Archive of Our Own

( 6 years before )

The neon of the city cast a green glow against the walls and roads, reflected bright against puddles of water left over from a recent downpour as John Wick strode down an empty street, his hands washed clean of the blood from his most recent hit, his umber eyes focused on the only living being in his line of sight. His voice called out, but the young woman down the road gave no noticed, her audio sensory submerged in the sounds that poured from her headphones. He considered sending a digital message her way, he certainly had her contact information stored in his phone, but given what he suspected she must be engaged in, taking a moment away from, he settled on silent observation. Several minutes passed before she finally raised her gaze from the screen before her to the street, and to her left and right, finally taking notice of the quiet, imposing figure.

“Jardani?” her soft voice called out in question, and he took a few steps forward so the street lights shown on his bearded face.

“Anya,” he returned after she plucked her earbuds from their snug homes. “I thought I heard the sound of screaming earlier...thought I'd circle back around.”

“And you didn't stop to help?” she questioned, her visage neutral as she observed him.

“It was a man's voice,” he clarified, and she watched him silently for a few moments before nodding, and slamming her fist against the metal door at her back. A strangled noise of panic, muffled by layers of metal and concrete, met their ears.

“He's still screaming...he just can't form words anymore,” she confirmed with a shrug.

The pair slipped back into silence as the young woman directed her gaze to the brick wall across from them both, and John's eyes wandered over the profile of her fetching, soft features, her throat that swallowed down the lump that had formed their and stayed since she'd began her work for the evening a few hours before. She wore a plain, loose tank top, her arms exposed to the air, along with the fresh ink of a name tattooed among a litany of other names, mostly girls, a few boys.

“Alice?” the older hitman asked simply, and a frown pulled at Anya's lips as she nodded. “Is she alive, or...”

“Alive. Recovering...well physically, anyway, we never really...they never really recover.”

“Anyanka...you know, you...you're truly doing God's work,” John finally managed, and her forest green eyes raised up to meet his, deep brown, nearly black in the dim light of the evening.

“If your god existed, he wouldn't suffer the rest of us with bastards like this one.” She gave another smack to the door, and another desperate, muffled cry sounded.

“He sounds restless. I can stick around if you...” the suit-clad assassin fell silent as he watched her draw in an unsteady breath, the kind that normally accompanied a bout of tears.

“That's okay. I work better alone. I appreciate it, though...Jardani,” she finally whispered.

“I can call in a reservation for-”

“I've got it. I'm a big girl, I can handle it,” her smile was unconvincing as she tilted her head to look his way, at the handsome, older man that stared with an unreadable facade, a respectful distance away.

He watched as she stood up straight, and stretched, readying herself to re-enter the building.

“You know...you can call me John. You're almost the only one who doesn't, anymore,” he finally mentioned as she turned to face the door again, gripping the handle.

“There are literally millions of John's in this country alone...I suppose I could call you what they call you...Baba-”

“No, that's...that's alright. Jardani's fine...millions of John's, though? Really?” She smiled faintly and nodded, reaching up to gather her loose hair in a bun before she went back to her work, the inked heart and crown at the base of her nape displayed before the older assassin's eyes. “But only one queen,” he whispered, almost to himself. She cast her gaze to his eyes once more, and he whispered a barely audible goodnight before she opened the door and disappeared into the building.

The screaming that the door had muffled became louder, more panicked, as the sound of thumping boots stepping across the cement floor reached the source of the cries, the gray surface stained with the blood of dozens of men, dozens of monsters who had met their ends at her hands, among other violent objects. The sounds of a panicked voice escalated as she stepped within sight of her victim, his hands fastened by thick leather straps, ankles chained to the steel legs of an uncomfortable chair that had long ago been welded to a secured metal panel on the floor. Even in his helpless situation, he still fought fruitlessly at his restraints.

“All that screaming actually caught someone's attention,” she called out and he paused in his useless resistance. “Unfortunately for you, he and I are friends...and he's quite possibly more ruthless than myself. Looks like you're going to die here, after all...Oh, don't you fucking cry, you pathetic fuck.” Angry tears ran down bloody cheeks as the middle-aged pedophile stared back at her. “Did you stop when she cried? Did you let Alice go when she begged?” His desperate movements began again, more violently, more desperately, as she crossed the room and picked up her favorite instrument, an oversized, steel-reinforced croquet mallet, forever stained from the blood of dozens of sexual predators that had become her prey. The Queen of Hearts popped in her earbuds again, increasing the volume on her phone with her left hand as she lightly swung the mallet back and forth with her right fist. “I don't wanna hear your voice,” she whispered as she music flooded her ears, the vile man before her shrieking desperately for help that would never come. “I just wanna see you bleed.”

Anya stepped closer until she stood a few feet away from the blubbering mess of what technically qualified as a man, and let out an anguished cry of her own as she brought down the reinforced head of her mallet and caved in the man's kneecap.

The hour had crept back into the single digits before Anya emerged from scene of her latest execution, her dinner reservation called in, a short stack of coins left just inside the unlocked door of the building for the excess carnage.

