syndicate was just another Italian crime family trying to be great.” John assesses, “Her family probably thought she was crazy for leaving the safety of the Camorra, but there was no advancement there. In the Camorra, she was just the daughter of a soldier and a has-been princess. But in Syndicate, she was a queen.”
“You think Isabella was the driving force behind Syndicate’s rise?” Winston synthesizes, looking unsure.
John nods, “I do. Helen told me that DeLuca wasn’t smart enough to be doing this on his own and I didn’t listen. Fuck .” He exhales, “I almost missed it.”
He’d kick himself if he could. If he had just listened to her from the beginning… no. He can’t focus on should have’s.
This is good.
Any doubt that Lorenzo D’Antonio will turn down his request fades from his mind.
Because it’s personal now. For them, at least.
It’s been personal for John since they started stalking the woman he loved.
“Unbelievable.” He mutters.
“I take it Mateo demanded the same last night as when he first took your beloved.”
John nods again, “Yes. And I’ve spent the last few days trying to figure out how I can get us both out of this alive. I can’t believe I almost missed it.”
John exhales and it feels like a weight is lifted from his shoulders.
It’s far from over but he can feel everything start to come together. There’s a light at the end of a tunnel that once seemed endless.
He breathes easy.
He wishes that Helen weren’t hours away so he could take her into his arms and hug her as the relief courses through him, overwhelming the guilt that he had missed something so crucial.
“It’s unsurprising that you missed it.” Winston says, “You’ve never had a political mind. You prefer the simplicity of being told where to point and shoot.”
True enough, John thinks.
“There’s something else you should know.” Winston adds, his voice softening in a way that tells John that whatever comes next won’t be good. He nods and Winston says, “There’s a missing person’s out for Helen Kingston. I’m not sure if it was someone in the Underworld trying to draw her out of hiding or if it was someone from her work, but the police were at her house this morning.”
If it wasn’t one thing, it was another.
John shakes his head, “Do you know if Charlie was able to clean the scene before the police got there?”
Winston nods, “Yes. I have someone watching the investigation. The police are under the assumption that she ran away since both her cell phones and her laptop are nowhere to be found but her family is pushing, saying Helen wouldn’t just disappear without telling them.”
“Alright.” John sighs, “Thank you for letting me know.
“Of course.”
“I have to meet with Santino.” John says, closing the folder and handing it to Winston, “Could you pass these along to the Technician? I need them scanned and emailed to Sofia Al-Azwar.”
Winston accepts the folder, inclining his head, “I’d ask what you were planning, Jonathan, except I feel it’s better that I don’t know.”
“You’re probably right.” John agrees.
“That said, I will be watching with complete and utter fascination.” The Manager continues, “Good luck.”
John nods, pocketing the key in case he needs to come back, and leaving the rest behind. Without a goodbye, he hurries back down the hall. He descends the stairs only to meet Verdugo walking up. The other assassin gives him a smile.
“You’re a hard man to find, John Wick.”
John stops and reminds himself again, of the mandate.
No business shall be conducted on Continental grounds .
While John was more than willing to argue that this isn’t business, it was personal , he was certain that argument wouldn’t fly with Winston or the High Table.
“Am I?” He asks, instead.
“Very. But every now and then, you pop up. Seemingly out of nowhere. If only Helen Kingston was privy to doing the same.”
No business shall be conducted on Continental grounds .
“It would be in your best interest,” John manages to bite out, “To forget her name.”
“But it is such a pretty name. Fitting, really. There was a war over her namesake as well.”
No business shall be conducted on Continental grounds .
“One where thousands died,” John agrees, aware that they’ve caught the attention of several onlookers just off the lobby, “Yet another reason it would be wise of you to drop the contract.”
Verdugo inclines his head, “You can’t keep her hidden forever. You do know that, don’t you? If it’s not me, it’ll be someone else.”
No business shall be conducted on Continental grounds .
“It won’t be you.”
“Why are you making this so much harder on yourself?” There is genuine curiosity dripping from Verdugo’s words. A confusion, of sorts, as if he can’t understand why John Wick is putting off the inevitable.
Kate had been similarly curious, although hers had been riddled with amusement. Now she was dead.
But every assassin thought themselves invincible, to a degree. Yes, they were far more aware of mortality than the average person having watched the life drain from countless eyes. But the older assassins in particular, who had brushed with death regularly, often seemed to forget that.
John, himself, was guilty of that. He thinks to the tie that does not hang from his neck, which instead, he had left with Helen. He might never wear one again in his promise to her to not let anyone have a chance at defeating him.
“Make it easier on yourself and let her go.” The other assassin pauses, “I’ll make sure it’s quick. Painless.”
No business shall be conducted on Continental grounds .
No business shall be conducted on Continental grounds .
No business shall be conducted on Continental grounds .
“Would you like to take this outside?” John asks, hoping against hope that Verdugo is stupid or confident enough to make a mistake.
Verdugo inclines his head, “You forget, Mister Wick. You’re not the one with the multi-million-dollar bounty… Consider my offer. Others’ targeting the Boogeyman’s woman will be far more malicious.” He starts to ascend back up the stairs, “Be seeing you, Mister Wick.”
John repeats the rule one last time before forcing himself to turn away. Until Verdugo leaves the Continental, John can’t do shit.
That said, he’d be extra wary of tails on his way home. Just in case.
He’s almost tempted to let the assassin tail him. Take him to the middle of nowhere and pummel him to death.
His focus has never been so chaotic. He’s typically good at ignoring the smack talk. At walking away from those seeking to push him or make him lose his resolve.
John needs to stick to the plan.
Helen is safe. Protected.
Marcus won’t let anything happen to her.
He needs to do his part.
He nods to Charon as he leaves, ignoring the countless sets of eyes watching him as he strides through the lobby with purpose. The valet is gone when he reaches the stairs and John takes a moment to breathe. To go over the plan.
Santino will still be his point of contact. The easiest of the D’Antonio’s to convince to go along with his plan. But now he has leverage to use with Lorenzo, which makes it significantly easier to breathe.
He just needs to get the bounty removed. Then he can deal with the rest—the other enemies who might target Helen, the missing persons’ case being explored, and the countless unresolved feelings that had been flowing between them.
In a way, he’s relieved that the deadline is only two days away because he’s not sure how much more he can take.
The valet pulls up to the curb with his car and John hands him a tip as he walks by. Santino’s penthouse condo wasn’t too far away, just over the bridge and into Manhattan.
John is waved into the garage by security and he parks next to one of Santino’s many, but mostly unused, sports cars, before heading to the elevator.
When he arrives, a few members of Santino’s entourage were relaxing around his penthouse.
Ares plays a video game with a few of her co-bodyguards. She throws him a smirk as John is wanded down by another member of Santino’s protection.
Her hands move in a blur as she signs you still alive, old man?
John rolls his eyes and signs back Respect your elders.
Ares only grins wider I’d rather respect your girlfriend. I’ve seen the pictures. She has a nice ass .
Not knowing how to respond to that, John just shakes his head and moves further into the penthouse suite. Santino appears at the balcony, always one to make an entrance, and descends down the stairs.
“John! Always a pleasure. Café?”
John nods, “Si. Gratzi.”
Santino motions with a hand and leads John to a kitchen where two more of his men were sitting. Both regard John with interest but he ignores their stares. Santino barks an order in Italian and one of them stands to make the espresso.
“You’ll have to forgive the mess,” Santino says, although John has noticed no mess to speak of, “My father and sister are visiting.”
John hums, “Are they here?”
“No, no. Gianna doesn’t travel often and prefers to use the advantages of the Continental whenever she does. My father is staying with a business associate.”
John didn’t understand much of politics, but he was well aware that business associate meant mistress in this case. He says nothing as Santino’s henchman hands them each a small cup.
“Now, to what do I owe the pleasure of your company?” Santino asks.
John glances around not so subtly and Santino gives another order. The men vacate the room and John can hear them passing on to others outside the kitchen that it is time to leave.
“I’m sure you’ve heard the rumors going around.”
“Ah, but I never believe such fickle things.”
That was a lie, but John let it slide. He didn’t come here to argue with the Italian mafiaso after all. He can hear the swing of the door and he glances back. Ares has come in.
“I hope you don’t mind, John, but I do prefer to keep my head of security close at all times.”
He resists the urge to roll his eyes but nods, signing as he speaks, for Ares benefit, “Of course.”
Santino offers a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes and John finds himself doubting that this is a good idea.
Remember your promise , he thinks. He will come home.
“Now, please,” Santino says, “Enlighten me with the truth.”
“The rumors,” John admits, “are largely true.”
“But not entirely?” Santino leans forward.
“Is anything entirely true?” John evades with a practiced ease.
“Is she your girlfriend?”
“We’ve never technically put such a label on our relationship.” Not technically a lie, John thinks. “But for all intents and purposes, she is mine .”
Santino grins broadly, already rapt by the drama of it all. John will never understand the Mafioso’s fascination with such things. Truthfully, John isn’t certain why anybody gives a damn about the lives of people they don’t care about but that’s another matter entirely.
“Mio Dio, John. I did not think you had it in you.”
He barely withholds another eyeroll.
“And now what? You destroy New York piece by piece, until there’s no one left to harm her?”
“That’s plan B.”
“And plan A?”
John swallows down the espresso, keeping an eye on Ares as he prepares to explain.
“Mateo DeLuca holds the hit over Helen. I’m sure you’re familiar with him.”
“We’ve never actually met.” Santino says, “But he is my cousin.”
John nods once, “And of his mother?”
“Isabella. My dear aunt Valentina’s daughter. Until she disowned and dishonored her family to marry that scoundrel, Dante. Quite the tragic affair, although I was too young to remember.”
“She remembers you.” John says, “She’s ordered your death, along with that of your father and sister, in exchange for the release of Helen’s contract.”
Ares moves fast but John is faster. He grabs a cutting board from the island and uses it to catch the two knives she throws at him before he discards it, throwing it to the floor.
“Relax!” He says as he signs, before turning back to Santino, “If I wanted you dead, I wouldn’t have offered you an explanation. I’d have killed you the moment you walked in.”
Santino looks to his guard, quietly ordering her to stand down, before looking back at John. “Go on.”
“They want the Camorra.” John says before taunting, “And it would be easy enough to give them. Except I don’t trust them. Nor do I like the idea of the High Table coming after me while DeLuca takes Rome, free of consequence.”
“I take it you have a plan?”
