John Wick.The Man.The Myth.The Legend.

Nancy Fouts

| Whoever decided the birds are free? |

All You Can't Leave Behind

She gave this to me...

Before she left

And you made me watch it die.

How long did you think I'd let you live?

I would have ended you, Judeth

I had every intention

Now I'm not sure

You'll ever leave

{[ @f0rtis-fortuna-adiuvat - @lalienna-dementriento ]}

Be seeing you, Mr. Wick

And one day.... She'll take it all back.

JW. Blood of The Raven King

John Wick || Blood of the Raven King

Act One || Scene Three || In This House

Bobby could not have been happier than the moment in which her plane touched down upon the runway of the John F. Kennedy International Airport. Her eight and a half hour direct flight from London in business class had been exceptionally uneventful save for the enormous amount of reading and rock music listening to that she had divert her attention whilst the other passengers either slept, watched films or worked quietly, keeping very much to themselves. She may have drifted off to sleep once or twice only to jolt awake and re-read the same passage of her history book for the eighth time in a row. Finally, when she grew tired of this, she set down her book and resorted to people watching. Glancing upon them for a moment or so then taking hold her note book and writing a line or two of random nonsense that popped into her head and was based entirely on the impression she received from simply looking over their faces.

 Ah, but when the pilot finally announced that they had entered American airspace, she was at once vividly awake and full of anxious energy. New York always had a way of feeling like a home away from home. Naturally, it was because Uncle Winston was there, in his grand and busy hotel. And Mr. Charon whom she thought was just spectacular in his refinement and elegance. And she had friends in New York too. Friends she’d met online, through correspondence and via her studies. Members of her expedition crew that lived across Brooklyn, Manhattan and Queens. She was excited to meet with her closest friends and research companions that had stayed by her sidelong after her misadventure with the Purvrian cartel of criminals, Constance and Nathanial. Traditionally English born but American settled. Both of these friends were as well-travelled, loyal to a cause, dedicated to each other and as heartfelt as she could ever have hoped to have in colleagues. Especially colleagues that agreed, her research for the resurgence of the Raven King was not a bout of absolute madness to be relegated to the confines of mythological studies along with classical Roman and Grecian Gods and Irish or Welsh fables and legends. Like Bobby, they believed she was on to something. That she was perhaps a little obsessive, but there was definite web, just beneath the surface. And they were so close in uncovering it. They hoped it would occur together. But they didn't fully understand the depth of Bobby's inadvertent involvement in the darkness of society. And Bobby's tender heart and good nature meant she would not reveal it to them in so long as she could help it. It was Constance however that started to put the pieces of the mystery together not long after Bobby had awoken from her coma. She had confessed her private investigations to Nathanial whom helped her dig a little deeper. And in the months of therapy and rehabilitation that followed, Connie and Nate became Bobby's sole support network outside of Winston or Charon. She had begged them both.

"Please, guys, please... If you don't know anything, you can't be held accountable. So stop asking. Stop investigating. Everything you've been doing. You may be right. You may be wrong. It doesn't matter anymore. What's been done is done. Nothing is going to change. And I want to leave it all behind. So I'm begging you, let it die." Heartbroken for their friend and her suffering, they reluctantly acquiesced the request. If capture and torture was an indicator of what Bobby was worth, they could only imagine the depth of filth in which they would have to traverse to come to a reasonable conclusion. Amongst themselves, Connie and Nate came to the understanding that there was a strong possibility that the Sicilian Mafia was likely involved. If they had to hazard a guess they had began to point their fingers at a Camorra family. But Bobby had asked them to let it go. And they did. For now.  

