I consider my blog to be 16+ While I won’t block people younger than 16 who wish to interact, this is your warning so be advised.
I keep all of my gore and nsfw on my alt which is 18+ I’m not willing to share the @ on any post I make because I know there are minors that follow me, but feel free to dm me if you want to check it out. (Or you could find it yourself, that’s a possibility /gen)
I’m a writer, so longer posts are more likely to show up than shorter ones. I post all of my writing under #wormie writes. Analytical posts are also pretty common.
Drabble masterpost pending.
The Flicker of a Streetlight masterpost here.
(Just Don't) Hang Your Hopes on Me masterpost here.
Published fics on my AO3.
Asks and scene requests: Open, but a little slow to answer
Currently posting about:
Iron Lung
Project Hail Mary (+crossovers)
The Gray Man (Movie & Books)
Assorted Ryan Gosling Media (see above)
RyGos Supernatural (
Miscellaneous Sci-Fi
My original novel
Whatever my muse decides is good
Uhhh, idk man- I’m not built for formal posts like this. Judge me by these posts: Convict’s name (full), Convict with wings, Moon!Ryland, and Hermitcraft x Project Hail Mary.
Deeply sorry for anyone who catches my blog while I’m in the middle of blogging about The Gray Man book series, I swear I have insightful posts about things and it’s not all just one-three lines about whatever fuckshit that Court’s doing 🙏
You can now join me in yapping about The Gray Man in my TGM discord server!
You should totally throw a brick at me, I’ll throw one back <3
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
Do you think John Wick knows Romani? Like, he’s Roma,, pretty explicitly in canon that he’s part of the Romani diaspora, and we know he has an affinity with languages, especially ones that he learned in childhood (Russian, because he’s from the Soviet Union). He could know Romani! There’s not a lot of positive representation for the Roma people (eurocentrism + racism) so it’s really cool to see The John Wick as part of a diaspora that doesn’t get talked about as much <3
What do you think of Driver’s relationship with religion? He has Catholic or Christian adoptive parents in the books (can’t remember which of the two), so I’m curious about what other people think of Driver’s relationship with faith.
I can’t remember if it was talked about in the books at all, so I wanna hear what you think 🙂↕️
hehehe hewwo!!! rest assured i have Many thoughts about driver’s relationship with religion, i already love projecting catholicism onto my favs and reading the book to see its canon that driver was forced to attend bible classes in foster care? christmas to me personally. naughty elf christmas.
i was immediately so compelled by driver having “consistently won prizes for memorising the most scripture” at the bible school he was made to attend by his foster parents — not only because memorisation like that is so deeply autistic, so yet another tick in that column, but i think it’s indicative of him viewing religion as a task to be completed, another way to Be Good, to win approval.
he doesn’t think about the contents of the scripture, nor seem to have any real faith or thoughts about the doctrine, at least none that he’s ready to admit in the narration, but he could commit the right words to memory and echo them back and it was right. his foster mother — a figure of authority at said bible school! — would be pleased. proud. i think pride was a deeply, deeply unfamiliar experience for driver, and once he found that source of it he chased it relentlessly, otherwise would’ve promptly lost interest in this memorisation game. and perhaps he did eventually, since it’s mentioned he stopped attending at 13 or 14 — did he start refusing, or was he shunned? i really like the idea of Something Happening at the bible school, maybe he got into a fight or was caught doing something distinctly unchristian, maybe word of his birth parents got around and the other parents got antsy that he was so touched by sin — maybe he was caught with another boy — and driver experienced yet another ousting from a place he thought he could be. something that would come to be very familiar, as was the watery weight of the “love” he was given in religion. his father, like God, loved him as long as he could be good, and once he couldn’t be he was doomed forever. his childhood home and hell were pretty much the same place.
i think it also tracks that he was raised culturally christian, perhaps catholic, by his birth parents. not devotedly, but in the sort of way that lingers in his conscience, the sort of way that’s brought up to hurt, hung over his head. he was dragged to church sometimes, baptised as a baby, maybe even had a confirmation, and it felt hollow and dishonest like everything else. he’d watch his father bow his head to pray and murmur about honouring his wife like he wasn’t bouncing her head off the furniture at home, screaming at her, and doing the same to driver, hollering at him that he’d send him to God if he didn’t shape up.
