STRONG AS A ROCK

in the middle of savage things, you show the gentleness of your heart.

[ja-bali]

JA-BALI. charon from the john wick franchise, headcanon based. follows back from the main hub, @astringere. character information under the cut.

IC WRITING. HCS. STUDY. VISUALS. PINTEREST. MEMES.

wip

[axeattitude]

@ja-bali: i’m taking you home.

he had promised charon he'd be home at 11. midnight, at the latest. he just wanted a few drinks, he'd said, sit in a corner booth where he'd hoped no one would bother him, think. he had turned his phone off.

hours had passed. it's 3 a.m.

he doesn't know how charon found him. one moment, he had been staring at a flickering tube in one of the signs on the wall—the next, his had been drawn to the familiar silhouette of charon's broad shoulders, his gait, the glint of light off his glasses as he'd stepped in through the door. in reflexive surprise, kerry had done the only thing he could think to do: he had retreated unsteadily to the bathroom.

but now, under the red ambient lights with his back pressed to a cool tiled wall and his eyes closed, he thinks he ought to feel ashamed of himself. charon's voice sounds steely. there's little that can be said to bail himself out. kerry is all too aware of charon looming above him.

"i lost track of time," he offers lamely. it sounds like an excuse even as he says it, and it may or may not be.

[ja-bali]

he doesn't understand it at first, the reason behind kerry's retreat deeper into the dubious bar he has found him in.  it is only when he takes a deep breath that he is made aware of the awful tension in his muscles, the stiffness in his spine. he is not angry. not even after hours spent securing a close enough estimation of kerry's whereabouts:  it took him longer than he would have liked, night city still a little foreign to him, but a surveillance camera in heywood found a match an hour ago.

it's 3 am and in the wrong light worry can look deceiving, too cold and stern for comfort.  before he can school himself back into his usual self it slips into his voice as well, nestles there until it clips his vowels and robs them of warmth.

he doesn't talk during the car ride home, but by the time he pulls into the driveway the set of his shoulders has relaxed under the white of his shirt.  and inside, under the soft blue lights of the kitchen, charon doesn't have the heart to stay silent any more than he already has, to let kerry believe he needs to brace for something.   '' next time, would you keep your phone on? i would certainly worry less. ''   he pours two glasses of water out of habit, the motion precise and steady, surgical. not a drop goes to waste.

[axeattitude]

there is a hesitance this time, brief but noticeable, before kerry pulls his hand back to himself and pinches at the bridge of his nose. an errant, misfired flare of rudderless frustration toys at the edges of the gesture. it fades. kerry's hand drops back to the table again.

he is tired. he doesn't notice, or won't admit to it. indefinite answers feel right, tepid nothings. he knows charon won't pry into them. not now, at least. there is later for that.

"oh, uh... i dunno. maybe. but don't you got the, uh, the chicken? whatever you're doin' with it." he glances over at the range and the counter space littered with the half-prepared fixings of a meal he has no intention of eating. it seems a little fucking sad, looking at it now, that he hadn't said anything earlier about it. or if not sad, unfair. not for himself. for charon.

he could say something now. he still doesn't. the itch crowds out the thought, sharp static.

"'cause i'm not... sayin' no to the walk, but..." he trails off into an open-ended mumble, shrugs.

[ja-bali]

maybe is not affirmation, yet it is not opposition either. it lands in between, forcing him to walk a careful balance. he could gently nudge him in a given direction — and it would be easy, too. the benefits of a walk and fresh air perfectly known. the neighborhood is safe, quiet, no danger of stray bullets or gangs fighting. this part of manhattan generally is. he believes a walk would do kerry some good, but he has seen the spacing out, the frayed nerves, the edge of tiredness to his eyes, and is not so sure anymore.

and then there is, he suspects, the lack of hunger. coming upon fresh vegetables is rare, but meat is rarer still and he would rather not eat it alone. he has been raised in a household were sharing meals wasn't just an act of repetition but a pillar, sacred and cherished, and he has hardly grown out of thinking it true.

'' i was going to cut it and add some curry to it. but i will keep that for another day, '' he hums gently, voice smooth as he redirects his plans with ease. '' rice and vegetables will suffice. ''

he lands a kiss to the top of kerry's head as he rises to his feet, bread plate in hand. he sets it aside in the cupboard, after having diligently covered it with a linen cloth to keep it from hardening.

'' if you are not sure, we could settle on the couch for a while and see how we feel about it then. '' ever the diplomat, he offers a middle ground as a solution.

[tattoovonbeardy]

Say that again? I'm sorry. I got distracted by your little mannerisms, how you pronounce certain words, and the way your eyes light up when you talk about something you're passionate about, and started day dreaming about spending my life making you laugh, and feel loved and cherished

[axeattitude]

there is a disconnect somewhere, a hitch in what kerry knows and feels and what he can say. it itches too. everything does, insistent and inescapable. he wants to crawl outside of the bounds of himself. for charon, mostly.

but he doesn't know what himself is right now either. he couldn't explain it if he tried and he doesn't want to. but charon isn't asking. like the patience, like the kindness, the easy acceptance seems undeserved too.

as kerry watches charon take his hand, he lets his frown fade into something duller, flatter, inexpressive. it all feels like it takes too much fucking energy to think about - the tension, the upset. blunted is easier. he doesn't need to think as much for it. the heat abates and simmers, and though the amorphous shape of it melts into something more undefinable, it still remains. quieter now.

it turns away from charon and into itself.

kerry looks up from their hands—together and then not, side-by-side but apart—and shifts in his chair, pinned beneath the feather-light weight of charon’s benign gaze. "no. or… or maybe, i-i don’t know. why?"

