Fair warning: You'd probably need to watch the movie John Wick first in order to get the references. Unbetaed. All mistakes are mine.
Enjoy.
I need a dinner reservation for four.
Molly Hooper releases a breath she didn't realize she was holding at the end of the call. She gets up from her stool and picks up a couple of case folders opting to read them at home once the job is over. With one last look at the morgue, she walks out of the double doors and rounds up her crew.
The first time he meets her is after he has killed fifteen men.
When he phoned in for a reservation, he didn't expect a small woman, cherry printed jumper and all, on his doorstep
"Good evening, Mr. Wick" she smiles and extends a hand to him. Her smile and happy disposition catches him off guard as he takes the proffered hand.
"Where's the old man?" he asks, cataloguing the callouses on her hand as he gives her a firm shake.
"Dead," she answers as-a-matter-of-factly and he notices her smile falter a bit "I'm his granddaughter, Molly. Just making sure the boys do their job while waiting for someone else to oversee things" she takes the hand he's holding and gestures to the men behind her.
He hands her the coins and opens the door wider, letting them in.
The second time is at The Continental London branch.
His mouth is set on a thin light as he held a compress against the deep gash on his side. He pours himself a generous glass from the decanter and drinks it all in one go, the burning sensation momentarily distracting him from the pain.
A knock from the door alerts him on the arrival of the doctor the management sent to patch him up. He calls out and pours another drink, half-expecting good ol' doctor Hooper to give him a scolding or two before stitching him. Instead, he hears a silent gasp and sees Molly from the cleaners.
She has a not-quite-a-grimace-but-almost-a-smile plastered on her face when she looks at him.
"Where's Dr. Hooper?" one eyebrow raised as he sips his whiskey.
"I am Doctor Hooper" for a moment, a flash of irritation crosses her eyes "Well… the other Doctor Hooper" she amends "Gran can't make it tonight. Arthritis"
She drags a chair opposite him and places her equipment in a neat line on a table. She takes a pair of scissors out of her bag and gestures to his shirt. He nods once and she proceeds to cut away the fabric, exposing the deep gash.
Her brows draw closer together as she carefully cleans the wound.
"Need something for the pain?" she asks.
"Got it covered" he responds with a smile, lightly shaking the decanter in her direction.
She hums noncommittally and proceeds to work.
"Thought you were with the cleaning services" he states, more to himself than her.
"Family business. The cleaning's from my father's side, the medical point is from my mum's."
"I take it you stitch up people often?" He takes another sip from his glass and studies her. Small, sure hands work their way through the wound and a mask of concentration is etched on her face.
"More of the dead than the living, yeah"
And he chuckles a bit at that and earns a small smile from her in return.
"Got a day job?"
"Used to," He barely catches the longing in her voice, the inflection barely there to detect.
"I'm here because the pay is good," she supplies but there's something in her voice that tells him that's not quite the only reason.
"How much movement are we talking about here?" he asks as she finished the last of the sutures.
"I'd tell you to lie low and go on a holiday to the Bahamas but you lot seem to never stay put" she answers, a light teasing tone in her voice and hands him an orange bottle "Pop two of these down if you want movement. Your stitches will tear but you'll be functional."
The third is when he's lying down on his side on the pavement one rainy evening in Cardiff. Her cherry printed jumper is the last thing he sees before he blacks out of his consciousness.
He wakes up two days later to the sound of Marcus' blasted juicing machine.
"Thank your ass that Ms. Hooper called me when she did" he tells him as he hands him a small note.
He almost tells Marcus to call her doctor instead. He turns the paper over and smiles at the neat hand writing.
You only had one name in your contacts.
I do hope you'd look less bloody the next time we meet if you're not dead yet.
-MH
He won't see her again for another two years.
She doesn't delude herself into thinking she won't be harmed here.
While, true, that The Continental's word is law and that no business shall be conducted on its grounds, there are still some who would brazenly rise to the occasion should the bounty be high enough.
But in here she can see clearly.
She's aware of the people lurking in every corner. Of who can drown her in the Thames the next minute and how she can poison them with the drink of their choice and none would be the wiser. She's safest in the most dangerous cesspool in the whole UK.
She places the empty glass on her tray and wipes the spilled vodka with a cloth.
"Didn't know you also bused tables" someone says from behind her. She needn't turn to know who owns the voice. John Wick slides down the booth she's assigned to and regards her, a corner of his lips turned in amusement.