“It would require your cooperation, as well as that of your father and sister.”
“How so?” There is a glint of excitement in Santino’s eyes that John really doesn’t understand but he isn’t going to complain if it means the mafiaso is willing to help.
John glances to Ares, who has her arms crossed and is still watching him with suspicion. “We’ll need to stage your death. I’ll take photographic evidence to give to DeLuca. Once he exchanges his end of the bargain, you can present the DeLuca’s to the High Table to be tried for treason.”
“And you walk away with the girl.” Santino hums, shaking his shoulders as he considers it, “How exciting! How would you like to fake my death? Strangle me? Pretend to cut me open, hmm?”
Unbelievable. It takes him a moment to even remember to speak, “I was thinking fake a bullet to the head. It doesn’t leave much room for questioning.”
“Are we to do this now?” Santino is practically bouncing.
Again, John is tempted to just yell what the fuck but withholds with a shake of his head.
“I was hoping to speak with your father, first. But yes, it would be today. If I’m seen coming and going while you are obviously alive, DeLuca might suspect that I’ve tipped you off.”
“Wonderful!”
“You’d have to stay in hiding for two days.” John says, “And no one can know. Not even your entourage or security. Save Ares.”
“Yes, yes!” Santino nods, “They will mourn their loss only for me to rise, like Christo.”
He swears he catches Ares rolling her eyes while Santino considers how to best spin faking his death. Not that she’d ever admit it. She was too loyal. A rare quality in the Underworld, but one John respected nonetheless.
“Can you get a hold of your father remotely?” John asks, “Over video call?”
“Of course!” Santino gives instructions to Ares. She nods and leaves the room, “New video conferencing on top-of-the-line laptop. Just released from Geneva. It’s untraceable, unhackable.”
The other assassin returns with the laptop and sets it up for Santino. The heir calls his father while John closes his eyes. The youngest D’Antonio had been an easy sell—willing to play dead for the shock value and entertainment factors alone. And while John was certain Lorenzo would be swayed by Isabella’s involvement, he was aware that Lorenzo might take a bit more pushing.
The call is picked up by one of Lorenzo’s bodyguards.
John is aware that high-ranking members of the Underworld kept hired guns, and particularly members of the High Table required guarding, but it still throws him.
John, who can barely stand the presence of friends, cannot understand the appeal of such things. Or the inability to take care of one’s self.
After a few minutes, Lorenzo is brought to the computer. He settles down in front of it, peering at the camera. A rush of Italian parts from his lips and John finds himself code-switching quickly, trying to change the language his brain would accept.
“I told you, I would see you Friday before I left—” Lorenzo was saying, his voice dripping with disdain.
“Yes, father, but I have John Wick here to speak with you.”
Santino turns the camera towards John.
“John!” Lorenzo says in surprise, “I was hoping to see you on my visit. When I heard about your… conundrum, I assumed you would be too busy.”
“Lorenzo,” John steps closer to the camera, “It’s about that matter I wish to speak with you.”
And it all comes out.
The involvement of the DeLuca’s. Isabella’s slow, careful takeover of the Syndicate. Playing kingmaker to her son and murdering her husband, all in quest of taking back the Camorra.
The contract on Helen’s life.
How, despite the contract, John doesn’t trust the Syndicate crime family.
“That whore .” Lorenzo spits out, when John has finished, “She gets that from her mother. Being a princess in the Camorra was not enough.” The old man shakes his head, “Her ambition is her downfall.”
“You can have them tried at the High Table for their treason.” John nudges.
Lorenzo certainly perks up at that. What a display that could be. The Camorra annihilating its number one competitor, publicly.
“I’ll testify for the High Table.” He continues, “All I ask is a few hours of your time. And that of your children.”
“I don’t like the idea of playing a dead man.” Lorenzo replies uncertainly, “It would look weak.”
“Only for you to rise from the grave, seizing what has fallen in DeLuca’s absence. Syndicate could be yours.”
Lorenzo considers it, a smile breaking upon his face. “Alright, John. Tell me your plan.”
....
thanks to @meetmeinthematinee for reviewing it before I posted this :)
#john wick#john wick talk#john wick fanfiction#helen wick#santino d'antonio#john x helen wick#helen x john wick#ares (john wick)#overheard at the continental#the matrix had queue#john wick fanfic#john wiction
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Talk Chapter 9
AO3
The sun is peaking through the curtains when John feels the fog of sleep begin to roll away. Immediately, he is caught off guard by the sheer heaviness of his blankets, practically pinning him to the bed.
He blinks away the sleep only to find himself suddenly very awake.
Helen is splayed across him, an arm draped over his chest while her head rests in the crook of his neck. Her leg is entwined around his. One of his own arms is wrapped under her while the other is wrapped around her back, holding her in place.
John isn’t entirely sure how they ended up like this. He moves the arm draped over her back and Helen makes a sound of disproval. The arm around his chest tightens and she burrows her head deeper into his the crook of his neck, her body sliding a bit further onto his. Her thigh brushes over his cock and he winces as it stirs to life.
The feel of her body entangled with his, the scent of his bodywash clinging to her skin is all too much. And while he kind of wants to stay like this forever, he needs to get the fuck away.
He gently takes her arm off his chest and presses it back to her, rolling her off and onto the bed as carefully as he can. She pouts in her sleep, making a huff as John slips out from under her.
Immediately, Helen curls into a ball, leaning into the spot of warmth he’d left behind.
Her legs are mostly bare, he notices. She changed before bed, it would seem. No longer is she wearing his sweatpants, rolled down at the waist and up at the pant cuff. Instead, she had found and taken a pair of his boxers from his bag.
He stifles a groan at the sight and his cock hardens all the more.
Fuck.
He needs a shower.
John slips from the room and down the hall. His suits, which he’ll need if he’s going to the Continental, all remain in the back seat of his car.
Marcus is up and about in the kitchen as John passes through, a pot of coffee dripping behind him. John grabs his keys off the counter and ducks outside.
The grass is dewy, the sharp smell of fog and clear air are in stark contrast to the usual city air he’s used to breathing every day. He grabs the suit bags from his backseat and hurries back inside, ignoring the painful ache of his cock.
“Coffee?” Marcus asks as John comes back in, closing the door behind him.
“Gonna shower first.” He mutters.
“You bring shower stuff?”
“No, gonna need to buy shit later.”
“Cold shower kind of morning?” Marcus asks with a large grin. John flips him off, only serving to make Marcus laugh at his misery.
John decides he hates everything. Well, he spares a glance at the bedroom door… Almost everything.
He closes the bathroom door behind him and slams the shower on. John shucks his clothes, laying them on the sink before grabbing a towel off a shelf. He finds one towards the middle that doesn’t have a coating of dust and makes a mental note to bring the dirtier towels to the basement to be washed.
The mirror steams around its edges and John slips into the shower. The water burns just a bit and he closes his eyes.
Nothing in the world could have prepared him to wake up to Helen atop him. Her arm wrapped around him, her face against his neck. He could feel the warmth of each breath she released.
He pictures her on top of him, like she had just been, but awake. Sleep still clinging to her eyes as those soft, pink lips pressed kisses to his neck. Her hand inching its way down his chest, his stomach… pushing under the band of his sweatpants to take his hardened cock in her small hands.
Those hands, which he has held in his. Softer than they had any right to be, wrapping around his cock. Would she be able to fully reach around, he wonders?
He takes his cock in hand, giving it a pump.
He can see her, in his mind, looking over at him with those beautiful brown eyes… her lips curl into a devilish grin as she presses open-mouthed kisses to his neck, teasing him with her teeth.
He can see her climbing down his body, agonizingly slowly until she lays between his legs. Her eyes fluttering as she holds him in her hand and licks a long stripe up the underside of his cock. Her wet, hot mouth dragging up and down his length before she takes his tip between those pretty pink lips…
John feels himself stiffen as he pictures it, his hips rolling as he strokes himself to the thought of her face.
She’d need to use her hand, he thinks. She might not be able to take him all. At least at first. She would bob her head up and down, his cock sliding in and out of her little mouth while her hand switches between stroking his base and massaging his balls.
Fuck…
He can hear her, in his mind, making that soft little moan that drove him wild. Her breath hitching as she tries again and again to take him deeper, to swallow him down.
So eager and needy and willing…
He’d try to keep it together, to hold off and not lose his load like a teenager.
But she’s staring up at him with those eyes, gagging on his cock as she tries again and again to take him all. Watching his dick disappear again and again into her mouth, down her throat while she makes those little wanton moans against him…
He bets she’d be dripping. Soaked for him so that by the time he is done, he can feast upon her sweet pussy…
He swallows a swear, forcing himself not to call out as he comes. White stripes shoot over his hand as John breathes heavily.
He stands under the hot stream of water until his breathing is back to normal, until his heart no longer feels as if it’ll beat out of his chest.
Fuck.
He pushes his wet hair out of his face and looks up into the water.
He’s grown used to the temperature, so he turns it up, just a bit. Just enough that it burns some life back into him.
Today, he thinks, is going to be hell.
He needs to go to the Continental. Needs to consult with Winston, needs to check his phone and see if DeLuca reached out again.
He needs to get a hold on the situation before he loses any more control.
Needs to put the fear of god into anybody stupid enough to consider targeting Helen.
He turns the water off and steps out of the shower, grabbing his towel. He starts to dry off, considering his options. Helen will be safe here. She’s far enough away from the city that no will be looking for her here. And Marcus will protect her.
She needs clothes, John thinks. And a whole lot of other things. He’ll have to stop at her house which means he’s almost certain to pick up a tail. And while he isn’t quite as paranoid about taking a ten hour detour without having Helen in the car but he isn’t going to go the direct route either.
John sighs, not looking forward to having to spend half his day in the car. At least it would be faster to get to the Continental than if he were going home to Jersey.
He dresses, putting on everything but the suit jacket. That he carries over his arm as he opens the door.
The bedroom door across the hall is open and the bed has been made up.
Down the hall, he can hear Helen and Marcus chatting.
“Yeah, I’m all good on that.” Helen says as he rounds the corner into the kitchen. Marcus shrugs and sips a bright orange beverage.
John finds himself rolling his eyes, “Did you bring your juicer here?”
“No.” Marcus says, “I bought a new one yesterday when I learned the only appliance you had was a coffee maker.”
“Thank fuck for that.” Helen says, saluting John with her mug of coffee.
He resists the urge to lean down and kiss her head.
