#the matrix has queue

April 7th, 2010

“I got a job offer,” Helen blurts out. They’d been sitting in a companionate silence for at least forty minutes when the words seemingly slip out. “For after graduation.”

John feels a weight in his stomach and he knows, at once, that she’s leaving.

The moment drags on and John doesn’t move, doesn’t blink. He doesn’t trust himself to speak.

It was inevitable, John thinks. She would not have stayed forever. No way she ever could. Helen doesn’t belong in industrial cities. She should be etched in marble, not overshadowed by concrete skyscrapers.

She has to leave.

Of course, she does.

He always knew she would.

“Doing what?” he asks, impressed by the steadiness of his own voice.

It doesn’t matter, he tells himself. She’s a friend. A mortal friend who he had to lose at some point anyway. Maybe it’s better that he loses her now.

“I’d be leading a dig in the Appenine Mountains with students at the American University in Italy,” she says and her lips curve almost hesitantly into a smile. “We’d be looking for relics from the Sabine people.”

John nods thoughtfully, as if he couldn’t feel his blood rushing beneath the surface, his heart beating faster, faster. He controls his breath and wills it to slow with only partial success. He wonders if she hears the hitch before he asks, “Appenine… that’s a couple hours north of Rome, right?”

Helen’s head bobs. “Yeah. I’d be, uh, staying in Perugia. It’s technically an associate professor role but the class would all be hands-on. Which is great since I hate powerpoint.” She tries to force a smile again. Then adds, “It comes with housing. And a stipend. Access to some pretty impressive research grants, too.”

“It sounds like an incredible opportunity.”

Do the words sound as hollow to her as they feel leaving his mouth?

But then, what did he expect?

She had to leave sometime. Is it wrong that he didn’t think it would be this soon?

“It is,” Helen says and her stare drops down to the table, past the book she’d been reading. Her shoulders seem to sag and, mercy, her teeth scrape against her lower lip.

“What is it?” asks John.

She answers with a shrug. Then a sigh and Helen shakes her head. “It’s far from home. And Daisy is only five. It’ll break her heart if I tell her I’m moving halfway across the world.”

Don’t go .

But that isn’t fair.

Even thinking it, he knows, he knows, that Helen will regret it forever if she doesn’t take this chance.

“This is what you wanted,” he reminds her softly. “And we both know that you’re not going to find an opportunity for a three-thousand year old dig site if you stay in New York.”

Helen nods and her exhale is shaky. She leans back in her chair and looks at John, her face forlorn as she replies, “I’d be crazy not to take it.”

John learns the true definition of self-loathing when he answers, “Yeah.”

April 27th, 2010

“I need a fucking drink,” Helen calls as soon as she enters the apartment, tossing her keys on the nearby table. 

“Now that’s what I’m talking ‘bout!” hollers Rachel from the kitchen. “Birthday shots all around!”

She hears the sound of Carla scrambling from her room. There’s a small crash before she stumbles into the living room.

“We getting smashed on a Tuesday?” she asks.

“Duh!” Rachel pokes her head out, huffing fake sobs as she cries, “Its the last birthday before our baby girl is leaving us!”

Helen laughs, looking down at the floor. She shakes her head. “So fucking dramatic.”

It’s all love, she knows.

Every tease and exaggerated performance of her betrayal is just their fucked up way of saying goodbye.

They’ve already found a potential roommate to replace her when she leaves. Helen had walked in four days ago when they’d been giving a tour of the place, asking if it was okay to show her room. Listening to the girl casually talk about how Helen’s room looks nice but she’d prefer the bed ‘closer to the window’ and some ‘white curtains to let in more light’ had been utterly surreal. 

It was terribly familiar but no less uncomfortable than it had always been: the feeling of moving on while others remain. She’d thought it would get easier after she’d left home for the very first time but starting over hurts. To leave the ones she loves behind, watching from afar as they move on with their life without her and as she tries her best to do the same. 

Understanding it and reconciling it are two different things and she has yet to do the latter, even if she is making the right decision. She thinks. She hopes.

Carla collapses onto the arm of the couch, draping herself over the back of it. “Just as well. If I stare at that screen for one more minute, my head might combust.”

“I think, after my defense is done, I need to take a screen vacation. No writing, editing, anything. I will not so much as look at an article online.”

“Amen.”

“Alright, three lemon drop shots and three-quarters of a bottle of vodka.”

“Salute!” says Helen, taking the shot held precariously in Rachel’s outstretched hands. She takes a small taste and holds back the wince at just how much lemon juice had ended up in there.

“Sal-what-she-said.” Carla takes the shot and downs it in one.

The buzzer sounds, loud and sharp through the apartment. Helen looks at both her roommates in question. Rachel shrugs while Carla rolls off the arm of the couch and over to the intercom.

“Hello?”

“Hi, uh, I got a delivery for Helen Kingston?”

Rachel glances in her direction but Helen shakes her head. “Not expecting anything.”

“Birthday present?”

“Maybe?” Helen downs the remainder of her shot before passing it back to Rachel to refill.

Carla buzzes him up before following Helen to the door, watching curiously over her shoulder. “Something from your grandma?”

“Nah, I got a check from her a couple days ago.”

“Your dad, maybe?”

She shrugs. She’d be having breakfast with her dad on Saturday but he had been known to send the odd pizza to her place now and then. Usually he at least shot her a text to make sure she was home first, though.

She waits to see the delivery guy through the peephole before she opens the door. He’s dressed nice, she notes. He looks professional with his suit and briefcase, as opposed to the usual casual attire of most people dropping off food or packages.

“Helen Kingston?” he asks.

“That’s me.”

The man turns the briefcase up, supporting it on his arm before he undoes a locked combination.

From behind her, Helen hears Carla whistle low.

The case pops open and he lifts a long, pale blue box beneath an ivory card.

The handwriting on the card is easily recognizable and she feels her heart skip a beat.

“Happy Birthday,” the delivery guy says, bowing his head before turning on his heel.

“What the fuck…” mutters Carla.

“What is it?” Rachel asks, leaning back to see.

“Give me a second,” she says, hurrying back to the couch. She opens the accompanying envelope quickly but she doesn’t need to see the name at the bottom to know who it’s from. She’d recognize John’s small, careful scrawl anywhere.

Helen,

Consider this a combination birthday-graduation present.

I hope you know how immensely proud I am of all the work you have put in this last year and for the opportunity you have afforded yourself in Italy.

I can’t wait to watch you take the world by storm.

Happy Birthday.

John

She isn’t sure when her teeth started biting her lip but she stops as soon as she feels a sting. Tucking the card carefully back in the envelope, she sets it to the side to take out the box below.

“Jewelry?” Carla asks. “Who’s sending you jewelry?”

Helen ignores her, heart pounding in her chest as she carefully opens the lid. There’s a small gasp from beside her as her own breath is taken away.

A string of six, dainty daisies, chained in silver. Their centers are made of golden pearls, glittering even in the dim light of her apartment.

“Oh my god, that’s so cute!”

“Let me see,” Rachel says, leaning forward for a glimpse. “Shit, Hels. Where’d this come from?” 

She hesitates, her already fried-and-overwhelmed brain scrambling to think of an excuse when Carla gasps. “No freaking way!”

Rachel looks between them. “What?”

Practically humming with excitement, she slaps Helen’s arm. “You said there was nothing going on!”

“There’s not!” Helen insists.

“What’s not going on?” Rachel pushes.

“You remember at the start of the semester? The hottie-with-the-body lecturer that Hels knew?”

Helen ducks her head, covering her face with her other hand.

“The sexy bookbinder?”

“Can you guys not?” she mumbles through her hand.

“It is?” Rachel shrieks.

“Oh, it definitely is. Look at her– look how red her face is.”

“Fuck all the way off.”

Carla bursts into laughter and nuzzles her face playfully against Helen’s shoulder. “Honestly, kid, I’m proud. You scored big.”

It may have been a more satisfying moment if she actually had scored big.

As it stands, John had never so much as openly flirted with her.

Actually, she thinks, that might not be quite true. He’d never openly engaged in innuendo.Not like the guys in her program did, with loud and sometimes vulgar– in the modern sense– words disguised as compliments. She can’t quite picture John saying such things.

He isn't exactly the kind of man who would start conversations with I like that skirt. Know where it would look better? 

It isn't his style.

But their interactions have always been somewhat heavy. No hidden meanings to the words they spoke but a depth that she doesn’t think she’d ever be able to put into words.

It exists only in their almost . Lingering gazes and lingering touches. The quiet contentment in the car ride home and the companionate silence they share in his office. The tiny bubbles that pop up as they text, then pause and disappear, before reappearing.

Almost, she thinks again. Every moment that could become more, that feels like it will become more… but it doesn’t. Of course it doesn’t. There are a million reasons for that.

“We’re not together,” Helen murmurs, dropping her hand to let her look back at the bracelet. “We’re just friends.”

Rachel snorts. “Girl, we’re your friends. And neither of us bought you jewelry.”

“Should we have bought her jewelry?” Carla asks playfully. Then, “Your bookbinder is definitely not looking at you like a friend.”

She doesn’t even realize she is shaking until she snaps, “I’m leaving in twenty-five days!”

Taken aback, her friends freeze.

“I– sorry,” she apologizes and runs her hand back through her hair. “Fuck. I– I’m leaving in twenty-five days.” Helen takes a deep breath. “Even if that were true, I’m still leaving. I’m still going to be across an ocean and…” a confession, laying heavy on her tongue. “I think he might be my best friend. I don’t want to lose that. Not now.”

Rachel presses her lips together in empathy. “I hear you.” She kneels down in front of Helen and reaches for her empty hand. She squeezes it hard. “No more talk of sexy bookbinders.”

Helen nods. Her voice might crack if she speaks.

But Rachel changes the subject and immediately, she and Carla begin venting about another professor’s final project.

Helen breathes slowly, steadily, forcing herself to let the moment pass even as she cannot look away from the bracelet in her hands. 

Everyone knows she loves daisies.

She’d named her baby sister after them. The flower decorated her notebooks and handbags. An easy motif for friends and relatives to find and buy her little things. Even her roommates have gotten her mugs and stationery with the simple flower over the years. 

But, as she stares at the bracelet, she can’t help but wonder if John remembers all that daisies mean. 

That in ancient Rome, it was the symbol of love, like roses are today.