Her feet seemed to carry her forward without much input from her conscious brain, leading her to the eclectic after-hours restaurant she usually visited after a particularly nasty kill. She wasn't surprised to see that the locale was nearly empty as she stepped inside. She was a bit startled to find the Baba Yaga among the patrons. Her shoes stilled against the tile floor as she stood in the doorway, but he waved her over in as friendly a manner as the hitman could muster, and with a hint of anxiety, she proceeded his way.

“Jardani...once in a night is a pleasant surprise...to see you twice,” she spoke as she took the seat across from him at a table off in one of the darker corners of the room, “is a little...alarming.” When he looked into her eyes before quickly letting his gaze descend to the table between them, she spoke up again, “Should I be concerned?”

“I'm not aware of a threat on your life, if that's what you mean,” he answered simply, grasping the tumbler of amber liquid before him and taking a swallow of it. “Even if there was...you know I'd never pursue you as a mark.”

“Well, that's...comforting to hear,” she nodded, letting out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding in. “So...Are you just stalking me for fun, then?”

“I was here first,” he reminded, and her lips quirked up into a soft smile, finally reaching toward the middle of the table to pick up a menu. “I do want...need to talk to you about something, though.” She narrowed her eyes, in confusion rather than suspicion.

“It...must be important if you couldn't just call me about it,” she spoke her thoughts aloud and he nodded, his dark hair falling out of place, Anya reaching forward instinctively to push it back behind his ear.

“I've met someone,” John uttered suddenly, his eyes on the table again. Anya's hand froze for a moment in midair, hung there a few seconds before she brought it back to her side of the table.

“That's...that's great,” she finally managed, her words quieter, less confident, than she'd intended. “What's her name?”

“...Helen,” John answered after a few moments of his own silence.

“I'm, um...I'm happy for you,” she tried to force a smile, but the corners of her lips defied her, drawing into a frown, slight but impossible for John to miss.

“Anya, I know-”

“John...” she whispered, begging him with the name she never called him by not to finish whatever it was he had to say.

The older assassin took a deep breath, and another swig of his bourbon, and began again. “Anyanka...I'm too old for you. We're friends, and...we are friends, aren't we,” he paused, and she nodded, though she couldn't bring herself to look into his eyes. “I care for you, and...I worry for you. But I can't be...there's more than twenty years between us, and I'm closer to fifty than forty, and I can't be who you want me to be.”

Several minutes that felt like hours of silence passed between them before she finally sat up straight, the tears she'd pushed away with bloodstained hands hours before in her rage replaced with fresh, clean, salty liquid tracks, staining her cheeks.

“Just...tell me you have an out,” she finally mumbled, swallowed hard at the lump in her throat. She raised her eyes to look into John's. “Tell me you have a way out of this life, that...that won't put her in danger.”

John stared at her, opened his mouth to speak, closed it again, took in a deep breath. “I'm working on it.”

Anya nodded as she took in a shuddered breath, leaning her head back, the tattoo at her nape cradled against the edge of her chair.

“If it's not too much trouble...maybe consider...not having kids. I'm sure, with your skill set, you can protect her, but...there are creeps around every corner, and I don't want the next time I hear from you to be because you need...well, my skill set.” John nodded as he watched her, pushed his glass of water her way so she could dip a napkin into the icy liquid and wipe the salty tears from her face. “And you're buying me whatever the fuck I want off the menu tonight.”

The Baba Yaga smiled for the first time since he'd left her to obliterate her target that evening, nodding as he watched her begin to study the menu.

( 2 years before )

John Wick had massacred countless men in his life, defeated the most unbeatable foes, and yet he had rarely felt the intimidation that now struck him as he stood in the middle of the greeting card aisle. Birthdays, anniversaries, occasions that he had barely ever acknowledged before he'd met his wife, they all seemed so important now. Now that he had someone to celebrate with. Now that an expiration date had been applied to her life expectancy by half a dozen doctors.

“You look positively lost, Mr. Wick,” came a voice over his shoulder, preceded by footsteps he had not even taken notice of in his critical hunt through the hundreds of cards before him. When his concentration refused to be swayed, she considering speaking up, tapping his shoulder, but ultimately decided to pick up a card for examination, an attempt to not activate the instincts of his former career. Dark brown eyes followed the hand that reached forward, his vision landing on an array of names inked into skin, and he knew who stood beside him before his gaze rose to her face.

“Anya,” he whispered, watched as she examined the cover of a card, glanced inside, and replaced it on the shelf. “How long has it been?”

“Too long,” she answered with a smile pulling at her lips. “I almost didn't recognize you. I don't think I've ever seen you in a color other than black,” she observed, leaning to the side to examine his familiar face. “I like the beard.”

“Thanks,” John answered simply, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “Uh...Not that I'm not happy to see you, but...is there something going on I should know about?” He hadn't seen her since just before he'd finished his impossible task, and the wedding between himself and his wife had been a very private affair without much in the way of guests. To run into someone from the old life, even someone he'd considered a friend-

“Just a coincidence,” she assured.

“Are you...working, then?” he inquired, and the soft expression on her face faltered for a moment.