driver hated church. hated sitting there in his too-small sunday best, the droning voice of the priest washing right through him as he stared at his parents and tried to puzzle them out, hating them. he’d dissociate all the way through with his foster parents. but once he runs away, when he’s directionless and wandering, he’ll sometimes find himself drawn to churches to sit silently in the very back. something familiar, at least, wherever he goes. maybe it’s half a punishment, to make himself sit there and feel his guilt beneath the high ceilings, surrounded by the quiet. the incense makes his head ache.
he also 100% believes he is going to hell. of all his faith or lack thereof, it’s the one solid thing — that he is doomed, that punishment waits for him in the divine because every punishment he’s experienced in life isn’t enough for what he deserves. but he keeps that thought to himself. he doesn’t take communion. he doesn’t go to confession. and he leaves before the service is done so he can slip out unnoticed. i think luke and driver went to church together, at least once, and didn’t speak a word to each other.
driver is a very private person regardless, but his relationship with faith is one of those things that’s tucked closest to his chest. perhaps because he doesn’t really understand it himself. it’s a bruise, something to press on that’s sometimes almost soothing and sometimes hurts way too keenly.
I was so lost on what to think of Driver’s faith because he doesn’t seem like someone who would believe, but wants to. Not really because he wants to for himself, but because of others— it’s another expectation, another way to “be good” for everyone around him.
Thank you for putting my thoughts into words, this was amazing! 🫶🏻
in the narration of the book driver seems to have next to no attachment to his mother, and arguably some level of disdain for her, but the memories he recounts of her are also clearly deeply traumatic and dissociated, and all this to say — driver having been a total mama’s boy.
maybe just one alter, the softest youngest part of him, and the others feel nothing for her or hate her or don’t remember her at all, but he loved her. he would climb into her lap in her armchair and cling, to hide away from his father and hide away from the world while she held him, and he never minded even when she’d ignore him for days and forget to feed him and sometimes explode at him with vicious, unpredictable rage and hatred. he’d smile at her so sweetly, sleep in her arms, do his best to look after her even when he was tiny and so hungry and had his own wounds, but mama was bleeding and he wanted to help. he’s supposed to be useful.
sometimes he misses her indescribably. grieves her even though he doesn’t even know if she’s dead. driver fresh from a nightmare or panic attack, regressed or switching or just petrified or pitted out, pleading “i want my mom.”
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
Driver and Court feeding the same stray cat and having a moment in companionable silence when they meet for the first time <3
-🪱
Hehehe, kitty in this plays matchmaker, honestly. also, it's a black cat with scars :3
This guy is weird…
That's all Driver could think as he looked at the— what Driver thought was a— 30-something year old man crouching in the mouth of an alleyway feeding a stray black cat.
Driver had spotted the cat as he'd been walking back to his car with a bag of groceries in hand, and stopped in the street when he saw a shadow crouch over the animal.
He'd been worried that the shadow— which turned out to be a man— would harm the scarred, black cat, but the man appeared to be speaking softly to it while coaxing it closer to his hand to feed it something.
Driver looked down at his groceries and then back at the cat. He looked over the man as well… Driver didn't like how skinny and small he looked when he was crouched so close to the ground.
Driver was having a bit of a dilemma: He was wondering if he should approach this cat to feed it— and by proxy the man— or just leave it to fend for itself with the stranger.
The man didn't seem particularly bulky or frightening, but Driver always kept his guard up. A stranger was a stranger— didn't matter what they looked like.
The cat looked away from the man whispering to it and stared directly at Driver. Great. He was spotted. The stranger looked up from the animal and saw Driver from across the road just staring at them.
Now I look creepy. Driver sighed and clenched the bag a little more in his hand before deciding to hell with it, and walked towards the alleyway.
The man went to stand up with his eyes narrowed but the cat purred at him and slunk closer to his still outstretched hand.