May 13th, 2010

Ritual and Rhetoric

An Archaeological Perspective on How Power Shapes Society

By Helen Kingston

A Dissertation

Submitted to the Institute for the Study of the Ancient World

New York University

In Partial Fulfilment of the Requirements

for the Degree of Doctor of Archaeology

May 2010

Acknowledgements

I would like to express my gratitude to my advisor, Professor Noel Conti, for his support, encouragement, endless wisdom and patience. You have pushed me and challenged me and helped me grow as a writer, a researcher, and a human. I am grateful, everyday, that you answered the email of a curious eleven-year-old. I never would have gotten here if not for you. Thank you.

I am thankful for all my professors and peers, friends and mentors, all of whom have taught me and supported me during this experience. To Professor Leary, who helped me to understand the value of hands-on research. To Professor Choudhury, for endless hours helping me to narrow my focus and edit this dissertation. To my roommates, Rachel and Carla, for reminding me to sleep and introducing me to coffee when I didn’t. To John Wick, for taking a chance on a stranger. Your help and support mean more to me than you know.

Lastly, to my family for always supporting me, especially when you weren’t certain where the path was taking me. To my mother, for every late-night call she was forced to endure as I narrowed down my research, and my stepfather, for supporting us both through it all. To my father, for your support. And to my sister, Daisy– I hope you never lose your curiosity or wonder. Love you to Earandel and back.

May 17th, 2010

Yesterday

Sent, 9:03 am

Hey John,

I don’t even know what to say right now. I just opened your gift and the handbound copy of my dissertation is quite literally the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. I’ve been staring at it since I opened it and I’m just speechless.

Thank you. I can only imagine how much work you put into that to have it ready so quickly.

I also wanted to say thank you again for coming yesterday. I’m sorry we didn’t get to talk more but it meant a lot to see you at my graduation party. Between Noel and Daisy, it looked like you were kept busy.

My mom and I both send our thanks for entertaining her. She went on and on about you after the party. You may have a new best friend.

xo, 

Helen

Re: Yesterday

Received, 10:40 am

Pleasure was all mine. Both Noel and Daisy were incredibly proud of you, as was I. You have a little soccer star in the making there. 

I’m well aware that I don’t always express my emotions and gratitude well or often, but I hope you know how much our friendship has come to mean to me. Getting to watch you dedicate yourself so thoroughly to your craft has been a gift and one I have cherished.

I know I won’t have the front row seat that I’ve been afforded this last year but know that I will be wishing you the world from afar as you continue to shine.

John

Re: Yesterday

Sent, 10:43 am

Can I see you before I leave?

Re: Yesterday

Received, 10:45 am

Yes

May 22nd, 2010

Her bags are packed. 

They have been for a week now. Whatever items she couldn’t justify bringing across the world had been boxed up and left in her dad’s spare room. The room that used to be hers.

Her mom, Steve, and Daisy will pick her up first thing in the morning, to take her to the airport. Her dad will meet them there, too.

Goodbye, goodbye, goodbye.

It helps soften the blow that she’ll be home for Christmas but that’s still seven months away. The summer semester starts in three weeks and she needs time to settle in. Learn a new city. Brush up on her Italian.

Maybe see the sights. Have gelato on a cobbled street.

Maybe find a way to distract herself from how much she’s going to miss all of this.

She locks her apartment behind her, aware that she will only do so one last time tomorrow morning.

The end isn’t in sight. It’s creeping up from behind her but she can feel it, inching closer with every passing breath.

Her fingers glide along the wooden banister as she makes her way down to the street.

Her parents wanted her to be a doctor.

She still was, technically. The thought brings a smile to her face. Just not the kind she’d sought out to be.

Of course, the dreams of a ten-year-old were bound to change.

And they had, the moment she’d picked up a book on Latin by Noel Conti. The trajectory of her life had been altered as Noel had set her on a path of curiosity and mystery and wonder.

The past is alive. It breathes and sleeps and, when we feed it, it grows, he’d written her once. The words had stayed with her, etched into her mind like a relief. With every detail she learned, they left her alight.

Her poor, reluctantly supportive parents had been in for a whirlwind but the first time Helen had put her hands to the Earth and searched for relics of the past. She’d felt it, then: a power unlike anything she had ever imagined.

A rush of warmth and determination courses through her and she knows that she’d made the right call.

It’s raining when she reaches the street and she hurries to the nearest subway entrance. She slips through the crowd and arrives just before the train departs. There are no seats but she’s never minded standing.

Holding a pole, she watches the lights flicker by.

Grad school had been a blur.

Noel had warned her, blink and you’ll miss it.

The funny thing is, she doesn’t remember blinking.

But now she stands on the other side. Not a student; a doctor.

The label still feels foreign, like it doesn’t belong in front of her name. Like she hasn’t done enough to earn it. But there it is.

A handful of stops later and Helen follows the crowd out of the car and back up to the street. The rain has let up some but it has yet to stop entirely.

Luckily, it isn’t far to Advanced Restorations from here.

She doesn’t need to look up directions anymore. She hasn’t for a long time.

Helen walks the path to John’s shop solely from memory.

If she were being entirely honest, she hadn’t expected him to reply to the email she’d sent him the previous March. Even with Noel’s recommendation, she wouldn’t have been surprised if he had blown her off completely or sent a polite but firm no . 

John Wick had been somewhat of a mystery to her since that first meeting.

Her initial assessments had been mostly accurate. He was quiet, or at the very least, content to live in quiet. Attractive. Wealthy. Extremely intelligent, knowledgeable.

He’d always been private and she can’t fault him for that. Most of what she knows about him came from small admissions that he’d made in conversation. Or, she thought, more accurately, he’d dropped little bits of information like grenades in casual conversation. He was an orphan from a small Slavic village. He spoke more languages than she did. At one point, he’d been a soldier until he’d taken up bookbinding to repair a family heirloom.

Helen lets out a long breath.

Developing a crush on John shouldn’t have happened but, in hindsight, it may have been inevitable.

He was an older, intelligent man who could hold his own in conversation of literature and history and art. He was kind and generous, with a way of making her feel safe just by being near. If she wants to get technical, her daddy issues probably play a role, too, but it’s probably best to leave that thought buried.

She hurries down the stairs to his shop and stares at the door. The familiar frosted glass makes her heart ache.

The door is locked but she’s known the code for months now and punches it in with barely a thought.

She locks it behind her and slips off her damp sweatshirt, leaving it to hang beside John’s jacket and umbrella. Aside from the displays, his shop hasn’t changed at all.

It feels different, regardless.

Her footsteps are soft, intentional. He’s expecting her but she still doesn’t want him to hear her. Not just yet.

He’s at his workbench when she peeks through the doorway. It has always been somewhat of a mystery to her, how he uses his big hands to create such careful, delicate work. Her mind has wandered to those hands far too many times since she’d met him.

She feels less guilty for those thoughts than she once had.

“When do you leave?” John asks without looking up.

She’s never been able to sneak up on him. Looking down, she doesn’t know why she tried.

“My flight’s at 10 but my mom’s picking me up around 6:30.”

He nods solemnly.

Her exhale feels weak, shallow, even. Like she can’t quite get enough air. Like this is a mistake, like leaving is a mistake.

It isn’t the first time she’s had this feeling. It’s been a constant since the moment John told her to take the position. She’d felt it when she’d called to formally accept. She’d felt it all the more when Daisy had yelled at her that she was the “worst sister who ever lived!” when she’d shared the move with her family. 

But this?

Oh, this is so much worse.

She can’t help but feel guilty for that. Her sister had sobbed and screamed and she’d felt the hurt deep within her chest but standing here, in a silly shop belonging to a man she’s barely known over a year, might be what takes her out.

An even worse thought crosses her mind:

Daisy begged me to stay and I told her no.

But if you just ask me…

Helen swallows and looks away, blinking back tears. She takes a careful breath through her nose and exhales through pursed lips as she hears the scraping of John’s chair.

She blinks but she doesn’t see him, even as his footsteps echo around his workspace.

“Am I doing the right thing?” she asks quietly, as he grows near.

“I can’t answer that for you.”

Her eyes shut tight, almost painfully. 

She’s spent her life making difficult decisions. 

Her parents had been on opposing sides of the best way to raise their budding genius. The final say had always been left to her. 

They’d given her choices. In hindsight, maybe too many for someone who was still a child. But she’d rolled with it. She’d made the calls, had forged her own path. Often to the disappointment of someone she loved.

In her mind’s eye, she can see her mother’s resigned expression when she’d decided to graduate high school so early and move to New York for school.

She can hear her father’s sigh when she’d cautiously told him she was switching tracks, abandoning the pre-med course he’d pushed her towards from the time she first started showing signs of brilliance.

It’s not fair to expect John to tell her what to do with her life.

She’d never listened to anyone who tried to push her in one direction, anyway. Still, she wishes he would say something. Anything.

Instead, she feels his presence. Even with her eyes closed, she can feel him. Knows that if she just reached out her fingers, they would brush against him.

It’s not fair, she thinks, but she says what’s on her mind anyway.

“If you asked me to stay, I would.” The confession is heavy and it does not lighten once it is said aloud, as she hoped it might have.

John reaches for her then. His fingertips brush across her cheek, over her temple to tuck a lock of hair back behind her ear. Her eyes close tight as a single finger trails around her ear, back until his palm cups her cheek.

She does her best to commit it to memory because she knows, she knows , he will never let it be more than this.

And when she gives it the time to think on it, it will break her heart.

So she doesn’t think on it.

Instead, she does her best to memorize the way it feels: his large palm engulfing her face. His calloused thumb stroking from the corner of her eye across her cheekbone. His breath, a whisper on her face.

If she fell into him, she had no doubt that he’d catch her.

But that was all he would do.

She shudders as she breathes out, pressing her lips together to stop the sob that threatened to escape.

His fingers curl against her and Helen wonders if he, too, is holding on to this moment, as if it could last forever.

She knows his answer, as she had when she asked the question, but the longer it takes him to respond, the more certain she is of what he’ll say.

“You know I won’t,” he says finally. “But in another world, you couldn’t have kept me away if you tried.”

Bastard. He’s a complete and total bastard for that.

It would almost be better if he shut her down entirely. If he’d told her that she was nothing to him, that he’d just been entertaining a kid the last year. That it could never have been anything more. 

A petulant urge to protest rises. To demand him to love her with that intensity here. Now. 

It's childish and she knows it but like seeks like. Pain seeks pain.

