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Respiring, Aurelio stood in the front doorway, extending his hand as he readied to leave. John took it, giving it a firm, comforting squeeze while Aurelio clapped a hand against his shoulder.
"I'll be rootin' for ya." Aurelio smiled tepidly, "Maybe once this thing blows over, you can catch me a farm girl, show me the Texas countryside."
"We'll see." John replied. "It was good seeing you again, Aurelio."
"Take care, John Wick."
After unloading the car, Aurelio's tail lights drifted down the driveway. Two stark red orbs steadily fading into the backdrop of shadows. Gripped tightly in John's hands, biting into his palm were the keys to his 1969 Mach 1 Ford Mustang.
He knew the odds were against him. Once he left the Corps behind and chose this dark path, John did not expect to leave the underground's criminally seductive lifestyle behind, to turn his back upon the heady combination of lucrative contracts won with a bullet, the gritty sophistication and certain violence; but he did―for love . . . for Helen. She introduced him a new and wonderful world, filled with her steadfast friendship and love, a stark difference to his world of associates who would simultaneously shake your hand with one, and then shoot you with the other.
After securing his 'retirement' and marrying Helen, their home, far removed from the restless, bustling city, was a tranquil haven of an undeserved peace for the Baba Yaga, one he was certain he didn't deserve. Viggo was right; John's dark past held great sway upon his future. In what felt to be a lifetime ago, after working alongside Viggo Tarasov, Santino D'Antonio called in his Mark, demanding John honor his blood oath by fulfilling the contract he opened upon his sister, Gianna D'Antonio. Try as he did, John could not break free. The repercussions of choices made long ago were never far behind him, seeking to summon him back into the shadowy underground with a vengeance that would not be so easily denied. No matter the amount of money hanging over John's life, he couldn't―wouldn't surrender.
Pain was ever present in his life, and was deeply rooted where his heart should have been. Pain was the sole emotion he felt while helplessly watching Helen suffer through her looming illness, unable to intervene. Pain held him during the moments before she passed away, as he stroked her hair, and placed his last kiss upon her forehead, pain reached up and held back the tears he should have―but could not shed for his dying wife. Pain gave him a brief respite, taking a back seat to the dull, throbbing ache and emptiness within his heart, as he numbly watched Helen's casket slowly disappear from sight, sealing it into the cold, damp ground. Pain swept into his life with a vengeance, when his puppy, Daisy―Helen's cherished last gift to John, was taken from him, stolen from him . . . killed from him. Pain, now maturing into anguish, was his constant companion. It seemed he knew no other sensation.
John's mourning, now accompanied, had been interrupted in an unforgivable fashion. Up until that moment, his grief had been quiet. Now that agony had found a voice; a blinding, cacophony that resonated through every bone with vengeance and unwavering will. It wailed and howled, and beat against his chest just beneath the surface of his quiet composure. It was wearing him very thin.
It wasn't just a dog for John. It wasn't just a car. And in response to such grievous, unforgivable transgressions, John knew no other way to reciprocate, than with calculating, unadulterated brutality. Externally, that was John's way of keeping things simple. He liked simple. But within, the pain began to convolute his reasonings. He just wanted to retire, to mourn, to heal.
Unfortunately, Aurelio saw no solution to the dilemma even despite that John had survived the unfavorable odds thus far; that wouldn't change and certainly not overnight between the recently-returned-from-retirement-hitman and a fretful mechanic.
Easing down into driver's seat of his Mustang, John absorbed the flux of memories that engulfed him. The smell of leather. The way its bucket seats pressed into his lower back and the back of his legs. Helen's hand drifting over the gear shift to brush his thigh.
Like a vise, his hands wrapped around the steering wheel, squeezing until the leather groaned. Anger simmering behind a fortress of determination filled his chest like hellfire. Aurelio was right in some aspects: John did not run. He was buckled down, willing to fight and, more importantly, kill every man that delivered himself to Death's emissary. Aurelio's visit only served to remind John how much there was at stake, how much preparation and prevented measures needed to be taken―for Caldron, Logan, and himself. Everyone involved needed to understand what was about to happen.
Across the widespread plains of Texas, Caldron rallied his cohorts and combat brethren to John's cause; whether they empathized enough to involve themselves and answer his call to arms, was an entirely different challenge. In the end, it made very little difference to John.
Fortis Fortuna Adiuvat . . . If fate deemed that he fight the war alone, so be it, whether fortune favored him remained to be seen.
Drawing in a deep, steady breath, he stepped out and returned to the house. It was not his home; nor was it his prison, and John resolved that it would not be his grave. Circumstances be damned, though the world was against him, John refused to be a victim, and just as resolutely refused to be pitied. His actions led him here, they would lead him out as well.
There were two types of pain for John: the temporary pain of self discipline and the permanent pain of regret.
Regret was not within John's scarce collection of moods.