Alas, Bobby could not make her way off the plane and through customs and security fast enough. She travelled light, with a single flight case, a backpack, a hatbox and a smaller overnight carry-on bag in a range of battered complimenting leathers that she had taken an affinity for as they belonged to her late father. She only ever carried the bare minimum in clothing, footwear and cosmetics, dedicating the majority of her bag space to books, ledgers, photographic cameras, laptops, external hard drives, power supplies and drawing pencils. Whatever else she needed or wanted she would buy in whatever part of the world she was in at the time. If it was large or bulky she'd have it shipped home by post. And on occasion, her travels had seen her to booking a freight container to carry some incredible artworks or furniture pieces that she had discovered across Europe and Asia to be transported back to her countryside home in Essex. The results were a bohemian, antique concoction of colour and texture, style and shape that added an endless warmth to the otherwise dated and plain English timber that her mother and father had thought was perfectly charming at the time.

The moment it was prudent, Bobby pulled out her mobile phone, swapped out her SIM card from the UK carrier to her American carrier and called her Uncle with the exuberance of a schoolgirl.

"Uncle Winston? I'm here! I've just arrived!"

"Very good my girl, welcome back to New York City. I trust your flight was pleasant?"

"Restful if nothing else, Uncle. I'm dying to see you. Were you able to arrange for a car or should I board a shuttle bus into town? I'm sorry about this all being so short notice by the way. I can make alternative boarding arrangements if you like?"

This made Winston click his tongue as he smiled down into his phone.

"Tsk! Perish the thought, darling! You know very well that's not how we play cricket in this neck of the woods. If you attend the visitors arrival ranks you'll see Charon standing by. He'll help you with your luggage and return you to me safely. We've a cosy room prepared for you and once you're checked in, you can meet me in the dining room for a little something to eat that isn't aeroplane cuisine, yes?"

"Oh Uncle, you're too good to me sometimes! I'm looking forward to it. I'll be with you in a bit then, traffic permitting."

"Yes, I am rather, aren't I? I'll be here when you arrive. Bye for now."

Phone away and bags in hand, Bobby ran a final check to ensure her passport and papers were in proper order and when she was satisfied, she didn't look a terrible mess, she organized her bags and joined the ranks of other arrivals that looked equally overburdened but generally happy to have touched down.

And how could she miss him standing there? Charon was always a magnificent sight to behold. Other private chauffeurs held up place signs with surnames for guests that they were to collect, but Charon merely stood at relaxed attention in his dark grey pinstripe suit looking the very picture of statuesque regal elegance. His dark-toned skin the richest colour of pure coffee and his thinly rimmed glasses caught the light in a sparkle. His hairless head and sharp features gave an imposing allure. Ladies turned their heads, even discreetly to stop and stare and the other uniformed drivers, whilst very smartly dressed, didn't quite shine with the same radiance or power that Charon had inherently mastered. He smiled at her as he recognized her amidst the crowd and finally broke free of the chauffeur's line on powerful strides that made him seem very much a dancer or a great black cat.

With a delighted cry, Bobby dropped her bags and rushed him, reaching up on tiptoe to wrap her arms around his neck and shoulders. She was instantly taken by the familiar warmth of his cologne and the reassuring pressure of his strong embrace as his hands caressed her upper back.

A passing woman with a Puerto Rican complexion was obviously heartened by their tender reunion, for when they parted she paused to say,

"Damn girl! You is lucky, huh?" in her heavy accent, before winking suggestively and striding off, wheeling her suitcase behind her.

Both Bobby and Charon saw the humour in this assumption. They laughed and greeted each other warmly. The Concierge welcomed his employer's niece back to American shores expressing his contentment to see her doing so well. Bobby had spent a great deal of time in a wheelchair post coma and had worked very hard and very long with her physiotherapists to restore her mobility. The ordeal had taken years and was excruciatingly painful. Bobby had given over to the fact that cortisone injections, anti-inflammatory pills and an array of painkillers would be par for the course now as she negotiated her spinal injury. What she hated more than anything was the stigma that she suffered when she moved from wheelchair, to walking frame to finally, walking cane. She wanted to be free of the damn thing. More than ever. For she felt as long as she was reduced to using her cane, she would forevermore conform to the ideal that her history had bested her. And that was a notion that would simply not do. She could not take the past into her future. The idea was abhorrent. So she took her cane and burnt the thing in her fireplace, back home in Essex. She called her physiotherapist the following morning and explained the whole thing demanding that the man make her case the most serious work he'd ever do in his entire bloody life. By the end of the phone call her physiotherapist was in absolute tears. He'd pledged his purpose to her rehabilitation and they worked together, day in and day out for nine months straight. Bobby had triumphed! Bobby would walk, unassisted at last.