So she seeks him out, her arms sneaking around his middle as if an embrace could save her.

John raises another hand to her cheek, effectively cradling her face. She allows herself a moment of rest, letting him hold her for just a little bit longer.

She feels his breath nearing and tries to will her body not to tremble with the goodbye that’s coming quickly. Too quickly.

Helen feels his lips brushing firmly against her forehead as he presses a kiss between her brow. 

Fuck you , she thinks. Fuck you for making me feel so much and telling me to go. Fuck you for your stupid honor and control and for not losing both for me. Fuck you for being you.

She swallows heavily. She cannot speak for fear she’ll burst into tears. Cannot open her eyes for what may come out.

And when John pulls away, rising upright, it’s all she can do not to whimper and hit him.

I love you, she thinks and it breaks her all the more.

October 17th, 2009

“Any fun plans for your day off?” John asks as he turns off the street of ISAW.

Helen yawns and arches her back against her seat. Her eyelids flutter in exhaustion but she smiles regardless. “Sleeping in. Then I’m going to my mom’s for lunch and my dad’s for dinner.”

She’s barely spoken of her family, only mentioning her parents in passing. He’ll admit, he’s curious about the people who raised a certifiable genius but he always hesitates to dip below the surface in their exchanges. 

The dynamics between them are complicated, to say the least. In ways she’ll never understand and made all the more complicated by the budding attraction.

He'd like to deny it. A part of him feels lecherous just by acknowledging it but he’s never shied away from difficult truths before. He’s attracted to Helen Kingston.

She’s attracted to him, too. If the deadly combination of flushed cheeks and dilated pupils weren’t enough, the pounding of her heartbeat has always given her away.

It feels wrong to use that knowledge to his advantage. The same way it feels wrong to bite her, despite how easy it would be. Especially now that she’s agreed to let him drive her home two nights a week. She has no idea how dangerous the man beside her really is and… and he can’t stand the idea of changing her perception.

What’s more, he cannot stand the thought of damaging her mind. 

The Table cared little about the risks of repeat feedings, using the same source over and over, but everyone knows the risks. Although blood nearly always replenished, the act of putting someone into hypnosis with any regularity altered how the brain perceived threats of safety and even the flow of thoughts. At best, it could impact her memory. At worst, she might end up hospitalized with a psychotic break.

It simply isn’t worth the risk and the fact remains, as it always will, that she is far too human. Fragile and mortal.

The age difference would be daunting enough if he really was in his forties, as he was when he was turned. He’d have been old enough to be her father. As it stood, he could have been her father a dozen times over.

Attraction, he had decided, is where it has to start and end.

But, perhaps because he is a masochist and perhaps because his self-control is not as strong as he’d believed it to be, he asks, “Divorced?”

She nods and opens her eyes. “My mom always wanted more kids but my dad didn’t. I think she struggled with how fast I learned. She didn’t anticipate having a fourteen-year-old graduating high school, you know?” Helen smiles sadly and shrugs. “I wanted to live in a dorm instead of commuting from Jersey every day. The week I moved in, mom left. Remarried within a year. Steve’s a good guy. They have a daughter.”

The smile becomes genuine then.

“What’s her name?”

“Daisy. I got to name her. She’s four, gonna be five next month.”

He glances to the side, where Helen stares softly over the dashboard.

“You sound very fond of her.”

“She’s my mini-bestie,” Helen answers with a smile. “I try to see her once a week.”

“She a genius like you?”

“She’s her own kind of genius. A little more head-in-the-clouds, age-appropriate interests than me.”

It’s a humorous barb but he senses no resentment, only love.

“Why Daisy?” he asks.

“It’s my favorite flower. It’s from the Old English ‘day’s eye” because it opens in the daylight but closes at night. And in ancient Rome, it was the symbol of love, like roses are today.” Her gaze affixes on him then and she gets that curious glint in her eyes, the lines between her brow making an appearance as she asks, “You never had kids?”

The question is unexpected enough that he might have choked. “Fuck no.” 

Helen lets out a small laugh. “Yeah, I didn’t think so.”

Perhaps because he’s curious, perhaps because he’s a glutton, he says, “That obvious?”

“You strike me as the kind of guy who would never shut up about them, if you had any. Since you’ve never mentioned it, I figured it was a safe bet.”

He isn’t certain that’s true but he doesn’t suppose it matters. The point is moot. He’d missed his chance as a mortal. A vampire could not conceive; only turn another. He’d missed the window on that, too. The newest Elder had begun regulating transformations three hundred years ago, when their numbers had started to surpass beyond their means.

Oh, there were more than enough people for survival but the disparities between those under the Table and humanity had grown too obvious and left many of their kind difficult to control. The decree that vampires could only turn their spouse, unless otherwise sanctioned, had been met with resistance.

But the Elder had anticipated that and used it as an opportunity to show the power, the skill of his new guard and cull their species.

“Ever been married?” she asks.

He shakes his head. “I don’t think I’m the marrying kind.”

She hums at that. From the corner of his eye, he watches as she turns her head to gaze out the window. Helpless, he uses the opportunity to actually look at her.

The outline of her pale profile. Her long lashes and button nose. The smattering of sun-kissed freckles across her cheeks. A face that deserves to be immortalized.

It’s a dangerous line of thinking: imagining her as a vampire. With endless life and resources to explore the greatest mysteries the world had to offer. She would shine with immortality.

It’s a non-starter. Although the Elder only authorized transforming those who could suit his needs. And the only thing worse than mortality, John thinks, would be Helen caught in his sights.

For a moment, and only a moment, he imagines what it would have been like if she were his bride. He could care less for the supposed heightened senses and increase in strength– he does fine without either. But the companionship, the idea of living out the rest of his immortal days in the company of someone he could truly adore is enough to tempt him.

He’d thought maybe… 

But no. His affection for her is just that. Affection.

And that’s fine.

It’s for the best. 

She’s not his bride.

He would have recognized her instantly, if she was. At least, that’s what his sire, Winston, had always told him. Not that Winston has a bride or groom to call his own, either. They’re exceedingly rare and prized beyond measure.

Hunted beyond measure, too. 

A connection that could not be forced or created. It simply had to be.

Supposedly, at first sight, his heart would stop. A restart, of sorts, coming back stronger and faster than others of his kind. And a sixth sense of sorts, known as the instinct, would develop instantaneously. 

Winston had described the instinct was like a heightened survival response, designed not only to keep himself but to keep one’s spouse alive. Koji, however–, who had actually found his bride– explained it less as an instinct and more like a connection. A melding of souls, he’d deemed it after meeting Nanami.

John had witnessed firsthand how strong and focused both Koji and Nanami had become in the years that followed. How devoted to one another they were, how powerful they had been together. 

And how broken Koji had become when she had turned to dust. He may have let another vampire take his head, John thinks, if it wasn’t for the young charge he’d sired centuries before.

Which is another reason he’s eternally grateful that Helen is not his bride– the threats for a bonded couple were ten-fold and the partner perceived as weaker would inevitably be targeted. And John had a dozen lifetimes’ worth of enemies. 

It’s for the best that she’s human. It’s fine.

It’s fine.

It’s fine.

Maybe, if he says it one more time, he’ll believe it.

It’s fine.

October 30th, 2009

Sent, 11:45 pm

Hey! Totally forgot to mention this on the drive home but no need to pick me up tomorrow night. I took the night off to take my sister trick-or-treating!

Received, 11:48 pm

Thanks for letting me know. Are you dressing up?

Sent, 11:50 pm

I’ve been told I have to be the bad witch. Daisy will be the good one. #witchbitchera

Received, 11:51 pm

Huh. Would not have been my first guess for you.

Sent, 11:53 pm

Daisy informed me I could not dress as a post-mortem Julius Caesar

Received, 11:55 pm

There it is.

Be careful tomorrow.

November 14th, 2009

Sent, 11:16 am

Image 1

Image 2

Which one of these do you like better?

Received, 11:17 am

Neither. Burn them both.

Sent, 11:18 am

Smartass. 

Okay, if you were a five-year-old girl, which would you like better?

Received, 11:19 am

Does my previous answer not stand?

Sent, 11:20 am

Curse tablet, John. I’ll start one tonight.

Received, 11:20 am

The unicorn. Tell Daisy I said happy birthday.

Sent, 11:21 am

:) 

Now, was that so hard?

November 16th, 2009

Received, 5:35 pm

Did your sister like the unicorn?

Sent, 5:38 pm

Image 1

A big hit, as you can see

When is your birthday, BTW?

Received, 5:42 pm

Glad to hear it

And I don't celebrate my birthday

When is yours?

Sent, 5:44 pm

April 27th

And sure, weirdo. But when is it?

Received, 5:50 pm

I think I was born sometime in the fall. Like I said, I don't celebrate it

Sent, 5:55 pm

Are you telling me you don't know when your birthday is?

Received, 5:58 pm

My parents were gone by the time I was old enough to celebrate. It's really not a big deal

5:59 pm

Incoming call, Helen Kingston 

John considers letting it go to voicemail as he slips off his stool in the Continental Club. He'd texted her almost immediately after reaching the bar, blood still soaking into his shirt, his hands, his teeth.

In some ways it felt wrong to text Helen while in his world, less than an hour after completing a kill but he hadn't been able to resist.

The topic at hand had gotten out of control quickly. Perhaps he should have just looked down at his driver's license and the random date assigned by admin at the Continental but logic often slips when in the presence of Helen Kingston.

Perhaps that’s why he tosses his payment carefully on the bartop and abandons his whiskey, against better judgment. He slips out the back without a word to anyone and answers as the door thuds closed behind him, the loud music fading to a distant hum.

“Hello.”

“Who the fuck raised you that didn't give you a day to celebrate your birthday?”

John blinks, his face relaxing as a chuckle slips out. He'd expected pity. Her rage is an exquisite, welcome surprise.

He can't quite picture her angry. Is her face flushed? Her brow furrowed, not like when she studies, but harsher. An unyielding warmth, spreading through him like sunlight.

“Are you laughing?” she asks incredulously.

“You always surprise me, solnyshka.”

“Uh-uh. Don’t use your Russian accent on me, Wick. It won’t work.”

Amused, he leans against the wall. “Exactly what am I supposed to be doing that won’t work?”

“Nope. You’re obfuscating. Now answer the question: who the fuck raised you?”

The elevator door pings and John’s expression drops into a mask of practiced indifference. He waits for the occupants to exit and make their way past him with only a respectful nod to address his presence.

