Chapter Text
Chapter Nine
John hardly had to think at all once he got behind the wheel of his car.
It was muscle memory, the turning of his wheel down the streets of downtown New York City, the pressing down of the brakes as he reached certain stops. It was a good thing, too: the traffic was just as bad as always, and if he had to force himself to remember the route being as distracted as he was, he would have been likely to cause an accident.
As he unconsciously flicked on his turn signal and narrowly avoided a semitruck parking itself over two out of the four available lanes, John considered whether or not he had grown rusty over years of inactivity. How much had the Underworld changed while he was away? How large had the Tarasov family expanded? How much backlash was he going to receive after he killed Viggo?
Oh, it wouldn’t be immediate. There was no way that John would be able to kill him while the threat of a contract still hung in the air. But the moment this deal was over, John was going to kill Viggo Tarasov, and he was going to make it hurt.
He parked his car in a garage a few blocks away. In the event Viggo’s offer had been a ruse to draw him out alone, he was going to take as many precautions as possible.
John paused before he rounded the street corner and flexed his hands. The blisters from a few hours earlier had scabbed over, though John knew that the moment he fired his gun, they were likely to tear.
Darkness had fallen over the city. As the golden hour ended and a mellow evening lilac began to fill the gaps above the skyscrapers, John felt the weight of years melt away. He could feel the slow change in his gait, the change overtaking his mind, with every step he took. It was a necessary change, he understood, the kind that stilled his heartbeat and steadied his hands. It was the kind of aspect that eased the taking of a human life, the mechanization of a soul. His steps became softer, more measured; he became honed to the life and movement around him, to the weapons strapped to his body, the change in the air; and he felt within himself something cold, and visceral, and hungry raise its head.
He had reached the complex. The moment that he came within range of Viggo Tarasov’s building, he knew that he was being watched, his every movement tracked. The eyes of New York City were upon him; far above his head, he was sure that Viggo was looking down from his office. Behind him, a few men were probably cleverly stationed at good sniping vantage points. A few men, a few paces from the entryway, were leaned up against the wall. They had been talking moments prior, but the moment John’s visage became clear beneath the streetlights, they stood quietly and made no move to stop him as he came to the entryway.
He opened the door and started counting.
Five men. Two across the room standing behind a desk, one a bit farther back, two tucked away in a dark corner, immersed in a game of poker. All of them heavily tattooed, all of them armed, all of them stopped to watch his approach.
John’s eyes landed on a familiar face as he went further in.
“Avi.”
The man swallowed, his lips twitching in a feigned polite smile. He had always been nervous around John, and it seemed that time had nothing to change his demeanor. “Hi, John. Boss is upstairs; I’ll show you up.”
0o0
“I think the entire thing is fucked up.”
“No one asked your opinion.”
“No, but you’re gonna hear it anyways,” Lucas said, munching on his bagel and casting a pitying glance at the house across the street. It the kind of place he’d always envied; sleek, modern, with perfectly cultivated green grass that had obviously never known what it was like to have grown far past about three inches. Quiet. That was the nicest thing about it, now that Lucas thought about it. It was far away from the constant noise and struggle of his day-to-day, far away from gunshots and sirens and the pungent smell of blood. “I’d be dead right now if I didn’t come down with the shits yesterday.”
James scoffed, relaxing his grip on his binoculars to look fully at the man in the passenger seat. “Yes, and if a butterfly hadn’t flapped its wings two billion years and twelve days ago, the dinosaurs would still be alive.”
“Were there butterflies two billion years ago? When was the Cambrian explosion?”
“How the fuck would I know?”
“Anyways, my point is: I think whoever or whatever is running the universe has a sense of humor. If I had been on shift yesterday, Iosef would have roped me into his bullshit home invasion, and I would be dead. If John Wick never met this chick, he’d still be out, happily killing every unlucky motherfucker that wound on his list. If Iosef had just let the car go, he’d still be alive.”
“And if you’d gone to college instead of working for Viggo, you’d have been a philosophy major.”
“Probably. I keep having these thoughts lately, you know? Like, Iosef (rest in pieces) would say shit like, “Lucas, go beat that motherfucker within an inch of his life, he left with my favorite bitch”, and I’d think, ‘Why does it even matter, in the end?’ Really. It’s just, I’ve been at this job for a few years, and I keep thinking about how I keep taking all these chances with my life and getting away with horrible shit, and… well, if John Wick got out, maybe I could pull it off?”
