#protective service

“So,” Y/n pursed her maroon stained lips, “What the hell should I do with you?” When the one with her attention didn’t answer, opting to stand before her like a broken animal, knees shaking and sweating like a pig, Y/n glanced around the room, her eyes passing over four of her most trusted men, “What do you think gentleman? Think he’s any use to us?”

Even they seemed reluctant to answer, desperately avoiding being on her bad side. That was a side one never lived to come back from. “Well?” Her tone was now heavy with annoyance, “Do we tolerate scum?”

Seeming to find some misplaced courage, the man finally spoke up for himself, “Vila,” he pleaded, his frumpy form racked with sobs, deep down, knowing that the end was nigh, and inevitable, “I can serve you. I can…...I can….”

“You can what?” She smirked, “Give me something I need?” Y/n mocked, reaching into her desk drawer, she produced a custom handgun with abstract designs carved about it and gold embellishments emphasizing the beauty of the matte black. Slowly, her lithe fingers worked on loading it, “You know,” Y/n’s words were absent and careless, “Vilas, in Slavic folklore, they’re fairies, extraordinarily beautiful. Do you think I’m beautiful Johan?”

Y/n stood from the chair, letting it roll back a little and as she walked around to the other side of the table, she was sure to make a show of swiping the gun off the top. Her heels thudded softly as she approached him, and her men stepped out of her way, eyeing Johan closely, making sure he didn’t try anything. “Well?”

“I do,” he nodded vigorously, whimpering, as he was shoved down to his knees, his beaten face bloodied and sweaty, “So beautiful,” in an attempt to earn her forgiveness he planted his hands on the floor at her feet, “Please, please Vila, it was mistake, it won’t happen again.”

“You’re right,” she smiled slyly, “Do you do what happens when someone betrays a Vila?” Sighing as she awaited his answer, Y/n brushed some hair out of her face with the tip of her red polished nail. Shifting her weight from her left leg to her right, “Answer me!” Her snarl was venomous and her henchmen jumped; it was rare for her to lose control of her anger like that. Y/n got angry, of course, she was only human, but she had enough self control to maintain her cool demeanor. Always emanating danger but never out rightly so.

When Johan still couldn’t muster up the response, she grabbed him by the hair, violently yanking his head up, “Let me tell you, when scum like you betrays the hand that has given them so much, it dies.” Letting him go, Y/n clenched her jaw, snapping for two men to hold him in place, “I’ve had enough of this bullshit,” she managed, pressing the gun to his head, and before he could even beg again, the sound of the shot being fired resounded, bouncing off the walls of her office. Blood splattered, droplets clinging to her pristine white blouse while some flew to her face, though most of it was on her hands.

“Great,” Y/n rolled her eyes when they dropped the limp body, the heavy thump being followed by blood pooling on her rug. “What a fucking mess,” she huffed, tossing the gun to the table for cleaning later, taking the handkerchief offered by a man just about ten years her senior, Donavan, he was a loyal one, her right hand when she needed one, and quite the treat to look at, among other things.

Tossing the kerchief back to Donavan not caring if he caught it or not, Y/n was already walking out of the room, sure to evade the saturated parts of the rug, her heels thumping softly when she was out in the hallway, “Call clean up, and get a replacement for that rug before I’m back this evening.”

“Yes ma’am,” Donavan was just a couple paces behind her, already getting out his phone to make arrangements. When he slipped the cell back into his breast pocket, they were already descending a spiral staircase that led down to an open floor, where most of the business took place; packing for exports, accounts in another corner and stocks kept in the back. All in all, the nondescript warehouse on Staten Island was where Y/n spent the majority of her day, running the empire that had been built long before there was even an inkling of her conception. It was the base and brain of operations, where her office was and where the dirty work happened. 

Typically, upon her arrival at around nine am, Y/n didn’t didn’t leave the lot until late in the evening, but that day, in addition to her very busy morning, she had a meeting with the High Table, her first one since being inaugurated. Her father would be proud.

But Y/n?

She was downright terrified.

Not that she would admit it. Y/n wasn’t the kind of person who admitted to fear. Or any sort of human emotion, she preferred to keep those around her guessing, that way they’d be sure to fear her, and by consequence submit to her rule. At least, that was what she’d told herself.

Just as they stepped outside, Donavan opened up an umbrella for her, guarding Y/n from the slight drizzle that overcast New York offered. Awaiting her was a black Rolls-Royce, it’s sleek coat shining even in the dimness of the day while the heavily tinted bullet-proof windows were spotless. Another hand held the back door open, and as Y/n slipped into the vehicle, Donavan handed her a thick long coat and large designer handbag;  peeking out of the opened top was a fresh blouse, a charcoal colored, silk one. Without as much as a word to part them, he closed her door, letting the car pull off.

The minute they were out of the lot, she got to work on her blouse, quickly untucking it from her skirt, pulling it over her head and casting it aside before hastily pulling out the clean one, shrugging on the cool material. The inside of the blouse was rough against her skin and Y/n’s nimble fingers made short work of the mimicked crystal buttons and when she was finished, she haphazardly tucked it into her black pencil skirt and pulled on her coat. Afterwards, she ran a corrective comb through her tresses and freshened her lipstick. 

She was finished by the time her driver was taking her over the Verrazano-Narrows, the Continental wasn’t too far off there, right in the thick of the city and Y/n opted to occupy the rest of her drive with a drink from the limited selection.

The burning twinge of the whiskey was paired with a smoky note, both pleasantly welcome, cooling Y/n’s nerves. Finally, in the quiet security of the car, she could think. Think about what she’d gotten herself into. Taking up the seat at the High Table wasn’t a decision that she’d made lightly, Y/n knew what came with it; with power came enemies, and her line of work had already fitted her with many. There were those who didn’t approve of her induction, older heads who felt that Y/n was too young to be held in such esteem, she couldn’t have known much, she was nothing more than a daddy’s girl who didn’t have to claw, or fuck, her way to the top. There were even a select few who’s reservations were contained solely in their jealousy too; one twenty something shouldn’t be afforded that much power when others twice her age were still scurrying for scraps.

However, their opinions on her weren’t what contributed to Y/n’s unease, she never paid much mind to what others thought of her, only the insecure spent time worrying about something as frivolous as public perception, and Y/n was anything but. Optics were the least of Y/n’s problems, her issue was with what people would do to ensure her untimely downfall. There were only so many enemies a girl could kill before starting to seriously worry for her life. Y/n didn’t want to die, no one did, not by a bullet to the head or poison in the rum. But Y/n knew that there were those that would go the lengths, that would do anything to see her gone just so they could snatch up what was rightfully hers.

The troubling thoughts were consuming, and the more her mind worked, the more Y/n felt like she’d just been tossed into the Hudson without a life raft, paddling clumsily just to stay afloat, icy water frosting her insides. Blinking quickly, Y/n downed the rest of her drink, hoping to swallow the feeling and return it to where it belonged; deep down for none, herself included, to find. Fear meant that something had power over you, and she couldn’t be the one without control. She was in control.

Before Y/n could think to pour herself another, the car was stopping in front of the Continental, where the meeting was being held. A person, who’s face she didn’t care to commit, held the door open for her and Y/n walked straight past him without as much as a thanks. Eyes followed her as she strode towards the concierge’s station, some adoring, other’s with glares as sharp as daggers. No doubt, they all knew who she was, the only Romanov daughter; a pampered princess turned ruthless bitch. It was impossible to be a working fraction of the criminal underbelly of New York and not know her. But whatever they thought they knew; it wasn’t nearly enough.

Her expensive perfume carried in the air like a siren song, calling attention from all around, making hotel staff temporarily stop their jobs and guests raise their heads and hang their jaws. Upon reaching the desk, Y/n drummed her fingers on the cool surface. That was one thing everyone knew about her; impatience ran in her veins; no one made a Romanov wait. “Charon,” Y/n purred.

“Miss Romanov,” his professional politeness was one she was used to, Y/n wouldn’t really call him a friend, but he was certainly an acquaintance that she didn’t mind sharing drinks with, “How do you do?”

“Delightful,” she chirped, and, as always, it was a scramble to figure out if the word was meant in sarcasm or not, “You?”

“No complaints yet,” he nodded astutely, “I assume you’re here for the meeting?”

“I am,” Y/n confirmed, shifting her weight from on leg to the other. Absently, as Charon hit some keys on his computer, she shifted a lock of hair away from her face, vaguely aware that someone had come to stand a couple feet behind her. As much as Y/n wanted to know who it was, she didn’t dare look back, instead straightening her back and awaiting service. 

Minutes later, Charon was directing her to where the meeting was being held and bidding her a good afternoon. Before she was out of earshot, he seemed to move on to the next client, with the same friendly disposition, “Hello, Mr. Wick.” The name rang a bell, though, Y/n couldn’t really place it. Not spending too much time on something that didn’t concern her, Y/n pushed the thought away continuing her walk towards the elevator.

The meeting had been just as she’d expected, boring and political. Many might have thought that bloodshed and drugs might have made criminal politics more entertaining than that of the conventional kind, but that couldn’t be further from the truth. It was still dominated by people twice and three times her age, unable to accept the opinions of anyone their junior. Over drinks and stiff banter, most of which could have been likened to sneers and insults directed towards whoever sat opposite them, the Table voted on a couple matters, mainly on who they collectively needed gone and how to keep their connections in law enforcement and various civil arms in check without too much speculation. They’d also traded updates on their personal empires as if it were housekeeping and at the end, they’d set a place for their next biannual meeting, Vienna.

Y/n was among the first to leave the room, and she hadn’t realized that Winston was a close second until he called out to her, “Y/n, dear!” He chuckled, pulling her into a hug.

“Uncle Winston,” she smiled, her first genuine one in months. Winston wasn’t any sort of biological relative, but he was someone that her family had greatly considered, he and her parents had a long history, and after they’d passed, Y/n had remained close to him. Besides her them, he was the only one privileged enough to really know her. “How have you been?”

“Better now that my goddaughter’s paid me a visit. Though, I’d hope that it wouldn’t take a High Table meeting to drag you out here,” his teasing was light and Y/n felt herself relaxing, letting Winston lead her to the lounge, where they slipped into their usual booth, away from the fuss. Without as much as a request, two martinis were placed in front of them.

“I’m sorry,” Y/n smiled lightly, looking down at her beverage, “I’ve just been busy.”

“I know,” Winston hummed, his gaze trained on her, “Trying to rule the world, as usual,” hesitating for a moment before continuing with more regard, “You know that you’ll never be able to do it, right?” He wasn’t talking about ‘ruling the world’ anymore and Y/n knew it, “You can’t just kill away your fears.”

Her shoulders slumped and Y/n brought the glass to her lips, sighing at the taste, “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she shook her head.

“You know exactly what I’m talking about. You think being like him will give you some kind of immunity to the dangerous world we live in. It didn’t do it for him, and it won’t do it for you,” Winston was talking about her father; he’d lived just like she did, running his operation with an iron fist and without and ounce of empathy, thinking it was some kind of wall that would ultimately make him invincible. It was an assumption that couldn’t be further from the truth and the memory of a bloodied Channel carpet and the gurgle of blood filled lungs was enough to send a painful pang to Y/n’s chest, forcing her to take another drag of her drink.

“I’m just saying; I think you need to consider your options,” Winston sighed when Y/n didn’t answer, deciding that he’d have better luck at getting through to her in another way, “You look like Meredith with your hair like that.” Meredith, it was a long time since Y/n had heard her mother’s name. Even before her father died, he’d never had the stomach to utter it, for with the name, were a slew of jerking memories. She had been gone for a long time, long before Y/n could understand what death was, but once in a while, she’d think about her, wonder what her life would be like if she had lived, “You know what she’d have wanted.”

“I barely know her,” Y/n countered, trying to deny the real effect that Winston’s words had. “Look, if it’ll make you feel better, then I’ll think about it, okay?”

Winston smiled triumphantly, “It’ll make you feel better too,” he reached over and patted her hand, it was a fatherly gesture, the kind she found herself missing in quieter moments, “He’s here, if you want to talk to him before you leave.”

Truthfully, Winston was right, having someone to protect her, watching her back would make her feel better. It would be nice knowing that she wouldn’t have to keep looking over her shoulder. Nodding, Y/n agreed, “Sure, the sooner the better, right?”