“I suppose my legal guardian would have been the Director of the orphanage although “raised” would be a loose term.”

There’s a sharp intake of breath on the line and it sends a chill down his spine.

She doesn’t respond, the silence lingering on to the point he might have thought she’d left the call, except for the slow, steady inhales and exhales on the other end.

It’s oddly calming, listening to her breathe.

He’s grown used to the pattern over the months in her presence. Gotten to know the nuances that come with each breath. He knows the difference between a sigh of frustration and a sigh of contentment. Knows that her breaths slow when she is relaxed, like when she starts to drift off in his car as he drives her home. He knows the tricks to make her breath speed up, like when he purposefully asks stupid questions to push her buttons or a lingering brush of the hands when he passes her a book. 

This is new.

Each passing breath is steady, even but harsh.

After a minute of careful consideration, John finally breaks the silence. “What’s happening right now?”

Another harsh, steady exhale.

“I’m recalling our past conversations. You said your parents had died but you never… I assumed that meant you were taken in by relatives or– or someone!”

That wasn’t the way of the Ruska Roma but he doesn’t share that. She’s too clever, too inquisitive. If he’s not careful, he’ll reveal too much and Helen will find herself in over her head.

He misdirects, hoping she doesn’t catch the heaviness in his voice as he says, “I was a bit of a hellion. A little too much for anyone willing to commit to another mouth to feed.”

There’s a hitch in her breath. “John.”

Jardani, he thinks. It’s been more than a lifetime since he’d offered his true name to someone else but he’s never had the urge like he does right now.

His eyes close and he mouths the given name but does not speak it aloud.

Another hint too dangerous to offer a girl, a human, capable of figuring out too much.

“It wasn’t that bad,” he lies easily. Enough time has passed on those wounds  that they no longer haunt him.

In truth, she is the only creature capable of lingering, haunting him forever. 

“I'm not naive enough to think everyone has a happy family who loves them and cares for them but fuck.” 

Her voice, her sweet, warm tone aches with pain that he, himself, no longer feels.

“Helen,” he murmurs, her name like a prayer. Then, “It was a long time ago.”

“You shouldn’t have had to go through that. I’m–” a pause, a careful intake of breath. “I wish you didn’t have to go through that. And I’m not going to lie, I’m absolutely furious that you don’t have a birthday or even a random day to celebrate.”

It’s at that moment that John accepts the fact that he is weak.

Completely and utterly weak because all he can think about is how to make her happy again.

“What’s your favorite historical event?”

“What?” she asks, her voice cracking.

“Your favorite event. Something you find fascinating or disturbing or underrated.” He finds himself smiling as he adds, “Come on, I’m sure there’s some historical moment that you’ve ranted to people about why it isn’t studied in every school in the world. That you think about every day.”

There is a heaviness to her laugh. It dies as quickly as it was brought on. Then, “Pax Romana. The supposed ‘Golden Age’ of Rome in which there was no war, no conflict. It lasted some two hundred years and was largely regarded as a time of peace but….”

“But?”

“There was no war but I’d hardly call it peace. It was a time where people were so beaten down, so trapped under the thumb of the Emperor, that they all did what they could to survive. You could argue that trade and the arts prospered but the populace as a whole suffered. And it isn’t unique to Rome, there have been dozens of paxes throughout history but they all have been marked by the same patterns of inequality and corruption.” 

She's always long-winded when she gets going and he can practically hear the moment she cuts herself off– a terrible habit that he knows she developed as a child when other kids or adults would cut her off and diminish her interests as silly. He could kill them all for the slight but she handles it with the same grace she handles everything else.

Regardless, it’s a story he knows well.

He remembers Ivan making similar plans for domination, disguising them as grand quests for peace. 

“Alright,” he says. “And when was the Pax Romana?”

“Historians argue that point quite a bit but I fall into the school that it starts at the Battle of Actium, when Octavian drove Marc Antony and Cleopatra back to Egypt.”

He smiles at her explanation. “And the date?”

“September 2nd,” she murmurs. “31 BCE.”

“I’ll forgo the year. But September 2nd. From now on, okay?”

“Okay,” she echoes. “September 2nd.”

It wouldn’t take long to get his papers updated. If he processed the request tonight, he’d have them by morning. It’d been a good ten years since he’d last updated them anyway. He needed to adjust the year before he got too old to pass.

“I’m going to hold you to that,” she says with a forced lightness.

“Hels, Hels!” he hears a muffled, young voice calling on the other end. “The cookies are done!”

“No birthday cake?” he asks.

“She wanted sugar cookies with frosting.” There’s a pause and Helen calls back, “I’ll be right there, kiddo!”

“What are you doing?” Daisy whined in the back.

John can’t help but chuckle at Helen’s sigh of exasperation. “I’m on the phone, Dais.”

“With who?”

“Oh, pray for me,” Helen mumbles low enough that the words are just for him.

“Enjoy the cookies.”

She huffs a laugh. “Will do.” He waits for her to hang up but she doesn’t. Instead, “I won’t push, but if you ever want to talk about your childhood, I’m here.”

He isn’t expecting it. Nor is he expecting the sudden weight he feels in his chest or the lump rising in his throat. He swallows it down. “I– If ever I do, it would be to you.”

He hears Daisy calling her name again, a possessive edge that John can relate to.

“Go,” he tells her softly. “I’ll see you Friday.”

“Goodnight, John.”

Jardani, he thinks.

December 5th, 2009

“Ms. Kingston, a moment of your time,” Noel says as the rest of the class starts packing up their things.

The semester is coming to a close in a matter of days. Final assignments have been provided to the undergraduate class she’s assisting in teaching and her own preliminary outline of her dissertation is due in a matter of days.

Her head has been spinning for weeks now and time seems to be moving a little too fast for her own liking. Life has become a blur of eat, sleep, study, work, repeat, with only the occasional interruption from John, driving her home on her late nights.

It’s become her own little secret, her time with the bookbinder.

She has lunch with her mom and sister every Sunday but somehow leaves that little detail about her week out. Her roommates haven’t noticed that she’s home earlier on her late days. She doesn’t blame them. They’re all wrapped up in the final year of their respective programs.

It works out for the best, saves her from a lot of awkward questions.

Her classmates file out and Helen hugs her text to her chest as she makes her way to the front of the lecture hall.

“Yes, Professor Conti?” she asks in her least-sincere, most-humorous tone.

Noel’s eyes sparkle as he says, “I stopped at Advanced Restorations the other day to drop off a book I was having rebound. Imagine my surprise when Mister Wick mentioned how far you've come with narrowing down your dissertation.”

Oof. 

She’d been expecting a comment on her latest revision or maybe a recommendation for a source.

The mention of John, formally addressed as Mister Wick, nearly knocks the wind out of her. She glances down, her fingers curling into her palm, and knows immediately that Noel has caught her tells.

The old professor’s words were harmless enough but his tone borders on fatherly concern when he adds, “I wasn't aware you were still in contact after he gave you permission to read the Alighieri text.”

At once, she feels a juvenile urge to explain it all– the email correspondence losing its professionalism and into a budding affinity for one another, how John had declared himself her chauffeur on late nights because of his own protective streak, and how that had kickstarted a friendship that had quickly become one of the most meaningful relationships in her life?

Miraculously, she resists. “We've become friends,” she says instead.

“Friends,” he repeats.

“Friends.”

“Hmm.”

Helen huffs a laugh, rolling her eyes. “After the Alighieri thing, John connected me to a few other resources.”

“John?”

Fuck.

It’s amazing how much he can say with so few words.

“I don’t owe you an explanation,” she says defensively and, damn it, she knows it sounds defensive.

“I don’t believe I asked for one,” Noel replies.

Helen groans. This is the problem with working with a professor she has known, to some degree, since she was eleven years old. He doesn’t even have to try to push her buttons. It’s as natural to him as breathing.

“We’re friends,” she emphasizes again.

“So you said.”

“Christ.”

He laughs. “It’s none of my business.”

“It’s nothing…” she hesitates, not wanting to suggest anything beyond what Noel might have already come up with.

“Sexual?”

“Nefarious,” she corrects, shifting to her other foot. “He’s very knowledgeable. John’s been a good sounding board.” 

Who I occasionally fantasize about when it’s late and I’m alone.

Noel hums again. “Well, as amusing as it is to watch you squirm, I didn’t bring it up as a judgement. Rather, I was wondering if you might be able to help me. You see, there is something I have been wanting from John Wick for a very long time…”

………..

She goes the next day to Advanced Restorations. 

Her classes are all but finished for the semester. All that she has left to do is a single exam, edit her term paper, and grade the assignments for the undergraduate class she is teaching. She still has a few days before the last of those are ready, though.

She arrives ten minutes before closing and slips into the shop quietly. Helen slips off her coat and scarf, hanging them on the hook next to John’s own winter wear. 

There’s no bell on the door but John has always had a sixth sense about visitors. Sure enough, she has only just finished hanging her clothes when he appears in the door.

He blinks, even as his mouth curves into a smile. “Did we have plans?” John asks.

Helen shakes her head. “No, Noel sent me to pick up his book.”

“Ah.” John slips over by the register and the large shelf behind it. He plucks the tome, wrapped in brown paper, down and hands it over. “He has you running errands now?”

Helen slips it into her satchel with care before she leans on the counter. “Truthfully, I think he may have had some ulterior motive in sending me. And I think you can probably guess what that is.”

There’s a long pause and John relaxes and his smile eases into something far more amused. “I’m not guest lecturing.”

“Why not?” Helen asks and the question is genuine, even as she jokes, “Don't tell me: you have a debilitating fear of speaking in public.”

John snorts, turning to walk back towards his workroom. “Got it in one. Case closed.”

She doesn't hesitate to follow. “No, but seriously.”

“Seriously, I have a dozen reasons not to do it.”

He begins collecting his tools, aligning them back on the tray he stored them on with great care. It still manages to impress her, the gentleness with which he moves, despite his imposing figure. It never fails to bring her mind to sordid ideas.

“So name them,” she says, only partially in an attempt to clear her mind of every scenario she can think of where he uses those hands with great care elsewhere. 

“Time commitment, making a presentation, having to socialize,” he lists, slipping into his chair. With his foot, he pushes back the chair next to him, angling it for her to sit. 

Helen does, leaning back in the seat, foot outstretched towards him. Not touching. Not quite. But close enough that she can feel the gravity between them.

