Fern and Petals @fernpetals - Tumblr Blog

Thirty-Two

Young John Wick x OC

Part I

Masterlist

Warning: Blood, violence, slightly NSFW, the regular John Wick stuff and of course, tragedy

Unedited piece

1970, BSSR

The world was big. Too big. A six-year-old Jardani held his mother's hand as tightly as his little fingers allowed.

Everyone was rushing. So fast, so tall...

He bumped into a few knees already.

She stopped by a shop.

Jardani looked around curiously until he caught the gaze of a woman.

An ageing woman. Her fartuk had symbols embroidered on it—some familiar, but most were strange to him.

Her eyes landed on the boy and stayed on him; her blazing green eyes reminded him of fire. She leaned down and took his hand.

Jardani looked up at his mother, who was busy haggling with the owner of the adjacent shop. The week-long spring festival was at its peak— his senses were overwhelmed by the people and clamour all around.

"You…the tribute to the God of War and Spring, shall unleash his fire, but know the most bountiful of his blooms."

She spoke with the tremble that came with old age, tugging him closer. Up close, Jardani could see how deep the lines on her forehead and at the corners of her eyes were.

She had cold, knowing eyes, peering into his hazel brown eyes. "Poor boy, meant to love, cursed to bury."

"Jar!" His mother finally took notice and pulled him closer, looking at the wrinkled woman with suspicion. "What do you think you're doing, woman?"

She smiled at his mother, "Your boy is destined to make a name for himself — in fear, in fire…In blood. But he must pay the debt of life, with love."

1996

Young John Wick, now a little older, quieter, and colder.

At thirty-two, he already has a nickname— Baba Yaga.

The night at the bar haunts him often. It haunts him when he walks into bars. Or listens to the songs she used to sing. He has a cassette full of them.

At thirty-two, he is more strategic and efficient. Favoured by Viggo, feared by his enemies and allies alike.

The clean-shaven boy of twenty-eight is now replaced by a man with light, maintained stubble, and short hair brushed back. A few strands fall on his forehead.

He looks younger than he is, but his eyes fool no one. At least not the ones from the underworld.

People are already whispering, and eyes have begun to dart away when they hold his cold gaze for too long.

Young John has acquired more gold coins than assassins twice his age, and he has used half of them for hunting down the last of the men involved in the shooting at that bar.

For Viggo, another of his many rivals in the city has been wiped out. For John, it is the reason he can sleep at night.

John moves through life as he walks New York's streets, avoiding bars whenever he can.

There is nothing obvious that can trace the storm behind those cold brown eyes, but those who know him know.

.

John finds himself in the Continental often. The manager, Winston, is a tolerable company and fills the silence with his keen observation and stories about the High Table.

John absorbs; he is good at it— listening, observing, keeping the information at the back of his mind, in case he needs it to clear some debts later.

Winston is a strategist through and through. John does not understand much of strategy unless it comes to his profession, killing.

Winston also has taken a liking to John for some reason, and John has to reluctantly admit that he is the only friend (and father figure) He has left.

He used to have one, back in his Ruska Roma days. John remembers the days of training with him. He remembers the nights they had learnt to snort in the drugs, the high, the dreams and the silly rambles of 'what ifs'.

They were just boys, victims of cruel circumstances. The same circumstances that left his dearest friend to die on an obscure club's floor after he overdosed.

He was out delivering a shipment. How he ended up there, John did not have to dig far. John was nineteen then.

At thirty -two, John knows the cost of attachment.

And yet, when she arrives like a storm, every lesson, every vow John had cemented in his heart, crumbles.

Maeve is her name. Or so he has overheard when some of Viggo's men speak of a new addition to Viggo's blood empire.

He meets her for the first time in Viggo's office. He is there for a debriefing, and Maeve, with a black box that he is too familiar with.

Viggo introduces them both, and they exchange a polite nod and handshake.

The encounter is as mundane for him as seeing a Glock lying around.

Yet this time, the sunlight is just right and hits her waist-length, braided auburn hair in ways that call for a glance.

Once. Only once does he give in to the instinct.

He only looks once, and yet it fades a little slower behind his eyes.

He notices the curled ends and stray hair, the texture and the earthy tones that merge so beautifully with the browns.

He notices the arch of her brows and her eyes—a muted shade of green that reveals their details when the sunlight falls on them for a moment as she moves. No, that is not exactly green— it has tones of browns in it, and it seems like the hues shift as they please.

John notices more than he admits to himself in one glance before his attention shifts to the black box.

"Is it done?" Viggo asks, and she silently clicks open the lid of the box—a single forefinger rests in it.