“Right,” Winston mirrored, “His name is John Wick, and he’s in room 214.”

214

It looked like all the other rooms, though for some reason, that one specifically made her nervous. Maybe it was because she wasn’t used to seeking people out, she was used to them coming to her. She wasn’t used to asking for things either. No, Y/n was the type of woman that got what she wanted, when she wanted it, no questions asked. But still, there she was, standing in front of a hotel room, a little shaken, about to ask for the Boogeyman’s help 

Taking a deep breath, Y/n raised her enclosed fist, hitting the cream wood in three short knocks. It wasn’t long before the door was being pulled open, revealing a well-dressed man with nearly a foot on her height, eyes as dark as whiskey and neatly combed hair just past his ears. His three piece suit was missing its jacket, though Y/n could tell that it was a tailored piece that probably cost a considerable amount.  He was attractive, Y/n didn’t think that any man had ever had that kind of effect on her. The kind that made her breath hitch and her heat speed up. Usually, it was the other way around, she was the one racing hearts. “You must be John Wick,” Y/n had to raise her head to meet his gaze, maintaining her unbothered disposition. 

John continued his hold on the brass knob as his other hand slipped into the pocket of his black slacks, “It depends on who’s asking,” he didn’t seem to be interested in small talk or anything that would cost any more of his precious time. Already, Y/n liked him.

“Why don’t we cut the bullshit?” She moistened her lips, hooking her handbag in the crook of her elbow, “You know who I am, I know who you are, introductions are a waste of time. I have a proposition.”

John eyed her with silent intrigue, the toe of his shoe soundlessly tapping the carpet, “Well?” Reluctantly, he ushered her into the room, pouring them a couple drinks before leading them to a small table in the center of the room. Smoothing her dress as she sat, Y/n discarded her bag on the table, crossing her legs, letting the slim heel of her stiletto gently knock her shin. 

“I need personal security,” there was no point in dancing around it, if she wanted John’s attention, then her best bet was to be straight forward, “And I heard that you’re the best at what you do.”

“You should also know that I’m not a bodyguard,” John countered bluntly. 

Y/n nodded slowly, trying to not let her demeanor melt away just just because he could easily match her stoicism, “I can pay you well. Whatever you’re making on your current job, I can triple it, quadruple it if that’s what you want. And that’ll be you’re monthly salary”

“Not interested,” John brought his glass to his lips, taking a tentative sip of his bourbon, “You have money, you can find someone else.”

“I don’t want someone else,” Y/n dismissed coolly, mirroring John when he took another sip of his drink. By that rate, someone else might have been drunk, but Y/n was known to hold her own when it came to booze, “I want John Wick.”

“Not. Interested,” he repeated and Y/n clenched her jaw, trying not to show the flare in her anger.

Setting her glass down, Y/n scooped up her bag by its short leather strap, she wanted John’s protection, but she wasn’t going to grovel, she would rather die, literally. “Very well,” she stood, casually dusting off her dress. At least she could tell Winston she tried. “Thank you for the drink, Mr. Wick.

Maybe it was the way she said his name, the way “Mister” just seemed to carelessly fall off her plump lips. Maybe it was because she was a pretty little thing or because John could see her fear past the bravado. Whatever it was, it had John changing his mind faster that he could register. Before Y/n was even a few feet off, John was standing again, grabbing her by the forearm, “Wait,” she turned, now standing close enough for him to see her lace clad breasts down her top and smell her perfume mixing with her shampoo. Put together, it was enthralling, and John wondered if she looked like that on purpose; no woman could be that alluring without effort. “Why does a Romanov need protection? And don’t lie to me, I’ll know.”

Y/n raised her head a little accentuating her neck, briefly glancing at John’s grip on her forearm before turning to him again, “Fine. Truthfully,” she exaggerated the word, hoping to downplay her next ones, “I’m scared of dying. I know who I am, and I know that there are those who’d do anything to see me gone, and I’m not ready to end up like my father.” Or worse yet, like her mother. 

John was quiet for a minute, and finally he let her arm go, taking a step back, “I work alone,” he began, “I don’t care who the rest of your team is, you won’t need them. I make all security decisions, and I don’t ask before shooting. Got it?”

Y/n cocked a curious eyebrow, “Got it. We’ll discuss the rest of this arrangement soon. Thank you, Mr. Wick,” Y/n winked, swaying her hips as she walked towards the door, letting herself out. 

*****

As he walked, he grew nearer to where Helen stood near his beloved car. She was smiling and for a moment it felt like it had been a while since he'd seen her smile, her beautiful smile. He'd missed it. Though, he was overly aware of the fact that he shouldn't have, considering John had seen it not more than fifteen minutes ago. The entire ordeal felt surreal.

As John approached her, he suddenly felt like something was missing, like he’d gone through the motions before though with one detail absent. “What’s wrong John?” Noticing his bewilderment, Helen broken is dismal thoughts. 

“I….” John’s head snapped up to meet her worried gaze, those honey colored notes in her dark eyes standing out beautifully, “I don’t know,” finally he was standing next to Helen, leaning against the tailgate and instinctively taking his wife into his arms. “Something feels different.”

Helen nuzzled her head into his neck, wrapping her slender arms around his waist, “Well, that’s because everything’s different,” when he looked down at her, more confused than before, Helen knitted her brows, bringing her hand up so fragile fingers would ghost his bearded cheek, “Don’t you remember baby?”

“Hel……” He leaned into her touch, his breath hitching upon finding how cold it was, “I don’t understand,” John swallowed thickly; panic rising up as bile in his throat, “What’s going on?”

“You know John,” abruptly, Helen pulled away, detaching herself from his embrace and starting to walk away, “You know what you have to do.”

Immediately, he started following her, but despite his efforts, John couldn’t get any closer than within a couple feet, “No Helen, I don’t. What’s going on? Where are you going?” They walked and walked, but didn’t seem to be going anywhere, not really; the car never grew further away while the rocky formations in the distance never drew nearer. 

Turning, she smiled wistfully, tilting her head to the side so her brown tresses would sweep over her shoulder, and for some reason unbeknownst to him, her little gesture brought tears to his eyes, “I’m already gone, John.”

And that was when he remembered.

She was already gone. Long gone. Helen, the first woman he’d ever loved, the woman who had brought light to his shadowy depths and stilled the storm that brewed within, was dead. John had watched her wither away; seen smiles through immense pain, seen as she got thinner with each passing day and finally, seen as she’d taken her last breaths as the doctors turned off the machines. 

The memories had a stifled sob parting his lips and tears creeping out the corners of his eyes, “Helen…..” John pleaded, as if saying her name would breath her back to life. But it wouldn’t and John knew that all too well, “I miss you. I need you.”

“I know, but you don’t need me darling,” She kept her distance, and John ached to touch her, just one last time, even if it wouldn’t be near enough, “You’re doing so well; you’ve found happiness again. You just need to slow down and let yourself feel it.”

“What do you mean? With Y/n?” At the mention of her name, Helen’s eyes sparkled knowingly, not really in answer, but more so in permission. “I can’t do that to you Hel, she’s……she’s nothing like you.”

Her eyes were cast out to the boundless blue by then, and Helen seemed to let his words sink in before speaking again, “Isn’t that the best part?” There was now this hollowness in her voice, as if she were far away, “And you aren’t doing anything to me, I’m not here, remember.”

“You’re right in front of me,” his voice broke as he objected, knowing the truth but still having a hard time accepting it, “You right here,” reaching out, John’s eyes went wide as his fingers went right through her. 

Helen’s expression fell at his pained look, though, the only heart that broke was his. “No, I’m not.” Quickly, she licked her lips as they formed a frown, “Not anymore. And you know that. But you’ve found someone that is, so don’t hold yourself back. Fight for her, the way you’ve fought for everything else. Let go, John,” for the first time in a while, she was just a breath away, though, her presence brought no warmth. And that was when he realized that the person that stood before him wasn’t even Helen, not really, it was a dream, a figment his mind had conjured up so he could finally have the closure he needed, hear from the first keeper of his heart that it was okay to give it away again. 

“I can’t,” he whispered tearily, his hands hovered over her shoulders, knowing it would kill him if he tried to touch her again, only to be met with nothingness, “I don’t want to forget.”

Again, she was smiling, her confidence in him as vast as the sea washing their feet, “You won’t. I promise.”

He promised himself.

“You won’t forget. So stay John,” and just like that, as if she’d never been there, Helen, or at least, the image of her, was gone, evaporating before his very eyes.

“Stay John,” another voice pierced his mind, not coming from one place in particular, almost as if he were hearing it from all around, “I can’t lose you, so please stay.”

It had been a long time since Y/n had cried in the presence of another, though, she supposed it didn’t really count if the other person was unconscious. The doctor had told them that John wasn’t quite out of the woods, and he wouldn’t be until he’d woken up. Thankfully, he was still breathing on his own, waving the need for any specialized equipment. He wasn’t comatose either, but would definitely need time to recover from the blood loss. 

All in all, most of it had been favorable news and the greying doctor had assured her that John was otherwise healthy, so there was no need for too much worrying, unless he developed a fever favoring infection or a clot that they hadn’t caught. Still though, Y/n worried anyway and past the hour where dawn awakened the darkened sky, she’d stayed at his bedside, maintaining a tight hold on his hand while her gaze was trained on his insensate from, hyper aware of his soft breaths and the steady rise and fall of his bare chest, a large bandage covering a section of his abdomen. There was an I.V hooked up, running to the hand that laid flat at his side, and the doctor had left a small variety of medicines to be administered whenever John awoke. She’d be there, she’d give them to him.

Winston and Charon had left shortly after the doctor had, encouraging her to come with them so she could get some rest, she’d been awake for nearly twenty uninterrupted hours by then, but Y/n had refused. There wasn’t a chance in hell that she was leaving John’s side. He’d almost lost his life protecting her, the least she could do was lose some sleep over him. 

“Stay John,” the words were barely a whisper, breathed close to his ear and Y/n pressed her head to his, occasionally raising to lay the softest, most feather light of kisses to his forehead, carefully avoiding the bandage over his gash, “I can’t lose you, so please stay.” There was so much that she’d pushed down, ignored, in favor of not coming off as being vulnerable. But from the moment she’d seen him bleeding out on the ground, she’d instantly regretted it. He had to know, John deserved to know.

“Please stay,” Y/n repeated, tears hot on her cheeks and dripping onto John’s hair splayed out like a raven halo on the pristine white pillow. The words thoughtlessly tumbled out of her mouth, “You were right, I am selfish and I am so hurt that I don’t know how to do anything else but hurt other people,” borrowing against his cheek, Y/n sniffled noisily as she continued, “But you were wrong too,” painfully, she reminisced on the night two weeks ago when John accused her of not caring about anyone but herself, “I care about you, so, so much. You’ve made me feel things that I never have before, so how could I not?”

After a moment of hesitation, Y/n turned slightly to pressing a chaste peck to his cheek, feeling John’s scruff tickle her lips. “I don’t know if you can hear me, but I want to make this right with you,” Y/n desperately tried to swallow the lump in her throat, barely able to put the thoughts into words, “This- you,” faltering, she corrected herself, “You, in the past few months, have meant more to me than anyone else ever has.”

Y/n wasn’t sure how long she’d spent talking to John, or by extension, how long they’d been there like that; the thick curtains had been pulled shut darkening the room. The heavy ticking of the clock for a long time had been the only sound accompanying her words, each shift signaling that another minute had passed with John’s recovery seeming further out of reach. Her eyes had started to burn while their lids felt heavy, but that didn’t stop Y/n from warding off sleep as she whispered formerly guarded secrets into his ear. It had been hours since they’d gotten to the Continental, but when she said that last thing, it seemed to finally stir something in John’s drifting consciousness, bringing him back to her. “I…..” his voice was raspy and John’s lips barely moved, “I can…..I can hear you.”

Springing into a straightened position, and Y/n lifted one of her hands from his, leaning forward to cup his face, the pad of her thumb grazing his cheek as hope illuminated her eyes. His were still closed, but Y/n could see his lashes fluttering; struggling to open as she could feel his fingers twitching ever so slightly. “John?” Huffing and suppressing a relieved, tender smile, “You can hear me? Do you want me to get the doctor? Do you need anything?”