The stranger froze and stared down at the cat, a look of disbelief on his face. Driver felt himself growing amused by this situation… maybe walking this way had been a good idea.
Driver stood back a couple feet from the man, one hand in his jacket and the other wrapped around his grocery bag.
He looked down at the man as he scratched the underside of the cat's chin gently, shushing it softly as if it were frightened. The cat was totally relaxed and purred loudly as it brushed against the man's legs.
"Likes you," Driver remarked quietly with a shy smile.
The stranger looked up at him, scanning his entire body from head to toe slowly. Driver didn't move under the scrutiny and didn't hold eye contact. Instead he looked down at the cat with a soft expression.
The man nodded a little to himself, as if he'd made a decision. "Just wants some love and food." The stranger brushed his hand gently across the cat's spine, avoiding the scars decorating it. "Seems to be a fighter," He whispered with one hand still holding what Driver thought was a piece of bread.
Driver hummed and took a step closer, bringing his hand out of his jacket. The stranger immediately looked over, his shoulders tense and hand moving towards his hip.
Driver pretended not to notice the tenseness of the situation and took out a container of tuna from his grocery bag. "Might like this," He lifted the container up a little so it would catch in the light.
The stranger stopped moving and tilted his head at the can. He hummed to himself and nodded at the alleyway in front of him, "Probably."
Driver took that as permission to get closer. He crouched on the opposite side of the cat and put his bag down. He peeled back the lid of the container and split the tuna into halves with a toothpick.
The stranger huffed a laugh as he watched Driver use a toothpick that he'd seemed to pull out of thin air to separate the tuna into chunks.
Driver glanced up and smiled slightly as the stranger got ahold of his amusement. "'s handy…" Driver shrugged and held the container out between the two of them.
The man got what he was trying to do and pulled a chunk of tuna out of the can with a hand. Driver took a chunk out of the can himself and they both watched the cat sniff the air.
It was silent in the entrance of the alleyway, both men waiting for the cat to decide which person to eat from first.
The cat stretched lazily, ignoring the two men for a moment before slinking over to Driver. He held the food out with his palm open and the cat sniffed the food a moment before digging in.
He glanced up at the man and saw him looking softly at the cat. His eyes seemed tired to Driver, something he could relate to well. When the man caught him staring, Driver ducked his head down and hesitantly brought his other hand to brush against the cat's fur.
It was softer than he thought it'd be and he relaxed listening to the cat purr as it ate. The man across from him sat down on the concrete, sighing as he did so.
The cat's ears perked up at the sound and finished eating from Driver's hand.
Driver brought his hands together to wipe away the spit as the cat turned around, still purring happily, and walked over to the man.
The stranger held his hand out for the cat just like Driver had, and the cat began eating happily from his hand.
The man hunched a little in on himself as he leaned forward to feed the animal, growing more tired as time dragged on. It didn't help that feeding this cat was just so damn relaxing to both of them.
Driver blinked his eyes sleepily and shook his head before looking back at the two beings in front of him.
The man was watching him when Driver made eye contact and Driver looked to the side a moment before glancing at his grocery bag. "I…" He started and then stopped. He cleared his throat and deliberately made eye contact with the stranger, "I have sandwiches."
Without waiting for a reply, Driver pulled out two wraps from the bag and held a hand out with one sandwich in it for the man to take.
The man looked from Driver to the sandwich and back a few times before tentatively taking the food out of his hand. The cat finished eating and licked its lips as it walked a bit away from them both, just observing them as its tail flicked.
"Thanks," The man said softly. He didn't open the wrapping covering the sandwich, instead he watched Driver closely.
Driver understood his hesitancy perfectly and opened his wrap carefully, making sure none of its contents fell onto the concrete. He took a bite and observed the cat a moment before getting another chunk of tuna out of the container in his lap and holding it out.
The stranger watched with an almost fond look before unwrapping his sandwich and eating.
Driver expected him to eat slow, but no, the man nearly inhaled the food in front of him like he hadn't eaten in days.
Honestly? Driver wasn't sure that wasn't the case.
Driver didn't make eye contact anymore, just chewed his food slowly and watched the cat eat from his other hand.