She’s back in his sweats and t-shirt, hair mussed from sleep. She’s not quite fully awake yet, he can tell, and he longs to wrap his arms around her and carry her back to bed.
“I’m going to swing by your place today,” John tells her as he goes around Marcus to said coffeemaker. “Pack you some clothes. Is there anything else you want from there?”
“My shower stuff would be nice. And my glasses. I can read without them, but it gives me a headache.”
“Do you need more of the pills Doc sent?” John asks, looking over his shoulder in concern.
“Not yet. It’s not too bad right now.”
“You know,” Marcus adds, “You probably shouldn’t be drinking coffee with a concussion, either.”
“Come and pry it from my fucking hands.” She mutters, sipping at the beverage.
“Careful, Marcus, she doesn’t joke about her coffee.” John says as he tastes his own. It’s not the best, having been stored in the cabinet for a good few years, but he’s had worse.
He makes a mental note to stop for coffee on the way back as well.
Helen looks up, her soft gaze landing on him. He can see the curiosity reflected in her eyes but there is also trust. He’s not sure what he’s done to earn that trust considering the past few days but he swears to himself that he’ll do better this time.
“You might want to talk to Marcus before you leave. He might be able to give you a shortcut to the city that cuts out an hour or seven.” She teases.
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
“Are you going straight to the Continental?” Marcus asks, smirking as he looks back at John. Like he’s trying to prove something from Helen’s teasing. What Marcus doesn’t understand, John thinks, is its not flirting. It’s just the way they talk to each other.
John ignores his smirk and nods, “Need to get an update from Winston and see if Karl managed to dig up anything on DeLuca before anything else.”
“Make sure you look into his mom. DeLuca’s the face, but his mom is definitely pulling strings in the Syndicate.” Helen adds before taking a sip. She makes a noise, her eyes widening as she quickly swallows her coffee, “And I swear to God, John, I’m going to be really pissed if you kill Nick and Frankie.”
He resists the urge to roll his eyes again. Truth be told, DeLuca’s henchmen and everyone else who played a role in her kidnapping had slipped down his list of priorities. He hadn’t forgotten, wouldn’t ever forget, but revenge would have to wait until she was actually safe.
And then he would consider her request to spare DeLuca’s men.
“Nick and Frankie?” Marcus asks.
“Those would be DeLuca’s men who she made friends with.”
Marcus turns and looks at Helen, raising an eyebrow. “You made friends with your kidnappers?”
“They’re hired guns, at best. And they’re both sweethearts, in way over their heads.”
Marcus looks back to John in disbelief.
John just shrugs, not sure what else to fucking do.
“John.” She says again, looking at him as she waits for a confirmation.
“I won’t kill them today. We can argue about tomorrow when I get back.”
She hums but accepts the answer.
John finishes his coffee and sets the mug in the sink before looking to Marcus, “Contingency: I have another house in Maine. Under a different name than this one, not connected to me in anyway.”
“Address?”
“11 Morningstar Road. Norcross. Key is in a small safe embedded in the lamppost by the door. Combination is 1605.”
“I thought we weren’t followed.” Helen says, looking between them.
“We weren’t.” John tells her, walking back over to her, “But there are always risks. Things we could have overlooked.”
“We can discuss your increased paranoia when you get back, if you’d like.” She says with a smirk.
Marcus chuckles as John throws him a look.
He ignores her comment, “Is there anything else you’ll need from your house? I’m not sure when I’ll be able to go back.”
She shakes her head. “Clothes, shoes, shower stuff, and my glasses.”
Glancing back to Marcus, John says, “Keep her safe. And Hels,” he looks back to Helen, almost beseechingly, “Don’t break him.”
Her face breaks into a smile and she says, “No promises.” The smile lessens, her face becoming a bit more serious, “Be careful.”
“I will be.”
Marcus snorts and John flips him off as he heads towards the door.
Helen watches as he slips out, the door closing behind him. She hears the sound of the car starting and then the rolling on the gravel as he leaves the driveway to head to the city.
Away from the safety of the house.
She sips her coffee, noting the feelings of anxiety that are building in herself.
“I’d rather you didn’t tell him I said this,” Marcus says, capturing her attention, “But John is the best at what he does. He’s going to be okay.”
Helen hums, because she knows this. She doesn’t belong to the Underworld, but she’s never had any doubt that John Wick wasn’t the best at anything he ever did.
He was defined by his control, his focus.
She understood why others were afraid of him, but John worked hard to keep that side of himself away from her.
No, her concern is not in John's ability.
“Can you look me in the eye and tell me he’s not going to do something stupid?” Helen asks.
Marcus’ mouth is drawn into a thin line.
No, she thinks. He can’t. Because John is emotional and irrational. That made him unpredictable, which in turn made him a hazard to himself.
She sits back in her chair and feels the breath leave her body.
It would be hours before he reached New York but she couldn’t help the feeling that he was already gone from her reach. She should have told him to stay. DeLuca was the kind of unpredictable that only came from someone figuring shit out as they went along.
“He’ll be back tonight.” Marcus says and he’s a bit more confident in that statement.
“I know. I just always worry when I know he’s working, and…” Helen peers up at the older assassin, “John is protective when it comes to me.”
Marcus snorts, “That’s an understatement.”
Helen inclines her head, “I’ve avoided asking him questions thus far because I think it will distress him.”
He nods in understanding.
Taking a breath, she asks, “What am I looking at, Marcus?”
Marcus walks over to the table and takes the seat across from her. There’s sympathy on his face, which makes her brace herself for what is to come.
“Like I said last night, when I left New York yesterday, you were the biggest monetary hit in North America. On paper, you’re a desirable contract. You don’t have any skills that serve as protective factors, so when somebody looks at you, they see a civilian. Educated, yes. But they know you probably can’t do much to defend yourself.
“Right now, your connection with John is the only thing stopping Hell from raining down on you. In our world, favors are currency. A lot of people owe John Wick favors. And a whole lot more don’t want his wrath directed at them if something happens to you.”
Helen nods. She had gathered as much from what Marcus had said the previous night.
“But it won’t stop everyone.” She says, alluding to what he wasn’t saying.
“Killing the Boogeyman’s woman, because for better or worse that what you are, would be an impressive feat. The kind that turns nobodies into somebodies overnight.
Semantics, Helen thinks, but appearance matters more than truth. For all intents and purposes, regardless of the fact she and John had never so much as kissed, she was his woman.
“John is going to do whatever it takes to keep you safe.” Marcus tells her.
“That’s what I’m afraid of.” Helen says, sipping her coffee “There isn’t a way out of this, is there?”
“Removing a hit is complicated.” Marcus agrees, “The only person who can cancel it is the one who ordered it.”
“DeLuca.”
Marcus nods and she considers the implication.
DeLuca wouldn’t make it easy. He certainly wouldn’t remove the contract out of the goodness of his heart.
“How much danger is John in?”
“That depends on what DeLuca is going to want in exchange for the contract. If he asks for what he wanted originally, it could get bad.”
“How bad?”
“Really bad.” Marcus emphasizes, “I can guarantee he doesn’t want you to know how bad. But John could wind up in a bit of trouble.”
Helen places her head in her hand.
“He’s not going to let anything happen to you. He got you into this and—”
“We got ourselves into this.” Helen interrupts sharply, correcting the assassin.
Marcus regards her curiously, his head to the side as he considers her words. “You know, John denies that there’s anything going on between the two of you.”
“Technically, he’s right.”
He rolls his eyes, “Don’t tell me you’re in denial, too. You’re smarter than that.”
She huffs a humorless laugh, “It’s complicated.”
“Because you’re his therapist?”
She can hear the skepticism in his tone and Helen inclines her head. She gets what he’s thinking: the boundaries between her and John had never been great, but they had shattered upon her being targeted.
What were boundaries in the face of kidnapping and a four-million-dollar price on her head?
”I don’t agree with all of the ethics surrounding counseling but I understand why we should not dating clients. There’s too much of a power imbalance. Some people bare their soul in therapy but it’s one-sided. The therapist learns all about them but never share about themselves. It's an uneven exchange, in terms of emotionality.
“And sometimes, because the relationship is so formal, the client can start to idolize or project their own feelings onto the therapist.”
“And you think John is projecting?”
“I know John is projecting.” Helen looks away, “He puts me on a pedestal in his mind. Thinks that I’m far better a person than I am. It would be… a shame to disappoint him.”
…
The moment he pulls onto Helen’s street, John witnesses nearly half a dozen cars driving away. He feels his rage spike inside of him, knowing that they were waiting for her. To hurt her, to kill her.
His nostrils flare as he looks for any other cars that don’t belong on her street. It appeared as if they’d all pulled away at the sight of him. A smart move, he thinks, though he wishes someone had stayed behind.
He wanted to hurt someone. He wanted to hurt DeLuca but since he wasn’t able to do that, anybody out to hurt Helen would have to do. But no one, it seemed, was willing to deal with him.
John pulls into her driveway and throws the car into park. He finds her house much like he left it, late Friday night. The door is still unlocked. John finds that nothing appears disturbed, but he’s certain a few dozen assassins have been through. Looking for information on the largely unknown target.
He goes up the stairs to her room.
Guilt flares as he looks at her bed, the covers still thrown about from when she had been taken form her bed by DeLuca. Her sanctuary; invaded by more than just him.
Would it ever feel safe for her again?
He shakes the thought from his head. He will make it safe for her again.
John walks over to her closet, where her suitcase is tucked away, and narrowly misses the slash of a knife.
He jumps backwards as young man jumps out of her closet with another thrust of the blade.
Yes! John thinks, watching with rage-mixed-amusement as the man tries to show off his prowess by spinning the knife around his hand.
John smacks the man’s arm and watches the flash of fear that follows as the knife clatters to the floor.
John backs up and waves his hand, giving the boy the permission and the time to pick up the knife.
He wants a fight. A real one.
Hell, Helen probably could have knocked her way out of that one unscathed.
Helen.
This neophyte was here to kill Helen.
He approaches again, lunging forward in his ill-fitting suit.
Young, inexperienced.
Stupid.
John gets the feeling that it won’t be the fight that he wants but he’ll take it. He’ll fucking take anything at this point.
This time, when he thrusts, John grabs his wrist and twists until it snaps. There’s a holler of pain as the knife falls again to the floor. John kicks it away, not yet releasing the limb.
The man tries to kick John’s legs apart, but John avoids it with a sigh. He shoves back on the broken wrist and the man stumbles back into the wall.