“Always...have you and your wife had any children, yet?” she asked, and John shook his head. Just as there were assassins at every corner, on every park bench, he knew the world was equally full of predators, and he had long ago taken her encouragement not to procreate to heart. “Then you have nothing to worry about. Not from my target, anyway.” There was a long moment of silence between them as they shifted their eyes from each others, back to the array of greeting cards before them. “So what's the occasion?”

“Anniversary,” he stated simply.

“Big, bad, Baba Yaga...intimidated by printed cardboard,” she grinned, thumbing through a few options, picking them up and putting them back. “Maybe find something pretty on the outside, and blank on the inside...write something yourself instead of some cliché crap someone else churned out.”

“Maybe,” John nodded. It wasn't as if anything at his fingertips could convey the depths of affection and appreciation he felt for his wife, anyhow.

“Well...I have shopping to do-”

“Anya-”

“Jardani...it was really nice to see you. I know you'll make a good choice, I know you...already made one,” she paused, glancing at the simple ring that adorned his finger. “I'll never be able to say I'm not at least a little jealous of her, but...she's very lucky. I'm sure you are, too.” Anya raised a hand to ghost over the former hitman's cheek, brushing her knuckles gently over the well-trimmed facial hair that helped disguise his age, and added to his physical allure.

John watched her face carefully as she examined his warmly, a hint of loneliness and longing written across her features in a language he knew, all too well. She respected his relationship, inwardly even celebrated his happiness, but both knew as they stood alone in the aisle that her feelings for him had not changed. All he could manage was a “Thank you,” and she smiled back up at him again, accepting his unadorned hand to receive a gentle shake of a goodbye before she disappeared down the aisle and out of sight.

( current day )

On a cool evening, embraced by a cloudless sky, a vinyl slowed to a standstill on Anya's record player, and the pounding of a fist at her door that had been obscured by the heavy guitar and bass reached her ears. Drawing her phone from her pocket, she selected the outside camera to view what wandering soul rapped at her door in the middle of the night, and dropped the device to the woven rug below her as she strode hurriedly through the house, opening the door to find a bloody and battered, familiar figure hunched over on her front steps.

“Holy...oh, my God, John...what have they done to you?” she whispered, and her arms were immediately at his waist at he struggled to stand and almost lost his balance.

“Thought you didn't believe in him,” the older assassin rasped as he followed her inside the open door, nearly collapsed against it from the inside when the warm electric glow of her home washed over him.

“I don't...and I'm starting to think he doesn't believe in you, either,” she returned, before stepping away and quickly out of sight. He was helpless to do anything more than slide his back down the door until he sat on a tiled floor, waited in silence until she reappeared a few minutes later, her clothing swapped out from a nostalgic t-shirt to a plain tanktop she didn't mind ruining with the hitman's blood. John's eyes followed her, barely focusing from the pain and exhaustion of yet another night in his descent back down to hell. “Think you can handle a few steps?”

“I don't know what I can handle at this point,” John mumbled, puffing out short breaths as Anya crouched down beside him, pushing strands of hair away from his sweat-sheened face, watching him dig his large, lacerated hands into his pockets and pulling out fistfuls of gold coins. “I'm so sorry,” he whispered, coughing, fresh blood coming up from the force and spattering lightly on his chin and her tank. “I've burned almost every bridge...I didn't want to drag you into-”

“Jardani,” Anya whispered as she pushed more hair from his face, carefully avoiding the various cuts and contusions. “I don't want your coins. You don't have to buy my help...and I'm not afraid of the High Table. I can't imagine what you've been through, but...just do me a favor.” John looked up to her eyes, his bleary from pain and sleep deprivation.

“Whatever you want,” he gasped, flinching from one of a hundred injuries he'd sustained in the last few weeks.

“Don't pass out until I get you in bed. I can not carry your heavy ass through this house.”

Hours passed before John's eyes eased open to a warmly lit room, a soft mattress beneath him, towels wedged between his tall frame and the fitted sheet. He was alone, he noticed, but it seemed clear enough he had not been that way for long. Bottles of cleanser and anesthetics, suture needles and medical thread, ice packs and gauze littered the bedside table beside him. His body ached too intensely to sit up, but he let his fingers trace over the various stab wounds, sword cuts, bullet entries, and found them sewn shut.

“It's more in my wheelhouse to make wounds than treat them, but...I think you just might make it through the night,” a soft voice sounded from the doorway of the bedroom John found himself in, and he moved to sit up thoughtlessly, and immediately regretted it as every wound felt like it was torn back open. “Don't even think about it,” Anya warned as she stepped into the room and strode up to the bed, placing her hand gently on an area of the hitman's chest that wasn't touched by puncture wounds, applying a slight pressure to indicate he ought to lie back down.

“I'm...sorry to drag you into th-”

“Just don't try to push any more coins on me like we're exchanging services,” she interrupted, sitting down carefully beside him on the soft, elevated surface. “I haven't been living under a rock. I know you've been to hell and back the last month...and I'm sorry about Helen, and your puppy.” John closed his eyes, mouthed a thank you as he reached blindly for the comfort of her hand, her slender digits wrapping carefully around his five-fingered hand. Puppy, he thought suddenly. The dog-

“My dog-”

“He's lying down in the living room. He's safe.”