But that is not what surprises John. It is the ring on that finger that does. The distinct shape and size of the emerald that John has seen many times before.

John looks at Viggo. He does not voice his thoughts, but Viggo catches the confusion filling his eyes.

"Wondering why the Whitneys, John? They were allies after all."

Viggo lights up his cigar and leans against this chair, his cold eyes glinting with amusement at the rare display of emotions in John Wick's eyes.

Once in a new moon, the Baba Yaga is caught off guard after all. "Here's an important lesson, son—there are no friends in this business. Only business."

John gives a slow nod of acknowledgement and waits for Maeve to leave before he begins speaking.

John does not like to admit to himself that her eyes have haunted him more than once, and in his dreams, her hair is open, wild curls free, touching his face.

.

At thirty-two, John does not like to think of love. He walks past bars with the most subtle stiffness in his shoulders.

Sometimes, the music floats out of them, and his jaw clenches with his fingers curling in his pocket until his nails leave dents all over his palms.

He rides his motorcycle often and has found a quiet corner at a library, with a book of Russian fairy tales.

He smokes a cigarette, at times casually watching people, and finds himself at art and photography exhibitions of up-and-coming artists.

He avoids the crowd and finds himself lingering in exhibitions where he can see the talent, but he is certain the city will swallow most. Only a handful will make it, those who can claw their way up...well, good for them.

He sees Maeve often, but at Viggo's.

Their eyes have met and lingered on each other longer than necessary, often, and the slow churning tension simmers within him in ways that displease him.

The tension tugs at his attention every time he sees her.

It boils over the night after a hit, and adrenaline is still running in his veins, despite the calm and deceptively relaxed posture as he sits in the room filled with Viggo's men.

The Red Circle is Viggo's favourite dwelling place.

He watches from across the room as another of Viggo's men smiles down at Maeve, whispering something in her ear that makes her laugh.

The sound is absorbed by the bass in the room, but echoes in his mind anyway.

He finds himself at a quieter corner, on his second smoke of the night. She joins in to light her own.

"You don't like it here." She comments as she lights up her cigarette while he holds the lighter for her. When she looks up, his breath hitches with heat.

"Not my thing." He pockets the lighter and looks away. His eyes sweep over the floor below out of habit.

"They are terrified of you." She comments, "It's strange, though, you seem to like sulking in the corner."

He does not look at her but can hear the smirk in her voice— teasing, knowing, and dangerous. Something he finds addictive in all the wrong ways.

He brings the joint to his mouth, not responding immediately.

"If you knew me like them, you wouldn't be here." He looks at her, crushing the lit end against the railing and flicking the joint away.

"If I were scared of emo boys, I wouldn't be here."

John lets out a laugh, amused and hungry. "I'm anything but a boy, woman."

"Are you? Why are you sulking like one here then?" Her lips curve, his part.

It is a dark sea, and he is swimming towards a dangerous siren.

No other gesture has been more seductive than offering her own lipstick-stained joint to him. He takes it, wraps his lips, savours the taste.

.

He does not quite remember what she said, but it had stung in a way that made his teeth grit and blood shoot south.

He remembers the feeling of his fingers undoing her hair and tangling with the auburn tresses, and his lips hungrily meeting his.

He remembers this vividly because he has been thinking about it. He remembers how her hair felt when his hands fisted it while her mouth wrapped around his length

The hotel room smells of lavender, but John wants to bury his nose into the crook of her neck and smell her natural scent— something smoky and sweet fused into a heady mix.

He has thought about it often, but when it all takes the shape of reality, in the form of her majestic hair let loose and her bare form over him, riding him. His hands grip her waist like she is the one thing that he would like to keep close, despite the fear of a bleeding. battered heart.

Oh, what a magnificent feeling— to surrender to the fire that has simmered within him for months. The air between them is electric, and he does not hold back.

His hands, mouth and tongue are reverent and claiming; she sinks into him like the addictive poison he has been craving. He lets her.

What begins after the night is something smouldering, the slow heat turning into a combusting and dangerously addictive.

John has been wrong after all; one night with her has not been able to banish her from his mind. She is etched in him in ways he has never allowed anyone to be etched other than the marks of Ruska Roma and maybe God.

But he has not prayed for so long; he prefers to be on his knees for her instead.

The relationship is addictive and fiery like her. From late-night motorcycle rides to hunting together.

Any high-stakes assignments, and he knows who is coming with him. His Maeve.

Viggos does not seem bothered, and the rest of his men only give him a knowing look that he has no problem ignoring.

.