“It’s one ninety-minute lecture. Most presenters don't bother with formal presentations either. Usually they just stand there and talk and answer questions. And no one would expect you to socialize. That's only three excuses.”

John rolls his eyes. “I hardly think I'm qualified. I don't have any degrees.”

“There are no qualifications to being an expert except experience. You're clearly,” she gestures around at the various artifacts and texts, “doing alright in that regard. You don't need a degree to be good at what you do.”

“Fair enough, but it definitely doesn't fit with your era of study, so a further waste of my time and yours.”

“I think it would be informative and offer great insight into a different perspective in managing relics. And, as you've seen, not every source we use is directly from the ancient world.” He opens his mouth to respond but Helen continues, “Who knows? Maybe you'll even imprint upon somebody the idea of a hobby that can be both relaxing and fulfilling.”

He blinks. “You're full of crap, you know that, Kingston?”

“Oh, definitely. You're at five, by the way. Six, if I’m being generous.”

“And are you?”

“Generous?” she shoots him a wink. “Definitely.”

John chuckles at that. It’s a rare occasion that she earns a laugh from him and she revels in it as he leans back in his seat. “Well, there’s always the tried and true: I don’t want to.”

Helen allows her lower lip to push just past her upper one and blinks furiously. “Please?” she asks softly and watches as John Wick’s resolve crumbles.

He holds his blank expression successfully for all of three seconds.

Then, “Fuck.”

She smiles victoriously. “Pleasure doing business with you, Mister Wick.”

January 27th, 2010

It’s a bad idea.

Terrible, really.

John Wick has no business teaching or lecturing anyone, let alone a class of graduate students a semester away from being doctors. But she’d batted her eyes and pouted and he’d been helpless.

It’s embarrassing. He could kill her in an instant, rip out her throat with his teeth if he wanted (truthfully, there are much more pleasant things he’s imagined doing with his teeth) but all it takes is a whispered please and he’s useless.

He parks his car in front of the building where Helen had instructed him, grabs the coffee, and follows her directions inside the building. 

He stands by his initial arguments. He has no place here, in this building, in this world. If it had been for anyone else, he would have already turned around.

“I have to admit, I really didn’t think you’d come,” a familiar baritone drawled.

Doctor Noel Conti was perhaps the least imposing figure John had ever met. The professor is short, his back hunched from long days spent bent over dig sights. He’s put on a bit of weight since John had first met him– a consequence, he supposes– of becoming sedentary.

Noel is a giant in the ancient world but he’s far past the time of fieldwork. 

He’s aged, too. His face is longer, his wrinkles deeper. The hair on his brow is thicker but there is a bald patch on the top of his head.

“I was sent several threatening texts if I no-showed,” he answers.

Noel chuckles. “Persuasive little thing, isn’t she?”

“More like terrifying.” He reaches the landing where Noel waits.

The old man looks him up and down and shakes his head. “What I wouldn’t give for your genetics, boy. I swear, ten years and you’ve barely aged.”

Ten years and he hadn’t aged. He doesn’t offer the correction.

Never draw attention to it, Winston had taught him. Smile and laugh it off and be prepared to move in the next five years.

“It’s good to see you, Noel,” he says, offering his hand.

Noel shakes it with a smile. “You, too, John. I truly appreciate you doing this.”

It’s an effort not to grimace. “I don’t plan to make it a habit.”

“No, I don’t suppose you will. Although, I am trying to retain our mutual friend after graduation. I’m not sure how successful I’ll be considering several universities have already put out feelers for her but perhaps my luck will win out.”

That’s news to John. 

She hadn’t mentioned anything about life after school but she’s been growing increasingly focused on her dissertation over the last few weeks. Even the random facts and historical tangents she usually threw his way had decreased. 

It had become all Roman Republic class struggles all the time.

But she’s nearing the end of her graduate program. Sooner or later, that conversation would be coming.

He pushes the thought down. It’s not the time to entertain it.

His phone vibrates in his pocket. Only one number is set to go off right now. Any incoming correspondence from the Continental or his various allies will be silenced until he otherwise changes his settings.

“Excuse me,” he says and pulls out his phone.

Sent, 8:55 am

The a curse tablet with your name on it if I don’t see your face in the next five minutes

John snorts aloud and mutters, “Speaking of threatening texts.”

Noel lets out a chortle. “Well, we wouldn’t want to keep your girl waiting.”

“She’s not my–”

“You know, my Clint was sixteen years older than me,” Noel interrupts. “People can get caught up in the details. Class, money, age. They seem big, but they’re only footnotes.”

John starts to protest again but the professor keeps going.

“At the end of the day, Clint’s gravestone doesn’t say forty-year-old man seduced twenty-four-year-old. You know what it says?”

He looks back at John seriously.

“Uh, no.”

“Loving husband.” Noel sighs heavily and turns back, walking towards the lecture hall. “That’s all that matters, in the end.”

He doesn’t know how to respond to that so John just follows him.

He finds Helen immediately, sitting on an aisle seat towards the front. She’s chatting with the two students in front of her and a boy to her left. The boy in question is leaning forward, a little more than is necessary for the conversation and he doesn’t miss the way Helen leans back in avoidance.

It doesn’t take her long to spot him. 

She makes a show of checking her imaginary watch before excusing herself from the group of peers she had been with.

“Almost thought I’d have to spend tonight making a curse tablet.”

“I figured with your dissertation, it’s save you time if I just did the damn lecture.”

She beams and all is right in the world.

Still, Noel’s words echo in his head. Loving husband.

“I, uh, think your professor thinks that we’re…” he trails off.

To her credit, Helen only shakes her head. “Yeah, I got that impression. Tried to correct him but…”

“Might be easier to let this one go,” John finishes.

“Definitely.” She glances to the side and back at John. “Any suggestions on how I should handle the rest of the class?”

His eyes trail over the top of her head and, sure enough, the majority of her classmates are watching them. The boy in the seat next to hers is unabashedly glaring in John’s direction.

If he were a better man, he’d ignore the clearly lovesick youth. After all, who could blame him for falling for such a clever, vivacious young woman?

But John Wick has been called many things and a better man has not been one of them.

And rarely does such a beautiful opportunity present itself.

“You’re on your own with that one,” John tells her and hands her the coffee he’d picked up for her that morning.

She accepts it, her expression remaining mildly amused. “Oh, that’s definitely not going to help things.”

“Neither is this.” He reaches forward, affectionately chucking her chin.

Her lips press together, fighting a smile. “You’re such a dick.”

“Maybe,” he concedes. “But I’m here.”

“That you are.” Then, “Thank you.”

“The things I do for you,” he says fondly and steps around her, making his way down the stairs. He ignores, but does not miss, the way the boy in the seat beside her continues to watch their every move. 

It had been two days since he’d last fed. He’d be fine for another day or so, so long as he didn’t exert too much energy, but it was never a bad thing to pause and top off. If the opportunity presented itself, John had no moral quandaries about leaving that kid in a weakened state.

Casually, John looks up over his shoulder where Helen follows him. “I’ll drive you to work after this.”

“You won’t hear me complaining,” she agrees easily, slipping into her seat. With a mock salute of her coffee, she adds, “Best of luck, Professor Wick.”

He rolls his eyes but damn, if that didn’t do it for him right then.

February 9th, 2010

Sent, 11:42 am

I’ll pay you rent if you let me use your workshop to study

Received, 11:45 am

I accept rent in the form of coffee

Sent, 11:46 am

I hope you know I’m not kidding

Received, 11:47 am

Neither am I. You need a ride? I’m taking my lunch in ten.

Sent, 11:48 am

John Wick, you are everything to me

March 15th, 2010

Sent, 10:06 am

Who’s your tattoo guy?

Received, 10:08 am

I’ve never been more scared to answer a text in my life

Sent, 10:10 am

God, you’re so dramatic

Seriously, who does your tattoos?

Received, 10:12 am

Most of them were done in Russia

Why do you want to know?

Sent, 10:13 am

Damn :/

I want to get a tattoo but I want to get it from somebody reputable.

Received, 10:15 am

Why?

Sent, 10:21 am

Why do I want someone reputable?

Received, 10:22 am

Why do you want a tattoo?

Sent, 10:24 am

Why does anybody want a tattoo? I think it would be nice.

Do I sense an air of disapproval, Mister Wick?

Received, 10:26 am

No disapproval. Just curiosity.

Just didn’t think it was something you were interested in

Sent, 10:29 am

You don’t need a certification in badassery to get ink :P

Idk, I just like the idea of it. Getting something meaningful marked on my skin, to always have a little reminder.

Received, 10:33 am

Do you know what you want?

Sent, 10:35 am

A daisy, for my sister.

Received, 10:36 am

Of course. Should have guessed.

Received, 10:40am

Skintillation, 542, Floor 2, Hampshire Street, Brooklyn

Reached out to a friend. This is the place he recommends. Ask for Juno

Sent, 10:42 am

You’re the best <3

March 18th, 2010

Sent, 5:59 pm

Figure I’ll show you Friday in person but:

Image 1

Received, 8:50 pm

That looks beautiful

Sent, 8:52 pm

Thanks :) I’m really happy with it 

March 23, 2010

Sent, 7:12 am

Hey, planning on taking over your workspace this morning so I can try to get this section of my diss done. Planning to stop at the bakery on 67th on my way over. Want anything to eat?

Received, 7:15 am

Nah, but I’d take a coffee. What time are you planning to come in?

Sent, 7:16 am

Your usual?

And would it be okay if I got there when you opened? I really need to crank this out

Received, 7:18 am

If you can be ready in twenty, I’ll pick you up on my way in

Sent, 7:19 am

You’re a fucking godsend

March 24th, 2009

Re: Inquiry on the Alighieri Text

Sent, 10:14am

Good morning John,

I wanted to thank you, again, for allowing me access to the Alighieri book last night. Although I did not find what I was originally searching for, the evening did not feel wasted. I truly enjoyed spending time with you– it was wonderful to sit with someone who knew so much about the era. 

I also wanted to take a moment and recognize your craftsmanship. I realized, belatedly, that I had jumped into the text with no comment on the remarkable quality of the restoration. It was truly a thing of beauty.

With warmth and gratitude,

Helen

Re: Inquiry on the Alighieri Text

Received, 10:41 am

Helen,

Of course. It was no trouble, although I am sorry you did not find any references to Numa’s works. If you ever do find the evidence you were looking for, I hope you reach out. I’d love to hear all about it.