“Am I safe?” John wondered aloud.

Anya was silent for a few moments as she considered him, took in a quick glance at the multitude of contusions that sullied his upper body. “You're probably safer here than you would be anywhere else.”

The hours passed by in what became a pattern, John waking up groggily, painfully, before being ushered back to sleep by the attentive young woman. She let him out of bed only to use the bathroom, and upon notice of his presence, the hitman's new pitbull followed him back to bed.

“What's his name?” Anya inquired as she stroked his short coat, and John shrugged.

“He doesn't have one yet.”

“Jardani,” she sighed, scratching behind the dog's ear.

“I feel like I've lost a decade off my life in the last month...I've been busy,” he rasped defensively. She nodded silently, casting her gaze to the battered man as he lie with his eyes closed, breathing shallowly.

“J.D., then,” she declared, and he opened his eyes to glance her way. “Just Dog,” she clarified. John's chest twitched as he chuckled lightly, and flinched. “Don't be too impressed, I stole it from a TV show...and try not to laugh, I think you cracked a rib at some point.”

John nodded, closing his eyes and taking in a deeper breath, flinching again, “I think you're right.” When he spoke no further words, she ran her fingers over the crown of the Pit's head once more and stepped around the bed, toward the door, but paused when she heard the man's voice behind her again. “I don't know how long I'll need to stay, but...I'll make it up to you.”

Anya leaned against the frame of the door as she allowed herself a few moments to watch him, though not with the critical, protective view she'd adopted as soon as she'd identified him on her front steps. He was heavily wounded, physically, mentally, emotionally. Even conscious of all this, she couldn't lie to herself that she was unhappy to see him, hadn't missed him, didn't still long for him. She respected his life choices, his chosen partner, his actions that had led him to her. But she still loved him in a way that he had never reciprocated. And she would respect Helen's memory...but in a way that made her stomach turn with guilt, and she saw on the bed before her a glimmer of hope for her own future.

Hours turned to days, days turned to weeks as John hid in the safe embrace of Anya's hidden home, and in his stay, for the first time since the moment before Helen had collapsed beside the river, John Wick felt some kind of peace. It was temporary, but it was more than welcome, just like his presence.

The proof of John's slowly but surely healing body was unmistakable, not just from the outside, but from his increased ability to function like an able-bodied person. As he stepped out of the shower on a particularly stormy evening, experiencing not a moment of weakness as he'd stood under the soothing liquid heat, flinched not even once as he ran a soapy cloth over the whole of his skin, he knew his temporary days of peace were once more coming to an end. She'd cared for him without complaint, shown him kindness and tenderness he had not felt since before his wife's death, but he couldn't hide from the problems he'd created for himself forever.

Running his hands through his damp hair, examining his recently trimmed beard, John dressed himself in the cozy flannel pants and plain t-shirt Anya had procured for him, the wounds along his arms and amassed over his torso healing nicely beneath the light cotton fabric. This would be his last night of peace for likely too long, he knew, as he glanced over himself in the mirror once more. The last evening before John Wick once again became the Baba Yaga.

The crackling of a vinyl record coming to its end reached John's ears as he strode into the hallway, following the sounds of the obsolete media toward the living room, stepping toward the player and glancing into the kitchen to see the young woman hard at work, preparing dinner. Crouching, John flipped through a mass of records, settling on something from his earliest days, released before her birth.

“Just the hits?” he asked, and she turned on her heal, away from the stove to see him holding up a square sleeve of cardboard with a painted bird skull on the cover.

“Guess I'm a fake fan,” she shrugged, turning back to the food, cooking away, smiling to herself as her guest slid an Eagles album onto the spindle and carefully placed the needle.

The two assassins ate dinner mostly in silence, listening to the music, ignoring the occasionally pops of the vinyl, both aware that there unplanned but pleasant domestic time together was coming to an end. John hadn't mentioned it, but Anya had watched his struggle lessen with each passing day. When he'd gone out into the back yard to play with J.D. the morning before, it had truly hit her that there time was quickly coming to its conclusion. When John stood up to gather their dishes from the meal and rinse them in the sink, Anya finally sucked in a deep breath and spoke up.

“You're leaving in the morning, aren't you.” It wasn't even a question, it was the statement she wished she didn't have to utter.

After a few moments of silence, John finally uttered a “Yeah.”

“You're going to team up with the Bowery King?” she continued? When he didn't answer, she turned in her seat to face him and he nodded, glancing from her eyes to the floor, and eventually back up again.

“He wants to take on the High Table...I don't see any other way out of this,” he confirmed what she'd suspected these past few weeks. “I can't...They'll never let me go if we don't stop them. I can't just exist outside like you-”

“Jardani, I'm not arguing with you, I get it,” she interrupted when he started to launch what she theorized was his rehearsed defense. “I only exist outside of their reach because I've...I've avenged wives and girlfriends and children of half the sitting members. People like y-,” she paused, looking up to his eyes again. “They summon people like you for your efficiency. They hire me because I'm thorough...because I don't base my work on how many millions of dollars in blood-money I'm getting paid. And believe me, I wish there wasn't a need for me, I wish I didn't have over a hundred names up and down my...”

