Go to sleep to the rhythm of the war drums (1/1) John Wick fandom
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John Wick/Winston
Summary:
Winston calls John up to one of his offices to give his boy some much needed down time.
WC: 1.5k
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"Jonathan?" Winston's voice beckons him from the doorway before the lock has a chance to click shut. A warm light paints the office, breaking the chill of the night sky. Deep reds of decor blend with the stained woods throughout not just the room, but the hotel.
In the middle of the room, a delicately crafted wooden desk sits with it's owner settled comfortably in the chair behind it. His eyes never flickering up from his paper, Winston pushes the chair out slightly. Out of the rooms or other offices he could've picked, the manager chose the room that seemed to carry the most warmth. Carpets along the hard wood floors, chosen for a number of reasons; One of which John is sure includes him.
Silently, Wick's eyes traces the room—every corner, even studying the floor to ceiling curtains—as if checking for a threat he wouldn't encounter. In this hotel, he should know better than to worry, and yet, John can't stop himself from assessing anything that could be concerning.
"Jonathan," Winston peers over his glasses, "do you know how long you've kept me waiting?" He asks, the paper folding down and resting on the desk. A finger taps the face of his watch.
"Got held up." The other simply responds, though his eyes snap to Winston and don't trail away again. Instead, John watches the fluid way he moves; everything with a purpose. His own hand twitches when Winston reaches out to him.
"Come, Jonathan." He doesn't mention John's tensed appearance. Over the years, it simply became a part of what John Wick was. A man with far too much on his plate, yet always seeming to gain another task before the first one was finished—Keeping himself alive was another problem by itself.
No one questions the way he moves so recklessly, never say it out loud, at least. Worries always seemed to always find their way into Winston's mind whenever it was a topic involving John. Somehow, it's never failed to remind him just how possible it is to be the one carrying John's body home, despite the man standing in front of him, alive and breathing.
John's shoes tap against the wooden floor in the brief crossing between carpets. His head tilts down, calculating each of his steps to land himself directly in front of the manager. Tired eyes trailing to a familiar set of divots in the carpeting from regular use.
"You should rest, you know." Winston's hand comes to settle on John's side, sliding beneath the suit jacket. Body heat wraps around his hand, a thumb softly stroking along the seam of the button-up.
"Is that an invitation?" He glances up just in time to meet Winston's eyes as they work over him. Wick doesn't have to pay much attention to know how he's cataloging every tense muscle and how he plans to soothe the never-ending ache in his bones.
"Would you like it to be?" Winston looks up at him from where he had been follow the line of buttons down his torso, closely watching every minuscule movement John makes. From the way his fingers twitch, to how his breathing begins to falter under his gaze. "It could be an order, Jonathan, does it need to be?"
It does, and that's why he hesitates. Every movement seems timid, as if he hasn't been in this position many times before. This hotel was supposed to be safe, sometimes it takes a little longer for John's mind to catch up with the fact that this room—wherever Winston was—would always be the safest out of the rest of the building. Rather than responding, dark brown eyes look at him with a certain desperation that only John had been able to display. Not begging for his life, not fighting for something, no, he's asking for permission to rest.
"Sit, Jonathan, I've got you." Winston softly spoke, withdrawing his hand from John's side.
With a small nod, Wick brings himself to his knees. A slow movement until his knees met the soft carpet and he could relax from there. In the same spot that held the dents, he's been here oh so many times. He hasn't ever been above crawling to get there either.
"That's it. Look at me, hm?" The manager prompts, brushing his hands over John's shoulders. His thumbs hook under the lapel of the suit jacket. a light tug is all he needs for John to lean forward enough for the jacket to slip off. Discarded somewhere Wick doesn't care to make a note of.
Brown eyes meet Winston's. Never once has he ever tried to get into John's head, though sometimes it grows tempting when he stares up at him so sweetly, eyebrows pinched at the center ever so lightly. Like it's so, so easy, Jonathan lets him take control of whatever he desires—Winston can't help but wonder why. The question lingers in his mind, but the knowledge he's the only one John ever comes to builds pride that dulls the want to know the answer.
It's one that wouldn't satisfy Winston anyway.
It's safe. Not because of Continental rules, not because of the guarded doors or killers within it's walls, but because Winston was there. How silly is that? The trust and loyalty between the two of them is something that can't be bought, is that why he always comes back? It doesn't matter if he was on his hands and knees, John Wick always comes back right to Winston's feet like he is now. Safety isn't a good answer when John can't articulate everything that comes with the weightless feeling of finally resting his head in Winston's lap.
He doesn't look into those feelings—He doesn't have to.
"Would you like a drink?" Winston murmurs, hand finding it's place gently on the side of John's neck. The same way he did with his side, Winston's thumb brushes over the hair on the nape of his neck. A light touch that feels so heavy to John's weary body in the best way possible; taking the burning tension from his overworked muscles.
"No." He answers shortly, letting his posture falter at the delicate touch. John pulls in a trembling breath, his hands shake where they're clasped in his lap.
"Rest then, Jonathan. I'll call you when I need you." Never once has Winston ever broken moments like these before John was ready, it's John's assumption that he was there to be useful that let him stay without itching to run and do something. That's why Winston says it, he gets to watch the tension leave his body one breath at a time.
There's a small nod that's close enough to a response for the manager, he'll notice if something is wrong far before John even realized it about himself. He calls it one of his talents, but over the years Winston had to learn how to read John when he barely said a word. It comes easy to him now.
Days of work without proper sleep, or even rest, begin to catch up to him now that he's finally stopped running. There's nowhere to run when he's somewhere safe from it. The blood on his hands doesn't feel slick anymore, the red fading by the minute. It won't hurt him here, despite the exhaustion capturing him in it's grasp.
Winston watches as John's shoulders fall and his head begins to lean forward, the hand on the back of Wick's neck pulls him in closer until his forehead presses against Winston's knee. It prevents him from craning his neck, and possibly falling asleep like that. Hurting John like that when this was supposed to be comforting is not, and will never be, a goal of his. Intentional, or not.
It goes both ways to him, he will serve, he will be of service, and John will do the same for him. The high table not a thought in either of their minds when they silently pledge that to each other with every lingering gaze and soft touch.
"Lay here, Jonathan… That's it." He hums as he feels John press again his knee and eventually a little closer to his thigh. All he feels is a soft huff of air before John's eyes flutter closed. He doesn't test if he's asleep or not. With a little more time, he'd let his Jonathan rest, and help him to an actual bed to sleep, even better if John is keen on coming with him to bed, late as it is.
There's no work to complete, there rarely is when he calls John up. This is for both of them, quiet time when everything rushed around too fast to get a grip on. Moving his hand from John's neck, he brings it to the top of his head to brush through his hair more effectively.
The only thing better than seeing John truly rest for him, is feeling him lean into even the lightest of touches. He doesn't question the feelings that bubble up the longer he looks down at him, the warmth is there. That's all they need.