“Just....” He didn’t seem like he’d completely regained control of himself, but it was enough to prove that John wasn’t too far gone, “Just stay.”

“The doctor said that you need to take these,” Y/n was standing at his bedside, still dressed in what she’d been wearing the day before, the blood stains on her navy colored blouson dress downplayed by the dark shade, shaking some pills out of two different bottles. He’d been awake and coherent for a couple hours by then, and graciously, Y/n had taken the time to help John sit up, stacking some pillows behind him for support.

Intently, he’d watched her, buzzing around the room and trying to stay busy but definitely not wanting to leave. John had heard everything she’d said after his lucid dream had dissipated; everything about how she cared and how much he meant to her, and he found that it was enough to vanquish any anger he’d harbored before then. Still though, he and Y/n hadn’t really spoken since he awoke, John wanted to though. They needed to. “Can we talk?” Even if she was actively avoiding his stare, John tried to angle his head to meet her eyes, wincing at the pain in his abdomen. 

Finally, when she looked at him, it was to offer the medication with one hand and a glass of water with the other, “About?”

“About everything you said,” he explained matter-of-factly, trying to gauge some meaning from her unreadable expression.

For a minute, John was expecting Y/n to deflect brashly; offer some hasty line about how he’d heard wrong or that she was just saying something she didn’t mean. But the words never came, and instead, she just pushed her hands closer, “Take these first and then we’ll talk.”

“Blackmail?”

Quirking the slightest smirk, she rolled her eyes playfully, “Maybe.” Chuckling, John relieved her of both, swallowing the pills down with a few mouthfuls of water, letting Y/n take the glass and replace it on the nightstand before she sat. “Okay,” she sighed, pushing off her shoes with her toes, letting them fall to the floor with a couple of soft thuds as she curled one leg under herself. “I meant every bit of that,” her eyes softened, a genuine affectionate gleam in them, “I do care for you,” Y/n reached over, laying her small hand over one of John’s larger ones, “You……I shouldn’t have made you think otherwise, I’m sorry, and I understand if you don’t feel the same.” She knew it wasn’t her place to expect much, not after the way things had gone between them, with her going hot and cold whenever she felt like it.

Studying her thoughtfully for a minute, John turned his hand over beneath her, the warmth of their palms radiating. “I do feel the same,” he reassured, “I guess you’re not completely to blame; I’ve been so worried that being with someone else would make me lose what I had with my wife. Like I’d be betraying her somehow. But I realize now that I wouldn’t be, that it's time to let her be a memory,” Gently, John gave Y/n’s hand a tug, urging her to come sit on the edge of the bed. When she was finally there, she leaned in, neither of them faltering before sharing a sweet, dare he say innocent, kiss. Like butterfly wings fluttering against each other. It was so untainted and free of any suggestive undertones, the kind of kiss that was meant to say, ‘I choose you.’ “Are you sure this is what you want?” John probed when they broke, his thumb roving the soft skin of Y/n’s knuckles.

Blinking quickly, she pulled away some more, briefly averting her gaze before meeting his eyes again, “I think so.” It was hardly a concrete answer, but coming from Y/n, it meant something, It was far more than indecision, it was the most she could give him; the shreds of herself that she could piece together and offer to him, while he did the same for her. 

“Okay,” he nodded, daring to offer her the first glimmers of a grin, lacing his free hand in her messy tresses so John could pull her in again, “Good,” his lips sealed on hers again, that time deeper and with more passion. 

Y/n scooted closer, her knee sinking into the mattress while she pressed her free hand to his chest; steadying herself. Tilting her head, she granted John greater access, intent on getting even closer until she made an uncalculated move; her thigh rubbing harshly against John’s bandage. He emitted a pained groan, jumping in surprise. “Shit,” she swore under her breath, looking between them to ensure that he wasn’t bleeding, “Maybe this isn’t the best time,” she giggled sheepishly, pulling away from John and moving to stand, undoing the silk knot on her dress as she sashayed away, “We’ll have to take a rain check.”

“Right…..” John was far too busy staring as Y/n undressed to pay attention to the words leaving her lips. Even before their short time together in the kitchen, he’d found himself envisioning the way she’d looked undressed; all supple, unblemished skin, smooth curves that were made to look small in his large hands and perfectly delectable with her pert breasts and perfect ass. That time, the sound contained in his throat wasn’t one of agony, “What are you doing?" He smirked as she tossed her bra to the side,  hooking her thumbs in the waist of her panties next. 

"I'm gonna take a shower," Y/n shrugged nonchalantly, snatching up a towel from nearby as she sauntered towards the bathroom door, throwing him a taunting backwards glance. It was alarmingly clear that the mood had shifted, and John was all for it. 

"Need some help?" He inquired, not even thinking of his injuries.

Wrapping the towel around herself and effectively depriving John of the salacious view, Y/n turned, leaning on the door frame, "As fun as that sounds, you're not supposed to get that wet," she nodded to the bandage on his left side, "And you should get some rest. But I promise, when I'm done, I'll help you clean up real good," and with a wink and a giggle laced with mirth, Y/n spun on her heel, leaving John in heady anticipation.

*****

Occasionally, Y/n would sneak a peek at John through her peripheral, trying to contain a sly smirk upon being reminded of how absolutely dapper he looked in a tuxedo. His Italian cut work suits were one thing, but that tux; the arms of the dark fabric almost strained to contain his hulking biceps and every cut fit him perfectly, like it had been tailored to him. John, she knew he was handsome, but when Y/n had greeted him in the sitting room after getting ready, the sight of him had all but taken her breath away; his hair had been slicked back, his beard groomed and perhaps the most surprising thing about his attire was that he’d taken off his wedding band. Its absence had made her giddy, though Y/n supposed that he’d only done it to avoid misunderstanding. Truly, she’d wanted to ask, but the question seemed so personal, too personal and Y/d didn’t think that any good would come from knowing him that well, especially considering the little spat they'd yet to get over.

Even pleasantries had been stiff between them up until then, though, when they locked arms upon exiting the car, Y/n could have sworn she felt him relax, and she knew that she did too. Being with John, it was easy, sort of like being with another version of herself. She knew what would upset him; how many of his buttons she could purposefully push until he’d had too much, and how far she could take her bitter quips before he snapped at her, how much underhanded flirting she could do before he really noticed and that pained look of guilt crept of on his face again. It was nice, she thought as they walked past the man who’d taken their invitation, heading into the main room where guests were mingling with drinks in hand, being able to see parts of yourself reflected in someone else, without having known them otherwise, it was nice. It made Y/n feel…..less alone in the confines of the ivory tower she’d built around herself.

“So,” John intruded, his words interrupting her thoughts as they claimed two glasses of bubbly, “What do you want to do first?”

“We hang back for a bit,” she explained coolly, glancing around the room, checking to see if there were any signs of enemies in their wake, even if Y/n knew that John had probably already done the same thing at least twice. “He probably already knows we're here, but we don't want to seem too eager." Y/n used the back of her delicate, jewelry adorned hand to sweep some hair from her face, glancing at John though averting her gaze before she thought he’d noticed, “So for now we just……hang out.”

"Okay, got it," John nodded stiffly, leading them out of the way when another pair almost walked into them. He hadn’t considered that they’d be doing something besides working that night and John didn’t think he knew what the phrase ‘hang out’ meant anymore. Everything he did was with purpose, especially after he’d been tossed back into the life he’d escaped for the best four years of his existence. John Wick simply didn’t hang out. He was either working, or spending his down time thinking about work. And occasionally reading. Y/n didn’t seem all too familiar with the notion either, clearing her throat awkwardly as she’d suggested it and then washing her words down with another sip of champagne. 

Standing in the midst of all the other guests, gloved in a tux that he’d had dry cleaned specifically for that evening, with Y/n’s arm looped in his, John could have sworn that it almost felt like they were on a ritzy date. Though, he supposed they were, considering that he was in fact, her date that night. Maybe they should just do what dates did, it wasn’t like they wanted to mingle with socialites and financiers anyway. 

Downing the rest of his champagne and carelessly leaving the elegant flute on the tray of a passing member of the wait staff, John casually stepped in front of Y/n, barely taking a second to admire her alluring appearance. Seeing her like that, like she’d just stepped off the cover of a special edition of Vanity Fair, when Y/n had first walked into the living room back at the penthouse had almost knocked the air out of him. She was unquestionably stunning, dark, rich velvet hugging every perfect curve while sleek, simple heels added just enough height and a racy design encouraging John’s imagination to run wild. Y/n was always beautiful, he couldn't recall a moment where she was anything less than frighteningly bewitching, but that evening, there was something about knowing that for a few precious hours, it would just be them both coupled with seeing her so elegantly dressed had stolen his breath and quickened heart. It was a feeling he hadn’t had in so long, not since Helen, who could still even the quickest of thoughts with just her dazzling smile. 

“Would you like to dance?” John offered his hand, secretly hoping Y/n could find it in her frozen over heart to humor him. In that moment, it was easy to remember the night that they’d somehow found themselves entangled, how it had started with one simple dance to an old song. John wasn’t sure if she’d intended for them to end up like that, but he knew that his offer was just that; a request for a dance with the woman who’d recently dominated his tumultuous thoughts, with no expectations attached. 

Y/n hesitated, her astonished stare fluttering between his offered hand, palm up, and his dark gaze, fixed on her, expression, as always, unreadable. For a couple seconds, John had succumbed to  thinking that she was going to refuse, though, surprisingly, Y/n obliged, placing her hand in his and letting him lead her to where other guests were doing the same, “Sure.” The song was just changing, the lively instrumental by the string quartet switching to something slower and more conducive to a social dance. 

Without much thought of it, John’s arm reeled around Y/n’s waist and her hand instinctively reached for his shoulder. That night, they tried to keep a few inches of space between them, though, John couldn’t tell if it was on Y/n’s volition or his own. Part of him longed to hold her closer while another reminded him that he had no right feeling the way he did. “Who taught you to dance?” He broke the stretch of silence between them, hoping an attempt at small talk would banish his thoughts. 

“No one,” her eyes darted up to meet his and Y/n’s deep ruby lips fell slightly agape, as if she’d been surprised he’d asked. Or perhaps she was surprised of how easily she’d answered, “I learned from watching my parents,” Y/n paused, still looking as if she had something to say, prompting John to wait, “You know, I’ve told you more about myself that I ever told have anyone else, you should tell me something about yourself.”

“There’s not much to know,” John deflected. What was there to say that everyone didn’t already know? What was she expecting him to talk about? An orphan, turned soldier, turned assassin. A man who’d found a love that he didn’t quite deserve and had lost it. The widower who couldn’t let go, even after he’d been forced to revert to the life he’d run away from. “What you see is what you get.”

Knitting her brows, Y/n observed him through her lashes and John couldn’t help but feel completely and utterly vulnerable in front of her. “That’s not true. Come on,” she encouraged, “You’re probably not going to see this side of me again, so just say something to make this worthwhile.”

John didn’t want to believe that, believe that the part of Y/n that could actually care for someone was minute and would scuttle back to its dark corner before the night was over. But most of him knew it was true; she was so good at turning on and off that even then he wasn’t sure if her regard was genuine or not. Maybe it doesn’t matter, a small voice whispered, almost pleading, maybe it’s enough that she can pretend to care. “I used to wish I had parents,” he admitted softly, pulling her closer against him, so Y/n wouldn’t see the vulnerability in his eyes, “When I was in the program, under the Director; I used to wish I had parents. People that would care enough to get me out of that place,” swallowing thickly, John found that it was hard to suppress the lump of emotion in his throat. That wasn’t something he’d ever told anyone, but it was a memory that had stayed with him throughout his life; the one of a little boy tucked under a ratty fleece sheet in a large sleeping hall, shutting his eyes and hoping that the next day he’d wake up and it would have all just been a bad dream. 

John thought that he was imagining it, but he could have sworn that Y/n’s embrace grew firmer with unspoken affection, and enjoying the feeling, he held her tighter. Though, sinking into the feeling quickly became daunting, for when her head unconsciously nuzzled his chest, it felt as if his wedding band, secured in his top pocket, wedged between the jacket's material and his pristine white handkerchief, was burning through the layers of fabric and searing his skin. He’d taken it off telling himself that it was so he could efficiently fill the role of Y/n’s date, but part of him had started questioning his motives, taunting that he might have meant that he was ready for something else. Something with someone who might not even feel the same. 