John watched in silence as Anya's words dried up, as she leaned forward to rest her forehead against her fingers. “I wish I could have killed him for you,” he finally whispered, and his brows knit together as Anya's shoulders began to tremble.

The record had been flipped over, replaced with the second vinyl, and flipped again by the time the two hired killers found themselves on the sofa, John's arms securely around her as her breaths evened out, his pit bull laying at the other end of the plush piece of furniture, eyes closed, ears alert.

Desperado

Why don't you come to your senses

You've been out ridin' fences

For so long now

“What time are you leaving?” Anya finally asked as her temple lie against the heat emanating from John's chest.

“Early,” he answered, glancing past her, through the window of the kitchen beyond them, to the rain that came down in sheets outside.

Oh, you're a hard one

But I know that you got your reasons

These things that are pleasin' you

Can hurt you somehow

“Do you really think you're gonna survive this,” she whispered, eyelids closed as the hitman's umber vision fell upon her.

“I don't know...I hope so. I don't have a deathwish, if that's what you think. But I can't spend the rest of my life doing this...especially under an authority that's trying to kill me...I can't live under their fealty anymore.”

Don't you draw the queen of diamonds, boy

She'll beat you if she's able

You know the queen of hearts is always your best bet

John glanced up at the record player across the room as the frontman crooned the young woman's professional title.

“I'm starting to think you picked this album on purpose,” she whispered, brows knitting together as she felt the pads of John's fingers brush loose strands of hair from her face. She finally opened her eyes when she felt those fingers slide under her chin and tilt her face in his direction.

“No.”

John froze as the single syllable word reached him. When he opened his eyes to look upon her, inches away from him, she shook her head almost imperceptibly.

Now it seems to me some fine things have been laid upon your table

But you only want the ones that you can't get

She was on her feet before the title of the song could repeat, shutting it down before another melodic word could pour from the speakers.

“I'm sorry, I...” John began, but fell silent again.

He looked up toward her, where she rose to full height again, leaning her weight against the solid wood case that held her media, and didn't know what to say.

“I'm sorry, too,” she finally answered, and John knew he'd overstepped his welcome. It had been foolish...no, downright narcissistic to think that she'd still, after all these years- “You're raw, Jardani. You're...emotionally compromised, and I'm way too emotionally involved, and I can't be here for you like that...not right now.”

“Not right now,” John repeated as he watched her, as she began to move once more, walking across the room toward him. When she stood before him, she carefully grasped his four-fingered hand, lifted it enough to see the time. Already past midnight.

“Come on,” she whispered as she released him, and John stood dutifully and followed her as she left the living room, past the guest bedroom he'd been sleeping in, to her own bedroom that he'd yet to enter. As John stepped into the room behind her, he watched as she drew the layers of blankets down the bed enough to crawl in, and the hitman dropped his pajama pants but otherwise stayed clothed as he waited.

“Anyanka,” he finally whispered, his voice questioning, but she climbed into bed, situating herself on one side, and patted the empty space beside her, welcoming him to join her.
“Jardani...I want to kiss you, but I don't want it to happen until you want to kiss me, too...and not just because you're lonely and brokenhearted and...seeking comfort that would mean more to me than it would to you.” John took in her words as he slipped into bed beside her, in the dark of her bedroom, felt her direct him to lie facing away from her, and felt her press up against his back, her slender arms wrapping around him, her hand disappearing inside the embrace of his own. “When all this is over...when your life finally calms down, and you're free again, and you've...and you've had time to heal on the inside, time to properly mourn,” she mumbled, her voice becoming softer, more of a whisper as the plush of the bed beneath her, the blankets above her, and the body heat radiating from the assassin in her embrace. “I hope you'll...come see me again...because I...” her whisper became a yawn, lids heavy as she snuggled close.

“Because?” John rasped, a bit more awake than the woman behind him.

“Because...I do want that kiss.”

( one day, in the not too distant future )

Nearly three years had passed since the fortnight John Wick had spent in the kingdom of the Queen of Hearts, and although the next several weeks had been more than eventful for the Baba Yaga, the High Table had eventually, finally been overthrown. A new establishment of leadership had taken it's place, comprised of those of high rank who still lived within the world they made decisions for. The Bowery King had a place at the table, as did Winston and every other manager among the Continental branches, along with various others. John Wick, of course, had long had his privileges restored, though he had ceased to utilize them after the war against the table had concluded. He had settled down with his dog, returned to a quieter life without assassins around every corner, and was finally allowed by circumstances to take time to grieve.

Anya, as it turned out, was very much still working. Given the parameters of her work, she felt she would likely never actually stop. There was no shortage of predators in the world, no shortage of people willing those predators slow and agonizing ends. It brought her no real peace to brutalize them to death, but it was a satisfying outlet for her own anger and pain, and the knowledge that there was one less monster walking around didn't hurt.