John loves his guns, and Maeve is a knife collector.

He likes to finish his job clean and certain, but she does not mind getting a little sticky-handed, especially after a good snort of her favourites.

There is an unsettling gleam when her knife kills, and blood paints her features, a hunger that seems to want more and more. More than blood, more than screams or the silence that follows after the carnage she often leaves behind.

Maeve loves and lives as if it were her last day.

John, on the other hand, does not dare to think of a future, but he wants to live.

He plans, he organises, he likes the quiet, and he welcomes only one kind of chaos—the one that comes with auburn curls cascading down her waist like a burning waterfall.

She contemplates death often. It is hard not to, in their profession.

"You know whereI would like to be buried?"

"Maeve…" John frowns, his fingers running over her curls tighten as a warning. He does not like her talking about her demise. It fills him with a dread unlike any other.

" Under a beech tree." She continues anyway, turning her neck to look at him, her thumb runs over his frown. "In the woods perhaps, I love that place."

"What place are you talking about?"

"My home."

Maeve does not like talking about her past, and John does not want to push. But he often wonders about her. Her life before this. Her past.

Does she remember her home, her family? Where is her home? What haunts her beautiful eyes? Why does death smell sweet to her?

"You are the one thing that makes me want to live." She has whispered to him often under the moonlight when they lie tangled together on his balcony.

John has never doubted her words.

.

On a rainy Tuesday, he finds himself staring at a photograph showing a lonely night street of New York, along with a lit neon sign of a bar.

John's eyes stay on the picture as his stomach slowly sinks. He is looking at the bar. The one where he lost the woman he once loved, crying and screaming in agony, holding her lifeless body.

He was twenty-eight then. Naive enough to think he could have a life outside this blood-stained world. Maybe that's why Maeve is perfect for him.

John buys the framed photograph anyway. Maybe he does find some relief in agony after all. He buys another for Maeve, the reason he stepped into the gallery anyway. She loves urban scenes and street photography.

He does not ask for the price; he simply gets them packed.

He keeps the one with the bar for himself and takes the other— a viewpoint of Brooklyn through a stained-glass window- for Maeve.

He has the passcode to her place. Her birthday gift is wrapped with flowers taped to it.

Before he can open it, the door unlocks from within and men in black walk out.

He notes the silver pin on their lapels. He knows the sign; he has seen it before. The man's cold blue eyes assess John.

John nods, more out of formality than anything, his brain already running a hundred miles farther for all the possible scenarios.

He breathes a quiet sigh of relief when Maeve appears behind them, seemingly to see them off.

But he can see that in her eyes, the way she moves, glances at him, then at them, before bidding them goodbye. The mask of coldness is thinner, at least to John's eyes.

There are cracks on the ice.

Something is wrong. Very, very wrong. John just knows it.

But he doesn't ask questions until their cars are out of the gated property.

"Who were they? What were they doing here?"

She does not answer, only walks in; John follows, his worry slowly growing.

"Maeve." He closes the door and follows her to the living room, "Maeve, I'm asking you something." He does not like being ignored; she knows this.

Maeve does not answer. But the Marker on the table answers for her.

John feels his stomach sink as he slowly picks it up.

"Is this what they were here for? They have a Marker over you?"

She looks up; the green hue shines through the waterline. The mask is gone. Instead, there is a sense of defeat in her eyes.

She has the look of someone who has been counting her days, and the moment has finally arrived.

"Hey, Maeve. Honey, look at me. We can get through this, yeah? Just tell me what the favour is."

She shakes her head, "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, Jar…" Jar, Jardani. Maeve likes to call him John. His real name is saved for special or grave occasions. John feels his throat closing up.

Name the Task and I'm going to do it for you, okay? Nothing's lost."

"It's over, Jar. It's over. I took the Marker to save my sister." She sniffles, "But she bled out anyway. I was always waiting for them to show up; I was waiting. I was waiting until I met you." She cupped his cheeks.

"It's not, Maeve. Look at me. It's not over. We will complete this marker and get rid of it. Maeve, are you listening?" The cold dread is slowly morphing into desperation and panic in him.

"Stay with me, Jar. Just for tonight. Stay with me."

"I'm not ever leaving you, Maeve!" He declares before pulling her into a kiss.

Afraid and desperate, he holds on to her. He is not losing his love again.

They will think through this, he reassures her. But he is not letting her birthday go by sobbing and worrying. He watches as he unwraps the gift and kisses her when she breaks into tears once more.

He bakes her a cake and prepares a simple yet hearty meal for her. Not the fancy ones that the Continental menu is flooded with. This one he toils for, and it smells and tastes like home.