Thankfully, John wasn’t left to fend off his guilt for too long, as just as they’d slunk into something too cozy to be professional, the man of the hour himself approached them. A striking man of sixty something, Mayor Arthur Balinksi sported a full head of silver hair and a physique that wasn’t too hard on the eyes. His wife, standing near him, must have known well that her husband was still able bodied enough to stray, because when Balinksi asked John if he could cut in, the older woman cast a stony glare Y/n’s way, not for a second trusting him with a woman that stunning. 

“I’ve got this,” Y/n resumed her usual self, not an ounce of the woman he’d danced with left, instead replaced with her ever assured persona, ready to assume control of everything around her. “Arthur,” she purred, switching partners, leaving John to dance with a reasonably jealous wife, “I think it's time I thank you for the invitation.”

“I must say,” Arthur’s hand was stationed low on Y/n’s back as he led her up the stairs to the roped off mezzanine which overlooked the rounded, high ceilinged room, “I wasn’t expecting you to show up with John Wick, I’ve been told you’re the work alone type.”

“I’m more of the work above type,” Y/n corrected, amused when the older man pulled out a cushioned chair for her and then snapped for a waiter to bring them a bottle of her preferred whiskey. He’d done his research. “And John is an associate, he came tonight as a….favor,” her choice of words startled even Y/n herself. She’d never thought of anyone as her equal, though calling John an employee seemed almost insulting, which wasn’t something she was ordinarily concerned with. Though, since she’d met John, Y/n had been doing a lot of things she would ordinarily do. Prodding John to open up to her was one of many, and longing to comfort him when he did was the one that stood out the most. 

“You like being the boss,” the tips of his aged fingers reached to brush Y/n’s, now circled around her glass as Arthur leaned back comfortably into the chair, “I can respect a woman who likes power.”

“Oh?” Y/n feigned innocence, going along with Arthur's insinuations for the time being. She didn't mind it really, there were few that were brave enough to be bold enough to make the first advances, "Is that so?"

Humming, the mayor's gaze flirted with her her voluptuous cleavage before fluttering back to her hooded gaze. "It is," he continued, unbashful as his fingers crept towards her wrist, ghosting over her white diamond tennis bracelet, "I can respect and do a lot more," the pad of his thumb grazed Y/n's vein, but the gesture barely had an effect on her. 

Chucking quietly, Y/n turned away, just so she could roll her eyes without being noticed. Of course, she had never been one to shy away from mixing business and pleasure, but that night, Y/n didn't wish to stray too far from her intention, especially when all she could think of was John. 

Gently, Y/n pulled away, masking the gesture by bringing the crystal glass to her lips, taking a tentative sip and letting smoky and wooden notes dance along her tongue. "Why do you tell me little bit more about what you're looking for from an arrangement like this."

Shrugging, Arthur swirled his drink amount its glass, "Money, power, legitimacy."

Huffing, Y/n smiled faintly, "You want legitimacy from criminals?" 

"Correction," he interjected before Y/n could get any further, "I want legitimacy among the…...financially creative."

That earned Arthur a louder, more melodious laugh and Y/n threw her head back, taking a swing of her whiskey before continuing, "So its about money?"

"Among other things," he offered nonchalantly, drumming his heavy digits on the red adorned table top.

"Like?" Y/n cocked a curious brow.

"Like security of tenure," Arthur explained as if it were the most obvious thing. And really, it should have been, after all, men like him were only ever after sating their needs for power, sex and money, and Y/n was sure that he thought she could provide all three. Little did he know, she could take it away just as easily. Maybe John was right, maybe she was the one with the more hefty leverage. "I know you can help me with that Y/n," Arthur reached out, and pretending she didn't notice, Y/n brought her glass to her lips again, evading his touch completely.

Licking her lips, she studied him closely, "And in return?" In Y/n's world, deals weren't made without some sort of bargaining tool; you had to give to get.

"I like the way you think," he grinned broadly, and just for a second, Y/n thought that if John wasn't such a major participant in her racy daydreams, Mr. Mayor across from her might have been a fun time. "Selfishly," he extended, "And what's in it for you? Well, whatever's at my disposal, will be at yours too. Cops, judges, political authority, Intel and everything in between.”

"Do we have a deal?" Arthur extended his hand after giving Y/n a moment to deliberate. 

Staring at his hand, Y/n weighed her options, briefly contemplating what hell would be raised if she rejected, but knowing that it wasn’t worth it in the slightest. Slipping her hand into his offered one, “We have a deal,” she confirmed, half her lips upturned in a glee-less smirk.

They weren't long after that, and before another hour had passed, Y/n was coming down the stairs, Arthur a few paces behind. Through the throng of guests, she searched for John, eventually spotting him; standing stiffly at the open bar, nursing a glass of what she could only assume was top shelf bourbon. Navigating was easy, and in no time, Y/n was slipping into the spot beside him, ordering herself a brandy before teasing, “Well someone’s awfully quiet.” 

In response, she’d been expecting a light quip, or at the very least, a soft chuckle and the first hints of a dashing smile, but when all John offered was an unamused grunt contained in his throat, Y/n rolled her eyes, “What’s your problem?” Maybe the words came out harsh, a little meaner than someone who cared, but anyone who tried to argue otherwise would be wrong; Y/n did care. Of course, she hadn’t always sought the best means of showing it, but when just a couple hours prior she’d felt closer to John than she ever had with anyone else, she’d found that it was a feeling she wanted to protect. He’d opened up to her, reciprocated after she’d shared stories about her parents and it was nice to know that John trusted her with a memory he guarded from the rest from the world. Y/n had though, just for the slightest second, that maybe she could learn to be something else, yet, there, at the bar, John seemed cold once again, as if nothing had changed. It was perfectly infuriating! Though, at least she now knew how it felt, even if she wasn’t going to take it very well. “Well?”

Knocking back the rest of his drink, John set the glass on the table with a thud that was audible that could be heard over the chatter and music, sniggering bitterly, “My problem?” Moistening his lips, Y/n watched as a rare flash of emotion crossed John’s face. She couldn’t tell what it was though; hurt? Pain? Something else? It was gone before she could figure it out and he continued, raising his voice to a rough hiss, “My problem is you.”

If she wasn’t angry before, which she was, Y/n was certainly past enraged then, “Me?” Scoffing, she flicked some bothersome hair away from her face, “I’m your problem huh?”

Y/n was just getting started when John cut her off, unconsciously stepping closer so his voice could drop lower, “Yeah, you are. The way you just turn yourself on and off, acting like you care when we both know that you don’t give a fuck. You think I didn’t see you with Baliski, don’t pretend for a second that you wouldn’t have fucked him if his wife wasn’t here.”

“His wife?” Huffing a mockingly baffled chuckled, Y/n shook her head, “You’re right, I probably would; selfish men like him; they’re real good in bed,” that time, Y/n was the one stepping closer, hoping her previous words were enough to rile him a bit, “And I’m sure he’s had a lot of practice. But I didn’t, and I won’t, not tonight at least. But it’s not because of his wife, I couldn’t care less about that old bitch,” Y/n’s throat burned with all the venom she was spewing, ready to top it off with the truth, which wasn’t half as harsh as everything else. “It’s because of you,” her pointed jammed into John’s chest, and she let it sink in.

Defeated, John’s shoulders slumped unexpectedly, a weight that he didn’t know was there rolling off with Y/n’s confession. Flummoxed and even a little touched, John grabbed her wrist, almost as if to prove that Y/n was really that close, that she’d really been touching him. They searched each other’s gazes; Y/n searching for any sign that he’d believed her while John sought to put truth to her words. Though, as usual; their souls were guarded, Rome wasn’t built in a day after all, and neither of them could define the line of what was real between them and what was just one of Y/n’s manipulative farces. 

He hesitated, though after a second or two, John pushed Y/n’s hand away, “You’re real good at that, you know? And you might have Donavan fooled, but that won’t work here.” And just like that, without even letting her argue, John turned to stalk off, brushing past anyone in his way.

Finishing off her drink in one swing, mostly to appease the desire to burn the sting away, Y/n followed John, simultaneously reaching into her purse to text the driver so he’d meet them at the front. “John,” her heels clicking on the old marble floors joined the almost absent sound of John’s steps, “John,” Y/n didn’t know why, but she couldn’t, for a second more, stand the thought of John thinking that she didn’t care for him. He'd hurt too much, and it was starting to hurt her. “John!” They broke out into the night air and Y/n was at the doors when he’d already made it down to the pavement, the car already having parked at the curb.

“This was a bad idea,” John turned abruptly, facing her, illuminated by the backdrop of the sparkling city. Angrily, he gestured between them, “What happened between us, that night in the kitchen, it was a bad idea, cause we both know that you don’t care about anyone but yourself.” Sighing heavily, John’s face finally softened, the rage smoothing out into something far more dangerous; nothingness. “You’re selfish Y/n, and hurt people because deep, deep down, you’re hurting too. And you know what, I don’t even want to feel anything for you, not lust, not anything. So from now on, no games, I’m just the bodyguard, and you’re just my boss.”

There was a lot she wanted to say, but for the life of her, Y/n couldn’t find the right words. Besides, he was upset and she knew that arguing with John on the sidewalk wouldn’t do either of them any good. In fact, she wasn’t even sure if there was anything she could ever say to fix it, because the truth was that he was absolutely right. So instead of fighting him, telling him that he was wrong and that she’d started changing from the moment they’d met, Y/n simply nodded in agreement, trying to decide if she was putting away her feeling for not or forever, “Alright,” holding her head up, with utmost confidence, she joined down the steps and started approaching the car, “Let’s go.”

*****

That night was no different to any other Thursday; Y/n had stayed late just so she could leave early the next Friday and John had stationed himself outside of her door while she worked. Donavan had left early, though Y/n hadn’t bothered with nosing around for a reason; she trusted him enough. It was past one am when she’d finally called it quits for the night, her eyes heavy and limbs weighed down with tire as she dragged herself down the metal steps. At that point, Y/n was pretty sure she could fall asleep standing up without much effort. 

The chill was evident when they finally broke out of the warehouse, though from the minute they stepped onto the pathway to the car something felt different. John was the one to stop Y/n by outstretching his arm, his free hand landing on the gun in his belt holster as his eyes scanned the darkened property. “You should-”

The first bang, or rather, the first three, hand them both scrambling for cover at the side of the car. From that vantage point, it was easy to see that just moments prior, someone had yanked the passenger’s door open and shot Y/n’s driver. The older man’s head had been splattered against the glass  and Y/n could only hope that she wouldn’t end up like that by the end of the night. When the second slew of bullets rained down on the car, their offenders seemed much closer and Y/n could easily identify the panic that had started raising in her chest. “We need to get you inside,” John gritted, trying to peer through the tinted windows to assess their possibly perilous  predicament, knowing that the closer they got, the worse things would get. And they were definitely getting closer.

“I’m not leaving,” she gritted, “I can help you, just-”

Shaking his head, John raised abruptly, firing a couple shots, mortally wounding at least one of the shooters. “No, its too dangerous,” John hissed, a bullet missing head by just a hair as he crouched next to Y/n to reload. “You need to get in there and let me do my job.”

“Don’t be ridiculous!” Y/n argued, “There’s like six of them, you need help and I’m a good shot.”

“You’re also the target. Now stop arguing with me.” For only the briefest moment, John put his gun down, just to shrug off his jacket and offer it to Y/n, “Put this on, try to cover your head,” he breathed heavily, already trying to get the clothing on Y/n, “You have your gun, right?” She nodded vigorously, fury evident in her eyes “And its loaded?” Y/n nodded again, “Good, get your keys and leave your bag under there,” he gestured to beneath the car as he hurriedly explained, “Stay low-”

“I can’t let you do this on your own,” Y/n’s breaths were ragged and her heart felt right about ready to burst out of her chest, though the last thing she was about to admit was fear. She was no coward, and she certainly wasn’t one to back down from a fight. “It’s too far anyway, we should just get in the car and-”

“We leave and they’ll follow us,” cutting her off, John kept cool under the pressure and unafraid of the danger they were caught in and reflecting what Y/n hoped she’d been portraying. He was focused and goal oriented; nothing was going to stop him from getting Y/n out of there alive. “Listen to me; you have your keys and your, gun stay low until you make it to the door, the jacket will protect you when they shoot, but you have to move quickly. Cover your head and lock the door when you get inside,” he emphasized.