Considerations would need to be made, of course. She was not able to stand for long hours anymore. And rough terrain was a bad idea for it jarred her knees and hips too greatly. She would have to be a great deal more gentle with her body in the gym and resolved to take a lot of low to no-impact exercises which eventuated in strength and resistance building by taking on Yoga and Pilates. She ensured the majority of her diet was generally clean and free of processed foods or preservatives and was quite rigid about drinking as much pure water and tea as possible. Perhaps what she missed most of all was the ability to wear heels higher than three inches for parties and events. But then again, Bobby rarely attended any of those that were not of some academic foundation and didn't entirely need that level of glamour anyway.

Thus, when she next visited New York after having successfully mastered walking without a noticeable limp; it was to Charon and Winston's absolute amazement. They had been witness to her worst level of suffering. To see her spin a complete one-eighty was nothing short of miraculous as far as they were concerned.

Now, Charon insisted he take the majority of Bobby's classic, worn leather luggage and stood back to admire her walk appreciatively. Again, unknowing on-lookers may have thought he was admiring the sway of her hips as any hot-blooded man might admire a young woman. A not unheard of concept, surely. Except for the fact that Charon was some twenty-three years Bobby's senior and any affections he had toward Miss. Kent as his employer's niece were purely plutonic and deeply family orientated.

"Oh Charon, it does my heart so good to see you! You're still as striking and handsome as ever!" Bobby had no issue in affirming as they walked together, shoulder to shoulder toward the car parked amongst the ranks of others on the airport passenger collection rank. This admission brought a glitter to Charon's eyes and a smile to his lips. He always thoughts Bobby was nothing if not entirely charming herself and was mortified by the horrors that had befallen her.

"The feeling is mutual Miss. Kent. I am elated to see you walking so well without your chair or cane. You seem to have regained your balance even more so since your last visitation. It is almost as though your injuries never took place to such a dramatic extent. Has your endurance for standing and walking distances improved as well?" He asked, loading her bags into the boot of the car tidily.

He earned a gentle nudge to his ribs as Bobby begged him to drop the formality and honorifics. She insisted they were family and being called 'Miss. Kent' simply made her feel estranged rather than interconnected. And interconnected right now was where she sorely needed to be, both in his presence and in Winston's.

She answered truthfully though, relating the information and summaries given by her medical professionals that assured her that whilst a great deal many things were wrong with her, including a metal plate in her skull and the loss of a kidney; that she was otherwise healing and walking longer and stronger than ever before.

She slid into the passenger's seat beside Charon and spoke on as he paid his phone's text messages a cursory glance. Hotel staff updating him on shift changes and suppliers logging his produce deliveries. They were of no consequence right now. He set the phone to silent and rejoined in the conversation, entering the stream of New York traffic that would travel over Brooklyn Bridge and eventually join New York proper.

They arrived at the curb of The Continental's famous multi-story high-rise corner block some forty minutes later having narrowly avoided the brunt of Friday afternoon peak hour traffic. The uniformed doorman greeted their arrival and a bellhop was summoned on Charon's order to take Bobby's luggage up to room Five-Twelve. Bobby thanked all the staff profusely as she pushed a tip of five dollars US into the bell hop's hands; apologizing because she'd not yet attended a money exchange office and this token gesture was all she had left in her wallet since her last trip to the US. The charming young man took the note into his pocket, smiling and bemused before tipping his hat and strolling away with his gleaming brass luggage trolley that carried Bobby's few bags.