John waits.
The kid looks pissed. John knows the feeling.
He rushes forward, cradling the broken wrist to his chest, but ready to through a punch with his left hand. John steps out of the path and throws a punch.
It’s cathartic.
Breathing rituals and meditations were well and good, but sometimes the best self-care was a punch to the face.
John throws another one, lower, to the gut. It winds him and John uses the opportunity to grab the him by the ill-fitting suit and throw him across the room and onto the floor.
John drops to the ground, kneeling above him and strikes out again. His fists fly of their own accord, slamming into his face again and again and again until a sickly snap jolts John out of it. He hadn’t meant to break the man’s neck, not yet anyway.
Fuck.
John pulls out his phone. It had been off since yesterday. He powers it on and sets it on the bed, letting it load. It vibrates continuously with an influx of messages and John grabs the bag from the closet.
He opens it on the bed and goes over to her bureau. She won’t be working, he thinks, so she’ll probably prefer casual and comfy over her usual professional ware. He picks a couple t-shirts but throws in a few blouses, in case he’s wrong. He finds jeans and sweatpants that will actually fit her.
He tries not to think too much about it when he has to pick her lingerie. He grabs an assortment, trying not to look, and drops it in the bag as well.
Shoes, shower, glasses.
He grabs her slippers from beside the bed, and a pair each of heels and sneakers from the shoe rack next to her closet.
John enters her bathroom and wonders if he’s supposed to bring all of it. As someone who got by on a 2-in-1, he wasn’t sure what the hell half of the things in her shower were for.
Shaking his head, he takes it all.
Shoot first, ask later.
He carries the bundle over to the bag and tucks the seven bottles and razor into the front pockets on her bag.
His phone had stopped vibrating by then and he picks it up.
A few dozen texts, ten missed calls, and four voicemails.
He resists the urge to roll his eyes at the three voicemails from Winston. There’s another from Sofia.
He ignores them all as he hits the speed dial option for Charlie. He leaves a message for the clean-up crew with the location of Helen’s home. He promises to have the payment forwarded from the Continental since he doesn’t have the time to just sit around and wait. They'll know he's good for it.
He grabs the bag, scanning the text messages as he leaves.
Some curious assassins looking for information or permission, more information from the Technician… but what catches his eye is the unknown number with an Italian area code.
John opens the message, pausing before he reaches the door.
It’s time to make a choice.
7pm; the Gilded Rose. No weapons.
John resists the urge to roll his eyes. No weapons wouldn’t make a damn difference and they both know it. But fine.
He’ll play along.
John leaves the house, not bothering to lock it behind him.
He puts the bag into his trunk and gets back in his car. To be safe, he tucks her glasses away in his glove compartment, and sets off for the Continental. It’s just as well, he thinks, given that he has hours to kill before he meets with DeLuca.
Or walks headfirst into a trap.
John shakes his head and thinks wouldn’t be the first time.
He leaves his keys with the valet and makes his way inside, well-aware of the stares that follow him from the moment he walks through those doors. He’s used to be watched but this is different. They were looking for weakness, for confirmation that Helen Kingston was related to him in any way.
He tries not to show anything. The fact that Helen is out of the city and safe gives him a great deal of comfort as he passes through the lobby. He pauses at the desk.
“The Manager?” he asks.
“Eating brunch in the dining hall.” Charon answers, “He is expecting you.”
“I’m sure he is.” John mutters, “Thanks.”
He makes his way back through the long winding halls of the Continental to the elaborate dining room. John notes the new wave of people turning to look at him as he moves through the hall and resists the urge to roll his eyes.
Winston sits in a back corner, sipping on brandy, the newspaper laid in front of him.
“Good morning, Jonathan.”
“Winston.” John takes a seat across from him, “Brandy for breakfast?”
“I had a slice of toast.” Winston folds up the newspaper. “How are you this morning?”
“I’d be better if everyone stopped looking at me.” John mutters, staring down a man a few tables over who had been watching him intently. He looks away and John looks back with a heavy sigh.
“DeLuca may not have gotten what he initially wanted from you,” Winston says, “But I’ll admit, his retaliation is impressive.”
John shoots the Manager a glare.
“Glare all you want, it’s true. With that contract, DeLuca single-handedly revealed your weakness to the world, while simultaneously reminding the entire Underworld that even you are human.” Winston offers a small smile, “That said, you did well by beating a man to death in your girlfriend’s home.”
“She’s not my girlfriend.” John sits back in his seat, “Word gets around fast.”
“Yes, well, with such a substantial hit upon her head, her house didn’t stay empty for long. And believe me, Jonathan, you’d rather have people thinking she was your girlfriend, or at the very least your lover, than knowing the truth. It would make you look weak and neither of you can afford that right now.”
Bullshit politics John thinks as he looks away. But Winston was right. He needed to appear stronger now than ever.
“But again, you beating a man to death with your bare hands has helped to remind everyone beginning to think of human of exactly what you are capable of.”
John rolls his eyes.
“How is she holding up?”
“Honestly?” He looks up at Winston and admits, “Hels is tough. She’s doing better than I am with all this.”
“Judging by your state over the weekend, I’m not surprised.”
John inclines his head at the blow. It was fair, he knows. Even Helen had laughed at how much of a mess he had been.
Letting out a breath, John asks, “What am I looking at?”
“If you were anyone else, the entire Underworld would have already descended upon you.” Winston says pointedly, “Instead, you’re looking at mostly contractors and legacies who have yet to earn their stripes.”
“Novices.”
“Largely, but that is how we all began.”
“And it only takes one.” John finishes.
How fragile humanity was, John thinks, to have the light in one’s eyes taken by a flash of steel or a piece of shrapnel.
In the past, that fact had served to help him. To make his job easier, knowing how breakable humans all were. Now…
Helen was that breakable; that fragile.
“Indeed.” Winston nods, “I hope for her sake, she is safe.”
John nods, not trusting their privacy enough to reveal specifics, but confirms, “She’s safe.”
John finds himself lingering on the word. Safe, safe, safe. Helen is safe. And that’s the only reason he’s able to breathe right now.
He swallows but forces himself to add, “For now.”
He takes out his phone. He brings up the message from earlier and hands it to the Manager. Winston adjusts his glasses, taking it and reading. He hums before handing the phone back to John.
“Am I right in assuming you’ll be attending the meeting?”
John nods.
Winston hums, “And if DeLuca makes the same demands as when he first took your Helen?”
John still doesn’t have a good answer. He’ll search for another way out but, the reality is, he’ll do whatever he has to.
Apparently, he doesn’t need to answer. Winston sighs, seeing it written all over John’s face.
“Is she worth all of this?” Winston asks, not unkindly. “I understand that you care for her, that you love her, but is she truly worth the consequences from this hopeless endeavor?”
“Yes.”
Winston drinks down his brandy, “Do you have a plan?”
“Not yet. I don’t know how I’m going to get out of this one.”
“It won’t be easy.” Winston confirms, “You want to get out of this alive, while protecting the woman you love, getting revenge, and avoiding the wrath of the High Table. Something will have to give.”
Whatever it takes.
He would do whatever it takes to get Helen through to the other side.
But until he can, John thinks, he still has it within his power to remind the rest of the Underworld exactly what he is capable of.
“I have seven hours to kill before I need to meet with DeLuca. I don’t suppose you can tell me who’s taking the contract?”
“As the Manager of this establishment, you know I can’t.” Winston says with a chastising tone, “However, I might be able to point you in the direction of a certain bookie, holding certain bets with certain odds, about who will be the one to assassinate a certain well-protected therapist.”
#john wick talk#john wiction#john wick#john wick fanfiction#helen wick#marcus (john wick)#Winston (John Wick)#overheard at the continental#otp: daisy#john x helen wick#helen x john wick#bamf!Helen Wick
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John Wick Gift Exchange
I had: @meetmeinthematinee
There’s something about coming home to someone. It feels warm and good and right and, totally and completely, unfamiliar.
The sun has already long since set when John pulls into his garage. A by-product of December. A time of year that has, in all honesty, never made much sense to John. Truly, it doesn’t affect him much. There’s always someone to kill, no matter what month it is.
All December means for John is the nights are longer, so it’s easier to kill. Idly, he recognizes that there are decorations fucking everywhere. Even the Continental bought in with a giant tree in the lobby that had Charon fretting over getting pine needles everywhere. But that was it.
He’d never really celebrated any holidays before Helen.
Thanksgiving had been… terrifying. Between Helen’s mother finding out he’d never celebrated Thanksgiving and deciding that John needed a crash course and Helen’s sixteen year old niece who kept making eyes at him for an entire weekend… well, holidays are definitely not his thing.
Thank fuck she had promised no family for Christmas. He would have gone if she had asked, wouldn’t have even put up a fight. Her mercy is the greatest gift of all.
She still wanted to celebrate, but this time, it would only be them.
She'd taken time off work, too. The days leading up to the holiday as well as the week between Christmas and New Years. It was easy enough for him to turn down any contracts during that time.
Ten days with nowhere to be, with nothing to think about except Helen.
Still weeks away and he could barely stand the thrill of just being with her.
He was excited.
Excited was new, a feeling he hadn’t fully learned to process.
Like when Helen got home from work early or when she texted him that she missed him during the day.
John parks his car next to Helen's SUV and revels in how good it feels to come home to her.
It's barely six when he walks into the house. Her baking makes his house smell like cookies.
And John has never been one for sweets but nothing smells better than coming home to Helen establishing herself in his kitchen.
He slips his suit jacket off as well as the Kevlar, draping both over the couch, and tossing his keys to the bowl in the hall as he walks by.
John stops in the doorway of the kitchen, taking in the sight before him.
Her dark hair was braided back and out of her face and, somehow, still dusted with flour. She wears a dark green apron, the sleeves of her sweater pushed up past her elbows as she rolls out dough on his counter.
“It smells great in here.”
She shoots a glance over her shoulder, taking in the sight of him.
His suit is a bit rumpled and his target’s blood stain is bright against the white of his shirt. Thank fuck that the rest of it blends in with his suit. He’s certain there’s blood on his face and in his hair but he and Helen are past the point of John rushing to shower and hiding his clothes; past the point of Helen pretending not to notice.
She shakes her head, turning back to where she was rolling out “You better not be getting any blood in my kitchen, John Wick!”
He has to remember to breathe at the way she claims it as hers.