“John-”

“Go,” in an instant, John was shoving her to action, standing, unprotected and completely vulnerable as he fired another round; disarming one and taking down another. There were only three more to go. A slight turn of his head had confirmed that Y/n had just started fumbling with the lock and as much as John wanted to go over to help her, he knew that it was best for him to stand his ground where he stood. The car could still shield him, and seeing as he was no longer afforded the protection of his tactical blazer, he needed all the cover he could get.

“She’s getting away!” The man’s accent was thick and definitely Irish. That was the least of John’s concern at the moment though, and from the second the hulking frame made a dash to move around the car to get to Y/n, John got him in the leg, using the last two bullets in his cartridge to end the man’s life, stooping to hastily reload as shots continued to fly, even as Y/n shut the front doors of the building. 

“You can’t hide forever you little bitch!” Even as another Irish man  spat the words, John stood again, sending a shot between his eyes before aiming two more at his chest. After that, it wasn’t long before it was one against two. He could take them, John knew he could, he’d just need to figure out the logistics first, finding an angle where he could get at both of them.

Slowly, alternating between shooting and ducking down, John stayed close to the doors, watching as his remaining opponents cautiously moved around the car. At some point though, probably sensing his tire, one of them lunged at him, starting a more physical combat. Thankfully, John was versed there too, easily besting the burly man.

It was almost over and though John’s muscles were burning with exertion, his bruises throbbed with pain and there was blood from a gash in his head clouding his vision. He pushed himself into a standing position, grabbing his gun in the process, only to find that it was empty and that he’d exhausted his supply of bullets. “Just give up Wick,” the remaining man dropped the arm holding his gun to the side, probably thinking that John would be ready to surrender, “You’re too old to win this fight.”

“Yeah?” Turning his head to the side, John spat the blood that had started tainting his tongue, “Put that gun away and let's find out, cause you're not leaving here with her.”

“Your loyalty is going to get killed,” he stuffed his gun into his belt, approaching John and readying his fists for a fight, not hesitating to take the first swing, which he inevitably missed, “Don’t worry, you’re luck’s about to run out.”

What ensued was a trading of brutal punches, elbows directed at varying soft spots and strained kicks that took either men to the ground once or twice. The fight was dirty, and they weren’t back at the Ruska Roma where their aim wasn’t to kill; they were in a parking lot fighting over someone’s life. But John wasn’t going to let some Irish scum kill his charge. 

At some point, John’s opponent reached for his gun again and when it was in hand, they fought over that too, both struggling to control the aim. With someone’s finger on the trigger, a shot was fired towards the night sky, though, it wasn’t long before John had barrel wedged against the man’s stomach, he was just about to squeeze the trigger again when his Irish counterpart kneed him in the abdomen taking control for a minute. It hadn’t been a handful of seconds later when he could feel the metal mouth pressed against his chest, and that was when John knew his options were truly limited. He was going to get shot, the only thing he had some semblance of control over was where. Adamant on living, John grabbed the man’s hands, dragging them downwards to the left side of his stomach and taking the opportunity to try to shove him away, just as the loud sound threatened to deafen them both. 

It was excruciating and the pain near blinded him, eliciting a loud grunt in consequence as the little metal object ripped through his flesh, thankfully not making it through the other side. “Fuck!” John growled, pain radiating through his entire abdomen. But still he persisted, even if albeit, a little slower. Still, his strength was fueled by insurmountable will and with blood soaking his shirt, his breathing labored and the blood loss leaving him staggering and  grappling to stay in control of his consciousness. 

The task had been a trying one, though soon John wrestled the gun of the younger man’s hand, catching him in the chest, surly wreaking havoc on a lung. Though, even if he’d fallen and John’s knees had buckled soon after, he knew he couldn’t trust it to be enough. But there weren’t anymore bullets in the gun and his eyes were growing increasingly heavier. That was it, he couldn’t fight anymore, at least, not that night and the hope that Y/n could hold her own was the only thing that gave him the thinnest thread of ease. 

Otherwise, he would have failed her.

And if John failed her, he didn’t think he’d want to wake up anyway.

Y/n hadn't made it too far; she wasn’t willing to leave anything up to chance. So instead, she’d stayed at the front, with her back pressed to the locked door, holding her breath just so she wouldn’t be hampered from hearing anything going on outside. Every time she heard a shot, Y/n’s heart skipped a beat, and even if she wasn’t crying, her eyes stung. The last time she’d been that scared was the night she’d found her father bleeding out. She hadn’t been afraid for herself, she was afraid of losing him. But that night, Y/n couldn’t tell; It all seemed to be going so fast and, in the end she’d waited until an eerie silence had descended upon the entire compound before creeping out once again. 

Her gun, the one she’d been gifted so long ago, was clutched in one hand, while the other kept John’s jacket closed at the front. The clothing had swallowed her up, falling all the way down to her thighs, while the arms seemed a little more than double what she’d usually wore. Y/n vaguely thought that she must have looked the part of a child in John’s coat, and really, the way she felt could have been likened to the way a child felt; helpless and utterly afraid of what laid in wait the vast darkness. 

From the minute she stepped out, the metallic smell of fresh blood mixing with gunpowder assaulted her senses and in the low light, Y/n could spot the silhouettes of dead bodies. Almost everyone seemed accounted for; all except two; one of the shooters and John. Her finger was ready on the trigger, and even in the most dire of circumstances, her aim was faultless, still undertones of unsung fear lurked in the pit of her belly. Y/n walked, trying not to make any sudden noises to draw attention to herself lest someone be waiting, she moved around the car, barely noticing that the only signs of a gun exchange on the vehicle was scratched paint. As she finally reached the other side, Y/n’s breath hitched upon realizing that there hadn’t been silence after all, just soft and laborious breaths as two badly beaten men hung on to life, one conscious, the other not so much. 

“Shit,” she hissed, thinking the worst as she ran over to John’s side, looking for the source of bleeding, eventually pressing her hand over a wound beneath his ribs. Her common sense told her that she needed to stop the bleeding, while her will to survive preached that she needed to finish the last of her attackers off. With her mind going a mile a minute, Y/n decided that she had to do both. 

Scrambling to stand, Y/n lined up two shots with steady hands in quick succession; one in the middle of his chest and another in his head, “Fucking Irish,” she grumbled, watching the last bits of life drain from his form, only broken out of the trance by a soft groan from near by. “John?” Immediately, her attention all went to one place; him. “John,” Y/n whispered again, lifting his head onto her lap and pressing down on his wound again, “Hey,” she cradled his head with her free hand, “You’re gonna be okay, alright? Just give me some time and you’re gonna be okay.”

She had to get him out of there, to the Continental, where he could see a doctor and recuperate safely. “Alright,” Y/n whispered, mostly to herself, before standing again and hurriedly going to pull the back door of the car open. Next was actually getting him in. It was a trying feat; John was considerably heavier than anything she’d ever lifted and the fact that he was largely unconscious almost made him deadweight. She eventually succumbed to dragging his body by hooking her arms under his shoulders, wincing every time she almost dropped him. The backwards trek to the car felt long and by the time Y/n had, by some miracle, gotten John into the car, her lungs burned, she was warm despite the cool spring air and her arms hurt. But there was no time for breaks.

Almost tripping and slipping in the pools of blood, Y/n jogged around to the other side, grabbing her bag up from off the ground before opening the front door, pulling her dead driver out of the seat and then taking his place behind the wheel. After that, it took a minute of fumbling around before she found the keys and got the engine started, gabbing up her cell and seeking out a familiar number as she drove. Y/n was recklessly turning out into the street when he finally picked up, “Vila, what’s up? It’s late.”

It was late, past three am according to her phone, yet Donavan didn’t sound like he’d been asleep, “I need you to come down to the clubhouse, I’m leaving now, but its a mess. You need to get down here, make a dinner reservation-”

“What?” She could hear his surprise, the twinge of fear that was laced with his words, fear for her life, “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” another hastily shifting of the wheel took them to the main road and Y/n’s foot was heavy on the gas as she thanked her lucky stars that the streets were clear, leaving her to whistle past everything in sight, “John’s not. We were ambushed by the Irish,” on the other end, Y/n could hear Donavan swear under his breath, “He dealt with them, but he got shot. I’m taking him to the Continental-”

“Okay, I’ll meet you there,” he cut her off again but Y/n didn’t bother to waste time listening.

“No,” firmly, pushed forward, adrenaline driving her to take the car to its limits. She’d driven fast, but never that fast, though, it didn’t seem near fast enough. One hundred miles per hour or one eighty something; John was still bleeding out and every second more was a second that she came closer to losing him. Y/n couldn’t lose him, not when there was so  much she hadn’t said. “No, you need to get to the factory, deal with that shit,” finally the heart of the city came into view and Y/n had already started working out a map of the shortest route to the hotel in her head, “When its done, call me and I’ll tell you what to do next. Got it?”

He hesitated, but eventually submitted, “Got it. I’ll-”

Before he could finish, Y/n had hung up, wasting no time before pulling up Winston’s number, not caring if she woke him up, just wanting him to get the doctor ready for John. Thankfully, that call turned out to be much shorter and by the time Y/n was coming to a screeching halt in front of the unassuming building, Charon, along with a few other workers and a doctor were there to help her.

It had felt like a day and change, but really, it had barely been just over two and a half hours. The clarity of dawn had just started to clear the night sky and the small room was crowded with a few familiar faces. Winston and Charon had stayed nearer to the bed as the doctor worked slowly, making sure to check for any readily unidentifiable injuries, while Y/n kept her distance, leaning on the wall near the window, staring blankly at the streets below. She was too caught in her web of thoughts to do much else. There was just so much going in her head;

Why would the Irish just come after her out of the blue?

Was it because of the deal she’d made with Balinski? Old grudges? Something else entirely?

There was something off about the attack too. There were too little of them, and they’d waited until she was outside instead of coming through the door, where they might have better accomplished the element of surprise. It felt too random, disorganized and completely different from the way they’d taken out her parents. There was no premeditation, no message or meaning. Maybe she’d been reading too much into things, but Y/n could have sworn that there was just something about them waiting outside to just take a chance at shooting at her that didn’t seem like their style.

Then, there was John. Seeing him on the cold ground like that, covered in blood and almost totally unresponsive had scared Y/n, making her realize that the fright she’d felt while hiding wasn’t a fear she’d had of being caught, it was the fear of losing him. Losing him when he still thought she didn’t care, losing him when she’d been too stubborn to tell him that he was the first person she’d cared about that deeply but above all, simply losing him. It was hard to admit at first, but as she’d held him there in the parking lot, Y/n had decided; upon the next opportunity, she’d tell him everything she’d been holding onto. 

*******

They’d returned to her penthouse late in the evening, past dark and without words exchanged, Y/n had stalked off in front of John, discarding her stylish charcoal blazer on a tufted ottoman in the hallway before steering into the kitchen. Maintaining their distance as he had through the day, John was intent on his bedroom, not expecting her to stop him just before he began down the hall. “Yeah?” He glanced Y/n’s way after she called.

“Have dinner with me,” if he’d learned anything about her, it was that Y/n didn’t ask for what she wanted, instead, she simply stated it, wholly expecting submission. Most times she got it too, though, she did expect John to be a more worthy opponent and was prepared to snatch his company for the evening. “I don’t usually cook, but if you stay and I can promise you won’t regret it.”

John dwelled on Y/n’s offer for a minute, internally debating it. He wanted to stay, spend time with her, despite his foreboding dream and the edge of danger that accompanied her presence. And finally, when logic preached that it was just dinner, he caved, shrugging his suit coat and draping it over a chair at the kitchen table, “Okay, sounds good.”

Y/n seemed pleasantly surprised, though, she didn’t let it linger on her face for too long. “Good, I’m-” she cleared her throat softly, remembering herself as she went to grab some ingredients from the fridge, “That’s good. Wine?”