"What was that all about, Charon?" Bobby inquired, "I thought American hospitality staff appreciated gratuities for service. That young man looked at me as though I was asking for directions to the beach in Norwegian." Her eyes followed his departure as the lift doors in the lobby closed and began their ascent.

"From civilian guests perhaps," Charon replied patiently. "You, however, now fall into an affiliated professional category." He punctuated this sentence with a wink so rapid and smooth, you would have missed it if you blinked. Bobby, however, never missed much of anything when she entered her Uncle's hotel. Even less now that she had a more complete understanding of what The Continental New York City actually stood for. She had not expected her status to be elevated to anything other than casual civilian, especially as she had no claims or designs to work in any kind of arrangement, cartel or syndicate that Winston had explained many of the guests took to his doors to find reprieve from. 

Alas, it had taken an extraordinarily long time for Bobby and her Uncle to come to a respectable understanding that The Continental served as an external and entirely independent enterprise that functioned as a complete cease-fire neutrality twenty-four hours of the day and night. Winston had parsed over the function of The High Table, The Department of the Adjudicator and the invisible lines of gang territories that controlled New York's underworld for everything including narcotics, prostitution, weapons caching, law enforcement manipulating, money laundering and hitmen for hire. Amongst a great deal more that he withheld on principle. Because he maintained that his niece simply didn't need to know. It was for the best. It was for her protection. But this new line of her obsessive study. This relentless pursuit that she had taken upon herself to uncover the other side was a massive concern in and of its self. He'd taken so much care to dissuade her from these fancies. To suppress and reengage her into entirely different stratagems for coming to terms with her mortality that didn't devolve into the streams of the preternatural that he himself had only in his history caught soul-shocking glances of.

And now Bobby was on it. Like a dog with a bone. She was on it with ravenous attention. A woman in a wheelchair with an academic mind and little else to distract her was prone to obsessive lines of study.  Her letter had been a forewarning. She had the intention to pry knowledge from him that he wasn't certain he was prepared to impart because he himself was not sure he fully understood the depth of the other side. Who did in this day and age anyway? Life, as it stood in the modern 21st Century, was a great, glittering neon distraction from the core of the unseen that walked amongst them day and night. Hiding. In the shadows. In the peripheral of human vision. Always just out of reach. But there... So there. So extremely there that you could close your eyes and deep down, if you focused, you could hear it. Like the echos of waves in a seashell. You wanted to believe that you were listening to thousands of years of history contained in the natural and ordinary. That you were not falling subject to the tricks of the mind. That magic was something that was done in studios and meant to entertain and hoodwink the uneducated.

It wasn't true.

It just wasn't true.

And Bobby was now closer to a malicious entity than perhaps she had ever bargained for. And would ever know.

His only hope was that their paths never crossed.

At last Charon offered to take Bobby up to her room personally so as she might take a little while to unwind and refresh herself before coming to join the dinner service downstairs in the dining room. Her Uncle would be waiting but would see her only once she was properly settled. Bobby agreed reluctantly. She had a great deal many things she wanted to share and ask of her Uncle. But she too had just come halfway across the world on more than a whim. She'd need time to recuperate and organize herself.

So she hugged Charon one final time, feeling very much like a protected species under the eyes of the hotel's staff. She gasped at the sheer radiant elegance of her rooms. But knew better than to protest about their grandeur. Rather, she thanked Charon a thousand times with heart-felt sincerity and took a moment to gather her thoughts when he proclaimed as always that he was at her complete disposal. He would be downstairs where she always expected to find him. He shut the door behind her and left her in peace. Overwhelmed a little. Displaced a little. Confused a little. Aching a little.

Alone in her solitude, Bobby buried her face in her hands for a private moment and cried.

And so concludes Act One of John Wick || Blood of the Raven King

You can Read John Wick || Blood of the Raven King // Act One Scene one & Scene Two Here!

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King George's Garden, Hyde Park, Sydney, Australia. Photographed 31st January 2021

©Small Fortunes

R.I.P Helen Wick

"It is under the shelter of each other that we flourish." ~ Irish proverb

Trope challenge JohnxHelen

Prompt: I’m your new neighbour and I got locked out, help!