The man leaned back against the wall of the building forming the alley, exhaling deeply as he finished his food.
The man cleared his throat and when Driver looked into his eyes, he saw a bit of embarrassment and gratitude, "Thanks…" His voice was still quiet but strong. Driver only nodded in reply, chewing as he did so.
Driver finished his own sandwich soon after, watching the cat lick his palm to get any scraps.
Driver thought for a moment and then handed the container of tuna to the man. "She likes you more."
The man held the container of tuna as if it were fragile, "'She'?" He cradled the container between his hands and the cat approached him again to eat.
"Yeah," Driver nodded. He didn't say anything else and the stranger accepted his answer easily.
They both watched silently as the cat ate from the container, just relaxing and in their own worlds.
Once the cat was finished, she brushed up against the stranger's side before walking over to Driver and doing the same. She purred at them, seemed to blink slowly in thanks and then disappeared into the shadows of the alley.
The stranger's face turned sheepish as he looked down at the empty container. Driver smiled, eyes soft as he watched the man contemplate what to say.
"I…" The man whispered, "I can pay you back." The man pulled something out of his pocket and Driver didn't even bother looking as he stood up.
Driver brushed off his pants and picked up his bag of groceries before looking down at the man, "Don't worry about it." His voice was softer than he planned it on being.
The man slid his hand back into his pocket and stood up next to Driver. Driver was… well, Driver was definitely taller than him.
The man looked up at Driver, a mild blush on his face as he looked away before speaking, "…Could get you something to drink?"
Driver blinked in surprise. They both stood there in silence and Driver saw the stranger's eyes grow more panicked the longer his question was met with silence.
"Okay," Driver whispered. He turned his head away from the man when he turned to stare at Driver in shock.
The man's lips tugged up and he motioned his head out of the alleyway, "Place close by we can go…" He trailed off, giving Driver an out.
Driver started walking across the street, back to where his car was parked. He looked over his shoulder to make sure the man was following before saying, "I'll drive."
This is just called ‘Scar’ in my Ellipsus soooo— Enjoy, short and sweet! Zack and Court, oh my!
Court was ready to collapse and not get up ever again.
What a new feeling. Not.
Court had gotten out of the line of fire as fast as he could and disappeared without a trace, finding a small motel to hold up in for a while. At least until he felt safe enough to keep moving… and when he wasn't falling asleep on his feet.
Court contacted his handler in the CIA, which, of course, was a shitshow and he was yelled at for at least 5 minutes straight before the phone hung up on him.
Court sighed as he put the phone down on the bed beside him. His eyes kept closing and he was swaying from side to side as he grew more exhausted.
Court still had a new wound to treat that was on his shoulder— the right shoulder. It was more so on the top of the muscle, not near his shoulder blade like the one he got a while ago from a goddamn arrow.
He still couldn't believe he was shot by a fucking ancient weapon. He also couldn't believe he got lucky enough that the arrow didn't go straight through his heart.
As Court heaved himself up on sore feet, a knock on his door sounded though the room. He froze for only a moment before grabbing his gun and raising it.
He didn't speak, just stood there with the weapon trained on the entrance.
"Gentry!" Came an almost sing-song voice.
Of course. Court sighed and dropped the gun back down on the bed.
"'m coming," Court murmured and moved towards the door.
He pulled it open and there stood Zack, all cool and friendly like he didn't just scare the fuck out of Court.
"Man, you look like shit." Zack remarked with a raised brow. He pushed Court out of the way as he moved into the room and looked around. "Living large, are we?"
Court shut and locked the door before spinning around with a tired sigh. "Why you here?"
Zack looked at him a moment before responding. "Was sent to make sure you weren't keeling over... I was in the area."
Court wasn't sure if he believed that but nodded. He moved towards the bathroom after grabbing his first aid kit out of his bag.
"What happened to you this time?" Zack asked as he followed Court into the small room, leaning against the doorframe as he watched Court struggle to take his shirt off.
Zack pushed himself off the door with a fake huff of frustration and grabbed the edges of Court's shirt.