“Sure.” After that, she poured them a couple glasses, insisting, or rather demanding that he sit and stay put while she cooked, muttering something about how she worked better without the help as she chopped a carrot aggressively. It wasn’t long before she’d turned on a record player either, one that resided neatly in a corner, largely unseen until Y/n went over to it, putting a record under the pin. The music was soft, and John recognized most of them as tunes from a time before even he’d been dreamt into existence. He hadn’t pegged her for the kind of person who enjoyed fifties music, but as John was quickly realizing, there was more to Y/n that met the eye. 

She’d just put the glass lid on a saucepan, allowing its contents to simmer while she poured them another glass of wine. “What’s this one?” John probed absently, staring at Y/n as she leaned over the counter to refill him, a few wispy locks escaping her loose ponytail and her stature relaxed after she’d long traded in her heels for walking around barefoot. Seeing her like that was nice, it reminded him that she was human; just a young girl, caught in a world that circumstance afforded her. 

“This one?” Y/n hummed, the song had just begun, the first notes wafting and pleasantly intermingling with the aroma of what she was making, “Its called The Twelfth Of Never,” she smiled absently, probably not even realizing she was doing it, “It was my mom’s favorite, my parents played at their wedding,” Y/n took a tentative sip from her glass, deciding on whether or not she should say more, “And she used to sing it to me, before…..before she….”

“I understand,” John reached over from his perch on a barstool, surprising them both when he grabbed her hand, squeezing gently, “That must be a beautiful memory.”

That time, when Y/n smiled, he was almost sure she’d done it on purpose, “It is.” And without another word, she approached the player, making a few adjustments so the song would restart, “Let me show you something,” Y/n set her glass down, walking around to John and offering her hand, “Come on.”

“You want to dance?” He chuckled, discarding his wine glass, skeptically taking her offered hand, gasping quietly at its softness, completely contrasting the calluses on his large palms. 

“Why not?” Y/n didn’t meet his gaze, but John swore he could tell she wanted too, playing along as she arranged his hands on her body. Touching her like that, it was weird to say the least, not just because he still usually considered himself a married man, but also because holding Y/n felt vastly different to the way it had in his dreams. Then, she hadn’t felt so small, so breakable. Not like the invincible woman he knew in wake, but like someone he’d want to protect. “You lead,” she broke his thoughts, “Its not a hard one.”

Slowly, as permitted, John led Y/n in a slow waltz, his hand stationed at the center of her back, the satin of her blush colored blouse soft to touch. Her hand at his shoulder was, dare he say, comforting and as they sunk into a new familiarity, Y/n stepped closer, so they were chest to chest, her eyes vacant as they danced. “Have you ever felt like that about someone, John? Like you could love them forever?”

“My wife,” his hand slid lower, to the dip of Y/n’s back, and she seemed to hesitate before leaning her head against his chest. For a moment, John stiffened, he hadn't expected her to do that. Then again, he hadn't expected her to do anything she had that evening. After a moment though, he let himself relax, not wanting to admit, even to himself, that he liked having her that close. "She's…...I miss her," he mused, quelling the impulse to tighten his hold on Y/n. "You?"

"Me?" She huffed a humorless chuckle, “No, never. But maybe that’s a good thing. Love is…...destructive,” Y/n’s last words were so soft that John may not have heard them if she weren’t so close. Suddenly, he realized that like him, even if she’d been raised by a family, Y/n must have had a childhood as jaded as his, especially after mother’s death. He and Y/n might have had more in common that he would have preferred to admit. They were two bent, hardened people, seeking to fend for themselves because trust wasn’t something they could be guaranteed. 

Emboldened by this new realization, and seeing how she was comfortable enough to sink into his arms, John guided their conversation in another direction, “I saw you last night.” He eased the topic in slowly, not wanting Y/n to recede into herself. John ached to know her, help her, if she’d let him. “In the kitchen.”

Knowing exactly what he was talking about, Y/n tensed up, holding her breath as if it would make her disappear, only letting it out when they stopped, still standing in the middle of the kitchen, entangled, “What did you see?” A pair of wide eyes stared up at John with an expression he couldn’t quite read. 

“You know what I saw,” John insisted softly, his arms showing no intention of releasing Y/n, even when one of her hands curiously slid around his neck, inching upwards to tangle his burnt hued mane, “We can talk about it if you want to.”

“I don’t know what you think you saw, John” Y/n’s lengthy, half moon nails gently grazed his scalp and she leaned up on her toes so her lips would be a hair away from his, “But you didn’t. So just forget about it,” she urged, tilting her head as she finally laid her lips on John's, moving them against his encouragingly. He took a beat, but eventually responded, curling his fingers behind her back to clutch a fistful of her shirt’s fabric. 

Y/n’s free hand gripped his firm bicep and John let himself run with the moment, his eyes shutting and his tongue evading the barrier of her teeth. She tasted like wine and something he’d never tasted on another woman, something unique and inviting. It felt so good to be like that with someone again, the proximity, the intimacy, the fragility of the moment, it was all so consuming that John let himself forget. But only for a bit. Until a voice, one he could only ever hear in his dreams, caught up with him. How could you, John?

“I can’t,” in an instant, John was pulling his face away, not realizing that he hadn’t relented his grip on Y/n, “This isn’t……” He couldn’t do that to Helen, taint her memory by laying with someone like Y/n. With someone who reminded him of himself. 

“Why?” Searching his features, Y/n cupped John’s cheek, his trimmed, grey speckled scruff ticklish under her soft palm as her thumb grazed the hint of a wrinkle near his eye.

“I’m married…..” John’s hands shifted on her body, slipping so they were stationed at her waist, but even then, he seemed reluctant to remove them altogether, “My wife…..”

“What you do with me won’t change what you had with her,” Y/n’s husky whisper was accompanied by her free hand skimming his torso, her touch electrifying, causing John’s breath to hitch. Hesitantly, his gaze fell to her kiss swollen lips, knowing his resolve was ebbing away. Her fingers stopped at the buckle of his belt, and he was actually surprised that she hadn't taken it further, “I know you want to,” to prove her point, Y/n pressed her front to his, feeling his growing longing against her stomach, “You can’t tell me you don’t.”

She was right, as hard as he was trying, John knew that he couldn’t resist. Maybe he’d been done for it from the moment he met Y/n at the Continental, when her mystery ignited a spark that he hadn't felt since Helen. Besides, it was just sex. A dark glint shifted in his eye, clouding his usual stoicism as John's hand inched down to her hips, giving Y/n's short skirt a series of gentle tugs so the fabric would ride up her thighs. "You're right; I can't," his calloused fingers ghosted her smooth skin, raising goosebumps, "And I do want to."

Offering a glimmer of a wicked smirk, Y/n toyed with the buckle of the belt until it came undone, ignoring the loud clatter that followed when she finally slid the leather out of its loops and dropped it to the floor, "Then what's stopping you, Mr. Wick?" Nimble, petite fingers popped the plastic button of John's slacks. 

"Right now?" One large hand ventured under the hem of her skirt, pushing the crotch of Y/n's panties aside so his rough, stocky digits could tease her folds. Spreading her slickness, John took his time before pressing down on her clit, igniting a new throbbing in her crotch. Loudly, Y/n moaned around his fingers, an indirect plea for more and John cocked a devilish smirk, "Not a damn thing."

Y/n was too lewd to respond verbally, one of her legs simply crooking at John's hip, his undone pants riding a little lower each time they shifted. Simultaneously, as John worked her cunt, his free hand hastily pulled her blouse out from her skirt, reaching under it to grope a lace clad breast. "John….." Y/n huffed, breath contained in her throat. 

"Yeah," he gritted his teeth Y/n reached into his boxers, hissed when her jewelry adorned hand circled his hardened cock, the metal cold against his skin, and finally, when her thumb rubbed his swollen head, spreading around the first beads of precum before pumping slow, John moaned sinfully, "Fuck!" His forehead touched hers briefly, before John hoisted Y/n up in his arms, only to discard her moments later on the dark veined marble counter. 

Leaning past her, he quickly turned off the top burner on the electric stove before returning his attention. Y/n had already started undoing the buttons of her shirt and entranced, John stared as the fabric hung off her shoulders, his mind flashing to the day he'd seen her exposed modesty in the reflection. Seeing her that evening though, it was absolutely incomparable; full breasts nearly spilling out of rich black lace and unblemished skin almost glowing in the cool lighting of the room. Y/n looked like a thing of erotic art, her legs spread wide to accommodate him standing between them as she propped herself on hands planted on the counter. Hair pulled away from her face left John's alluring view unhampered and as he admired, Y/n's words, spoken from matted burgundy lips pierced his thoughts and she reached out, catching the hem of his shirt, "If it makes you feel better," she tugged him closer, bringing her face to his so a searing kiss would punctuate her words, "You can pretend I'm her."

So it really was just sex, John thought, Y/n didn't care much beyond the physical. "No," more hastily that time, John shoved up Y/n's skirt, roughly tugging her legs soon after, and finally peeling off her panties tossing them away, "Cause I'm gonna do things to you," he pushed down his pants and boxers, letting them fall around his ankles and his lips peppering nibbles along her jaw and neck, somehow losing his shirt in the process, "That I'd never do to her." And with that, and no prior warning, John pressed into Y/n, filling her up to the brim. 

In unison, their hallowed sounds bounced off the white walls, Y/n's nails digging into his shoulder blades as he stretched her so wide it burned. Drunk on the feeling of having Y/n's tight, heated, wetness around him, John's hips buckled on instinct. Fueled by carnal desire; any trace of something much more tender vanquished by the heavy air surrounding them, he stirred up a quick, fluid pace, his length dragging out of Y/n's perfectly tight cunt before slamming back in. His onslaught of violent thrusts elicited loud, sinfully erotic sounds from Y/n, who had unintentionally relinquished any control that she, just a while ago, brandished over the situation, resigning to hanging onto John as he had his way with her. 

"John…...fuck…...John!" Her broken, ragged words were few and the feeling of John's throbbing veins generating the best kind of friction as he roughly moved inside her,  jerking her body with his selfish pace. Helpless against his whims, Y/n clawed at his back, accentuating the shine of healed scars and the bold black ink with angry red lines. 

"You feel so fucking good," he growled, one hand skimming Y/n's as the other held a death grip on her hip, "So fucked tight around my cock," John's throaty gnarrs were enough to intensify her need, rousing Y/n to tighten her legs around his waist. By passing her still restrained breasts, John found the graceful column of Y/n's neck, his palm lingering flat at the base of her throat for just a second before his grip closed around her neck. 

Gradually, the pressure he applied on either side of Y/n's neck increased, yet the tighter his hold got, the more she wanted. Surely, he was leaving a large bruise, one that would probably compliment the ones he'd already given her and match with the ones she was giving him. "Open your eyes," John urged, not slowing as consciousness seemed like a struggle. He was good though, always giving Y/n enough to keep her with him while still muting her power.

She didn't think she could like it that much, being at someone else's mercy, but this was John, and what they were doing then would probably mean nothing with the coming hours. It was fun; meant to last for a while, be a sweet escape for whatever troubled her before Y/n would return to her ivory tower. 

It was hard to even try to choke a couple words out, and Y/n was sure that her reddened eyes were leaking with slow, rare tears, as bluish spots skewed her vision, blurring her view of John. "I….I'm…." But even as the coil on Y/n's stomach was about to snap, she couldn't manage the words.

Still though, John understood, "Do it…." He grunted urgently, "Fuck!" He continued rolling his hips incessantly, prolonging the journey to his own release. He craved the feeling of Y/n coming around him, clenching around his cock as she tripped over the edge, "Cum for me," he squeezed her neck.

Just then, the rush of sticky warmth was spilling out, messily coating their thighs and slowly drizzling down their legs. The sound that left her lips could have best been something between a scream and a languid moan as Y/n's eyes rolled back into her head. As the shocks of sheer pleasure coursed through her, sending a spark to every nerve ending in  her petite being, her toes curled and her legs tangled around John's hips stiffened momentarily. 