Some days didn’t end. This one certainly wasn’t about to anytime soon. In fact, it had successfully earned a spot in Helen’s top three bad days of all time and I once lived in a house with twelve girls and two bathrooms.

Jesus.

I run my fingers through my hair, the stress seeping through me. I slam my fist against the door, fully aware that it will do me no good. I fucked up. I massively fucked up.

I had been in such a hurry to make it to my new job on time after oversleeping that I had grabbed the wrong keys. Rather than my new little house that I had scraped enough together to set a downpayment for, I had grabbed the keys to my old apartment out of habit.

I set my head against my door, eyes closed as the rain pours just feet away. Between the hectic and overwhelming first day at work and the lack of a vehicle, I’m ready to pass out and not wake up. I’m already soaked from the mile it took to walk back from the bus stop.

But I can’t get inside.

I loop around the house in a last, desperate plea to the universe to have had past me leave a window open. No such luck.

“Fuck!” I scream, coming back around to the front.

I’m in the rain now. There is no point in seeking shelter as I am soaked to the bone.

I rub my temple.

I’m locked out.

I haven’t made a spare set of keys.

My best hope was the realtor office in New York City, which was thirty minutes by car, much longer by bus.

I reach into my purse and pull out my phone. I still have the number of the realtor saved but as I turn the phone on, I am only met with a blank screen. I click it on again. Nothing.

“No, no, no.” I half-sob, trying a hard restart. Nothing.

Water damage. That was the only explanation. I hadn’t protected it and the poor phone hadn’t stood a chance in this utter downpour. I couldn’t even check the bus schedule or call for a taxi to take me to the train station.

I close my eyes and count to ten, even as my body shakes in the cold.

Radical acceptance, I remind myself. I preach it every day to kids I have worked with. Some things are beyond my control. I cannot change the circumstance. I can only accept them and move on.

God, no wonder my kids thought I was nuts.

How the hell was I supposed to accept this?

I don’t know when the next bus is coming but my only other choice is to break a window. And I can’t afford to fix that, not yet.

No point in wasting time. I walk to the end of my driveway. I chose the house because it was affordable. Partially because of its size, and partially because it’s in the middle of nowhere.

The realtor had told me that there were no neighbors close by. There were a few closer to town down by the bus stop but I had been warned that the homes were gang affiliated. The other was a man about half a mile up the road. I hadn’t met him and the realtor told me not to expect to. The old owners had lived at the house for six years and they had never spoken a word.

I like the road itself. On a bright day, it’s peaceful. You can almost forget how nearby Jersey City is just listening to the birds chirping and the quiet rustle of the trees. Today, though, it seemed unending.

I see headlights on the trees before I see the car. It’s small and black and must belong to the man up the street. No one else comes this way.

The car slows down and pulls off to the side, coming to a stop ten feet ahead of me.

The door opens and a man steps out. “Need a ride?”

He’s tall and handsome. Dark hair down to his shoulders with a beard to match. He was wearing a three-piece suit. He doesn’t seem to mind that its being quickly drenched in the downpour.

I shake my head, “Just going to the bus station.”

“The bus doesn’t come back around until nine tonight.” That’s what I was afraid of. “Are you the new owner of the little blue house?”

I nod.

“Where are you trying to get to.”

“New York.”

He nods, assessing the situation. “Why don’t you go home and change and I’ll drive you to the train station?”

Fuck, I really don’t want to have to admit this to myself let alone the attractive neighbor.

“It’s okay.” I tell him, “I’m fine with walking.“

"And waiting in the rain? At least let me take you back home so you can dry off and wait there.”

“I’m locked out,” I say, and I’m suddenly desperate to explain myself to this stranger. “I grabbed the wrong keys and my phone is water damaged and I sold my fucking car to get enough money for a downpayment on the house.”

He nods, “is there a set of keys in New York?”