“Your kitchen, huh?” He says, ignoring her, stalking around the counter.
“Learn to bake and I’ll consider sharing.” She tells him, stepping back from the cookie dough and towards the counter behind her. “I mean it, John. No blood near my foo--”
He backs her against the stone countertop and catches her face between his hands, bending down to quiet her with a kiss.
Her lips are soft and sweet, the taste of sugar cookies lingering on tongue. She hums against him. He nibbles on her lip as he pulls away.
Opening her eyes, Helen shoots him a harmless glare, “OSHA did not certify that!”
He snorts, a hand falling from her face and trailing down her arm until he entwines their fingers together.
"I'm not going to apologize."
Her lips twitch and then she smiles, reaching up and pushing back a lock of hair out of his face.
"Not your blood?"
He shakes his head and Helen nods.
“Injuries?”
“None.”
Aside from various Continental doctors, no one had ever really assessed him before. And while Doc was phenomenal, he didn’t exactly show the love and adoration that Helen did.
She nods again, “Good.” Her hand comes up and idly plays with the edge of his vest, “I was thinking, maybe tonight we could get a Christmas tree?”
She looks up at him, almost like she expects him to say no or put up a fight. Silly girl, he thinks. There’s not a thing he can deny her.
“Alright.”
Helen beams at him. On tiptoes, she reaches up and kisses his bearded cheek. “Go wash up. I’ll have cookies ready for you when you come downstairs. I left you something on the bed to wear.”
He steals one last kiss before leaving her in peace.
A Christmas tree.
He’s still not entirely sure of its purpose other than a place to leave presents.
And, fuck, that was another thing.
Presents.
Not that Helen wasn’t exceedingly easy to buy for, but this was important to her. She was changing decades of tradition to spend Christmas with him, and only him. Everything had to be perfect.
He strips down and showers, quickly.
He can only imagine what she has planned for them.
The outfit, like she had said, is laid out on the bed.
The jeans and the plain t-shirt are fine. It’s what he tends to wear when he’s not going out to kill. But the grey sweater, with white reindeer on the front, surrounded by patterns of holly branches and snowflakes was ridiculous.
Fuck.
He dresses, in everything else, but forgos the sweater, carrying it downstairs over his arm rather than putting it on.
“Hels!” He calls as he reaches the bottom of the stairs and swings into the kitchen. “What the hell is this?”
He raises the sweater up for inspection as he walks into the kitchen.
She looks up from where she is lifting the shapes she had cut into the dough and placing them on a baking tray. “That’s an ugly Christmas sweater.”
John nods once, “Okay. So you know it’s ugly?”
She shoots him a look, “It’s a thing!”
“Ugly sweaters are a thing?” He asks skeptically.
“Mhmm. I have a box of them under my bed. Which reminds me, we’re going to need to stop at my place so I can pick up my holiday decorations.”
He tries not to wince as she says my place.
John likes it better when the ownership in her language refers to what he thinks of now as their home.
Before Helen, relationships hadn’t really been a thing. He’d never considered bringing another person into his house, his space. Hell, half the people he considered friends had never seen his house. Or knew its address.
“When are we leaving?”
She slips the tray into the oven. “Twelve minutes.”
John walks over to the rack of cookies cooling and takes one.
He’s never been one for such treats. Too sweet for his palate but he still found himself trying everything that she baked.
“Good?” she asks, wiping off the counter.
“Perfect.” John holds up the sweater, “So, do I really have to wear this?”
“You don’t have to do anything.” Helen tells him, “But I think you’d look very sexy in a sweater.”
“Oh, do you?”
“Mhmm. Might even have to suck you off.”
John nearly chokes on the cookies, “Are you serious?”
Helen smirks at him, undoing the tie of her apron and pulling it off. “Put on the sweater and find out.”
He swallows what’s left of the cookie and wastes no time in slipping the sweater over his head. It’s ridiculous, he thinks again, noting the rows of holly and snowflakes that wrap around each of his arms.
Helen steps over, setting her now folded apron on the counter behind him.
She inclines her head, standing on tiptoes. Her tongue darts out to wet her lips before she kisses him. Softly, gently.
She hums, “You taste sweet.”
Her hands run down his chest, the flat of his stomach, reaching for his belt.
Helen holds his eyes in hers, undoing the latch of his belt with a small smirk. She opens it before snapping the button, her fingers making quick work of the zipper as she drops to her knees.
She slips her hand into his pants, her fingers wrapping along his hardening length as she pulls him out. Helen leans forward, her tongue tracing the underside of his cock.
John takes a sharp breath as her tongue swirls around his tip.
Her wet mouth runs along him, coating him in her spit all around. Her hand, at the base of his cock, moves in tandem with her mouth.
She circles his tip again before sucking him into her mouth.
He grips the counter behind him as she moans against him, the vibrations making him impossibly harder.
Helen angles her head and pushes her mouth up, taking him as far as she can before dragging her mouth slowly back down his length. Her tongue, all the while, teasing him.
“Fuck!” He swears, a hand flying to her head of it’s own accord. His fingers entwine in her dark hair, pulling her closer. She whimpers on his cock, bobbing up and down under his new guidance.
Her hands wrap around his thighs, using him as leverage to take him, swallowing him down and into her throat.
The noise that leaves him isn’t entirely human and it propels her. Her throat seems to close around him as she quickens her pace, looking up at him all the while. Her large brown eyes watering as he starts to tense.
He forces his eyes to stay open as he reaches the height of pleasure, cumming down her throat as she swallows him down.
When he has released, she slowly sucks her way down his length.
She comes off his cock with a slight pop, licking her lips as she does.
John tugs her hair as she slips back to her feet and he leans down, kissing her. He can taste his own salty flavor on her tongue, mixed with the sweetness of her Christmas cookies.
His free hand slides down her body, towards her core, but Helen breaks the kiss, stepping away playfully.
“Uh-uh.” She tells him, slipping just out of his reach.
“I can’t touch you?” He asks, stepping closer.
“That depends.” She teases, “We have a lot to do tonight. If you’re good, maybe you’ll get a present later tonight.”
“Is the present your pussy?”
Helen smiles, “You’d have to be a very good boy.”
“I can be good.”
On tiptoes, Helen reaches up and kisses the corner of his mouth. “I know you can. Be a dear and go grab my purse. The cookies are almost done.”
…
They take her SUV. There’s far more space in her car than in his and, though John doesn’t say it, he didn’t want to explain to Aurelio that he got scratches on the roof of his car from a pine tree.
It doesn’t take long at Helen’s apartment to grab her Christmas decorations. Conveniently, they’re already packed in boxes from the previous years.
She changes into a Christmas sweater. It has a kitten playing with an ornament and says “Meowy Christmas” in gold letters.
Ridiculous, John thinks, but adorable.
Miracle of miracles, she doesn't insist on cutting their own tree at the tree farm. Instead, she picks one that is already cut and conveniently packaged for travel.
It’s a bizarre tradition, John thinks, but says nothing. It’s worth it for the way she bounces excitedly as they strap it to the roof of her car.
She plays Christmas music on the radio and her hand rests on his thigh as they drive.
When they get home, she transfers the music to his TV and giggles when John realizes that there are a trail of pine needles leading from the door to the living room.
“You do this every year?” John asks in disbelief.
Helen nods, closing the space between them. Her arms wind around his neck and she smiles softly, “If you hate the live tree, I promise next year we can get an artificial one. They don’t smell as good, but it won’t make a mess.”
John tries not to react at the implication that there will be a next year.
He is still waiting for the other shoe to drop. For something to become too much for her. For someone better to come along.
She rises to give him a kiss before she releases him, opening the boxes of ornaments on his couch and removing a layer of newspaper padding.
“First thing is first,” she instructs him, taking several bound packs of lights. “You need to test each of these strands by plugging them in. If a few aren’t lit, that’s fine. But if more than a few don’t work, they can just be trashed.”
John nods and takes them over to and outlet. One by one, he tests the strands as Helen opens the other boxes of decorations. He sees the flash of tinsel being unpacked as he plugs in another strand, watching them all turn bright.
He unplugs and tests the next set and he can hear her humming along to the tune.
When all the strands are tested, he stands back up, taking the bundles to Helen.
“Next, we start stringing them on the tree.”
“All six?”
“No, I want to save at least two for the banister and another for the courtyard.” She takes the other strands over to the tree and begins fussing over the branches, fluffing them out before plugging in the first set of lights.
“Stand on that side of the tree, love.”
John follows her instructions, pushing up the sleeves on his sweater. Helen begins to weave the lights through the evergreen and hands him the string.
“And now I do what?”
“Wrap it around the tree, in the branches if you can.”
"What if it catches fire?" He asks, eyeing what she had done and trying to mirror it.
"It won't. The lights are made for this. And the wires are coated."
She takes the strand and wraps it around on her side before passing it back.
John hums, taking it and examining it anew.
"You're thinking how easy it would be to strangle someone with it, aren't you?"
"Or hang them. You'd be shocked how many people want their relatives killed in the holiday itself."
"You already said you'd take the day off." She reprimands.
"And I will.” He promises, “I'm looking forward to having you all to myself for a little while."
A bit of pink stains her cheeks. “Good.” She tells him, connecting the next strand of lights to the first as they make their way up the tree with them.
The song changes and John finds himself blinking at the familiarity of it. He knew Christmas songs. Even when he avoided the holiday, the music was everywhere. Each shop he entered, even if only for groceries, the train stations. Even walking down the street he often heard the carols played over a loudspeaker.
But this song he knew far more intimately.
"I know this one." He says softly.
"Know what?" Helen asks, handing John the new bundle of lights to begin stringing.
"The song. Tchaikovsky. The Nutcracker Suite."
She listens for a moment to the melody and then nods, "it's a popular one."
John hesitates, his heart contracting at the idea of sharing this particular memory. It wasn't a good one but it wasn't the worst, by far.
"You asked me a few weeks ago if I had any memories of Christmas."
Helen nods, "You said you didn't."
"And I don't, in the traditional sense. But I do remember this." He gestures vaguely to the TV, where the music plays from.
Helen sets the bundle that they have been passing in between the branches and comes around to John’s side of the tree. "You don't have to tell me anything you don't want to." She reminds him.
"It's not bad," John admits, "But it is a little embarrassing."
That makes her smile, "Oh? Do tell."
He's not getting out of it now so he begins to explain, "When I came to America, I went to the school for assassins."
She nods, having heard him reference it in passing.