Ridding out her explosive high, John's movements went rigid at the feeling of Y/n milking him. As she came down, he let go, using all his restraint to not squeeze her neck too tight as he came, sheathed deep inside, ropes of hot, release against her walls, not pulling out until he'd expended himself. 

Leaving her with a distinct hollowness between  her sticky thighs, John detached their spent, sated forms, not touching her, but still boxing Y/n in by steadying himself with his palms planted firmly on the counter. They were breathing erratically and heavily whilst actively avoiding each other's gazes, trying to make the experience as impersonal as it clearly wasn't. 

"So," Y/n swallowed harshly, trying to remedy her hoarseness and shrugging her shirt back up to close up the buttons. When John looked at her, he seemed as equally as cold and unaffected as Y/n did, and they both knew that talking about what had just happened wasn't on the table.

"So?" John prompted, pulling up his pants, deciding that even cleaning up around Y/n was too intimate.

"So, dinner?" Her feet hit the shiny marble floor with the softest thud before Y/n, slipped out from the slim space between his hulking frame and the edge of the counter, padding over to turn on the stove again. 

John didn't answer immediately, both phased and relieved that Y/n had chosen to dismiss their encounter so quickly, less than thirty minutes after it had happened. "Okay," he confirmed, forgoing his shirt.

Blinking quickly, Y/n faltered, though, the moment was fleeting and soon she was nodding stiffly, "Okay."

*****

“What?” Y/n’s jaw clenched as she tried to keep her rage at bay, though, Donavan knew her well enough to be able to tell that she was a bit more than pissed off. Someone was going to die that day, it was just a question of who. With the book laid out before her, Y/n scanned the page, one, two and then three times, just to make sure she hadn’t read anything wrong, though, she rarely made mistakes. She was hardly perfect though, calculated was more like it. “Who the hell let this slip?” Standing abruptly, Y/n slammed the leather bound book shut with a thud.

“My guess is someone in accounting,” He stood before the sleek, white desk in her white walled, airy home office, his hands clasped in front of him, not in the slightest phased by her behavior, "But, it could be one of the guys you’ve got working in stock. What do you want to do about it?”

Moving out from behind the desk, Y/n slipped her hands coolly into the pockets of her grey, soft, paper bag pants, sauntering over to the window that overlooked the rest of Hudson Yards, the glass constituting the other towering complexes reflecting the afternoon sun beautifully and way down below, the people bustling were reduced to specs on the paved roads and sidewalks. “I want to find this person, and have them dealt with, today,” she emphasized the final word, before turning back to Donavan, finding his dark, steely grey eyes fixed on her, his sharp jaw set stiffly. When she got closer, close enough to see the hints of grey showing up near his sideburns and in his five o’clock shadow, he stood a little straighter and Y/n could feel the muscles in his biceps rippling beneath his black sweater when her delicate fingers trailed up to his shoulder, “Will that be a problem, Donny?” 

Y/n was the only person that ever called him that and Donavan was the only person privy to some semblance of non-familial affection from her. It was a consequence of being reared so closely; from the minute she was brought home in the arms of her mother, Donavan, at just ten, was taught that she was his to look over, that it would be her before him at all costs. Not looking down at her, he simply eyed her movements through his peripheral, quirking a rare smirk, “No ma’am. The car’s downstairs, ready when you are.”

Her tongue darted out quickly, moistening her lips as she tried to suppress her own mirth, “Good, I’ll go tell John and we should be off within the hour.”

“Forgive my…..boldness, Vila,” Donavan interrupted  nonchalantly just as Y/n neared the door, her hand just about to close in over the ornate knob, only continuing when she spared him a lingering backwards glance, “I’ve been meaning to ask; are the services of Mr. Wick really necessary? You know I would lay my life down for you, at any time, no question.”

Nodding slowly, Y/n’s brows knitted, of course, she could tell from the moment they’d met that Donavan had is own reservations about John as her security detail, he wasn’t the trusting type, and the older man had only served to put him on edge, though, for the life of her, Y/n couldn’t readily see why. She liked John as much as her jagged edged personality would afford, and even if she wouldn’t call him a friend, she hardly called anyone that, Y/n had started to see him as indispensable. “Mhm,” she hummed, not quite sure of why he’d chosen that moment to voice his concerns, “But that’s not your job,” she turned to leave again.

“I know that,” he insisted and she paused again, the first inkling of irritation seeping upwards, “But I would. And I just don’t think we need an unnecessary expense on our payroll, especially one…...that expensive.”

“Are you doubting my judgement, Donavan?” There was a sternness in her tone, one she rarely took with him though, it was enough to urge him to back off, and if he didn’t know her so well, he might have.

“I’m not,” he reassured, folding his muscled arms across his broad chest, “I would never, it’s just……”

“Don’t,” briskly, Y/n stopped him before he could find the words, “Never, ever, question my decisions, you know I don’t like it,” she warned firmly, “And as for John, he’s needed, and he stays, and if you think of questioning his employment here again, then I suggest you keep it to yourself? Got it?”

And then, before Y/n could hear Donavan’s response, she’d stalked out of the room, walking with purpose, down the hall, stopping at John’s room; the bedroom nearest to hers before heading there. As usual, it only took two knocks before John was pulling the tall door open. He’d been like that since moving in, always there when she called, never letting her wait a moment more than necessary. It wasn’t really obedience though, John had proven to be capable of following only his own rules, never needing her permission before acting and for what it was worth, she didn’t even think that ‘obedient’ was in his dictionary anyway. Instead, he was, as the legend had preached, a man of focus and commitment, and after only knowing him for just over a month, Y/n was beginning to think that there was very little that could successfully stand in the man’s way, if anything at all.

Another thing about John was that he was always impeccably dressed, persistently attired in a selection from his armory of Italian tailored, bulletproof suits. Never with a hair out of place and most definitely never looking as if she’d caught him off guard. Well, almost never. Except for that very Saturday, when they were both expected to be off and she’d broken habit and knocked on his door instead. “John,” Y/n didn’t think she could help if she tried when her eyes landed on his chest instead of his stoic expression. His torso, though very faintly defined, boasted how much an excellent shape he was in; the slight definition coming from years in the field as opposed to hours put in at the gym while scars of varying ages littered his skin. Hints of dark ink peeked out from his back while the bold cross on his shoulder was far more visible. Y/n had never seen his tattoos, but in that moment, she wanted to.

“See something interesting?” John broke her unconscious trance, folding his bulky arms and skewing her view.

Clearing her throat, Y/n shook her head, dismissing the feeling that had plumed in her chest at the sight of him so  sparsely dressed in nothing but a pair of worn blue jeans, “Wouldn’t you like to know?” She rolled her eyes dismissively, “There’s a situation at the club house, we’re leaving within the hour.”

John never asked questions, and he didn't even protest that she'd been interrupting whatever he was doing, instead, he just held his head up, not even nodding as he offered a firm, "Okay," before shutting the door, leaving Y/n staring at the heavy white oak before swallowing her annoyance and turning to stalk off.

When the car pulled up in front of the warehouse, John and Donavan, who’d sat on either side of Y/n, got out before her, and by the time he'd had jogged around to the other side to help her out, John had already offered his hand. “I was coming to get you,” he grumbled, straightening the blazer he’d shrugged on over his sweater, moving to open the building’s front door for her.

“I don’t need anyone to get me,” Y/n scolded quietly, rolling her eyes at his ridiculous behavior as she stepped in front of John, who hung back for a couple minutes just to confirm that no other cars had lingered at the front gate. By then, he’d devised a working idea of the vehicles that usually moved in and out of the compound and who they were driven by, how he’d committed that and everything else to memory was still a mystery to Y/n. Satisfied, he followed Y/n into the building, eyeing everyone closely as they ascended the spiral steps, stopping only when they were raised over everyone else.

Y/n gripped the cool metal railing, her eyes scanning the floor as a chatter ran through the workers. The place wasn’t ordinarily quiet, but that mummer wasn’t friendly banter, it was fright; they weren’t used to seeing her there on a weekend, and if Y/n was there on a Saturday afternoon, it meant that something was sorely wrong. For a moment more, she spectated, trying to see who seemed the most nervous, inconsistencies like the one Donavan had brought to her couldn’t possibly be accidental, no, someone was stealing from her, and Y/n wasn’t going to stand for it. 

Ready to address them, she cleared her throat loudly, rousing attention and straightening her back to seem more intimidating when her underlings looked up at her, flanked by John on her left and Donavan, both eerily silent while her enforcers stood a couple feet behind, lurking in the shadows “It has been brought to my attention that there are some…..discrepancies in our books,” and when some gasped, others just looked on with awe, Y/n continued, “Twenty five thousand dollars is missing. And I know that twenty five fucking thousand doesn’t just vanish; this was not a mistake. Which means that it's gone on purpose, taken on purpose.” The gathered workers mumbled amongst themselves, looking around to see if someone would be brave enough to fess up, “And I understand that it's money,” she chuckled dryly, “And it's probably long, long gone. But whoever took it, isn’t, and if you think that I’m just gonna let this go, then you don’t really know me. So why don’t you, whoever the fuck you are, come forward and make both our lives easier? If you don’t, I will find you, and it will hurt when I do.”

Again, the workers chattered softly, probably nudging each other to say who’d done it if they knew. Though, minutes ticked by and nothing happened, and all the noise did was serve to irritate Y/n’s already sour mood, causing her to squeeze the railing tightly and hissing an exhale before, “Alight!” She snapped, “You want to make this hard? That’s fine,” Y/n reached behind her, snapping manicured fingers, “Boys,” she purred menacingly, “Get down there and find this fucker, and you do, bring ‘em to our playroom.”

From the minute the hasty order left her deep red lips, and her bulky henchmen started filtering out towards the steps, a man pushed through the crowd, making a break for the door. Though, his luck was as good as any common criminal, and fearing her to the point of faultless loyalty, some of her workers blocked him, a few others grabbing him before he could fight through, handing him over to Y/n’s men when they got through the thick of it. Even as they dragged him, the man screamed bloody murder, which in all fairness, was more than likely what he would be facing in just a bit. “Donny,” Y/n spoke without looking in his direction, and he simply hummed in response, “Why don’t you get our toys ready?”

“It would be my pleasure,” he nodded, sparing her one last glance before leaving her alone with John, still looking on at everyone below.

“What do you think?” She tilted her head, leaning in discreetly, “Anyone we should be looking out for, besides our little rat over there,” Y/n nudged to the young man being dragged up the steps. He was young, one of her newer hires. She hadn’t trusted him completely when he sought her out, seeking employment, but he was no more than twenty three and before, she was sure that she could mold him to suit, maybe make something of the kid. But betrayal wasn’t something Y/n fared well with, and second chances were rare in their line of work.

Slowly, John scanned the crowd, which had just started to disperse, though she was sure that by then, he’d already done the same thing well over three times. John was exceptionally thorough, “No,” he kept his gaze trained forward, “If it makes you feel better, I can get down there, shake up a few people, make sure.”

“It doesn’t make me feel anything,” she huffed, turning to walk away, gesturing for John to come with her. Y/n hated the mere thought that John had started to see her as vulnerable, someone who was afraid of the people that worked at her feet, even if the thought of a betrayal that could cost far more than currency scared her, she wasn’t going to show it. And she certainly wasn’t going to tell anyone.

“You know I can’t protect you if you don’t tell me what’s scaring you,” John quipped, his words, as usual, were few, but effective, making Y/n come to an abrupt halt just as they were about to turn the corner and head down a dim hallway.

“I never said I was scared,” she turned to face him, her phlegmatic expression matching his. Y/n hadn’t expected John to be that close when she spun, and his proximity almost had her façade faltering, but she persisted, and for a moment, it seemed to be a war of stares, who ever looked away would be deemed a loser. Except, neither of them looked away and the longer their eyes locked, the more exposed she felt, like he was seeing her for who she really was, the person behind the hardened shell, who was scared that she was digging her own grave and destroying the empire her linage had afforded her. Y/n wasn’t sure if being seen, by at least one person, was comforting or frightening. On one hand, she sometimes tired of keeping up appearances, while on the other, it worried her that the tough, uncrackable disposition was all she had. If she softened, who was going to listen to a pretty girl half their age? 

