DEAL WITH THE DEVIL | John Wick
-The Baba Yaga is back, fighting off demons from the past and protecting the one he left behind-
Warnings: Gore (Stitching a wound)
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Rome’s heat had never felt so hot on Sasha’s skin. Or maybe it was John’s touch, his body enclosing hers, his heavy breath fanning around her. She was ready to die, in Rome, in the only dress she owned which held pleasant memories. But his gun was thrown where neither of them could reach.
“What?” She breathes out.
John’s forehead is creased again, agony spilling from his pores, pressed against hers,
”I can’t kill you.” His voice is strained.
Her eyes search for his, behind his eyelids, searching for a sick game.
“You have to,” she pants, “You have to kill me, John. Do it.”
Sasha’s breathing quickens, her chest pushing against his suit. She turns her face from his, searching for the gun, his thighs limiting her ability to move away. The blade rests to her left, dripping with their blood, taunting them with the violence they so easily can muster. She reaches for the knife, holding it by the blade. The sharpness cutting into her palm. Sasha grasps John’s hands, which sat on either side of her face. She pushes the grip into his hand.
”Do it, John.” Sasha guides his hands to point the blade at her jugular.
Sasha had never begged, but she does so now, and so desperately. Like a sinner to a saint. A martyr to death.
Her pleas got louder, “Do it!”
The knife rocked between them, pushing into the skin then back into the air. Blood drops onto her neck, her sliced cheeks and the satin of her dress turning into black stains.
John grits his teeth, crimson leaking from the gums. He rips the blade from her controlled hand and throws it to accompany the gun. He pushes off of Sasha, standing as she lies still. They’re both gasping for air, no longer from exhaustion like predator and pray, but from the fate John is sealing for them both.
“You can’t defy the high table, John.”
He nods, for once his voice clear “I know.”
She sits up, blood still pooling from her torso “So do it.”
”You know I can’t.” His brown eyes connect with hers, filled with memories and agony for the future.
She shakes her head, “John this is your freedom. You can kill me. So just pull the trigger.”
Applauses echo through the opera house, the performance has finished.
”I’ll never be free if I kill you.” He strains.
“My father will never let you get away with this.”
”And I'll never get away from him.”
He offers her his hand, pulling her to her feet as he covers her wound with his hand.
”We kill him. We kill all of them.”
She doesn’t respond. She can’t. Her thoughts are messy, riddled with consequences and promises. Vows she made to her family- for her family. Those she’d once loved, those who hurt her. Taunted her with bullets and prisons.
Were they her family? Is family a word meant to hurt? A word meant to haunt and dread?
Sasha dived into John’s eyes. Towards his soul, he left so guarded, but this time she could see every part of him. The pain, grief, guilt; rage.
“And then what?” She whispers, their lips almost touching.
Their noses are brushing against each other, John’s hand still planted on her torso, one on the wound he gifted, the other on the curve of her waist.
He closes his eyes, drifting far from the world. Feeling the satin caress his palm, the warmth of her blood on his hand, the pulse echoing through her flesh. And then, the touch of her lips. Barely there, but John felt it. He leant in further, bringing them closer, sharing breaths as their lips chased each other’s.
Eternity passed them by, enclosed in their forever.
They broke apart, foreheads pressing against the others.
She brings her forehead to his chest, smelling the musk that used to coat her bedsheets and clothes.
New York was different from what Sasha could remember. It was loud, but everything felt more secretive. Before, wandering the streets you would hear everyone’s life as you passed them by. Now, voices have dropped a tone. Or maybe Sasha’s mind has split apart from passerby’s, focusing on the boogeyman’s company- the partnership they had.
The yellow taxi felt suffocating. They had barely spoken upon their arrival in New York. John’s eyes were fixated on the streets, thoughts running through his head, about Sasha, Viktor- Helen. Sasha had stitched herself up in the continental back in Rome, but she felt the familiar tug on her torso, the stitches slowly working to become undone. Her black blouse hid the blood slowly seeping out of the wound. It was 9:00 am, 9 hours of John’s marker being active. Viktor would be suspicious, the boogeyman was the quickest there ever was. He would know something is not right. It is only a matter of time before he searches for them both. The devil had little patience with uncooperation.
The taxi pulled up to the Continental, suits and heels passing up and down the stairs. John pays the driver, a stack of notes Sasha knows is probably more than his wages the driver makes a month, and opens the door for Sasha. She hides the discomfort as she steps towards the continental doors, but besides her, John sees the slight hunch in her side.