It was for this purpose, for a requested job, that she found herself walking through the entrance of the New York Continental, eyes focused forward toward the front desk, overnight bag in one hand, blood-stained Croquet mallet secured in a holster that ran across her back. As she approached the concierge, his eyes seemed to twinkle upon instant recognition, though his brow twitched in a moment of confusion at the weapon that peeked out from behind her.

“I have you down for one night, Miss Deimos?” he confirmed in his distinguished Kenyan accent. Anya nodded, glancing around briefly and leaning against the marble barrier between them.

“I'm supposed to meet a client, but I don't know who they are. They said they'd be the only visitor traveling with a pet. Do you...have any idea who that might be?”

Charon was silent for a few moments as he watched her, thoughtful. “I know of only one visitor traveling with a pet. I believe you can find him in the courtyard, on the-”

“Third floor,” she finished, and he nodded. “It's, uh...it's not typical for a client to obscure their identity from me,” she began, flexing her back, the wooden pole of the mallet rubbing against her through the layers of clothing. “You seem to know a little bit about everyone.”

Charon gave the an almost imperceptible hint of a smile. “A bit,” he confirmed.

“You think they're trustworthy?” she asked, and his smile became more pronounced, though never shifting away from a look of professionalism.

“If we are speaking of the same individual, I would say so,” he confirmed with a small nod.

“And the pet?” she asked, a throwaway question she offered as she drew a golden coin from her pocket.

“I have personally found him to be...a very good dog,” the concierge stated, and Anya's gaze lifted up to his suddenly. “Room 817,” he declared before she could ask any more questions, sliding a key card across the white marble.

The ride up the elevator was thankfully short, leaving her little time to dwell on the questions flowing through her mind, as Anya's curiosity began to shift toward hope. It had been three years, after all. She suspected there was no amount of time that could ever really lead a person to fully heal from the death of a partner, but she knew that John Wick was still alive, was under the impression that he had mostly been living in peace. She'd resisted many times in delving into the further details of his life following the war against the High Table.

As the closet-sized room ceases its vertical travel and settled to a full stop, she took in an unsteady breath as the doors opened. The hallway beyond her was short, and she took slow steps as she approached the tinted glass of the doors that led outside. Before she could even take in a proper look at her surroundings, she found a familiar pit bull waddling toward her, answering her question of who had summoned her before she had a chance to gaze upon the dog's owner.

“You don't seem very surprised,” she heard a raspy voice beyond her, and she ceased her scratching behind the pit's ears to look toward the figure that approached, dressed not in a finely tailored suit, but instead within the casual confines of denim jeans and a heathered gray v-neck shirt.

“Charon sort of gave you away,” she answered as she stood. “Unintentionally, I'm sure. I can't really say that I'm disap-” Anya's words were cut short as she felt his strong arms wrap around her, her smaller arms wrapping cautiously around his waist, hands rising to clutch his shoulder blades as she felt the prickly scrape of his bearded chin against the crown of her head. “I'm not here for work, am I?” She felt the course hair of his chin move slightly as he shook his head 'no'.

There was silence between them as they stood above the traffic-filled streets a few stories below, bodies pressed together in the solitude of the Continental gardens, the pit bull lying on the warmth of the stone surface beneath, calm and slipping into a nap.

The hours passed without hurry as the two assassins, the former and the current, sat against the sun-warmed flooring, undisturbed, speaking on all sorts of subjects, both conscious of the subject they were actively avoiding. When their conversation finally dried up, and a brief silence passed between them, it was John who spoke up.

“I know it was deceitful to ask you here today under false pretenses,” he began, glanced up to find her watching him, her deep green eyes focused on his brown ones, lighter than usual in the sunny afternoon, “and I know it's...presumptuous to think you'd still...”

“Still?” she pressed, not ready to make whatever he had to say any easier on him.

“That you'd still want me,” he finally whispered in his gruff voice, his gaze undiverted from hers.

“I've always wanted you, Jardani,” she answered, voice soft and breath hitched as his eyes became too much to hold contact with, her vision falling to the stone between them. “I'm not going to pretend you didn't crush me the night you told me-”

“You were too young-”

“But I'm glad I heard it directly from you...and I don't know if the passage of time has escaped you, but contrary to this handsome face,” she paused to lift a hand up, run her knuckles against the neatly trimmed hair along the side of his face, “you haven't stopped aging.”

“You weren't even twenty five. If I'd pursued you, I wouldn't have been much better than some of the men you've executed. I never wanted to hurt you, but it...wasn't the right time.”

“And now?” Anya blurted out, a bit more demanding then she intended. “I mean-” she began to backtrack, but her lips were silenced as she felt large hands consisting of nine fingers cup her cheeks, felt the Baba Yaga's lips against her own as he gave her the kiss she'd yearned for, for more than a decade. “I'm...I'm not her,” she whispered as he parted just millimeters from her.

“I'm not asking you to be,” he rasped, pressed his lips firmly against hers again, the coarse whiskers of his chin and upper lip brushing against her bare skin.