Before Court could protest, say he could do this shit himself, Zack lifted the shirt off, somehow avoiding the wound he couldn't really see.
Court ducked his head down to not look at Zack in the reflection of the mirror as Zack scanned his wound.
"Not too deep," Zack mumbled with a nod to himself, "I'll do it, I doubt you could fix this on your own."
Court scoffed at him, "Of course I can do it on my own." He reached for the first aid kit and opened it.
Zack pushed his hands away from the container and got the needle and thread for himself. "I'll do it, don't be a little bitch about it.
Court sighed and leaned against the sink as he waited for Zack to finishing putting together the needle and thread.
Zack placed a hand next to the wound and looked at Court in the mirror, "You ready?"
Court nodded and clenched his hands on the corners of the sink as Zack dug the needle into his skin. It burned and he wanted to pull away, but he stuck it out, taking the pain and trying to be quiet.
Zack was silent as he worked, pulling the needle and thread together into knots expertly. The wound was closed within minutes and Zack looked down at his work with a pleased smirk, "Well look at that… Damn good if I do say so myself."
Court looked down and over his shoulder, it did look good. "Thanks." He whispered to Zack as he reached for a towel.
Court wet it and dragged it over his skin, wiping away dried blood and dirt to keep the freshly closed wound safe.
Zack was silent behind him, and Court glanced up at the mirror to see why.
Zack's eyes were narrowed and his eyebrows were furrowed. Court was confused to say the least but he kept cleaning himself.
Zack brought his hand forward again, this time placing it almost hesitantly on his left shoulder.
"What are you doing?" Court asked as he looked at his left shoulder to see Zack's hand. When he looked back at Zack, the man was frowning and seemed to be thinking something over.
"Nothing," Zack trailed off. "This from that arrow?"
Court sighed as he recalled the injury… recalled how horrific he felt when he was using morphine. "Yeah," He said quietly as he dropped the towel on the sink. "Why?"
Zack shrugged but didn't move his hand. His other hand came up a moment later and Court felt two warm hands circling the scar tissue.
"Zack…?" Court asked, looking forward at the mirror to see Zack's face. The man's face was turned down a little to stare at Court's scar.
"Really need to stop gettin' injured, Gentry." Zack shook his head a little, "Need you operational."
His hands still hadn't moved off of Court's shoulder blade. Court stood there silently, wondering what the hell was happening.
Zack seemed to make a decision, causing his eyebrows to stop furrowing and he leaned down to Court's shoulder blade.
Court felt Zack's breath on his scar, "What-" He stopped as he felt Zack's lips on his skin.
Court felt his mouth hang open, in utter shock. What the fuck is happening?
Court was ready to bolt but Zack rose back up slightly, looking at the wound on Court's other shoulder before dipping down over the newly stitched skin and kissing beside the stitches.
Zack stood back up, blocking some of the light as Court stood there dumbfounded. "Kissed it better for you," Zack said with a little smirk and laughed when he saw Court's expression.
He pat Court on his left shoulder a few times as he laughed and left the bathroom without a word.
Court blinked a few times, looking at himself in the mirror. He saw an expression of surprise and wonder on his face. He also saw how red his cheeks were. No wonder why Zack was laughing…
Court cleared his throat and took some gauze out of the first aid kit, ready to bandage over the wound.
He was going to need a moment to himself to process what just happened anyways.
Despite being incredibly violent, Court Gentry is a very soft man. He’s described as soft numerous times in the books, a lot of which pertains to descriptions of his voice. Court Gentry is soft spoken, he speaks gently. He is very sweet with kids, and is remarkably open minded about the people and culture of the Middle East, again, despite being violent and in 2009.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
After the events in Croatia, Court and Claire have to navigate a world without Donald Fitzroy in it while hiding from the CIA--together. By circumstance and luck, they end up in Phoenix, Arizona and manage to lay the foundations of a new life.
Driver had tried to disappear after he lost Standard and Shannon. He was forced to flee L.A. , so, craving the familiar, he came home--mostly. Phoenix isn't Tucson, but it's enough for him. The only thing he worries about now is someone showing up to the garage, the same way he did, looking for work.