Scouring the basement and first floor for Logan, John did not find her. That left the one place she must surely be. At the foot of the marble stairway, he briefly paused to listen, before ascending. On the second floor landing, John silently stalked towards Logan's bedroom. Striding through the door, his narrowed gaze noted the empty room; he continued on and found her in her en suite bathroom, seated on the edge of her tub. Logan swiftly stood, startled at his sudden, unannounced arrival, her eyes alert, absorbing every detail of John as if her life depended on it.
Perhaps it did.
He stepped past the threshold, stalking towards her; this time, Logan was ready. Backing up, she retreated from him until she bumped into a nearby wall. As John closed the distance, her eyes widened. Adrenalin pumping, Logan's pupils dilated, enlarging to eclipse the iris' storm grey as she gazed up into John's burning stare, the force of which left her teetered between thrill and fright.
"Show me." John's demand was not a question; Logan's brow furrowed with confusion; the connection not entirely made.
"Downstairs." his voice dangerously low. "I want to see it again."
There was no negotiating. If Logan wanted any part of John's tumultuous life, she needed to prove herself again and again. His wounds were healed, abrasions gone. His body was itself again.
She swallowed, breaths coming short and fast. His nearness unsettled her. "Like in the kitchen? Why—?"
His hand shot out but Logan blocked it, and then caught the following arm meant to deliver a counter blow. However, John was stronger with more weight behind every decision and precise move he made. Slowly, carefully, he began to overpower her, though she gritted her teeth determinedly holding him off.
Releasing his arms, Logan ducked. John's arms swung through open air. Her barefeet slapping against the tile as she raced for the door leading into her bedroom.
John was right behind, catching the back of her shirt and throwing her to the floor, trapping her beneath the length of his body; instead of wriggling and struggling right there, Logan wrapped her legs around his waist, throwing her hips forward and locking her ankles. John could feel the strength in her thighs as they constricted around his ribcage. Her shorts rode up as they fought, revealing toned quads John hadn't noticed until now.
The pressure from her legs filled his torso, crushing his lungs as the fight ensued. Driving his elbows sharply into her thighs once, twice, three times, Logan determinedly held on, squeezing even tighter in response, the inflicted areas growing red and angry as welts rose to the surface. They grappled; fighting, parrying, the room grew hotter, their labored breathing becoming louder, more aggressive, their grunts feral.
Around him, Logan's legs became viselike as she held him fast. Straining, their arms locked. John's arm was applying pressure to her neck while one of her hands fisted into his hair―pulling and twisting hard, the other digging into the flesh of his shoulder. She flipped, rolling both of them onto their sides. Contact broken, John watched Logan clamber backwards. Both fighters fell back, breathing hard, reassessing the other, mentally cataloging new advantages and guarding disadvantages. Through her expressive eyes, John predicted her next move; she was preparing to make a break for the door and flee downstairs. A weapon was the only way to level the playing field. Logan may have the advantage of youth, but John was taller, stronger and vastly more experienced.
Springing to her feet and pivoting on her heel, Logan dashed, darting out of the bathroom, but John snagged her by the waist. He lifted her from the floor and slung her against the bed; her back met the neatly made bedding, body bouncing as John advanced. Twisting around, she clawed her way across the bed with hands and feet, trying to gain purchase, hoping to escape. He caught her ankle, dragging her back and her heel came against his chest, knocking him away.
Undeterred, John pressed on, yanking her back towards him by grabbing her thrashing legs once more. Accepting her fate, Logan allowed herself to be pulled back. As soon as the distance between them closed, she flipped over and her legs wrapped around his ribcage a second time; this time, her arms came too, snaking around his neck. Logan jerked him down into a choke hold, using her entire body and mass to keep him in place―legs coiled, constricting like an anaconda, arms tightening, locking in place. The room grew quiet as they fought in earnest―or until John allowed himself to pass out. One hand attempted to pull her suffocating arms away from his neck, the other pushing against her legs restricting his movement; however, she tightened her stranglehold even more, squeezing him for all she was worth. John's sensitive wounds flared sharply in protest at the repeated assault; more importantly, he couldn't breathe. Blood trapped in his head; pulsating veins bulging at his temples, he fought against her hold.
He had ten seconds to break free or pass out.
Gritting his teeth, vision going black, John reached beneath Logan's arms and dug his fingers into her brachial nerves; Logan shrieked with pain, her tight hold around his neck loosened automatically. Wrenching himself free of her grasp, he gulped in air and flipped around, catching both her wrists in his hands. He raised them them above her head, eliminating her ability to use them as leverage against him. The sinewy muscles in John's forearms flexed, firmly keeping Logan's elbows in place with his longer arm span. Pinned once more beneath him, Logan had no room to maneuver, neither did she have the strength to attempt an escape. Above her, John studied Logan, his breathing rate already slowed to normal. Logan, however, looked the worse for wear. Panting, she glared up at him, glowing pain suffused her body, weary and trembling from her exertions; as Logan focused on bringing her breathing under control, attempting to match John's cool, indifferent composure, their eyes met, their proximity so close, there was nowhere else to look but at each other.