"I have a very loose job description. Keeping an ear out" she responds, subtly tilting her head towards Winston's direction "favors owed and all that jazz." She discreetly slips him a piece of paper underneath a paper towel. His hand lightly grazes her fingers as he slowly takes the tip.
"Shouldn't young things like you be the ones getting the drinks and not the other way around?"
She snorts "Really? Young?" she shakes her head and leaves him to his musings, though she supposes, compared to everyone in this glorified den, she is, for all intents and purposes, young.
The coin he gives her feels heavy in her palm – the weight reminding her just how real everything is and how fast the distance from her quiet life becomes.
It strikes him with a certain awe and horror how perfectly she fits in their world.
That, despite wearing her heart in her sleeve and the optimism she possesses, she very clearly belongs among their fold.
She doesn't stand out, does her best not to, and succeeds for the most part – in here lies her strength. People are quick to dismiss her, wouldn't even spare her a passing glance. She uses this fact as a ruthless advantage, sweeping in from the shadows and ups the body count by almost sixty percent.
The next time he hears her name, it's through revered whispers in the dark. They call her The Reaper now. She's invisible as Molly Hooper, her identity still hidden and kept secret.
It was just a job, she tells him the as she fixes him up. No need for anything more than the bandage really, the call was merely an excuse to talk.
She's the only one allowed to shed blood on Continental grounds, granted she's the same person delivering the punishment to those who break the rules.
"Quite a reputation you got there" he quips
"Says the Baba Yaga" poking him for good measure, "Who comes up with these ridiculous names anyway?"
"It helps instill fear and street cred" he shrugs and winces as he adjusts himself in the recliner.
"What were you doing in Cardiff?" he asks after a while.
"Took your advice," she gathers her things in a small medical kit "the one time I do go out for drinks with the girls, you decide to get bloody beaten up on the street." Her smile betrays the annoyance in her voice
Not for the first time, he studies her as she makes her way out. Something about her posture makes her look more worn, the edges of her face a little sharper, and her eyes a little harder compared to when he first met her.
It doesn't surprise him that she plunged waist deep into this business because of love.
While her birth right has guaranteed her initial involvement, she had no reason to get involved in the riskier side of things. Her position both as a Sweeper and a medic guaranteed her neutrality, and, had she not taken matters into her own hands, it'd be almost sacrilegious to lay a hand on her.
Yet here she is, quietly lending a hand in dismantling a carefully constructed criminal network all for a man called Sherlock Holmes and the man doesn't even know it.
In this, they are the same. After all, he got back into this world out of revenge for the memory of his late wife.
Ten bodies and an explosion later he asks her why. She gives him a determined look and says "I need to get him home"
This is when he decides that she has far too much heart to be doing what she does no matter how proficient – natural, graceful, beautiful even – she is at the job.
He knows and shares her sentiment. He resolves to help her, thinking the faster this Moriarty business is over with, the sooner he could get her home.
In this he is severely mistaken.
He gets an out.
She gets an out.
Neither of them manage to stay away for too long.
"You have a hit on your head" he tells her as he sips his coffee. It was inevitable, everyone makes an enemy or two in their line of work. Unfortunately for her, though she was extremely thorough, one Sebastian Moran managed to slip away from her hands at the very last second, and now he has resurfaced with a commendable group of men and a vengeance.
It's almost comical to find him occupying the other end of her sofa; his body and build a great contrast to the cheerful flowers and throw pillow on his lap. He scans the room once, noting the embellishments she's decorated her flat with, failing to see any trace of her other life in the cracks of her home.
"How did you find me?" she inquires, legs folded underneath her as she stares into nothing.
"Phone book" she barks out a laugh at the simplicity of it all.
When she finally calms down she finally turns to him, looks him in the eyes "Let them come," she says, already signing the death sentence on Moran and the men foolish enough to think of taking her down, the steel in her voice sends chills down his spine.
He knows she doesn't need him, but he'll be damned if he'd follow anyone else.
Notes: I had Think by KALEIDA on repeat when I wrote this because I can't get the beautiful club scene out of my head. I also officially dubbed the cleaning service from the movie as Sweepers – I took the liberty of taking an anime reference, Black Cat, so sue me. The movie itself wasn't based on a comic book or anything and I had very little to go on when it came to the small yet extremely interesting aspects of the film. If you haven't seen John Wick yet do give it a gander.
*Baba Yaga = Boogeyman, for those who didn't get the reference.
Please tell me I'm not completely crazy for coming up with this.
Thank you for reading.
-June