Main Plot
Part 1
Extras
Original post
Playlist [coming soon]
Continuity Notice
While I fully intend on pulsing movie and book canons in my blender, it should be noted that I have yet to finish The Gray Man series. Granted, I know most people are unaware that there even is a book series, so it shouldn’t be that much of an issue.
I’m combining lore from Drive, The Gray Man, and Stay. There will be !spoilers! for all three movies, as well as several book spoilers.
Warnings
I cannot stress enough how much this is going to be about Court struggling with an opioid addiction. Mark Greaney is a fucking coward and I am here to rectify his stupid mistakes.
Both Court and Driver have explicitly abusive childhoods, I will not be shying away from this fact. There will be references and potentially flashbacks to unsavory moments in their childhoods.
On top of that, Claire is grieving her uncle after the events of the movie. Grief will be a major theme. Claire is not the only one grieving Don; she’s not the only one who will be reminded of dead loved ones.
Hang Your Hopes will depict dissociation, panic attacks, anxiety, ptsd, and c-ptsd from pov characters and around pov characters. (Due, in part, to the fact that I’m not sticking with a single pov character)
There will be a brief mention of someone’s past suicide, but I will not depict suicide in any way.
A semi-continuation of this post! Unlike with Flicker, there has been actual planning beforehand!! Woah, what a concept, right? The issue: there are several planned scenes that I don't think are suitable for my main. My current solution: masterpost on main + a second masterpost for my alt, and enough selective editing around what makes it into which part. This won't be an issue for a little while, but I'll make sure the main plot is coherent as its posted to my main. Okay? Great!
A little note about the timeline: the original post is well into the future of this series. Consider it a preview :3
Enjoy <3
Masterpost
Six is tired.
They've been on the road for hours and all the driving is starting to stress him out. Not ideal, by any means, but they needed to get gone and fast.
He still has a few safe houses around the country and beyond, but the equipment he needs is in Phoenix. Its unlikely the CIA will stop looking for him, and his usual instinct would be to leave the western hemisphere entirely, but there's Claire to think about now.
Six has been driving for nearly 16 hours. Before his 3 hour cat nap just outside of Fort Worth, he'd driven for about 20. They've changed cars four times, this being the fifth vehicle he's been at the wheel of in 2 days.
He hates it.
Driving has always been one of those things that Six avoids as much as humanly possible. His father was teaching him to drive their old stick shift truck when he went to prison, but the muscle memory was harder to build in his twenties after he got out. Six knows how to drive, he does, he just can't stand it for more than thirty minutes at a time.
The trip has been hell, honestly, but it means getting Claire out. He's all she has left.
Talk about a shit hand in life.
"A plan is just a list of things that are going to go wrong."
"Oh that's pleasant," Claire chimes in from her hospital bed, "who told you that?"
"Old friend of mine."
"Didn't know you had those."
He cracks a small smile at her, but it falls. "I don't."
The ache in his heart mirrors the throbbing of his stitches. He wishes he'd snatched some pain killers when he escaped CIA custody, but it just would have hindered him. The muscles in his back twitch.
"What happened?" Claire's voice has lost its snarky edge.
"His plan didn't turn out so well for him."
They return to the quiet of the room. Claire's heart rate monitor keeps time in steady beeps.
Six hates hospitals. He's hated hospitals since his first visit, when he'd fallen down the non-existent stairs in their house. The smell of chemicals burned worse than the hits he took. Now that he's older, he feels that there's too much restriction on patient movement and not enough restriction on everyone else's movement.
Fuck, he could really do with some pain management about now. It's been two days since he's been off whatever IV pain meds the CIA decided to put him on and damn if he isn't feeling it. He's been feeling it since he woke up in Texas, actually.
The stitches on his thigh are irritating, but not anywhere near as painful as the gunshot wound itself. It took everything he had to not limp inside. He's dealt with cuts and bruises before, it should be nothing.
It's not nothing; it's near overwhelming.
Tears prick at his eyes. He blinks them away, unsure if they're from the pain or something else entirely. He has to find some painkillers.