"The Ruska Roma used a theater as a cover for the entire operation. So while we were all trained in killing, we also had to learn ballet.”
Her eyes widen and John can literally see her make a conscious effort not to react to that new piece of information. It’s almost amusing to watch her try to school her face but he takes pity on her, after all, it is nearly Christmas.
“Go ahead.” He says softly.
“You took ballet!” She nearly shouts at the new revelation.
John nods, “Yes. The skills between ballet and killing people are highly transferable and--”
“Nope. Sorry, stuck on the ballet thing. I need a minute.”
Helen leans against the wall, nodding to herself. She’s still trying to contain a huge smile and a small giggle slips out as she asks, “Did you have to wear a leotard?”
Yeah, he definitely is going to regret this.
“Yes.”
But he can’t bring himself to at the delight etched on her face.
“And you performed? In front of people?”
Again, John nods.
“Who did you play?” her voice breaks slightly at the question and John rolls his eyes.
“It depended on the year. When I was younger, I usually played one of the mice or Clara’s younger brother. My final year, before I ran away, I may have had to play the role of the Nutcracker Prince.”
A sound escapes her and Helen covers her mouth.
“You’re getting a lot of joy out of this.”
“Is there video footage?”
“No.”
There’s a flash of disappointment in her eyes but it vanishes quickly enough with all the new information she has just garnered.
“This is the best moment of my life.”
“I’m sure that’s an exaggeration.”
“Nope. This right here.” She tells him walking back over to the tree and stringing the lights, “My sweet Nutcracker.”
John rolls his eyes, “I already regret telling you.”
“Nah, you don’t.”
He hates how she’s right. And he loves how she’s right as she hands him the end of the string. They pass it back and forth, tangling the tree in a faint white glow.
He still doesn’t understand the reasoning for decorating a tree with lights, only to take them off and pack them away for eleven months. But he keeps going, eventually taking over when the strand goes above her head, out of her reach.
“You’re kinda handy.” She tells him and John circles the tree, placing them along the spots which she cannot reach.
“Guess you’ll have to keep me.”
“I mean, I could replace you with a step-ladder.” She jokes, “But I suppose you have your other uses.”
“And what are those?” John asks as he tucks the end of the strand into the branches and out of sight.
“You keep the bed warm, which is nice. And you know how I like my coffee.” She takes a step backward as John begins stalking toward her, “You’re pretty handsy-- sorry, handy, in the shower, too.”
John catches her, wrapping an arm around Helen’s waist and pulling her towards him.
“Plus, there’s the fact that I’m kind of in love with you.” Her voice softens as he strokes her face.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
John leans down and kisses her gently.
“I love you, too.” He tells her, noting how she shines under the subtle glow of the Christmas lights.
“Then I guess you’ll have to keep me.”
“Forever.” John promises because if she’ll have him, that’s how long he will hold her.
She bows her head, touching her face to his chest, breathing him in for a long moment before she slips out of his arms. She takes his hand and leads him back over to the couch and the boxes of ornaments.
“This box first.” She tells him, showing him a handful of stacks of orbs in red, and blue, and silver, and gold. “I tend to tuck these further into the tree and save the outer branches for the more personal ornaments.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She smacks his ass playfully, “Go decorate the damn tree.”
John grins, taking a handful of the ornaments over with him. Helen shows him how to use the plain ornaments to make the tree look fuller.
And then they move on to the second box, filled with much more personable ornaments.
She has about six ornaments that take on some various form of coffee cup or mug and she tells him exactly where she got it or whom she got it from. She shows him a tiny book ornament that actually has the story written inside.
“What about this one?” He asks, holding up a small gingerbread man clearly decorated by a child.
“Hannah made that for me a few years ago for Christmas.” She says, referencing her niece.
“And this one?” He holds up a glass jellyfish, decorated with ribbons and beads.
“Spring break in college. My roommate got it for me to comemorate the day I was stung by one.”
John smirks, hanging it from a high branch so that the tendrils fell down into the tree.
He goes over, snagging a few more from the box. There’s a key, engraved with her first address and the year she bought her first home. An ornament that serves as a picture frame with Helen holding her newborn nephew, claiming World’s Best Aunt. Another mug of coffee and a small grand piano with a year etched into it. He did the math. She would have been six.
“What about this one?” He holds up the piano.
She looks up and smiles at the sight, “My grandmother got that for me after my first recital.”
“I didn’t know you played.”
“I haven’t in years.” She admits, walking over and hanging a tiny wine glass on the tree next to him. “I started taking lessons in kindergarten.. My grandmother had a grand piano in her living room. I used to go there every day to practice. Played all the way through high school.”
“And then?”
She shrugs, “I left home. Went to college. Played a bit in the music practice rooms but those were mostly reserved for students actually studying music. My grandmother passed not long after I graduated. My parents offered me the piano but I didn’t have any place to keep it.” She shrugs, “Think they sold it.”
She hangs a ceramic bee that makes a branch droop.
“Where’d that one come from?”
“Steve.” She says, referencing her brother, “He used to call me honeybee when I was little.”
It continues to blow his mind that she has an answer for nearly every single ornament.
The frosted-glass Christmas tree once belonged to her grandmother.
The golden retriever was an homage to her first dog, Lucy.
Another picture frame ornament that had a picture of Helen and her siblings, far younger and bundled up in winter clothes standing outside with rosy cheeks.
A soccer ball from her dad.
A globe from her grandfather that had an x over New Jersey and another over where Helen had studied abroad.
There’s another of just Helen, this time as a baby, engraved with Baby’s First Christmas.
Helen sees it and her eyes spark up, “Oh! I almost forgot! I’ll be right back!”
She turns on her heel and runs back up the stairs leaving a bewildered John standing at the tree. He shakes his head and resumes going through her ornament collection.
She doesn’t take long and her footsteps soon echo off the stairs as he hurries back down. There’s a bag in her hand as she reaches him and a smile on her face.
“I picked up a few new ornaments when I went shopping earlier.”
.”Oh?”
She nods, eagerly and reaches into the bag. She pulls out a small glass bottle, the bottom painted in an amber to give the illusion of liquid. It’s labeled bourbon and John laughs as he takes it.
“Where’d you find this?”
“There was a kiosk in the mall.” She reaches into the bag, “Where I also found…” She pulls out another ornament. There was a picture of John inside of it that he recognized from a few days before, when he was making her coffee, still in his pajamas.
Etched on the edge of the frame is Baby’s First Christmas: 2009.
He shoots her a look and she just giggles.
“Really?” He asks, not offended in the slightest, more amused than anything.
“Yeah,” she flashes a wide grin, “You’re my baby and it’s your first Christmas.”
“You think you’re cute, don’t you?”
“You think I’m cute.” She corrects, stepping over to him, and resting her head against his chest. “I just want this year to be special for you.”
“It already is.” He says, and by fuck does he mean it.
…………
Usually, almost always, John wakes up first.
His internal clock tells him to wake up with the sun while Helen prefers to sleep until six-thirty on the weekdays and eight on the weekends. It works well for him. He doesn’t need as much sleep as she does and he would much rather spend his mornings watching the woman in his arms.
Christmas morning, he finds, is the exception. Helen is up before the sun has peaked over the horizon. He feels the bed bounce, jolting him out of his restful slumber and suddenly Helen is crawling on top of him.
A welcome occurrence, he thinks, but he doubts this will go where his first thought trails…
“It’s Christmas!” Helen says, bouncing on her knees, further jostling him.
John smirks, still not opening his eyes, and says, “So it is,” his voice still rough from sleep.
“Get up!”
He hums, “Is this what the phrase kid on Christmas refers to?”
She playfully smacks his chest, “Come on!”
John opens his eyes and glances over at the clock. “It’s not even six.”
“So?”
“So all this from the woman who once threatened to castrate me if I ever woke her up before six without a coffee in hand?”
“Its Christmas!” Helen says, like it’s an answer.
John grabs her hips and flips her to her back before she can even recognize what is happening. Rolling on top of her, John slips a hand under her shirt.
"Is it time for me to unwrap my present?"
She laughs and fuck. Everything seems surreal and he can't quite believe that this is his life.
Helen lying under him, her dark curls still mussed from sleep. An excited countenance that is almost contagious as she wakes him up to celebrate a holiday.
He half expects himself to wake up and find out it was all just a wonderful dream.
Good things don’t happen to him, but there she is.
Helen reaches up and places a hand on his cheek. She strokes it lovingly, “Stockings first. Then we can talk about unwrapping your presents.”
John slips off her and takes her hand, pulling her to her feet. “Pajamas stay on?”
She snorts, “You’re not opening presents in a three-piece.”
He kisses her head, “Yes, ma’am.”
Helen grabs him by the hand and practically drags him from the room.
His heart races in his chest. He hoped he had done good enough. Marcus seemed convinced that he had when John had consulted with the other assassin. Marcus assured him that his gifts for Helen were perfect, that she’d be thrilled, but doubt gnawed at him.
He’d never done this before, never had cause to buy another presents. And Google was helpful but he still wasn’t entirely sure if he’d managed to do a stocking right.
John almost wants to slow her down. Her biggest present waiting at the bottom of the stairs. Too complicated to wrap, he got a novelty gigantic bow from Aurelio that usually went on cars to stick atop the gift.
There would be no missing it, he thinks, as Helen drags him down the stairs and stops.
He hears the hitch in her breath and her head swings back up to look at him, her mouth open.
Better or worse, he’s stunned her into silence.
Her eyes shift back to the grand piano sitting just under the balcony, the red bow’s ribbons flowing down the sides.
“I-- John!”
Her hand goes up to cover her mouth and he’s not quite sure what that means. If he should offer to return it and just forget about the whole thing but then she’s turning, her arms thrown around him and his heart just fucking stops.
“Thank you,” she whispers.
He’s not sure what the feeling inside of him is. It’s warm and expanding. It almost hurts with the intensity that fills him at her reaction. And fuck, but what he wouldn’t give to make her feel that way again.
“How?” Helen asks, slipping her arms from around him, wiping a watery eye.
“French doors come off their hinges.” John says, “Marcus, Aurelio, and I moved it in late last night.”
“And I slept through the three of you trying to move a piano?”
John smirks, still reveling in the foreign emotions overwhelming him, “Why do you think I kept refilling your wine last night? You were out like a light before ten.”
She wacks his arm, her face aglow with a smile, and yeah, he thinks he gets it.