James picked up the binoculars again. His mouth had settled to a grim line. “But that’s the problem. Is he really out? If he chickens out or kills Viggo, we’re going to fuck up his wife. Either way, he’s gonna come back in. Guys like us, especially guys like him, don’t get a break. We’ve all done too much fucked up shit to deserve that.”
Lucas shrugged, then set his chin on his fist as he stared out the window of the SUV. “Got a good five years, at least. I wonder what she’s like?”
0o0
“So, you’re the legendary Helen Wick.”
Helen placed a hand against her flat stomach and spared a longing glance towards the liquor cabinet. Unlike John she usually did not enjoy the taste of bourbon (or any liquor, for that matter), but something would have been nice.
“I wasn’t aware I was famous,” Helen replied, calmly rifling through the fridge for something to eat. Something easy. Chicken, maybe. Something to occupy her thoughts with something other than the assassin lounging comfortably at her kitchen island. Or, for that matter, the one that had just departed.
Marcus huffed in amusement, sipping the tomato V8 she had managed to drag out from the back of the fridge. “Maybe not for what you did, but for who.”
Helen rounded on him. He gave her a crooked smile, apparently amused by her anger. “Oh, come on, I’m just trying to lighten the mood. Do you have any idea how difficult it is to leave our line of work?”
She took a short breath, then went back to pulling out ingredients. She was going to be hospitable and offer Marcus a plate, but for that comment alone she was going to overcook his dinner. “John told me what Viggo’s job was for him.”
“Bet he skimped on the details though, didn’t he?” When Helen didn’t reply, Marcus leaned forward in his chair. “It wasn’t just what he had to do for Viggo. John had to cut ties with everyone. He had to completely rewire his mind just to function in normal society. I’ll answer the question myself: it isn’t just difficult to get out of that kind of life, it was unheard of before John.”
Helen’s back went rigid as she flicked on the stove and watched the fire spark to life. “I guess that means he really wanted to leave.”
“Except that no, actually, he didn’t. John would’ve happily kept on until someone eventually put him down. The man loved his job.”
She rolled her eyes. “Right, and that would explain all the times he tried to leave it behind. It sounds to me like you’re just bitter I stole your man.”
Whatever she was expecting from Marcus after snapping at him, it was not uproarious laughter. “My God, it’s like we’re not even talking about the same person! I don’t fault you for it, of course: people like us tend to be a little off, myself included, and John was always a category of his own. But the fact that you think he would have chosen to walk away without your influence…” He sighed, shaking his head. “It’s worth the laugh.”
“But you still haven’t argued against my point,” Helen said, proud of the fact she had ignored his jab at her. It was hard enough being left out of the loop without a perfect stranger teasing her for it. “John tried to get out and got sucked back in.”
Twice, now, whispered a little voice in the back of her head.
“He told me that story, how he came here from Mexico to enlist,” Marcus said, nodding. “But what he might not have told you is that the Ruska Roma didn’t catch him immediately once he returned. John had a full six months to pull his life together.”
Helen placed her palms flat on the counter and leaned over, something like dread twisting in her gut as she watched him drain the last of the bright red liquid in his glass. “What did he do for those six months?”
Marcus’s face twisted into a sort of half-grimace. “I’m not sure, exactly. I think to his credit, John really tried to settle himself. But if you’ve only ever known one thing your entire life, it can be very, very hard to accept something else. Make no mistake: John did run away from them, but if you ask him to give you an honest answer, he’ll tell you it was a relief that they dragged him back in.”
Half-truths, Helen remembered. Something that made John a mystery to be unlocked, but also a force to be reckoned with. So much could be said with silence, so much left out of an answer cut short. “Why are you telling me this, Marcus?” she asked softly.
“Because I’m looking out for you, kiddo,” he replied. “I still take contracts for Viggo, so believe me when I tell you that he’s looking for all the help he can get. If he can suck John back in, even if it means using his son’s death as an excuse, he’ll do it. And if that happens, I want you to be prepared for the reality you’re gonna have to face.”
She shifted uneasily from foot to foot. “The one where he happily returns to the fold?”