I shrug, “it’s where the realtor is. It’s my best shot at getting in.”

“I live a mile up the road. Why don’t you come with me, get dried off. We can look up to see if the realtor is even open this late.”

“I…” it’s far too much to ask a stranger, “I can’t ask you-”

“You’re not asking. I’m offering. Please.”

The rain was pouring down around us. Two minutes to help a stranger and he was as soaked as I was.

I bite my lip, “are you sure?”

He nods and motions towards the passenger door.

I notice the logo on the car as I get closer. He’s driving a Mustang.

Fuck.

I open the door and he climbs back in. The seats are leather and I can’t imagine what sitting on them soaked will do.

“Don’t give a damn about the seats.” He says, “come on.”

I slide in and he turns the heat up. I only notice now just how fucking cold I am.

He starts the car. I wrap my arms around my middle and clench my jaw to try and stop the chattering of my teeth.

“Thank you,” I say as he drives us up the road.

He nods. “I’m John.”

“Helen,” I reply. “I, uh, obviously just moved in.”

The corner of John’s mouth twitches. “You work in New York?”

“Jersey City. I’m a social worker.”

The twitch becomes a smirk. “That’s a place that needs it.”

He wasn’t wrong. Not only was my new place of employment massively understaffed, but the entire city was also lacking enough social workers to reach all the adolescents in need of support.

He drives through an open white gate and his house comes into view. Christ. It’s modern. Sleek. A mansion in its own right, sloped and slated. I can’t even imagine what he must do. He taps a button attached to his sun visor and the first of a four garage spots opens. He pulls in and I see no other cars.

He puts the car into park and climbs out easily. I unbuckle my belt and follow. Everything is white. Pristine. I’m almost afraid to step on the floor but I am more afraid to make him wait. I hurry after him as he walks up to the door.

We come up into a huge living room.

“I have a shower upstairs you can use. Warm up.”

“Please.”

We go up another set of stairs. There’s a small hallway with a few bookcases and a set of leather chairs. There’s an open door to a bedroom. Plain and white walls with white furniture. He enters and I’m not sure if I’m supposed to follow him. He opens a bureau and pulls out a dark grey henley and a pair of black sweatpants.

“Shower’s through here.”

I follow him into the room and to the master bath. Christ. The view from his balcony is gorgeous, looking out over the green hills. The bathroom itself is huge. There is a large shower, stand only, with blue tiles. The shower alone was the size of the bathroom at my old apartment. He sets the clothes down on a vanity table and pulls a towel from beneath it.

“Take your time.” He tells me and leaves me alone. As soon as the door closes, I undress, desperate to get these wet clothes off. I let them fall to the floor and cross the room, turning on the shower.

The water pressure is amazing, the warmth spilling from the faucet and over me.

I stay under the water until I no longer feel my teeth chatter and then I wrap up in the fluffy towel supplied to me.

I dress quickly, drying my hair with the towel.

His clothes smell so fucking good.

I step out of the bathroom. His bedroom is empty but his clothes are left, airdrying, on a hook by the door.

I follow the path that I came up, through the door, down the stairs. He walks out from a door as I come down the stairs.

“Feel better?”

“Much. Thank you.”

He nods, “It’s a bit late for coffee but I have some. Or tea.”

“Honestly, with the day I’m having, I’ll take coffee.”

That corner of his mouth twitches yet again. “Cream? Sugar?”

“Cream. No sugar.” I follow him into the kitchen. He has a laptop set up on the breakfast bar. I climb up on a stool. “Can I…?”

He nods and I search up my realtor. Office hours… closed at five.

“Fuck.”

“Closed.”

“Yes.” I rest my head against my hand. Next step, next step…

“I might be able to help.” He hands me a plain green mug and I gulp down the bitter drink.

“You’ve already helped me so much.”

He smiles softly and climbs up onto the stool next to me. “I had… a rocky past as a kid. May or may not have done some breaking and entering. Do you know what kind of lock you have?”

I shake my head. “I don’t know. It’s standard in the knob lock.”