[ja-bali]

he asks because these are parameters he can work with:  hunger, tiredness, anything sore or hurting.  because trying to figure out what kerry might need is second nature, and less complicated for him than being asked to explain how he feels. less daunting a prospect. kerry feeling cornered and retreating further into himself is not what he hopes for.

'' just wondering if you might want to retreat early tonight. ''   he watches as kerry shifts under his gaze, catching the flutter of movement something akin to professional deformation for him, and knows he has to relent.  charon looks down at his wrist watch — an elegant but simple white analog on a light brown leather strap — more to let kerry breathe than for any real desire to check the time. it is a quarter to six pm, too early for bed; even for charon, who has the habit of rising with the sun.

'' i will be ready in thirty. forty-five at most. ''   he has the efficiency of someone who is used to kitchen work, after all, and who likes to keep the space clean and tidy as well. '' we could go for a walk, if you are not tired. ''

[axeattitude]

kerry's patient is as wavering as the tepid evening breeze. it isn't charon's fault - nor kerry's own, really. it does not regard what he may wish or want or try, despite himself.

the surface of charon's kitchen table is cool beneath his hands. he scrapes his nails across the tabletop, following the whorls in their meandering patterns. they are lacquered in a metallic maroon, rich slashes against the elegant varnish. the contrast something to look at that isn't charon, in any case, who draws an ire that isn't his to draw.

his skin itches. his thoughts itch. his tongue feels like a live wire, jumping and sparking where it's fallen to the ground. he doesn't know how, or why, or when it started. somewhere in the sludge of the day, half-immersed in the murk. charon is endlessly patient with him. most days kerry feels he doesn't deserve that.

this evening is no exception. but charon's touch is warm against his shoulder, his neck, his wrist. it's tender and feels as undeserved as the patience.

kerry tugs at the lip of the plate. his appetite is thin. he stares without want at the buns, still warm from the oven. he hadn't thought to tell charon he didn't want to eat and still doesn't, though he nudges the plate back towards him with a frown. "you try 'em."

[ja-bali]

his expression doesn't change into one of disappointment, no tendril of anger coils in his chest, ready to poison its way up the lungs and into his throat. it is not so easy to shake him out of his placid nature. concern arises (a soft bite, for now), but he has made peace with the knowledge that, sometimes, there isn't a reason for kerry's moods, no originating factor. the absolute worst thing he could do is take it personally. he doesn't.

'' i will, later. '' he responds easily, undisturbed. later, he will get up and set the plate back where it belongs, but he is in no rush to do so. his attention is still on kerry; he takes his hand, only to carefully swipe over kerry's knuckles with his thumb. he would kiss it, would press his lips to each digit, but charon has probably fussed enough in such a short span of time. so he settles his hand on the white surface of the table, near enough to almost touch. '' it should keep well. you could eat it tomorrow. '' there is no pressure, no emphasis, no set direction kerry has to follow in order to please him. the sole thought is at risk of making him frown.

'' are you tired? ''

[luthienne]

James Baldwin, from Another Country [ID'd]

[ja-bali]

ah yes i love the guard dog trope, but in the sense that. a guard dog that barely seems to be one, so nice and polite and respectful. a guard dog that has barely even moved, let alone shown teeth. but before you know it your wrist / arm is broken, you're writhing in pain on a spotless marble floor. no blood, no foul.

[ja-bali]

@axeattitude:   sender lashes out at receiver when it isn't their fault.

it's early evening, the breeze coming from the open window mild enough to only warrant a longed sleeved cotton shirt — rolled up to his elbows to save the material from getting in the way of his work. calm, but focused, as he deftly cuts bull peppers on a chopping board. kerry is somewhere behind him, there is the tell tale scraping of a chair, a little humming and then silence, before some delicate balance breaks. he heard the tension in kerry's voice, he doesn't pretend otherwise; his hands falter, the cutting stops for a few seconds, but he very pointedly does not sigh. he will not make kerry feel as if he is a small child. slicing resumes, charon makes quick work of it until he leaves the vegetables in a bowl to marinate.

his breathing is even, the line of his shoulders is relaxed. charon settles a plate with some steaming thai style bread buns in front of kerry, a hand touching the slope of his shoulder, sliding up towards the nape of his neck and pressing gently there. it's brief, just a reassurance, a reminder that cold shoulders are not his way of dealing with problems. he doesn't like arguments, especially those where tempers are too thin to check one's words, so there will be time to talk about it, charon simply doesn't think it should be right now.

he settles down on a chair, not quite wishing to hover over him, then touches two fingers to the side of kerry's wrist, just under the thumb. instead of pressing for answers, he goes for a middle ground they are both familiar with.