He thinks he understands why people run ragged each year over finding the perfect gift. He understands that there is something beyond the blind materialism, something intricate and beautiful and special about taking care in finding something for the person you love.
Something perfect about watching Helen reach down to brush her fingers along the keys, noting the way her fingers arch to familiar forms as she tests the instrument.
A soft melody fills his usually quiet house.
Lights from the tree brighten his usually dark house.
And Helen fills his usually empty home.
He never wants this to end.
He never wants her to leave.
He’ll make her so happy that she never wants to leave, he decides. He will do whatever it takes to bring her the kind of peace that she brings to him. He’ll spend the rest of his life adoring her, loving her. Making it all worth it for her.
She looks up, smiling at him and fuck.
I’m going to marry her, John thinks.
He steps forward, closing in the space around her and wraps his arms around her waist, resting his head on hers. He closes his eyes and lets the song she is playing wash over him.
“Merry Christmas.” He whispers.
#i'm so sorry that i didn't have time to edit this#but i adore you!#john wick gift exchange#john wick fic exchange#john wiction#john wick fanfiction#overheard at the continental#the matrix has queue#john wick moodboard#john x helen wick#helen x john wick#otp: daisy#john wick christmas
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Talk Chapter 5 now posted
AO3
Helen was waiting.
It was a matter of time now, for John to come.
She pulled the sweatshirt that Nick had given to her tighter around her shoulders. It must be getting late, she notes, because it’s getting colder again.
The guards had changed just two hours after she managed to send John the text. The new ones weren’t as talkative but she really didn’t need them to be. Not anymore.
She had gotten a message out.
Now she just had to wait.
She wonders if he’s narrowing her location or if he’s already on his way.
She wonders what the fuck she’ll do if she wakes up again in the morning and find she’s still here. That John hadn’t come for her.
Maybe he wasn’t able to?
No. She pushes that thought quickly from her mind.
This was John. Nothing would stop him.
She just needs to keep waiting.
The phone rings from one of the guards and she watches, with vague interest, as he picks up the call.
“’lo?”
She can’t hear what is happening on the other side of the line, but the guard looks to Helen, his eyes wide with fear.
She can’t help the smile that grows on her face with the unbidden knowledge: He’s coming.
“What? Why?” There’s a pause and his eyes widen, “Yes, sir.” He hangs up and jumps to his feet, turning to his partner, “Go get the car. We’re moving her.”
“Now?” The other guy rolls his eyes.
“Marco, John Wick is coming.”
Helen breathed a sigh of relief just at hearing his name. He was on his way. He was coming.
Marco’s eyes widen and he, too, scrambles to his feet.
“Baba Yaga? Why?”
“Oh, you poor bastards.” Marco and the other guard look at her fearfully, “You agreed to guarding me without ever asking who I was.”
Stall, she thinks. They’re trying to move her to a second location, one that John might not be able to find as easily… She can’t let them move her.
Not if he’s coming.
“Who are you?” Marco asks.
She borrows the language that Nick used. Therapist or not, in this world, it was probably the most accurate assessment of their relationship, “I’m John Wick’s girl.”
“Oh fuck.”
Helen makes a show of examining her nails, “Honestly, it took him long enough.”
“Get the car, now!” The taller guard states.
“I mean, you could get the car.” Helen says, “But trust me when I tell you, that’s just going to piss him off.”
They exchange a look.
“My suggestion is that both of you leave before he gets here. He won’t come after you right away that way. Or you could stay here and surrender. Maybe he’ll take pity on you.” She offers a smile, “Claim your ignorance. You didn’t know who I was.”
They’re both distraught and tense. Finally, one of them breaks.
“Marco, get the car.”
“Dude, I don’t know…”
“Do you want to be here when John Wick gets here? GO!”
Helen makes a face, doing her best to look both understanding of his decision but skeptical of his choice. “Not your best move, but I get it. It’s noble that you’re willing to die for your cause.”
Marco makes a noise of fear but he hurries to the stairs, taking them two at a time.
The other guard grabs the keys that had been hanging from a nearby hook. He shoves it into the lock of her cell and Helen feels her heart start to race.
They can’t move her. Not yet.
Not after she finally got through to him.
He reaches for her and she quickly jumps across the floor to the edge of her cell. The sweatshirt falls from her shoulders as she does, and she wraps her arms around the bars as tightly as she can.
Fingers dig into her arm, but she holds tight. Every second counts.
“Fuck! Let go!” There’s panic in his voice and there should be. Every single thing these men have heard about John Wick, every rumor and urban legend, was about John at his baseline.
But right now, he was pissed.
She gave the guards the option to walk away. That they hadn’t is now beyond her control.
One arm is pried loose but the other stands firm. She manages to kick backward and he grunts, falling to one knee as his leg is knocked down.
She manages to free the arm and entangles herself back amongst the bars.
His arms wrap under hers this time and he tries to pull her off that way. The technique is a little better and she feels herself slipping.
She kicks out again, thrashing as hard as she can. She just needs to waste time, to stall. Just a little longer.
He’s coming.
There are footsteps on the stairs and Marco hurries back down.
Fuck.
She was barely holding out against one of DeLuca’s goons.
“Get the sedative!” The guard growls out and Helen resists the urge to swear.
She slams her foot back again, managing a kick to the balls and watches, in relief, as the guard doubles over in pain. She lets go of the bars and bolts to her feet. She feels her head rush after being on the ground for so long but she runs as fast as she can towards the stairs.
She makes it up the first few and then her ankle is grabbed and she falls forward. Her head bounces off a step and the world goes fuzzy.
Helen tries to blink, to keep herself conscious but it’s pointless. The needle is jabbed into her flesh and she feels herself being picked up.
She had been so close…
But it wasn’t enough.
…
They had a name. And an organization.
But nothing else. The sender had immediately blocked their number, but it was a start.
“Dante DeLuca is dead.” Winston had said when John read the text aloud. “He passed on three months ago. I had flowers sent to his widow, in Rome.”
“Does he have children?”
“Several. Only one legitimate, I believe. Mateo.”
“Karl, run a search on Mateo DeLuca. Current position, known allies, and any properties listed under his or his father’s name.”
“Running now.”
Mateo DeLuca was largely unknown. He wasn’t particularly well-respected by anyone and was really known only as Dante DeLuca’s son and heir. Dante, himself, hadn’t seemed too fond of the boy but that was often the case.
You raise spoiled children; you get rotten adults.
Mateo had a degree from Columbia University in business. A few arrests during that time but no convictions.
As far as the Underworld went, Mateo had virtually no presence.
And while Mateo was Dante’s heir, there was some evidence that he had been grooming a few others to take over the business upon his passing. But then he had died, seemingly of natural causes.
John was doubting that.
Winston stated that, indeed, the Syndicate was an enemy of the Camorra. Still, they were far too small to overtake the larger empire of the D’Antonio’s.
John didn’t care about that. The politics were over now that he had a name. Winston could deal with the fallout. Report Mateo’s treason to the High Table. Or not.
There really wasn’t much of a point considering that John was more than willing to just kill the bastard and be done with it.
Karl ran every property associated with the Syndicate in New York while John began strapping weapons.
“I have a location on Mateo.” Karl says, “He’s at a party in Manhattan. He just posted on his Instagram.”
John wasn’t entirely sure what that sentence meant.
“She must be being kept somewhere else.”
“A small property.” John agrees, “Someplace private, out of the way.”
“He’s got a handful of houses. A brownstone in Brooklyn.”
John shakes his head, “Too many potential witnesses.”
“There’s a few places down in Staten Island and oh… He owns a condemned block in Long Beach. Series of houses bought out after Hurricane Irene.”
“Closest neighbor?”
“At least a block.”
John grabs his phone back and types the address into his GPS.
She’s there. She has to be.
Still, he gruffly adds, “Keep searching. Just in case.”
“Jonathan, perhaps you should come up with a plan—”
John shoots the Manager a look.
He isn’t waiting anymore.
“Call for my car. I’ll update you when I can.” John tells him as he leaves the room.
The drive from the Continental to Long Beach should have been an hour. Luckily, traffic was on his side. The gas pedal pressed to the floor didn’t hurt, either. He blows through every stop sign and red light he meets.
The ocean is visible and he breathes a sigh of relief. He’s close, now.
His phone begins to ring and John spares the ID a glance. The Continental.
He answers it, “This is Wick?”
“Hi, Mister Wick, it’s, uh, Karl.” The Technician awkwardly greets, “You said to keep an eye out and I did and, um, DeLuca knows.”
“What?”
“He knows you’re coming, sir. He has sentries over in Long Beach and they reported seeing your car. He knows you’re coming and he made a call to someone at the house.”
“How many sentries?”
“I don’t know, sir. But DeLuca’s made two more calls since the house that have pinged in your general vicinity.”
Sure enough, John checks his rearview and a black car is following him. They’d have to be going at least fifty to keep on his tail.
“Thank you.” John turns off the phone. He’s less than five miles away.
Five miles away from Helen.
He’s sure they’re keeping her there now.
And they’ll be ready for him.
That’s fine. It won’t make a difference. He’ll kill them all.
As long as he got there in time.
They’d be moving her. DeLuca’s only leverage against John, and the only thing keeping John from outright murdering him was Helen.
He hears the sounds of loud motors and checks his rearview.
Sure enough, another car slides off of a side street and joins the pursuit.
In any other situation, he might have laughed. Now, it was just a nuisance. Another obstacle trying to prevent him from reaching what he needed most.
But he can’t worry about them now. He can’t stop to take care of the problem because he can’t fucking risk them moving her.
There’s an idling car out front of one of the houses.
He can see her. She’s clearly unconscious, being carried from the house to the car. Two men in front of him, he’s not even sure of how many are behind.
He had hoped for a bit of stealth, the element of surprise. But then, his car barreling down a side street at eighty miles an hour is hard to miss, especially when he slams the breaks and the tires loudly squeal along the pavement.
He’s usually better than this. A lot better than this. In fact, he’s not sure he can really remember a time since his teens when he went in guns’ blazing.
He was too calm, to focused, to tactical for that.
Yet here he is.
And the clock is ticking.
He can’t let them get away.
John opens the door and lunges from the car, ducking from the shots being fired from the cars behind them as they squeal to a stop. He aims low, not willing to waste ammo until he knew what he was dealing with and fired a shot. The back left tire starts to compress and he does the same for the right.
They’re not getting away.
The man, not carrying Helen, reaches to his belt and John fires again.