Regards,

John

August 17th, 2009

Reference Material

Received, 7:50 pm

Dear Helen,

I hope all is well with you and your research.

I’m not sure if you are still searching for more information regarding Numa but I stumbled upon a reference to him in a journal from 1573 that I was restoring. While it does belong to a prominent family, I have worked with them before and was able to secure permission to let a third-party examine it before it is returned.

If you’re interested, please let me know as soon as possible.

Regards,

John

Re: Reference Material

Sent, 8:13 pm

Dear John,

I hope all is also well with you, too, and I appreciate you reaching out!

Yes, I am still searching for any sort of sources that even reference the time period. A personal journal, even millenia later, is still a phenomenal primary source and I would be ecstatic to look at it!

Name a day and time and I will be there.

It really is wonderful to hear from you!

Warm regards,

Helen

Re: Reference Material

Received, 8:16 pm

Dear Helen,

You’re welcome to come into the shop at any time. I trust you can handle the work with care and I will be around should you run into any issue.

The family has granted permission for you to take photos, as well, in case the references are needed in the future. 

Looking forward to seeing you.

John

Re: Reference Material

Sent, 8:20 pm

Dear John,

I’ll be there in the morning. Thank you so much for this opportunity. I’m beyond excited.

Cant wait to see you!

Warm regards,

Helen

August 18th, 2009

Re: Reference Material

Sent, 7:02 pm

Dear John,

Thank you again.

I know I said it repeatedly today but I really can’t thank you enough. This is the first lead of any value I’ve had in months. The fact that you saw the reference and thought of me means so much to me.

I’ve already started going through the pictures and I can’t wait to finish transcribing everything. You’ll definitely receive a shout out on my dissertation.

Thanks for listening to me ramble earlier. As you could probably tell, I tend to get a little bit too into the things I study. It was nice to talk about it.

I’m really glad Noel pointed me in your direction last spring.

Warm regards,

Helen

Re: Reference Material

Received, 7:39 pm

Dear Helen,

I’m glad to have helped and hope you’ll find what you’re looking for.

Will I get a copy of your dissertation to read? I’m not above blackmailing Noel for it.

Thank you again for the whiskey. You really didn’t have to get me anything, although you were right about my preference. Are you even old enough to purchase alcohol?

Regards,

John

Re: Reference Material

Sent, 7:47 pm

John,

I’ll have you know I turned twenty-one in April. Legal and everything.

As for my dissertation, it will be published so you’d have access to it without resorting to blackmail. But I’ll be sure to send you a copy once it’s done. Keep your expectations low, though. Writing is my least favorite part of the research process.

Warm regards,

Helen

Re: Reference Material

Received, 8:04pm

Helen,

I’ll look forward to seeing the results of all your hard work. Try to make sure you get some sleep between all those translations you're about to get lost in.

Feel free to keep me updated on what you find. I'll admit, I've become invested.

John

Ee: Reference Material

Sent, 8:10pm

Don't call me out like that :P

And of course!

August 28th, 2009

Update!

Sent, 2:12 am

Hey John,

Remember how I promised to let you know if I found any updates!?!?

See Attachment 1

See Attachment 2

Re: Update

Received, 10:11 am

Good morning Helen,

That’s incredible. I’ll admit, I wasn’t able to review the document as much as I’d hoped before I called you in. I’m glad to know it wasn’t a waste of your time.

It seems that your suspicion is correct. I’m not sure if you’ve made it any farther in your translations but has there been any indication of where they might be? 

What do you think the likelihood of them surviving this long would be?

John

PS– thanks for sending your translation with the original

Re: Update

Sent, 3:45 pm

Ugh, sorry for the delay in response. I stayed up until 8 this morning doing translations until my brain was quite literally scrambled. You speak a few languages too, right? Do you ever get to the point where you can't distinguish what word is from what language and so you just sit there going what's the damn word?!?!

Anyway, there were a handful of passages directly about the supposed works of Numa. Apparently, the person who wrote the journal, Lorenzo, had a fascination with Romulus and believes that books that Numa was supposedly buried with reference to what really happened to the first king of Rome (you probably already know this, but Romulus supposedly vanished in a storm). It seems Lorenzo was a believer in the occult and that Romulus and Remus were children of the gods and Romulus did not die as they said. 

He brought up some really good points, like why would Numa keep the books in his grave? That wasn’t a common practice, at least not for Romans. They might bury fine goods or offerings for the gods. If anything, they might bury a single prized possession outside of their normal adornments. To supposedly bury everything he wrote makes no logical sense, especially because his books were supposedly focused on their religious rituals at the time.

Why would you write out the history and rituals of the priests only to bury it with you?

The other point Lorenzo brought up is that the location of the burial was prone to flooding– again, why would you bury someone and their supposed sacred books in a place that was likely to flood?

And we know that Numa wasn’t actually buried where it says he was. His tomb was empty, save supposedly for the books.

It’s all a bit of a conspiracy but Lorenzo theorizes that the books were never buried as legend states but that they must have been hidden at the time of Numa. He had a couple of guesses that all seemed pretty outlandish but still an interesting read.

To answer your other question: could they have survived to this time? It’s unlikely. Papyrus is a fickle mistress. In dry climates, like Egypt, it can last for thousands of years. But Rome has more seasonal changes and if papyrus is exposed to moisture, it likely would have started to decompose or mold.

For me, at least, I’m less concerned with finding the books, although that would be the find of a lifetime, but with the legend surrounding them. Supposedly, it's the only source that detailed what priests of the Roman Kingdom were doing in their daily routines and rituals. It just doesn’t make any sense that they would be hidden or destroyed. 

What could have been so dangerous that they would have destroyed a dozen books? I could almost understand one or two of them being lost but all of them? There’s no sense to it.

Anyway, rant over. Clearly, I’m excited.

Alas, I should probably go work on my actual dissertation.

Talk soon, 

Helen

Re: Update

Received, 4:03 pm

No worries at all. I’m glad you got some rest.

Yes, I know that struggle well. Although I can only write and read in three, I can speak five languages.  Six, if we count Latin, which I assume you do.

It sounds like you made decent headway into it regardless. How you find the time on top of your classes, job, and dissertation is beyond me. 

At the risk of sounding pessimistic, but I think you have opened the door with your belief that the books would not have survived into today, why dedicate so much of your time to its pursuit? 

Take your time to respond– I know you’re busy.

John

Re: Update

Sent, 10:05 pm

Hi John, 

I definitely set myself up with that all nighter last night because I am wired and very much in danger of doing the same thing. Although, tonight, I’ll likely be up working on the research that comes with a deadline ;)

And, dude, six languages? SIX?!?

That’s insane. I’m only at four :( But I suppose I have some time to catch up. Aside from English and Latin, I’m fluent in Ancient Greek and Italian. I’m also working on the basics of Sumerian and I’d love to learn Gaelic eventually but I don’t see that happening until after grad school.

So for you,  I know Latin and English, obviously. I’m guessing something Cyrillic given the texts I saw on your storefront. I’ll hazard a guess at Russian. What are the languages you speak?

And to answer your question as to why I dedicate my time to a cause already lost: because of the uncertainty. Most researchers in my field look for things with some shred of evidence that they still exist. This is a topic that most people wouldn’t touch with a ten foot pole since the only thing I’m working with is a hunch and logic (which is also why it’s not a part of my dissertation).

So while probability is exceedingly low, there is still a possibility that they were saved. And if they were saved, maybe they were hidden and protected. And we have so little from that time that actually dates back to the founding of Rome that a discovery like that would give us so much insight into life back then. It could change the very conceptions that we have of that era and open up an entire new chapter of history that could be studied. 

And if it wasn’t saved? Well, it still deserves to be studied and remembered.

TL;DR, I’m an endlessly curious glutton for punishment 

With warmth,

Helen

August 29th, 2009

Re: Update

Received, 12:06 am

For your sake, I hope your sleep schedule resets soon.

You’re correct with Russian– that was my first language and is one of the three that I can write in. I can also read and write in Spanish. The languages I speak but can’t read well are Italian and Japanese. I’d like to learn at some point but haven’t had the ambition to sit down and actually do it.

You may have less languages but I would point out that you are significantly younger than me. You have plenty of time to continue learning, although I reiterate: where do you find the time?

For what it’s worth, I hope that you’re right and those works have been hidden away some place safe. I have no doubt that you’ll find them, if they’re really out there.

Try to get some sleep,

John

Re: Update

Sent, 12:21 am

I’ll sleep when I’m dead, or whatever they say.

I didn’t realize English wasn’t your first language. I never would have guessed. If you don’t mind me asking, were you born in Russia? Please don’t feel like you have to answer if you don’t want, but I’m curious.

When it comes to finding the time, I’ll admit that I live and breathe research. I’m trying to venture into other hobbies but I have no artistic talent, I detest board games and puzzles, and I’m a firm believer that you should only ever have to run if someone is chasing you. As of now, the only working out I do is the four flights up to my apartment each night and I have no desire to change that.

Also, you get some sleep. It would appear I’m not the only one burning the midnight oil.

With warmth, 

Helen

Re: Update

Received, 12:30 am

I don’t mind your questions. And yes, I was born in a small village east of Minsk. I didn’t emigrate until I was much older.

While I don’t think research is a bad hobby, I don’t particularly find it relaxing. I’m almost afraid to ask but do you ever relax?

As for the sleep, I’ve always been a bit of an insomniac. I don’t see that changing at this point in my life. You, however, shouldn’t make a habit out of it.

Rest well,

John

Re: Update

Sent, 12:55 am

Wow. I really had no idea that you were Russian. You don’t have an accent. Do you still have family there? And where did you pick up Italian, Spanish, and Japanese?

Your choice in languages are far more practical than my own. I only learned Italian because so much of my research is based in Italy.

And I'm sorry, I don't actually know that word. Relax? Never heard of it. Sounds like a silly concept if you ask me.

Definitely not resting, 

Helen

Re: Update

Received, 1:02 am

I feel like I'm enabling you.

My parents passed when I was very young. I’ve visited the village I was raised in a few times, though. As for the other languages, I spent time in Italy, Mexico, and Japan over the years. I’ve always been a quick study of picking languages. I wouldn’t describe myself as fully fluent but I can get by in all three.