“That’s all?”

“Yeah.”

“Five minutes, tops.”

“Seriously?”

John nods. “Honestly, my advice to you is to get a new lock. A couple. Houses without obvious security, especially away from neighbors, are easy targets. You would have been a classic mark back in my day.”

I smile, “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“I’ll go grab my tools. Take your time.”

I nod my thanks.

He comes back with a handful of lock picks.

“Jeez.”

“I was quite the rebel.”

“I imagine. What do you do now?”

“Contracting. Political.”

I hum, “In New York?”

He nods, “Center of political culture.”

“How’d you get into that?”

“I was recruited. What about you? How did you get into social work?”

I sip at my coffee as he sits back next to me. “I was a foster kid.”

John nods in understanding, “I grew up in an orphanage in Belarus till I came to the US at six.”

“Dead or abandoned?” I wouldn’t ask so carelessly for most people but I got the feeling he was like me. It had been coped with and he had moved on.

“Dead. Dad died before my mom even know she was pregnant and she died giving birth. You?”

“Taken from the home when I was four. I had an aunt who tried to adopt me and got in the way of any couples adopting me until I was eleven. And eleven-year-olds in the foster system…” I shrug, “Bounced around some. Group homes for a bit during the teen years. Then back in foster care until I aged out.”

John nods again, “This world is fucked. I ran away the people raising me when I was fourteen.”

“Street life?”

He nodded. “I was lucky that I could pass for eighteen as soon as the beard came in. Picked up jobs where I could find them.”

“Broke into houses when you couldn’t?” I asked, not unkindly.

“Something like that.”

I finish my coffee.

“It’s hard, trying to navigate the world without guidance.”

“But you had a good social worker?”

I shake my head, “God no. He was the fucking worst. Maybe he just had too many kids on his caseload but I was at the bottom of his list. He would ignore my calls, not call me back for weeks at a time. Didn’t listen when things were bad.” I shrug, “He’s why I became a social worker. Because I want the next generation to have it better than I did. So less kids fall through the cracks.”

I stand up from the chair and John leads me back down to the garage. I’m thankful we don’t have to go out into the rain just yet. It barely takes a minute to make it from his garage to my driveway and, this time, John has preppared us with an umbrella. He climbs out of the car with it and runs over to my side to open my door.

Together we rush up to my house.

John takes out a set of lockpicking tools and kneels at my door.

“Really glad no one drives down this road.” I say with a small smile, “I wouldn’t want to have to explain this.”

John chuckles and inserts two of the tools, eyes squinted in fixed concentration. I watch as he wiggles one of the peaces, tilting his head to the side in what looks like slight confusion.

“If you can’t get it, I can look for a locksmi–”

There is an audible click and John twists the knob open.

My mouth drops. I look to him and the open door in awe.

“That was it?”

He smirks and climbs to his feet, “Like I said, you need to get some new locks. Nothing with a tumbler. At the very least, you need a deadbolt. But even that can be picked.”

“Jeez. Thank you. So much. You literally just saved my day.”

“No problem.” He says picking up his tools, “I appreciated the company.” He opens the umbrella, about to walk back to his car.

“Think, maybe, you could teach me to pick locks sometime?” I ask, “You know, if you have the time.”

John gives me a nod with a soft smile. “Tomorrow?”

I nod back. “Tomorrow.”

Maybe it wasn’t the worst day.

Judeth Clayton: Blood & Gold

Thirteen Beside the Queen.

And now she’s a broken mask in the Halls of Hell.

The Gods themselves will hold you down.

One last shot, two souls to sell.

Betrayed the cause for Love.

Rose to take the Throne.

Burned them all in revolution.

Fallen back to stone.

{[ @f0rtis-fortuna-adiuvat - @lalienna-dementriento - Proudly Introducing Judeth Clayton of John Wick || Blood & Gold ]}

I made a cup of tea today.

But by the time I had stopped crying it had gone cold.

....Not Quite Right.

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