They make love, and she opens the bourbon bottle for him. Something she has been collecting, in case he needs it. Some of his clothes and extra toiletries are already at her place.

They drink, make love—first, the wild kind that screams of the fear and desperation wrapped in a feral passion both of them hold for one another.

Then the slow, dragged, savouring kind— the tender kind that is filled with whispered confessions, tears and the kind of love that takes a lifetime to experience and explain.

He falls asleep with her by his side, tucked safe in his arms.

The next morning, he wakes up hungover and groggy. The sunlight peers through the gaps between the curtains. It is quiet, too quiet. That sobers him up.

He notices her letter by the bed first, and her absence dawns upon him the very next moment like a cold, painful plunge into the Arctic Sea.

A confession and farewell wrapped in one page, in places, the ink has bled, and the edges of the paper have crumpled. But it is the most honest and open she has ever been.

In the letter, she opens up to him about her past. Her home, her sister— the only family left and how she began working under the crime syndicate of her country. How to save her sister, she pressed her bleeding thumb against the mirrored surface of a Marker. Her little sister died anyway— bled out on the pavement, choking in her own blood.

The Marker remained. She always knew this day was coming. But never thought she would be in love when doom arrives.

In the end, she asks him not to try to search for her. Of course, he does not agree.

.

John goes straight to see Winston from there. He needs to find her. That is all he knows. He needs to find her.

"I'm afraid that there is nothing we can do here, Jonathan. A Marker is a Marker."

"I'm not asking about ways to revoke a Marker. I'm aware of the rules. I just want to find her."

"You know what it means when someone uses a Marker, son?" Winston leans back, looking at John with barely concealed pity.

"Not always."

"Rarest of rare cases. It is always a task that one pays with their blood"

"I can make this right. I need to find her."

"It is Maeve we are talking about. You cannot find her if she does not want to be found. She wants you far away from this, John. I'm afraid I can do nothing to assist you here."

John nods stiffly and rises from the chair, ready to walk out.

Winston sighs. He can see it in John's eyes; this man is going to topple down empires if he has to. For some odd reason, he has come to care for this boy. At least enough to want to keep him out of trouble.

"There is one man who can help you." He finally speaks after a short contemplation

John's steps cease at that. But he does not turn around.

"The Bowery King."

He finally turns and nods at him before walking out.

The Bowery King is an odd fellow. He despises the High Table, and yet has to serve it.

John has to fight through his men to reach him.

"You know Viggo wants you dead?" John has one of his men by the hair when he enters the room, the man sits-- defiant and amused.

"Why am I alive then?"

John does not answer immediately, simply shoots the man, looking at the Bowery King in the eye.

Words do not need to be said; they both know that John can end him just as easily.

"Because I allow it to. I will let you live in exchange for something."

"What is it?"

"Finding someone."

The Bowrey King manages to find her. It takes a few weeks, but he comes up with the precise location.

.

It is the dark and dreary London underworld

When John reaches, the Task is already complete, and the guns are already fired.

Inside the London Continental. Of course, they paid someone foolish and new enough to break the rules to put a bullet through her skull. A consequence of the Task.

The body has been kept in there after a request from Winston. He did not have to do this, but John is thankful.

"She's at peace, Sir. Finally at peace."

The journey, the bloodshed, all for nothing. That is all John can think of as he numbly looks at her battered body.

His fingers trace her eyes, the cuts and her cold cheeks.

At thirty -three, young John understands the cold, hard truth that no matter where one is from, he has to pay the price of loving someone with their blood.

The storm in him has turned to something weighed and cold.

Did she think of him? Did she consider calling him?

The questions are answered for him after he completes the formalities to claim the body, and her belongings are handed over to him. Among them is his lighter, smeared with blood.

.

"You know where I would like to be buried?"

"Maeve…" John frowns, his fingers running over her curls tighten as a warning. He does not like her talking about her demise. It fills him with a dread unlike any other.

" Under a beech tree." She continues anyway, turning her neck to look at him, her thumb runs over his frown. "In the woods perhaps, I love that place."

"What place are you talking about?"

"My home."

John buries her by the woods, in the same village where she once laughed and played with her sister.

He buries all of what she had with her, with a priest by his side. But he cuts out a lock of her auburn curls and keeps it in a glass box.

He does not shed a single tear throughout the funeral and burial rites.

But when he plants the sapling of a beech tree on her fresh grave, it is watered by his tears and the soil is kissed by his desperate lips.

At thirty-three, John is reminded of the cost of loving someone, even if she belongs to his world.