As for relaxing, it’s actually a rather simple idea– that one should take time to engage in pleasant and non-strenuous activities. There are supposedly many benefits such as better sleep, less tension in the body, better regulation of the nervous system. That kind of thing.

Go to sleep,

John

Re: Update

Sent, 1:05 am

I’m sorry, John. I can only imagine what that must have been like.

I definitely want to hear more about your time abroad but I don’t want to keep you up too late, either. 

Your foreign concept of ‘relaxing’ continues to strike me as odd but I’ll consider taking it under advisement ;)

What are you talking about, I’m clearly asleep,

Helen

September 14th, 2009

New update

Sent, 11:43 am

Hey John,

Hope you’re doing well– I’ve been knee deep in dissertation stuff but I’ve been going back through Lorenzo’s journal in my spare time. I know you only breezed through it in passing while rebinding it but there is a passage that talks about Tullus Hostillius, the king who succeeded Numa. In it, it says that Tullus became paranoid towards the end of his life and referenced the works left by Numa, detailing sacrifices that were made to appease the gods. Whoever wrote the journal cites a text by Quintus Valerius Camillus as the source. I’ve done a bit of research but I can’t find anything on that writer.

I know it’s a long shot, but are you familiar with Camillus? Or have you seen him referenced anywhere else?

Warm regards,

Helen

Re: New update

Received, 11:50 am

Hi Helen, 

Off the top of my head, it doesn’t sound familiar but I can definitely keep a look out for that name. 

Try to find some time to relax amidst all this research.

Best,

John

Re: New update

Sent, 11:58 am

No worries– figured it was a long shot but worth asking.

And you keep using that word– I still don’t understand it.

Not relaxed but only moderately stressed,

Helen

September 17th, 2009

Re: New update

Received, 8:46 pm

Hi Helen,

A long shot, indeed, but following our previous conversation, I got curious and looked through my personal collection of books for a mention of Camillus. I found a couple footnotes that mention him as an early censor. 

You’re welcome to borrow it, if you’d like. 

Let me know,

John

Re: New update

Sent, 9:31 pm

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

YES! 

Oh my god, you are literally the best. Could I pick it up tomorrow? My shift at the library starts at three but I can come any time before then.

Or let me know whatever works for you!

But, seriously, thank you!!

Helen

Re: New update

Received, 9:45 pm

Of course. You know my hours. Come over whenever.

Best,

John

September 18th, 2009

Re: New update

Sent, 10:14 pm

You are a godsend. 

Thank you again,

Helen

October 1st, 2009

Tabella Defixionis

Sent, 11:11 pm

What do you know about curse tablets?

Re: Tabella Defixionis

Received, 11:15 pm

I'll be honest. Nothing.

I hope that's about to change, though.

Re: Tabella Defixionis

Sent, 11:27 pm

Buckle up, Wick. 

Okay, so obviously, much of the ancient world believed in magic. Spirits, demons, all that jazz. 

So people would take lead tablets and use them to cast spells. Sometimes they'd just write the person's name and we think that was accompanied by an oral spell but there are hundreds of these tablets that have complex curses literally spelled out (ha!)

And, John, these were fucking wild. Like, any and everything you can think of. Curses for hair to fall out or for someone to get dizzy before court. Losing your horses or control of your bladder. Eternal fladdicity all around.

But the one I just read says:

 Entangle the nets of Vincenzus Zarizo, may he be unable to chain bears, may he lose with every bear, may he be unable to kill a bear on Wednesday, in any hour, now, now, quickly, quickly, make it happen!

I am currently mourning my decision to not make the focus of my dissertation the occult in ancient times because I want finding and translating curses to be my full time job.

End of rant,

Helen

Re: Tabella Defixionis

Received, 11:40 pm

Incredible. I like how specific he got with the time, too. “May he be unable to kill a bear on Wednesday” is a special kind of hatred. 

I wonder how long it took to carve that into stone, as well. I don’t think there’s anyone I hate that much to put in that kind of effort. 

As far as your decision goes, you have a lifetime of study ahead of you. Although I’d be careful to stay away from the occult. You never know what could happen.

Feel free to send any other oddly specific curses my way. While I’d never carve it into stone, I’m not above learning some curses to use if anyone upsets me.

Best,

John

P.S. If this is your way of relaxing, we might need to talk about other hobbies

Re: Tabella Defixionis

Sent, 11:45 pm

Right??? The worst part about studying history for sure is that you’re always left with more questions than answers. For example, what did Vincenzus Zarizo do that left someone so angry that they’d literally spend days making sure that he was unable to catch bears? Or maybe our mystery scriber was an early animal-rights activist who just really loved bears… the world will never know 🙁

As for your suggestion to stay away from the occult, I never took you for superstitious. Do you believe in magic? Or a higher power?

I’ll send you more if I find any worth noting. Most of them are just your standard choke-on-your-entrails, hope-your-dick-falls-off, become-mute-motherfucker insults.

And on that note, have a good night,

Helen

P.S. Don’t make me curse you with my tablet

October 2nd, 2009

Re: Tabella Defixionis

Received, 12:04 am

I wouldn’t describe myself as superstitious, per se. I believe that some things happen that cannot be explained in conventional terms. 

I like to think of myself as supernaturally agnostic– do I believe those curse tablets worked? No. Am I going to mess around with one? Also no.

Sleep well, Helen.

John

Re: Tabella Defixionis

Sent, 10:35 pm

I did a deep dive on curse tablets and found that some of them come with illustrations. The patience and effort it must have taken to put in this kind of detail is insane. This might actually become my new hobby.

See attachment 1

See attachment 2

See attachment 3

With warmth,

Helen

Re: Tabella Defixionis

Received, 10:51 pm

…

I don’t even know where to start.

First of all, I’m all for you finding something calming and relaxing to do to unwind but when I suggested you find a hobby, I meant Tai Chii or baking. 

Second, there’s something very disconcerting about you sending those graphic images, accompanied with your signature line boasting ‘with warmth’. 

My brain may never forget those images, so thanks for that.

Traumatized,

John

Re: Tabella Defixionis

Sent, 11:01 pm

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA

Re: Tabella Defixionis

Received, 11:03 pm

Seriously? I tell you I’m traumatized and you laugh?

Re: Tabella Defixionis

Sent, 11:05 pm

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA

See attachment 1

Re: Tabella Defixionis

Received, 11:06 pm

Oh no

Re: Tabella Defixionis

Sent, 11:09 pm

Freaky, isn’t it?

Re: Tabella Defixionis

Received, 11:11 pm

I’m almost afraid to ask what happened to his arms. It’s a little Venus-de-Milo-esque.

Re: Tabella Defixionis

Sent, 11:14 pm

Yeah, except Venus de Milo didn’t have a giant wang

Re: Tabella Defixionis

Received, 11:18 pm

I can’t read Ancient Greek– what does it say?

Re: Tabella Defixionis

Sent, 11:26 pm

Well, very crudely translated, it says:

Wise Minerva, should Titus Marius Blandus speak lies to women, let his dick grow until he cannot stand

I don’t know who wrote this, but she was a queen. Incredible use of her time. Stunning artistry. Poetic words.

Re: Tabella Defixionis

Received, 11:30 pm

I don’t know what to say other than it deserves to be in a museum.

Also, is this the original telling of Pinocchio? I sense common themes.

Re: Tabella Defixionis

Sent, 11:40 pm

That was not the story I watched as a kid, lol. Although, I guess you could say he did grow wood !!!

Re: Tabella Defixionis

Received, 11:44 pm

I think we just ruled out comedy as your new hobby.

Re: Tabella Definionis

Sent, 11:49 pm

Oh come on, John. If you can tell me right now that I didn’t at least get a snort out of that, I’ll never joke again.

Re: Tabella Definionis

Received, 11:53 pm

I suppose your jokes are safe, but I’m not.

Also, how many of these things exist and why have I never heard of them?

October 3rd, 2009

Re: Tabella Definionis

Sent, 12:03 am

Hundreds. Possibly even thousands. A lot of them were thrown into wells or buried near significant markers or even the house of those they wished to curse (or enchant– they’re not all malicious! But the fun ones are)

And they’re cross-cultural, too. Tablets have been found all over Italy, Greece, Macedonia. Even as far north as England. 

You probably haven’t heard of them because they’re not exactly historically significant in the same way the Punic Wars or the assassination of Caesar were. Their bearings have no more mark on society than horoscopes would now.

People tend to be interested in things that are relevant. Or, at least, adjacently relevant. 

That said, I think kids would be a lot more interested in history if they saw that people back then were just like us: petty, dysfunctional, and hilarious.

Re: Tabella Definionis

Received, 12:12 am

It’s fascinating, to say the least. I want to hear more about the non-malicious curse tablets but I’m afraid to send you down another rabbit hole this late at night.

Given the time, I’m assuming your sleep schedule is still messed up?

Also, I must reiterate the importance of finding a hobby that doesn’t involve cursing people.

Re: Tabella Definionis

Sent, 12:20 am

You’re no fun :P

Although, to be fair, there’s no one I hate enough to curse. 

The other tablets, that weren’t curses, tended to be more light spells. Although love and erotic spells were the most common, there were plenty of others for health and wealth and finding things that were lost.

Yeah, my sleep has been rocky lately. I’ve always been a bit of a night owl but it’s definitely gotten worse. I don’t think I could fall asleep before midnight if I tried. Thank God tomorrow is Saturday.

Anyway, enough about me– bind any good books lately?

Re: Tabella Definionis

Received, 12:32 am

While I’m still encouraging a new, calmer hobby, carving a health or wealth enchantment doesn’t sound too terrible. 

Nothing terribly exciting, at least to most people.Although, now that I think about it, you might actually find it interesting. I’ve been contracting with Yale to refurbish and restore some of the older works in their collection. I get a shipment each week of different texts. It’s kept me a bit busier than usual but it’s certainly better than just sitting at the counter all day.

And before you ask, nothing as ancient as the stuff you’re working with. Mostly personal journals and some handwritten manuscripts. 

Regardless of the weekend, should you be getting some rest?

Re: Tabella Definionis 

Sent, 12:39 am

Eh, carving a nice enchantment just doesn't hold the same weight. Besides, I'm entering my bitch phase.

And yeah, I would classify doing restorative work for freaking Yale as interesting and exciting!! I also feel like it doesn’t matter what you’re restoring, you’re still honoring a part of history and I think that’s incredible. 

How did you get into the restoration and binding? Its a fairly niche field from what I’ve heard.