The hours of the afternoon crept on into night, the reunited pair spending time outside the walls of the Continental, walking along the quieter streets, through parks, outside art installations, observing the city with joined hands as the sun disappeared and the moon began to rise. The tension had become too much in the quiet courtyard of the Continental, and stepping outside the hotel had seemed to cool things down between them, under the eyes of onlookers. Regardless, evening had crept on, and John was ready for a drink to settle his thoughts. Charon's eyes followed them as they emerged from the street through the front doors, stepping toward a set of elevator doors as Anya's gaze met that of the concierge, greeted from a distance with a small nod and a kind expression. Anya gave a small wave of her fingers in greeting before disappearing behind the elevator doors.

“My room or yours?” John asked as his five-fingered hand hovered over the buttons indicating the floors.

“Sorry?” Anya managed, glancing up at the man beside her.

“I'm sure you don't want to go down to the bar, I know the smoke bothers you. And you must be hungry,” the former Baba Yaga clarified, and before she could dismiss the idea, Anya's stomach gurgled in hungry protest. “So?”

“Um...whichever,” she shrugged, and John punched in the button marked '8'.

As it turned out, their rooms assignments were adjacent, and they settled into the elder assassin's room, joined shortly by plates of food, a bottle of bourbon, and some kind of nearly fluorescent blue alcohol that Anya had chosen strictly due to the color.

“How is it?” John asked with a smirk as he sipped at a glass of bourbon on the rocks, watching her face scrunch up at the flavor.

“Nope, turns out alcohol is...still not for me,” Anya mumbled, pushing the glass and the bottle away.

“Probably for the best,” the former hitman observed aloud, placing his own glass onto the table and picking up the bottle of blue liquid to examine it. When he realized how silent the room had become, he glanced across the table at his guest, and found her watching him thoughtfully.

“I don't worry about you, like that,” she stated, voice soft, her gaze unwavering. “There aren't many people I feel safe aligning myself with in this world. The list of people I trust fully is...probably even shorter than your own. But I trust you most.”

John's eyes, near-black in the dim lamplight that cast a glow over the interior of his hotel room, watched fixedly the woman before him as she rose to her feet and stepped around the table toward him. He swiveled around in his chair to face her, and she took the opportunity to settle into his lap, his arms wrapping instinctively around her waist as her own arms encircled his neck.

It was John who leaned in for a kiss, and Anya's hands swiftly found purchase in his dark strands, the powerful arms around her tightening, drawing her closer. “How long has it been,” John whispered as he drew back briefly, his fingers slipping under the hem of the back of her button-down shirt.

“How long?” she repeated, brows drawing together in a moment of confusion.

“How long has it been since you let someone touch you like this?” Let. Let was clearly the keyword. How long had it been since she'd consented to being touched the way his hands manipulated her body now.

“A while,” she admitted, and her arms tightened around the former hitman's neck as he stood up with his large hands supporting her, her legs wrapping securely around his waist as he carried her toward the oversized bed.

“And you're sure about this?” John asked as he lay her body against the firm mattress beneath, his four-fingered hand supporting his weight as the digits of his right played at the buttons that ran the length of her torso.

“I stopped doing thing I didn't want to do a long time ago, Jardani...are you sure?” she questioned, and he lifted his dark gaze from the edges of the linen he separated with fingertips.

“I wouldn't be here if I wasn't,” he confirmed, splaying his large hand over her exposed skin, and working his fingers along the rest of the buttons that obscured her body from him.

An array of articles of clothing found their new home on the floor as the two stripped each other down to nothing, Anya not missing the opportunity to lightly mock his choice of underwear. “Custom, tailored suits worth thousands of dollars...and Fruit of the Loom boxers underneath,” she teased, as John swiftly rid himself of the garment. Her grin seemed to fall away as his hands met the naked flesh of her bare thighs, his impressive stature all the more obvious as he loomed above her. The tips of his fingers pressed small indentations into her skin as he clutched her legs and eased them apart.

“Show me,” he whispered when he felt her hands grasp his own, needy for more contact. “Show me how you like to be touched,” he continued, his body leaning over hers until his breath puffed against her throat. Anya's right hand fisted in his hair as she felt the tip of his tongue graze against her throat, her left searching out his undamaged hand and, upon locating it, dragging it to hover over her ribs, the pads of his fingers ghosting over her heated skin. There was no resistance from the man atop her as she guided his digits along the concave dip of her stomach, brushing against the short crop of trimmed hair, further. His fingertips immediately met with slick moisture as his hand descended, rounded the flesh he met and cupped his palm against the radiating heat. The tips of his exploring digits swirled lightly over glossy flesh, pleasant but no where near what she need. When she let out a discontented sigh, she felt his lips against her cheek, his whiskers grazing the shell of her ear.