Wrists still secured, John changed his grip, noting the exact moment she gradually relaxed beneath him, momentarily distracted by . . . feeling her wrist pulse suddenly quicken beneath his thumbs. A subtle shift occurred, perplexing and undefinable, changing the dynamics between them. Faces mere inches apart, her breaths caressed his face. Logan's legs were still locked around his body, though nowhere near as tightly as before; Logan's ankles unhooked, her legs flexing around his waist, bringing him intimately closer, before her legs released him completely as she shifted her body beneath his. Her bare feet on either side of him. Holding himself mere inches above her, John fought the urge to sink lower into the valley between her thighs.
"That choke." He said softly, his dark eyes broke contact and moved downward, lingering on her lips. "Did you learn that from Caldron?"
Logan nodded, too breathless to speak.
The bed where they lay was mussed, haphazardly strewn in heaps, most of it trailing along the floor, the pillows scattered across the room. Despite himself, John relaxed even more, hovering just above the cradle of Logan's hips, disturbed that his body did not fall into alarm at their close proximity. He met and held Logan's gaze, committing the details to memory. Arresting and expressive clear, grey-blue most days, depending on her mood and clothing, her eyes changing to slate or darkening to a storm grey the next. . . lips framing a wide smile he rarely saw.
Gently releasing her wrists, John quietly sighed as he propped himself on his forearms, his face once more an inscrutable mask, before pushing up and away from her; as he withdrew, his eyes narrowed when Logan raised herself up on her elbows, closing the distance between them. She used the heels of her hands to prop her upper torso, following as he pulled further away from her. John solemnly regarded her, before she reached out and caught a fistful of his shirt; immediately, he stilled, waiting for her next move.
Dark grey eyes never leaving his, Logan's hand cupped his face, her fingertips gently caressing his coarse beard before gliding past, and tangling in his long hair. John watched, unable to do much else. Taking advantage of his indecision, she pulled him closer and gently pressed her lips to his. John hesitated, resisting Logan's kiss for a brief moment, before his hands feebly attempted to sever all contact. As he went to stand, Logan followed him up; kneeling upon the bed, she gained better access to the man. Curling her fingers in his dark hair, she tilted his face and tenderly kissed him, encouraged to continue when she felt his large hands span her back and ribcage. Blissfully unaware of John's thoughts, Logan lost herself in the moment, luxuriating in the heat he radiated, elated when his thumbs tenderly brushed the sides of her breasts before they continued upward. His jumbled thoughts were a conflicting maelstrom, swirling maddeningly within his mind.
Thoughts of pushing Logan far away―of throwing her from him and leaving her bedroom quickly, roared within his mind, yet the more insistent the dark thoughts became, John discovered he simply could not let Logan go. A carefully hidden, but growing desire to claim for himself what Logan was offering, severely tested his best intentions to keep their undefined relationship strictly professional; however, he was only a man. . . a man who once loved deeply, who had desires, and still had love to give. John gripped Logan's sides firmly, feeling her ribs move beneath his hands, as she breathed, imagining the sound and feel of her pounding heart. His hands began moving over Logan's trembling body of their own accord. John returned her kiss, allowing himself to take comfort from her, a quiet respite from the tumultuous life they were both living. Wrapping an arm around her back, holding her closer, his other hand pulled her bottom tightly against him, pressing their lower halves together, straining to get closer still. His secret hope to love once more and be loved again flamed brightly in his chest, only to sputter and die, completely extinguished by the memory of the vows he'd taken for Helen. Head versus heart, Man versus the carnal beast within him, that was raging to escape the self-imposed confines of John's formidable self-disciple and self-control.
Helen ...
At the thought of his late wife, like an electrical shock, John returned to himself. With a sharp breath, John tore himself away from Logan and stood back. The heat they had just shared diminished. An expression of guilt darkened Logan's face as she gingerly touched her lips, suddenly aware of her own actions. John's lungs heaved with clarity. He'd just lost his wife among other things. How quickly and easily he betrayed Helen's memory. He needed to leave.
Death hadn't released its emissary from the vows he'd taken. The last of her parting words echoing in his head, as if pardoning his actions.
… You still need someone, something to love…
In her bedroom doorway, he paused ever so briefly before disappearing into the hallway.
Holly! For her gracious help through it all.
lilmissbrave: Yay! Well I certainly don't want you to be able to predict the story! That would make it boring.
Inkandtrees: It was terrible short, I apologies. There won't be many of those, I promise!
jayjay0815: we're building to that. John's location hasn't quite been discovered, thanks to Winston. But WE SHALL SEE!
Sylarfan: Rest assured, small chapters will be rare. If anything, they're a filler to keep the blood flowing.
MrsJadeRatchet: Wow, those are quite the compliments! Thank you so much, it couldn't have been done without my friend Holly's help.