The pair enter the building, the marble stone walls echoing the silence in the building. The Baba Yaga and Ved’ma walking together, battered and bruised. Word had gotten around from Rome, though word of mouth in the underworld is unreliable. Seeing them there -together- solidified a war brewing. Sasha Ivanova, estranged daughter of Viktor Ivanov, back from the shadows, with the one man who sent her into the darkness.
Charon awaits at the desk, eyebrows raised at their arrival.
”Mr Wick.” He turns to look at Sasha, “Miss Ivanova, how good to see you again.”
Sasha submits a subtle smile as John speaks, “A room please.”
Sasha raises her eyebrows, “One?” She speaks in his ear.
He nods, barely looking at her.
Charon offers the room card, Sasha takes it.
“Enjoy your stay.” Charon bows his head slightly with respect.
They both nod, walking through people's stares and venomous whispers towards the Grand staircase.
”Elevator?” Sasha sighs, muscles aching.
The elevator dings as the doors close, John and Sasha stand in each corner. They watch the numbers creep up, avoiding eye contact and any accidental touches. The silence suffocating.
The doors open smoothly as they stumble out, walking toward their room.
“You better keep on your side of the bed, John,” Sasha grunts out as she pushes the door open.
John takes his jacket off, “We’re not going to be doing much sleeping.”
He stills, Sasha raises her eyebrows.
”I can’t remember you ever being so direct.”
A beat passes, ”That’s not what I meant…We’re planning. And I need to stitch you up.”
Sasha rolls her eyes though the limp in her step says otherwise, “I am stitched up just fine, thank you.”
He turns to her and raises one eyebrow.
She sighs, “Fine. Let me shower first.” She moves towards the bathroom, allowing her shoulders to drop, closing the door behind her.
Sasha stands in the dark bathroom, letting her breathing fill the silence. She turns to the mirror, her reflection hollow-grey. The blouse she borrowed from John hangs loose from her frame, her hair barely held up by the clips she so carefully placed. The ones she lost were scattered on the roof of the Opera house. She undid the buttons slowly, feeling the fabric peel from her wound. Grunts fill the bathroom as she pulls it off her shoulders.
The wound was seeping, more blood than she was comfortable seeing leaking out of her.
Sasha opens the cabinet beneath the sink, grabbing the first aid kit, like a pirate finding treasure. Her head is becoming lighter, room tilting off its axis, hands becoming slightly numb. The box’s supplies fall onto the floor.
The door springs open. John stands there, blouse half unbuttoned, belt off and trousers loosely hanging from his hips. He absorbs the sight of her, half undressed, blood seeping out of her wound- the wound he gave her.
‘I didn’t think I hit anything too bad .” He mutters to no one.
Sasha was holding onto the bath, eyes hazy.
”Well you clearly clipped a vessel.” She mutters.
He steps towards her, lifting her slightly. “C’mon.”
”I can do it myself, John.” She pushes his arms away weakly, “I’ve done it many times.”
Despite her protests, he carries her to the mattress.
“I know.” He places her down, “But you’ve lost too much blood to hold anything.”
He runs to get the first aid supplies, throwing it all onto the bed beside her. He works in silence as he removes the loose stitches, cleaning the wound.
Sasha peeks out from behind her lashes, watching the way his eyebrows knit together. The sting from the peroxide did not amount to the ache in her chest, being so close to the man who would only visited her in her sleep.
His hands are steady, but his breathing gives him away. In through his nose, huffed out through his mouth, regulating his nerves.
“You were never good at this part.” His voice caresses her ears.
She closes her eyes again, feeling the needle join the skin together.
“Which part?” She whispers, the loss of blood lying heavy on her mind.
”Taking care of yourself.”
She hums softly, sleep coming close.
”Try not to sleep.” John watches the way her features soften.
But she was already gone. Her breathing deepened, slightly shaky.
John finishes the final stitch, and blood stops spilling.
He sits there, beside her, so close his hip touches her leg. He watches her chest rise and fall, slightly hesitant before repeating again. His fingers itch to touch her, to move the loose strands from her face. But he decides against it, a game too dangerous to play.
He places the blanket over her and lies on the other side, one arm behind his head and the other close to hers. He stares at the ceiling, waiting for her to wake, tracing shapes on the ceiling until memories take their place; ignoring his heartbeat pushing through his chest, towards Sasha.
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