Marcus shook his head. “I wouldn’t say he’d be happy about it. He loves you enough that he’d have to be dragged in kicking and screaming, but it’s still a possibility. And since it is, you need to know that John is much more dangerous than you realize. There aren’t a lot of assassins that are recognized internationally, and even fewer that last longer than a few years. Even I would be a nobody if I left New York, and I’ve been at this for much longer. There’s a reason the Russians call him Baba Yaga.”
Helen blinked in confusion. “Wait, I know a little bit of folklore. Baba Yaga’s a woman, isn’t she? The one parents tell their children about to scare them into behaving, like the Russian Boogeyman?”
It had been a random discussion, at one point. Over the years, Helen asked John to teach her a few words in his mother-tongue, or little bits about the culture that had raised him. He had mentioned fairytales, once, though he had seemed a little bit hesitant when she had asked him about that one.
“Baba Yaga was the symbol of the Belsky mafia,” Marcus explained. “Staten Island, Queens, Brooklyn, Manhattan, the Bronx… if Baba Yaga was the symbol of the Belsky mafia, the Belsky mafia was the symbol of New York City’s Russian criminal network. To put it bluntly, you’d have needed a fucking army to have dismantled their empire. Or, if you were an up-and-comer like Viggo Tarasov with a considerable amount of leverage and balls made of steel, you hired John.”
[Extra Story Completely Unrelated to the Plot]
When Helen first introduced John to her family, it had been on accident. At least, that was how the event had been framed.
Mrs. Baker was already aware of John’s existence. Helen had talked about him for hours after what had happened at the restaurant and had often brought him up in conversation for months afterwards. Around the three-month mark of Helen’s relationship with John, Mrs. Baker had an approximate idea of where he lived, what he (supposedly) did for work, and how deeply impressed her daughter was with him by that point.
She was also a moderately forgetful woman. By her estimation, it was completely in-character for her to overlook turning off the dome light in her car while she and Helen enjoyed a nice afternoon at a New Jersey beach. The fact that this beach was just twenty minutes or so from where John lived was pure happenstance.
To her credit, once the women “discovered” the fact that the car would need to be jumpstarted, Mrs. Baker managed to wait a whole three minutes before subtly suggesting that perhaps Helen’s “nice young man” might be able to pop over and help them.
Mind, this event also happened to take place about a week after Helen had mentioned in passing that, because John did not have a family of his own, he was nervous about what would happen when he inevitably met hers.
Helen had not bought Mrs. Baker’s story for a second. They had spent ten minutes after that arguing over the fact that the woman had “accidentally” left the dome light in her car on in broad daylight, in a very conveniently placed location. She did, however, call John anyways.
And of course, John had agreed to help in a heartbeat. He showed up to the beach approximately twenty minutes after the call was placed wearing a black three-piece suit and a nervous smile.
Mrs. Baker, meddler that she was, took one look at John Wick and could not help but smirk at his approach. “Oh, he’s got it bad for you,” she whispered, and it took all of Helen’s strength not to elbow her mother in the ribs.
“Hi John,” she had greeted, doing her best to ignore the fact that her little white kimono did little to disguise her bikini. “Thank you for coming.”
His Adam’s apple had bobbed, but his gaze never went lower than her eyes. “It’s no trouble at all,” he replied. Then, his attention turned to the significantly shorter, older woman at her side. “You must be Mrs. Baker,” he said, extending a hand for her to shake. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
“Oh, no need to be so formal, dear!” To Helen’s mortification, her mother then walked right past his hand and swept John into a warm hug. “Call me Susan!”
And John, bless him, was forcibly stooped into what was perhaps the most awkward hug in human existence. Helen had to cover her mouth to keep from giggling at the image of it all: sleek, polished John Wick had bent over to embrace a dainty middle-aged woman in a pair of high-waisted jorts and a fanny pack. Well over Mrs. Baker’s head, John shot Helen such a Look that it sent her into uncontained peals of laughter.
After the two minutes it took for John to pull out the (newly bought) jumper cables (from the trunk of Mrs. Baker’s car) and successfully jump-start the car, John then offered them an invitation for dinner at his home.
It was to absolutely no one’s surprise when Mrs. Baker readily accepted it. She had, after all, orchestrated the entire incident for that exact purpose.