The bullet breaks into his hand and he can hear the cry of pain. Before the man can reach again, John aims higher and shoots him in the neck.
He can hear firing coming from behind him.
He has to take them out before she can be hit by a stray bullet.
All it takes is one.
Luckily, the man who has Helen has ducked down low.
He needs more eyes, more hands.
He turns, because he needs to and starts counting.
Three cars, two men each. Clearly, DeLuca had not paid enough attention when researching potential assassins to manipulate.
John ducks back behind the car, reloading his weapon. He wants to move towards them, to finish this quickly, but he needs to keep his head. He needs to deal with this like he’s not emotionally involved because, to do otherwise, would be suicide.
He stops and listens. The gunfire dies down and the men on the other side of the car are hollering directions to one another.
Amateur hour.
He can hear footsteps coming on either side of car, heavily pounding on the concrete.
John stays crouched but moves to the left side. He tucks his gun into its holster and, instead, grabs a knife from his boot.
Just as the first two men reach the front of the car, John grabs the one on the left but the shirt and stabs him in the gut. He stands, disarming the shocked man and drags the blade up. His hand snatches the gun with ease and he fires once over his shoulder to the man just behind him, then again at the man who was coming around the right side of the car.
He manages to dodge, jumping back behind the tallest part of the car.
John fires through the passenger side window. The bullet flies through the car and comes out on the other side, staggering the man back. He fires again and the man drops to the ground.
Four down, he thinks. Four to go.
A shot is fired at him from back where the other cars were. Two of the men still are hiding back at the cars they came in.
John spins back around to the front of the car.
The man from the opposite side of the car takes off running as John sneaks down low to the other side. He uses the new gun to fire low. The first shot goes through the calf, likely shredding the muscle.
Hurts like a bitch, John knows from experience. He hobbles and falls to the ground, screaming.
DeLuca’s men, it would seem, are well armed but not trained for shit. He’s momentarily baffled that these were the forces, the army that DeLuca thought he could use to overthrow the Camorra?
But arrogance was his pitfall.
John couldn’t fault him for that; it was his own, as well.
But everything else? The stalking, the kidnapping, the threats? John could fault him for that. That was the reason that DeLuca was going to die.
The last two standing from his pursuers seem unwilling to leave the safety of their cars. Which means, unfortunately, that John can either wait them out or be the one to move.
Waiting it out is smarter. He knows it’s what he should do but a look across to where Helen is and he can’t.
Anger flares within him as he realizes that the man holding her is using her as a kind of shield.
It won’t save him, John thinks, turning his attention back towards the cars. They’re waiting for movement, waiting to fire.
Outnumbered, outgunned, back against the wall.
Thank fuck for Kevlar.
He stands and immediately hears the shots being fired at him. He swerves, immediately, expecting to draw their fire. The bullets miss him and John sprints forward, firing as he does. A bullet hits the front side of the Kevlar and it nearly winds him, but he keeps moving.
John hits the opposite side of the first car and drops to his stomach. In the confusion, he fires and a bullet breaks the ankle of the closer man.
He drops to the ground and John flips around, jumping on top of the hood of the car to shoot the last man standing in the head before delivering a kill shot to wounded man on the ground.
There’s silence, except for the spluttering breaths of the man John had shot in the calf.
He hops off the hood of the car, heading towards Helen and the last of DeLuca’s men. He idly shoots the fallen soldier in the head and moves on.
DeLuca’s man scrambles backward, his arm wrapped around Helen’s torso, holding her up literally as a shield.
John shakes his head in disbelief, his gun lowered at his side but cocked just the same.
The man almost trips over the sidewalk in his state of panic.
John glances to Helen and tries not to tense or flinch at the blood spilling from her temple or the scratch marring her cheek. There are bruises on her arms that resemble fingers and he wishes he could kill them all again.
“Don’t, please…”
“Set her on the ground. Gently.”
“You’ll shoot me.”
“I’ll shoot you either way.” He snarls, “Set her down, and I’ll make it quick.”
“Please, I’ll do anything. I’ll tell you anything you want to know. Just don’t kill me.”
“I’m not going to tell you again.” John says, stepping closer.
“Okay, okay!” The man kneels and carefully sets Helen so that she’s on the grassy front lawn. Her body is laid out, her head lolling to the side. “Just, please don’t—”
John shoots him in the head.
The closest thing to mercy he was capable of while watching her bleed.
John reloads his weapon as he kneels, keeping it out of his holster. Just in case.
He checks her headwound first. It’s shallow but there’s a large bump that’s already forming. A fall, he thinks, rather than a hit.
The mark on her cheek similarly resembles an abrasion.
It’s simultaneously not bad and the worst thing he’s ever seen. He wraps an arm under her legs and another around her back and lifts her up. He pulls her close to his chest and breathes easy for the first time in two days.
He keeps his eyes peeled for enemies as he hurries back to his car.
He can’t stay here long. As much as he would love a confrontation with every single person under DeLuca’s employ, he has to get her out of here. To safety.
John hadn’t been thinking long-term beyond getting Helen to safety but now there were other things to consider.
He couldn’t take her back to her home. DeLuca would find it and attack, whether John was there or not. He couldn’t risk putting Helen back into the line of fire.
The Continental was off the table, too.
DeLuca already knew she existed, as did a select few of the Continental staff, but the last thing John wanted was for others to find out about her. She might never have another moment’s rest if the Underworld found out that John Wick had a weakness.
That left his house.
His heart stuttered at the thought.
He’d imagined it a thousand times.
Every morning when he had breakfast, he wondered what Helen would look like standing in his kitchen.
Every time he watched television or read on the couch, he would imagine her presence beside him.
Every night he went to sleep in his own bed, he would roll on his side and think about what it would be like to reach over and touch her.
His love. His life.
He maneuvers Helen to one arm as he opens the passenger-side door and slips her inside. He fastens the seatbelt and leans the seat back the best he can. Finally, he slips off his suit jacket and covers her with it. It’s huge over her small frame and he tries not to delight in the sight.
John cannot resist placing a kiss to her head.
She’s here.
She’s safe.
He closes the door and goes around to the passenger side. He turns the car around and hurries out of the neighborhood and back towards the city and the bridge that will take him back home.
John sets a hand on her leg, squeezing gently to make sure that she really was there.
The nightmare was over.
The rest could be handled with ease now that she was safe. He could track down DeLuca and make him fucking pay for taking Helen. Burn what was left of Syndicate to the ground.
The moment they had cleared Long Beach, he reaches for his phone, dialing the Manager.
Winston picks up after the first ring.
“Jonathan.”
“I have her.”
Winston hums in response.
“I’m going to need Doc.”
“At the Continental?”
“At my house.”
He can practically feel Winston rolls his eyes, “The Doctor doesn’t do house calls.”
“I’ll pay whatever he wants.”
“You are aware that I’m not your secretary, aren’t you, Jonathan?”
John resists the urge to roll his eyes, “Winston. Please.”
“I’ll make it happen.”
“Thank you.”
Winston huffs, then asks, “Is she alright?”
John glances over at the passenger seat. She still was unconscious, but she had stopped bleeding.
“She’s safe. A few injuries. I want to make sure that none are worse than they look.”
He’s met with silence at first. Winston clears his throat, “You do know this won’t be the end of it?”
John focuses his attention on the road ahead. “I’ll track down DeLuca.”
“Your secret is already out. Others will find out about your little therapist. You say she’s safe, but for how long?”
He swallows hard. He can’t begin to process those thoughts until Helen is safe, in bed, and being looked at by a doctor. Then, he’ll have the breakdown he’s been putting off for two days.
“I’ll speak with you soon. Can you make sure Karl gets paid and tipped well for his services?”
He can practically feel the Manager roll his eyes, “Yes, yes. I’ll send the Doctor out shortly. If you’re leaving Long Beach now, he may even make it there before you.”
John offers his thanks and drives the rest of the route in silence, safe the soft sounds of her breathing.
It puts him at ease, hearing her breathe.
He revels in every slight intake and gentle exhale.
It takes longer to get home than it did to find her. While he still speeds, he is no longer doubling the speed limit as he travels home.
As Winston had suggested, the Doctor was already there when John pulls up. He parks out front rather than pulling up to the garage.
“Mister Wick.” The Doctor greets as John climbs out of the car.
“Doc. Thank you for coming.”
John goes to the other side of the car. He undoes the seatbelt and slips her, carefully, back into his arms.
“Do you know what happened to her?” The Doctor asks, eyeing his new patient the best he can while she remains in John’s grasp.
John shakes his head, “She was unconscious when I found her. I don’t know if she was sedated or if she’s still out from the headwound she sustained.”
He opens the door to his home and leads Doc through the house, upstairs to John’s own bedroom.
With a sense of longing, he lays Helen in his bed.
He takes his jacket back and tosses it to the side, allowing Doc access to the rest of her body. The bruises on her arms look worse in the light of his room.
The man was lucky John was feeling merciful.
Doc opens his bag and starts by cleaning the wounds marring her face. He wipes away the blood and bandages the cut on her temple.
“It wasn’t the headwound that knocked her out.” Doc says after examining her. “It’s superficial, although I’m sure she’ll have headaches for the next few weeks. It looks like she’s been drugged a few times. I’d guess this is the work of a sedative.”
That was John’s guess as well.
“Give her twelve hours and try to wake her up. If she’s unresponsive, call me.”
The Doctor grabs a bottle of pills and hands them to John. “Aspirin will do just fine for the pain. Give her this for the headaches.”
John nods, tucking Helen into his bed as the Doctor packs up.
“I can’t thank you enough for coming out here.” John tells him. On his bureau, there’s several stacks of coins. He takes one and hands it off to the Doctor.
“Of course. I hope you’ll forgive my boldness, but I don’t recognize her. Is she based in another city?”
John fights back the urge to wince. While he doesn’t think Doc would say anything to anybody, he doesn’t want to let anyone else know about her identity. But then, Doc had come all this way to ease John’s fears.
He swallows, “She’s not of the Underworld. She’s… a friend of mine. Who got pulled in over her head.”
The Doc hums, “Be careful with otherworlders, John Wick. Persephone was only a guest of the Underworld and she never escaped it.” Before John can think of a response, Doc has his bag in hand, “I wish her a speedy recovery. Good night, Mister Wick.”
The Doctor leaves them in peace and John brings a chair around to her side of the bed. He sits down, nearly collapsing. She is safe.
His vigil begins anew.
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