He can't leave Claire, though, so he stays. Court stays seated in the uncomfortable chair next to her bed, gritting his teeth through the worsening pain, and the nausea, and spasms in his back that only make the pain worse, and-
This might actually be worse than the car ride.
The safe house and the supply drop are two different locations. The supply drop is a simple storage locker under some unknown name that he picks a lock to get into.
The safe house, though, is an actual house. He doesn't own it, not technically—he doesn't own much of anything, really—but the corporation with the deed is a shell company in a Matryoshka doll of holding companies that leads all the way to the late Sir Donald Fitzroy. The best part? It was never Don's name attached to the company, and there's no one left to testify to the connection. It's about as safe as they can get right now.
The supplies sit in the trunk of the car, their (read: Claire's) meager belongings lie in the backseat. He rolls to a stop at a red light and something shifts—pain ebbs out from between his bones. The two Vicodin he took at the supply drop have finally started to work.
His breathing feels easier, his pain lighter, his mind slower. Court is still capable of protecting them like this, his training made sure of that, but he's not at his best. The unease creeps into the place where the pain used to sit and sinks its claws into him. He's not at his best when he's in pain, either.
Its manageable.
It'll be manageable.
The light changes, he continues driving.
Six shuts the door behind him; locking the nob, then the deadbolt, than securing the chain. It was basically nothing but the illusion of safety, but he'd get everything else set up soon. Claire walks down the hallway, peeking her head into the rooms as she goes.
"How long are we gonna be here?"
"Long enough that you should pick a room."
Claire pauses in the doorway to the farthest room, "That's not a real answer. And you're not gonna let me pick my room anyways."
Court can't help but to smile. Fitzroy might have wanted to give her a normal life, but he didn't leave her defenseless to the shadows. "I don't know how long we'll be here. A week, at least. We should get out of the country, but if you need to go back to the hospital, the doctors in Phoenix are the best we're gonna get right now."
"So we're waiting on doctor's orders?" She sounds defeated.
"Essentially." There's nothing Court can do about that.
She sighs, "Which room is mine, then? I want a nap."
Court walks towards her, glancing in the rooms he passes and mentally cataloguing the house and its exits. Both of the bedrooms have windows, but the one at the end of the hall—the one Claire is stopped at—has more. She won't want for natural light in the first bedroom, so Six doesn't feel bad when he says, "The other one."
Clair turns and walks immediately to her newly claimed bedroom. Six follows her. She's already reclining on the pillows when he reaches the door way. There's a single, east-facing window that he'll have to secure, but, other than that, the room is relatively safe. He looks around again.
Courtland's eyes catch on the painting just as Claire asks, "Can we get rid of the painting?"
He doesn't look at her, he can't. Not with that painting looming over him and reminding him of how badly he fucked up.
"I'll move it to my room."
She looks at him, a little offended, "You like it?"
He has a choice here. Court could tell her the truth—that he's spent weeks hunting the painting down and transporting it to a safe house on the other side of the world; that Don moved it to a different safe house when it looked like things would get messy—or he could lie. Claire's going to be with him for the foreseeable future. He can give her this.
"It was my brother's. He painted it."
She looks back to the painting appraisingly, "You have a brother?"
Courtland hums. Correcting her would carve out too much of his heart.
Quietly, she asks, "Can I meet him?"
Her words pierce him anyways. Its such an obvious wish for more family to cling onto that Six is sure he would have heard it even without his trained perception, "No."
He wants to leave it there, to close this conversation forever instead of dwelling on it, but the look on her face urges Courtland to amend his statement, "I could take you to see his grave if you really wanted, but a trip like that's a long ways off."
Everything is screaming at him to disengage, but he won't. He feels like he might be able to talk about this for the first time since he heard the news.
"How'd he die?"
Or maybe not. Maybe Claire has dug down to the root of the issue and smacked him with the shovel in the process. Court can only look at the painting when he admits, "Killed himself. Couple years ago."
He doesn't wait for Claire to say anything else, he just turns and starts out of the room. He's being blatantly obvious about the fact that he doesn't want to talk about it, but there's no room inside his mind for him to give a shit.