“Not today you didn't,” his low baritone finally broke the silence, and unconsciously, John stepped forward, almost feeling as if she’d been reeling him in with those siren eyes. Those four little words were all he needed to put a chip in her exterior, to remind them both of the girl she’d been when they met at the Continental. The one whose perfume hung in the air even after she left and had left him with mixed feelings since they’d met. When he’d first started working there, he’d heard what they called her; Vila, and it was easy to see why too. Y/n had this kind of beauty, it almost didn’t seem real, though, her physical appearance was merely a mask, for anyone in her presence could tell that like him, she emanated danger. She wasn’t afraid to get her hands bloody when crossed.

Y/n’s gaze flickered away from his eyes, trying to shake off the trance his chocolate gaze had put her in, summoning up a dismissive smirk, “You’re smart huh?” She moistened her lips, preferring to be done with the subject rather than delve further into it, “Come on, I’ve got work to do,” she began walking again, “On a fucking Saturday too,” Y/n grumbled under her breath, and John didn’t let her see it, but he smiled faintly.

They walked for a while, all the way down the corridor, turning at its end and trekking up another set of stairs, those narrow and illuminated by an old bulb, leading to a lone metal door, rust gathered on the outer bolt and the creaking noise blood curling as she pulled it open, “Wait,” John grabbed her arms, “I go in first,” he reminded, not waiting for Y/n’s go ahead before stepping in front of her, his hand already reaching for his gun as he toed in. He’d stepped inside completely, sweeping the area for anything remotely out of place before letting her in.

When Y/n stepped inside, a tense silence befell the low lit room and the clicking of her stilettos on the worn, stained concrete floor was the only thing echoing. Without needing to be asked, Donavan approached her, helping Y/n out of her long camel coat, draping it over his arm as he stood back, near John against the wall. “Christopher,” she addressed, undoing the buttons at the cuffed sleeves of her silk, champagne colored shirt, rolling them up to just below her elbows and then putting her hair up in a loose ponytail, “You know, when I hired you, I took a chance. You were a kid and I thought that I could turn you into something great, teach you. I wanted to help you, Christopher.” There was a table, a wooden one, near the front of the large room, and on the surface, were all sorts of tools. A pair of pliers, a couple blades, bone saws of varying types, a thumbscrew, a pinwheel, an icepick, and of course, to end it all, a gun. Of course, killing and making an example of him would have been ideal, but Y/n didn’t want to risk missing his reasoning. “I really wanted to help you,” she carried on, swiping up the thumbscrew, sauntering over to the center of the room where Christopher sat, bound to the chair by a series of leather straps; two holding his wrists to the handles, his calves to the legs and his midsection to the wooden back. 

Though he fought against it, whimpering in fear as she drew closer, the chair, bolted to the ground, wouldn’t budge. There was no escaping, and he knew it. “Please Miss Romanov,” he pleaded pathetically, “I swear, I can pay it back, the twenty five grand, I can pay it back.”

“Pay it back?” She chuckled humorlessly, slipping his right index into the device, “Where’re you gonna get twenty five grand, huh? Besides, you know it's not the money, it's the principal. If we don’t have trust in this business, we have nothing. And I can’t trust you anymore Christopher,” slowly, Y/n started turning the pin at the top, her eyes fixed on how his features screwed up in pain as his finger was crushed, the sickening sound drowned out by his screams. The room was hardly soundproof, and even from the ground floor, anyone could tell what was happening, “Why do you think I can’t trust you?"

“Because of…...Arghh!” He howled, straining his neck as he shifted his head, his skin going red with the heat of pain and tears already streaming down his face. “The money!” He writhed, “Because of the money!”

“The money?” Hastily, Y/n grabbed his hand, situating another finger into the contraption, her anger flaring, “Have you heard nothing that I’ve said?” Her voice rose and she began turning again, up to her rope’s end with his ignorance, “Have I taught you nothing?” Y/n yelled.

“The principal!” Christopher sobbed, his breaths heavy and ragged and his eyes shut tight, as if not seeing the blood creating new stains on the grey floor might lessen the pain. Still though, Y/n continued, “But I had to,” he blubbered, “They would have killed me.”

“What?” snarling, Y/n paused, “Who, who would have killed you. Why’d you need the money?” Grabbing his wet face, her long nails digging into his blotchy, beat red cheeks, “Why’d you need my fucking money!”

“I-I….” hiccupping, there was a new wave of fear washing over him, and by then, the sweat had started to soak through his ratty plaid shirt, “The Irish...they-” the truth, like water behind a broken dam, came rushing out, “They have a….a gambling house up in Brooklyn.”

“You were fucking with the goddamed Irish!” Y/n released his face, only to grant him a backhanded slap, making sure the expensive stone on her ring broke his skin, “I’ve got you working here for me, I’m putting bread on your table and you go behind my back with the Irish? Motherfucker!” She slapped him again.

“Miss Romanov,” he begged messily as Y/n went back over to the table, that time to snatch up the brass knuckles, fitting them onto her right hand before returning to where Christopher, “You gotta understand, it was just supposed to be one card game and I-” Interrupting his hurried explanation, Y/n punched him, as hard as she could, hitting him square in the jaw and splitting his lip. She supposed that one of her men could have been far more effective, but following her father’s footsteps, she usually dealt out punishments on her own. “Please-” She reared back, socking him again, that tie hard enough to crack his jaw and dislodge a tooth. “Please,” he repeated, blood dribbling out as he spoke, “Money was tight, my girl hasn’t been working and we were in debt. I won one-” She hit him higher up, nearer to his eye, but he continued anyway, determined to beg for mercy with his last breaths, “I thought I could win more, but I started losing, so fast.” Another punch broke something else and bruises were already starting to favor the left side of his face while Y/n’s sleeves, which had fallen with the repeated movements, were more than spotted with blood.

“You needed money then you should’ve come to me. But you gave the Irish an in!” By then, Y/n had hit him so many times, that she’d lost count and Christopher was almost unrecognizable. She hadn’t realized how angry she was. From his on guard stance near the door, John kept his eyes trained on her; he’d never seen a more ruthless woman, or perhaps, person in general. Not even when he worked for the Tasarov mob, years before he single-handedly dismantled them in mere days. John had heard the stories though, of Y/n’s unforgiving father, how alarmingly frightening he could be given the right circumstances, no doubt he’d passed that on to his only heir. For someone else, watching Y/n might have been blood turning, despite her flawlessness, her ruthlessness might have easily made her ugly, the way she could ignore pleas and prayers for mercy, but for John, it was almost mesmerizing. She did the dirty work on her own, unafraid of bloodying her hands, and unashamed of who she was. Her bravery, boldness and ability to temporarily dispose of her apathetic demeanor was surprisingly attractive. Maybe he’d finally met his match.

When she was finally satisfied with the string of sloppy, bloody apologies and explanations, Y/n huffed, walking away, only to pick up the gun, checking to see if it was loaded before taking her aim, “I tried to help you Christopher, but you went behind my back, and now you have to pay for that.” He was already slipping in and out of consciousness, and when Y/n finally pulled the trigger with her bloodied finger, the only thing that sounded was the bang of the shot, the smoke dissipating as she lingered, staring blankly at the body for a minute.

“Vila,” It was Donavan that broke her trance, and ignoring him, Y/n tossed the gun back to the table snatching up the towel that he offered, wiping the warm red off her hands, barely registering how the color stuck to her skin before discarding it to the table.

 “Make a dinner reservation, leave the money out for ‘em, and meet us in the car after you call,” barely, she took note of Donavan’s acknowledgement as she stalked out of the room, John once again a couple paces behind as they moved.

“You okay?” His attempt at small talk surprised them both as they returned to the main floor, his words under his breath.

They broke out into the late afternoon, and moving ahead, John leaned forward, opening the door for her to get in, “Why wouldn’t I be?” Y/n got in, immediately reaching for the crystal carafe of whiskey, and two glasses, “Have a drink with me,” without awaiting his response, she poured two, handing over one.

“Must be hard, your job,” he mused gruffly, taking a tentative sip of his drink, enjoying the way the alcohol burned his throat. Y/n had good taste, and John could tell from just one sip.

Shrugging, Y/n downed her entire drink in one swing, barely hissing or wincing as she knocked it back, “Pay’s good.” Reaching for the bottle again, Y/n poured another, not understanding why she felt the turmoil that she did and ready to do away with it, “Thanks for uh…..coming with us today.”

“From what I can see, you didn’t need me,” at that, Y/n’s gaze snapped towards him, her plump lips agape and her eyes unusually wide and doe-y, “I’m just saying,” he cleared his throat, realizing how the air between them had changed once again, “You can hold your own out there Y/n.”

“You’re one of the only people that calls me that,” she wondered out loud, licking her lips as she looked at him, “It’s kind of strange to hear someone say my name.”

“Is that a problem?” John leaned in, catching a whiff of how the whiskey interacted with her perfume. 

“No,” Y/n breathed. It was the truth, and it seemed almost fitting, considering that John had proven to see right through her defenses, twice and had even been brave enough to call her out on it. He had seen just the tiniest glimmers of the real her, and it was only suiting that he be the one to call Y/n by her real name. “I do need you, by the way. So don’t go thinking I don’t.”

“Admitting defeat?” John smirked, and Y/n realized that that was the closest she’d ever got to seeing him smile. She bet he had a nice smile. Unconsciously, she leaned in too, something in the back of her head hoping he’d read the room and kiss her. 

“I’m just-” With a startle, her words were cut off, and surprised as Donavan entered, Y/n sprang back, averting her gaze as he settled next her, not even looking in John’s direction as he resumed his usual demeanor, pretending as if the moment had never even happened.

The ride back to the penthouse had been filled with silence, the tension so thick it could be cut with a knife, and when it was time to get out of the car, instead of offering his hand that time, John had left, heading towards the elevator to do his usual checks before Y/n could even step foot near it. That time, it was Donavan that had hung back with her, still holding her coat, and that time her handbag, as they walked. 

Even the elevator ride up was quiet and when the metal box opened up to her foyer, they all went in and wordlessly, John stalked off in the direction of his room. She tried not to be, but Y/n was offended that he’d be willing to just bypass what they’d shared in the car and choose to pretend that he was nothing more than an employee. It was infuriating, though, knowing she could do nothing about it, Y/n decided that she’d deal with her frustrations with a more willing companion.

“Stay for a while,” she led Donavan down the hall, the sounds of their steps echoing off the soft white marble walls, “I’d like some company.”

“Of course,” he nodded, following Y/n into her room, shutting the door behind him as they entered. Y/n turned the lights on, the chandelier overhead casting a glow on the spacious master bedroom, and as she went over to a small sofa near the window to slip off her heels, Donavan set her bag down on an accent chair near the door, draping her coat over the arm. “I’m going to take a shower,” she explained nonchalantly, undoing and untucking her ruined shirt before pulling out her stylish leather belt and unbuttoning her pants. “Care to join me?” 

Huffing a quiet chuckle, Donavan started stripping on his way over to her, losing his blazer and sweater by the time he reached Y/n, “When have I ever turned you down?” He smirked confidently, “You had such a rough day,” his calloused hands slid up her arms, massaging her shoulders, “Why don’t we get in there,” he lifted one hand, only to pull out her hairband and free her tresses, “And blow off some steam?”

“Well I didn’t invite you here for nothing,” Y/n’s lithe fingers trailed down Donavan’s toned torso, pushing the memory of a shirtless John out of her mind as she did. At the top of his pants, her hands lingered, and standing on her toes, she planted a searing kiss on a pair of familiar lips, expertly popping the button on his back slacks, letting him unclasp her bra in turn.

By the time they stumbled to the shower, managing to get the hot water on in their steamy haste, Y/n was already hoisted up in Donavan’s arms. He pressed his back against the glass wall, and as he nestled his throbbing manhood between her slick folds, Y/n moaned loudly, combating the sound of the falling water as she felt him fill her up. Her hand was braced beside his head on the glass, the rivulets staining red with the remaining blood on her hand as it raced down the wall. As he moved, helping her forget the day, with John’s image still on replay in her mind, steam built up around them while hot water from the rain shower washed their bodies. That evening, it was hard to lose herself in the rough sensation and  Y/n could only hope that at some point, her mind would go right again so that she could return to the person that wasn’t affected by death, or worse yet, got flutters in her stomach because of John Wick.

*****