Re: Tabella Definionis

Received, 12:45 am

I’m almost afraid to ask, and yet I cannot resist: what, exactly, is a bitch phase?

I sort of fell into binding, if I’m being honest. I had an old journal that was falling apart. It was a family heirloom and I didn’t want to part with it. I took it with me everywhere, even when I was in the army. One day, pages started falling out so I found someone who taught me to fix it. I enjoyed the process far more than I thought I would so I started to make my own bindings. The restorative work came later, with much practice. Like handling relics, it's always an evolving field.

Re: Tabella Definionis

Sent, 12:56 am

I’ll get to the bitch phase thing in a sec but first I got to take a moment– John. The way you drop these huge things into conversation like they’re little sidenotes is freaking insane. I was born in Russia. I speak six languages. I’m doing restorative work for Yale. I used to be in the Army.

JOHN.

Honestly, that’s so incredible. 

It's kind of crazy how things happen, isn't it? One day, you're living your life, just doing everyday, seemingly insignificant things. The next thing you know, everything has changed.

Okay, back to bitch phase: so, obviously I've talked before about being a young kid in high school/college and now I'm a less than a year away from my Ph.D at 21. Its always been glaringly obvious that I'm the youngest one in the room and so I always tried to be extra nice to kind of make up for it or make people like me. I recently decided to stop. Or, at least, stop caring so much what others think of me.

Think less bitch in a mean way; more bitch in a take-no-shit way.

Regardless, I'm a work in progress.

Re: Tabella Definionis

Received, 1:03 am

Aren't we all?

And while I like your sudden quest to take better care of yourself, I find it oddly amusing that you have gone the route of trying to become a bitch rather than getting a new hobby or sleeping.

Re: Tabella Definionis

Sent, 1:05 am

Um, I think you missed the previous message above where I informed you that curse tablets are my new hobby. 

As for sleep, I promise I’ll wrap up after I finish outlining this chapter and head out. As long as I’m out of here by 1:45, I should have no trouble catching a train home.

Re: Tabella Definionis

Received, 1:07 am

I thought you were home? What are you doing out so late?

Re: Tabella Definionis

Sent, 1:10 am

I’m still at work. The library technically closed a few hours ago but it’s my night to lock up. I’ll get out of here soon, though.

Re: Tabella Definionis

Received, 1:11 am 

Helen, are you telling me you’re there alone and planning on taking a train at this time of night?

Re: Tabella Definionis

Sent, 1:14 am

Yes?

Re: Tabella Definionis

Received, 1:15 am

You're at the ISAW Library?

Re: Tabella Definionis

Sent, 1:18 am

Yeah. What’s the big deal?

Re: Tabella Definionis

Received, 1:19 am

I’m coming to get you. I’ll be there in 15.

Re: Tabella Definionis

Sent, 1:21 am

Wait, are you serious?

Re: Tabella Definionis

Sent, 1:23 am

It’s really not that big a deal. Like, yeah, it's late but it's rare that anyone approaches me. I'll be fine. 

Re: Tabella Definionis

Sent, 1:24 am

John?

Re: Tabella Definionis

Sent, 1:27 am

You actually left to get me, didn't you? 

Genuinely not sure if you're chivalrous or insane

This is crazy. Correction: John is crazy 

It's quarter to two in the morning when she sees a black car pull up in front of the ISAW Library. The street is as empty as anywhere on the Upper East Side at this time of night. 

The library is surrounded by doctors offices and 9 to 5 businesses that closed down hours ago. The cars passing by are mostly thru traffic. Taxis taking people home as bars set to close down and ubers taking people to clubs that only close at daylight.

She waits until she sees his head rising above the car to step out, teeth worrying her lower lip as she tugs the door to ensure it is locked behind her.

John comes around the back of the car towards the passenger side door as she descends the steps somewhat sheepishly. But, no, she decides, straightening her spine. She has nothing to be embarrassed about. 

This is life. She works and she lives and sometimes she is out later than she plans.

“Don't you think this is a little excessive?” she asks as she draws near.

John regards her. “Your safety? No.”

She rolls her eyes and slips into the passenger seat.

John closes the door behind her and she straightens her dress. Suddenly, she is all too aware of the way it rides up her thigh as she sits and how her sweater definitely has coffee stains. Her braid is in complete disarray.

She hears the clean click of the driver’s side door being opened and John is climbing in next to her.

“Where do you live?” he asks.

The irony is not lost on Helen that she’s giving her address to someone she barely knows rather than taking her usual commute home, all for the sake of safety. It doesn’t stop her from rattling it off anyway.

John sets the car in drive and pulls back into traffic.

The silence stretches on, testing the limits of her comfort before she gives in. “You know, you really didn’t have to come all the way out here to get me. I’m no stranger to the late night commute.”

He glances over, his expression somewhat blank aside from a curious arched brow. “Exactly how often are you walking home alone past midnight?”

Helen shrugs. “I’m only closer Fridays and Saturdays. Usually I’m out of here a little after ten. Tonight I just got caught up in research.”

“That’s not much better,” John says and his grip on the steering wheel seems to tighten.

She can’t understand why but, despite the oddity of the situation, she feels remarkably safe.

“On the weekends, the party crowd is usually still out then. Even now, I’m sure there will be plenty of people still out and about.”

“You’re four blocks from the closest train station where you work,” John says. “And I’m guessing your closest stop from home is at least that distance, if not more.”

“I mean, yeah,” she answers honestly, if a little short. “But that’s part of life in the city.”

He takes a deep breath, releasing a heavy sigh. “Helen, I don’t know how to put this other than bluntly, but you’re a pretty, unassuming young woman and I’d be willing to wager that your head is usually miles away, thinking about whatever your latest books of Numa or curse tablets are.”

She looks down because he’s right about that. 

Softer, almost gently, he adds, “I don’t want to see you targeted or hurt over something that is easily avoided.”

Which was all well and good except for the practicality of it, she thinks. Taxis are too expensive to rely on with any regularity and there is no getting out of walking alone. Even if she walks with a coworker to the train station, they live in different boroughs.

“If it makes you feel better, I keep a Swiss Army knife on my keychain.”

The pure incredulity on his face as he turns to look at her succeeds in making her flush. John looks back at the road and lets out a low chuckle that makes her toes curl.

“Color me terrified,” he says.

“You should be. I'll use it to carve a curse tablet.”

He shakes his head and mumbles something in Russian. She has no idea what he's said but he sounds amused and it's all she can do to keep her eyes from rolling back into her head. Christ, that should be illegal. 

It's different, seeing John Wick in darkness.

He seems a little harder, a little bit sharper than he did during the day. Maybe its the way the streetlights glint off his leather jacket or the knowledge of his military past. She hadn't noticed it before but she looks for it now. The ready posture, the quick reflexes as he effortlessly adjusts the stick shift. 

And while John was undeniably attractive sitting in his workshop and gently binding an old book, there is something about him now, like this, that leaves her excited.

It gnaws at her most primal self. The part that she rarely lets see the light of day, burning in agony. The same part that loved archaeology not for the history, but for the adventure. The same part that yearned to break free of preconceived ideas of niceness and burst out into an era without need for fawning or apologizing.

She feels blind having missed it before but she sees it in him, too. 

The same duality that afflicts her.

Maybe that’s why he’s so insistent, she wonders. Why he didn’t hesitate to come and pick her up, as if he can see through her and knows that, underneath the air of innocence, there is a part of her that flirts with danger. That takes the long way home just to feel more alive.

Does he know, too, that she feels a rush just by sitting beside him?

They turn onto a nearly empty street and John speaks up. “You should invest in mace.”

And, because she does love that rush so much, Helen responds, “Like the pepper spray or the medieval spiked-ball on a stick?”

The look he gives her might have made a grown man cower. She bites her lip to suppress a smile.

Another string of amused Russian falls from his tongue and fuck. That’s just not fair. Truly, madly not fair .

“All jokes aside, you should take precautions for your safety. You’re smart enough to know the risks.”

It’s all she can do to not roll her eyes. “You’re acting like I moved to the city yesterday and not like I haven’t lived here for years. Hell, I’ve worked at ISAW since I started grad school and I’ve never had a problem with my commute.”

He shifts in his seat, and she catches the smallest tick of his jaw. “Just because something hasn’t happened doesn’t mean it won’t.”

“I’m not denying that,” she says, before pointing down the street at her building. “Just over there. And, most of the time, I follow all the little rules that I should: I don’t go out and party, I stick with friends when I’m out, with the exception of tonight, I don’t get in cars with strange men.”

John snorts as he pulls up out front.

“But, sometimes things are unavoidable. I mean, I have to work, John.”

For a moment, he’s quiet. Pensieve. Then, “Tomorrow is your other late day?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay. I’ll pick you up at 10.”

She opens her mouth, then closes it. That’s crazy, she thinks. And really fucking hot. The ease at which he’ll just drop everything to come to her rescue. Her stomach flips and Helen looks away, shaking her head.

“What?” she asks, as challenging as she can muster. “You just going to drive me home from work every late night?”

John shrugs. “Why not?”

She stares at him, floundering. “Well, uh, for one thing: I close every Friday and Saturday.”

He appears unphased. “So it’s a predictable schedule. I still don’t see the concern?”

A small laugh bubbles up at his unaffected gaze. “So what? You’re just going to keep your weekend nights free so you can drive me home? Come on.”

“Again, I’m not seeing the problem.”

And he wasn’t. John clearly didn’t hear how ridiculous he sounded with his offer. Or how outlandish it was to offer a girl he hardly knew consistent transportation. But more than that, a commitment of his time.

Shaking her head in disbelief, she held out her hand. “Give me your phone.”

His blink is the only hesitation she receives before he is reaching into his pocket and passing over his pristine iPhone. Helen opens the contacts and adds her number, before sending herself a quick text so she’ll recognize any correspondence from John before she passes it back.

“Text me when you realize how insane your offer is,” she tells him. “I won’t hold you to it.”

John only smirks as he accepts it. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Helen opens the door and steps onto the sidewalk, swinging her bag up around her shoulder. “I stand by the fact that this is excessive.” Then, softer, “Thanks for the ride.”

“And I stand by that it’s not.” Then, just as gently, “You’re welcome.”

October 9th, 2009

Sent, 1:58 pm

I’d just like to state, for the record, I do not need a ride home. I am perfectly capable of taking the train.

Received, 2:00 pm