“Show me,” he repeated, and her hand was around his wrist, curling his fingers with hers and guiding them insistently inside her core. His lips traced along her ear, damp against the hollow behind the lobe, her hand gripping his more firmly, pressing his long, weapon-calloused fingers deeper. When he began to thrust his fingers slowly, she pressed at his knuckles so his fingers curved inside, massaging against the spongy upper wall, her hand wrapping around his wrist again and urging the movement of his hand when she was satisfied with his motions. As he stroked methodically under her direction, his lips pressed damp kisses along her throat, her jaw, her lips. There kisses were tender, unhurried, as he worked between her thighs, swiping his thumb in the slick juices he'd aroused, drawing barely-there circles against her clit. “Do you wanna come on my hand?” he whispered against her lips, and her own hand guiding his actions between her thighs urged his fingers deeper, her other hand lost in the ebony forest of his hair.

“Yes,” she murmured, pressed her lips more urgently against his.

“You don't want me to eat-”

“I want the hand that has...that has caused so m-much,” her words were staggered as she took in audible breaths, as his fingers worked unceasingly,” so much violence...I want you to show me it's more than just a weapon.”

“That I'm more than just a weapon,” he rasped, and her fingers gripped his mop of near-black hair, drew him back to her lips.

“Jardani,” she whimpered as her hips began to shudder, as her thighs trembled, as she hid her face in the curtain of his hair, and her walls twitched and convulsed around the Baba Yaga's fingers and she cried out desperately against him. John pressed his lips to her temple and unsheathed his fingers from between her thighs, worked his glossy digits over his thus far ignored cock, bobbing between his own thighs and needy for attention, and he closed his umber eyes tight, let out a shallow breath as he felt her smaller, slender fingers wrap around him.

“Yeah?” he asked simply, and with an enthusiastic nod, her hands left his cock and his hair, shot down to his hips and encouraged him further. “I don't have a-”

“Jardani, I got myself sterilized as soon as I could afford it,” she interrupted, and he cast his gaze on her eyes, near-black in the dimly lit hotel room. “Don't give me those sad eyes, not now...just show me what I've been missing,” Anya encouraged, and a rare smile pulled at the corners of John's lips as he wrapped her legs around his waist and rocked his hips against her, plunging inside her liquid velvet depths.

(months later)

The sky was nearly jet-black, devoid of clouds, with a smattering of stars breaking through the light pollution of the city, well after midnight. John Wick lifted his eyes from the book in his hands toward the open doorway of his bedroom at the sound of the beeping alarm notification, indicating the front door had been opened. He didn't even make a move to sit up in bed until the beeping ceased, the alarm disabled and reset from the first floor of his rebuilt home. The sound of a heavy wooden instrument smacking against the floor reached him next, the light thump of rubber-soled boots thudding lightly over the hardwood as his unseen guest strode toward the downstairs bathroom. The sound of water pulsing against a body reached his ears as he slipped out of bed and through the doorway, wandering down the hall and the staircase toward the source of the noises. The bathroom door had been left open.

As usual, his steps were slow and cautious as he looked into the hygienic room, never sure exactly what he would find. Some nights were more blood-soaked than others, though the blood was never hers. Some nights he found her sobbing on the marble floor as the water poured over her. Tonight, she simply stood with her back to him, sudsing up her hair that fell to the middle of her back, silent under the pulsing water. A new patch of glossy, transparent bandage clung to a brand new tattoo, the name Buddy freshly inked into her skin within the previous hour, the latest in a long, unsettling collection that had begun to cover the backs of her forearms. So many names. But she wasn't crying, and that was always a good sign.

“You didn't have to wait up,” Anya finally uttered, turning to face him as she rinsed shampoo from her hair.

“But you knew I would, anyway,” John answered, leaning his pajama-clad body against the wall as he watched her cleanse herself with nothing but several feet of marble and a six inch rim along the floor between them. “How did it go?”

She was silent for a few moments as she reached for another round of shampoo to apply to her hair. “Successfully...hopefully his son can get some...semblance of peace, now,” she finally answered, and her partner across the small, dimly lit room nodded. “I'll be out, soon.”

John approached until he stood just out of the reach of the streaming water, and she closed the short distance between them to accept the soft kiss he welcomed her with, stroking at her cheeks as he kissed the tip of her nose, her brow, her forehead, drops of water dripping onto his face and hands. After she finally shooed him away, he climbed back up the stairs and sat his book to the side, climbing under the cozy blankets, waiting. Not ten minutes had passed before she stepped through the threshold herself, hair up in a bun after a quick towel-drying. She was too tired for anything more thorough. The lamp had been turned off upon John's return, but there was enough light in the room from the oversized windows for him to watch as she pulled on a thin tank top and a pair of underwear from one of the drawers he'd cleared out for her, and slipped into bed beside him moments after.

“Are you alright,” he hedged, as he always did after a night of her work. He'd stopped, gotten out again, and hadn't been dragged back in since the overthrowing of the High Table. She'd made it clear upon their reunion in the months before that she might never be able to get out, not because she was under the control of others, but due to the fact that, as they both somberly agreed, predators were never going to just go away on their own.

“I'll manage,” she finally returned, sidling in closer to him, feeling his strong arm drape across her waist, his four-fingered hand rising to play lightly at her damp, tied-up hair.

She wasn't going to stop. He knew it wouldn't be fair to ask her to. But he was such a comfort to her, and she'd become such a treasure in his life. Not a replacement for his wife, but a new chapter of love and hope.