'' you can help me with the chicken, if you want, but tell me if you like the bread first. i haven't tried this recipe before. ''

[ja-bali]

at the core of my portrayal there's definitely this quote from th.e b.ear: i just like being able to serve other people, (...) taking care of people is like working at a hospital. restaurants [hotels] and hospitals use the same word: ‘hospitality.’

[ja-bali]

i was just sorting some stuff out.

he looks at @axeattitude.  he does so carefully, intently, wishing to dispel any immediate concern he might have. but not in a way that might prove to be unsettling, excessive. what he finds is not too alarming — only that kerry could sleep better, judging by the skin under his eyes. otherwise, charon doesn't find a reason to worry;  if there is any, it can't be found just by looking, no matter how good he is at observing people and anticipating their needs.

'' of course. ''   he says this in the least dismissive way possible, each syllable falling out of his mouth with the apt precision of an expert, slow and methodical.  charon smiles at kerry, then. kind, but not overly warm, with an edge of professionalism that comes as second nature. just another way of telling kerry that he has no need to justify his absence, least of all to him. charon is simply glad to see him whenever he has the chance. it is how their friendship works best; neither of them expects anything from the other, but they still meet half way with care and respect.

'' the kitchen is closed, ''   he informs, mild, a little obvious at three in the afternoon, but he soon amends:   '' but i can make arrangements, if you're hungry. ''   the kitchen might be closed, but he has worked in one for nearly a decade and not a soul would object to this small favour, besides.   '' anything you like. ''

[ja-bali]

sorry, i'm going to be very cliché and say that the first (and probably only) time he ever shot a man dead it was to save winston's life.

[sanstoitniloi]

"You survive this and in some terrible way, which I suppose no one can ever describe, you are compelled, you are corralled, you are bullwhipped into dealing with whatever it is that hurt you. And what is crucial here is that if it hurt you, that is not what’s important. Everybody’s hurt. What is important, what corrals you, what bullwhips you, what drives you, torments you, is that you must find some way of using this to connect you with everyone else alive. This is all you have to do it with. You must understand that your pain is trivial except insofar as you can use it to connect with other people’s pain; and insofar as you can do that with your pain, you can be released from it, and then hopefully it works the other way around too; insofar as I can tell you what it is to suffer, perhaps I can help you to suffer less."

- James Baldwin, The Artist's Struggle for Integrity

[ja-bali]

starter. @axeattitude

'' my father was a pastor, ''   he says this without faltering, without the embarrassed unease of someone who is afraid he might have said the wrong thing at the wrong time, while he helps kerry sort out the carefully packaged plates of home cooked food he has brought with him.  plenty of it, meant to last him for days. his smile is soft, a touch apologetic;  he would have liked to cook and eat it with him, in kerry's kitchen or his own, but there is not enough time for it to be in any way satisfactory this week. he means to make up for it, perhaps when kerry is a little better, more healed.

they haven't talked about what happened to him.  charon knows enough, and he won't ask for more, but he will always listen, in case it is freely given. that is why he breaks the silence slowly, deliberately, both not forcing kerry to scramble to break it himself and giving him time to take the reins should he wish to.   '' people liked to listen to him, liked to hear him talk about god. but i take after my mother. she used to say that there is more of god in a well cooked meal than in all the scriptures combined. ''   he points to a small container, just taken out of the bag and settled on the kitchen counter.   '' lyere, african black pepper. it goes well with the chicken stew, if you like it with a stronger taste. ''   the same chicken stew his mother used to make when she missed her family home in nigeria the most, hot and rich flavoured.

[ja-bali]

i might not have been writing but i've been connecting the dots. for some reason him meeting frankie before he ever meets winston is so funny to me, i'll keep it, but not how the show did it! this is how i can still win: by having them meet at the tail end of the vietnam war, between 74 and 75.

[weltenwellen]

Ada Limón, from "To the Busted Among Us", Sharks in the Rivers

[ja-bali]

i know what you're thinking.

the assumption is a curios one — bold, even — but inoffensive.  charon remains placid in the face of it, no flinch or reflexive impulse to be on the defensive surfacing in him.

neither of them can truly read minds, of this he is sure.  he doubts, however, this is what @axeattitude meant;  they are both observant people, whether by nature or by virtue of necessity, and they both know what to look for.

he doesn't consider himself particularly hard to read, or excessively guarded, either.  least of all here, a cafe in williamsburg that he visits often enough to know how to avoid their more crowded hours. it's a nice place, with very high windows and tropical plants and trees creating a relaxing oasis at the corner between two busy streets. some would argue that the playground directly across from it has a negative effect on the overall atmosphere. he couldn't disagree more. how could he ever mind the precious sound of children laughing?

if there are still any playing around now that sunset is near, charon cannot hear them.

'' i hope this does not worry you. ''   he smiles while taking another sip of his tea, forearm resting idly on the wooden table.  armed with nothing but patience and looking perfectly at ease in a cashmere sweater the color of dark terracotta.   '' my thoughts are harmless. ''

although this is true only because he wishes it so, loathe as he is to wield anything with ill intent.