"If you need me, I'll be setting up the security."
As per usual, there is no posting schedule. HYH will be significantly less frequent than Flicker because its something of a "break fic." If you'd like me to start a tag list, just let me know :3
driver with an age-old leg injury — a dislocated knee, a crushed ankle, a broken leg, inflicted by his father when driver was a child and never given the proper medical attention or chance to heal, exacerbated frequently in stunt and fights and accidents — and that’s why he’s always leaning against things.
he can stand the pain that always comes when he has to stand for too long, often even appreciates the grounding nature of it, but then he locks up and limps and he cannot allow himself that weakness. so he leans, propping his back or shoulder against walls or cars, and subtly stretches out his leg when the pain threatens to buckle him, clenching his jaw tight against it and hearing his father’s voice echoing in his head.
sometimes he’ll push himself too hard or find himself stuck out in the rain and cold for too long, and he’ll have to force down his leg with a hand on his knee because he can’t get the strength in it to actually press the pedal. sometimes it’s just pain that shoots sharp and searing up his leg every time, made worse with every hard turn he has to brace himself against.
he’s got his five minute rule but sometimes even that feels agonising when the weather’s wrong, cold enough he can feel himself locking up like his joints are solidifying. the churning anxiety of knowing he couldn’t run if he needed to, and he knows full well that driving can only ever get him so far. it’s hard to disappear into a crowd when he’s slow and limping, breathing short and tight against the pain.
he thinks it’s inevitable, that someone will catch him short one day. he’ll die because he couldn’t get away on the leg his father broke, because he was born wrong and unwanted. sometimes he looks forward to it. most days he just massages his thumb roughly into his aching, bony joints and keeps moving.
In the script of the movie he has deep scarring on his back so that probably hurts with the weather changes too (prob why he loves L.A. cuz it’s usually not anything other than warm and dry) so he hunches more and the bench seat of his car helps out— but only so much.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
Watching John Wick Chapter 2 and Gianna calls John “Death’s very emissary” and my very first though was that it would fuck hard as a GenWick fic title-
Like,, think about it, okay? John obviously brings death with him, that his job, but it’s also Court’s job. Pretty explicitly he’s a “killer of men.” But it’s the emissary title that makes it so interesting.
An emissary is someone who is sent on a mission to represent the interests of someone else, in this case, Death. They represent death, even when they aren’t causing it.
I have less to add to this one, but in chapter 3, Zero says, “We’re both masters of Death, Mr. Wick.”
And I think that’s also an incredible name for a GenWick fic. Especially if it’s Court saying it. Because why wouldn’t it be Court saying it? He’s cocky enough to own his skills and self deprecating enough to know that it’s not a good thing to be what they are.
It’d be juicy, and I’m having ideas beyond the time constraints I have.
Koji tells John at the start of John Wick 4 that the High Table “It only takes life, and only gives death.” And I fear it is another banger GenWick title.
It could describe their relationship with each other, it could describe their relationship with their jobs- so many good themes could be explored.
I don’t really think it’s !spoilers! for John Wick 4, but I’ll hide it under the cut just in case :3
“Don’t. Live.”- Caine telling Akira not to attack him so that she may live; you could play with the themes of Court and John wanting to leave the life of an assassin behind & what doing something for someone means, even if they don’t want to they do that thing for them (murder, revenge)
“(His) death changes nothing.”- Katia to John; this one is self explanatory, I think
“Do you know what your problem is. Mr, Wick? You, are unlucky.”- Killa to John; also self explanatory, but I’ll remind everyone that Court has absolute dogshit luck.
“It is the killing that gives you purpose.”- The Marquis to John; not a title, but instead a theme put to words. I need to see assassin’s grappling with their purpose in life, especially these two who have known practically nothing else.
“Uncivil disobedience”- The Bowery King to John; that’s an ‘our op went sideway’ title if I’ve ever seen one. Or! John pulling Court out of some nonsense with the CIA.
“Those who cling to death, live. Those who cling to life, die.” - John and Caine to each other; again, could be about GenWick’s relationship, or about their relationship with their line of work.
