Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The sound of tires on the cobblestone path up the road caught her ear, and she set the trowel back down into the small pan by her knees and froze, listening.

The few residents that had cars in the village were well adept at the various twists and turns of the narrow streets and their worn vehicles rattled around them confidently at high speeds.

The tourists who rented cars to drive here rarely brought them this far into town, and the ones who did were appropriately cautious about the blind turns and narrow one-way paths, creeping along as they followed various GPS devices to their destination. Plus it was the off-season, and no pilgrims would be making it to town for at least a few more weeks till the weather warmed up.

This vehicle’s bigger size and heavier weight was distributed better along the chassis, and its newer engine meant it rolled quietly over the paved stones, slowing easily to make the hairpin turn up the drive before continuing without hesitation closer to her end of the lane.

It only meant one thing.

She used the wall to push herself to her feet, ignoring the protest in her body from having kneeled too long in one place. She froze again, just long enough to confirm the car was still moving towards her, and once she did, she moved quickly to the other side of the kitchen, pulling a step stool out of the pantry and setting it down at the far side of the cupboards. She climbed the three steps carefully and stretched up to find the large ceramic pot pushed to the very back of the cabinet. She removed the top and set it down on the shelf before reaching inside the pot, her fingers wrapping around the desired object with a relieved sigh.

Her relief was short lived as the engine from the car got closer and the tires let out a gentle squeal as it braked to a stop outside the Inn. Closing the cupboard door she moved quietly towards the entryway from the kitchen, ducking slightly so as not to be visible through the kitchen windows.

She stood just behind the wall of the doorway, waiting. She flinched at the sound of the car door closing as someone got out of the vehicle and as the crisp footsteps of dress shoes clicked against the cobblestone street towards her door, she fixed her grip on the pistol in her right hand, bringing it up to hold against her heart and took a deep breath.

The footsteps changed sounds as the visitor made their way up the six rickety stairs that led to the front door, and this time she didn’t react to the several loud raps on the large wooden door, except to toggle the safety of the gun off, and steady her breathing, waiting.

The knocks came again a moment later, and when she still didn’t move, she heard the doorknob rattle as it turned, and the creak as the door swung open slowly.

“Katrine?” The visitor called, and she cursed inwardly when she recognized the voice. She waited until the visitor took three steps inside, staying hidden behind the now-open door, and as the visitor took a step past it, she cocked the gun, and pushed the muzzle into the side of his head.

“Kate,” the man said as he froze, not reacting to the weapon pressed to his head. “It’s good to see you haven’t lost your touch.”

“Winston,” she said cooly, “What are you doing here.”

“What, can’t I come and check in on an old friend?”

“I haven’t seen or heard from you in twelve years, and we are not friends.” She pushed the gun harder against his skin, and enjoyed watching his eyes widen in response. “Why are you here?”

He raised his hands, trying to wave her away. “Stand down. I have a bit of a delicate situation and I need your help.”

“And why on earth would I help you?”

“Because you owe me one. And you know it.”

She waited, unmoving. After a moment, he continued. “And because I don’t know who else I can trust with this.”

She bit her bottom lip, considering. As satisfying as shooting him would be, explaining it away in this tiny town would be all but impossible, not to mention the hell that would rain down on her if it was ever connected back to her. Which they inevitably would. She dropped her head in frustration, her shoulder pulling painfully as she did.

With a sigh she relaxed the hand holding the gun and used it to gesture for him to step inside so she could close the door behind him. Once she had led him into the kitchen, she nodded at him to sit at one of the chairs surrounding the large circular table. She took her seat at the chair directly across from him, and laid the gun down on the table in front of her. She watched his eyes follow it.

“Safety is still off,” he said, his gaze flicking between the gun and her face.

“It is.”

“I come in peace, you know,” he said, and she took him in. The wrinkles on his face were deeper and more set, his hair was greyer, but the suits were just as impeccably tailored, and he sported a new set of shiny white veneers. Same Winston.

“I believe you think you do,” she answered carefully. “But you and I both know that your bosses are behind everything you do. And they believe peace is bad for business.”

Winston inclined his head. “In this instance, I am temporarily operating outside the purviews of the Table.”

She scoffed. “You expect me to believe that after all these years, you would risk defying the Table?”

He raised his eyebrows, white and bushy. “It has been known to happen. Once or twice.” He looked at her pointedly.

She let out a frustrated groan. “I don’t know what I can do for you. I’m not connected to anything or anyone. I’m off the grid. What could you possibly need from me?”

“Exactly that.”

She waited for him to elaborate, but instead, he changed subjects. “You know, it’s polite to offer a guest tea when they’ve come to call. Especially when they’ve driven as far as I have to get here.”

She held his gaze for a moment, but could read nothing from the irritatingly smug expression on his face. With a sigh she pushed away from the table and went to the counter, pulling items from the cupboard. She felt his gaze on her back and self consciously tried to roll her shoulder and stand up straighter as she glanced back at him. “I can still get to it before you can,” she said, nodding to the gun on the table.

“Of that I have no doubt. And I have no interest in testing the theory, I assure you.”

“Hmmph,” she grunted, as she pulled down two cups from the shelves before turning to another cupboard to retrieve something else.

“You look well, Kate. I’m… glad to see it.” Her back was still to him and she rolled her eyes at his words.

“It would be hard to look worse than the last time you saw me,” she countered, balancing the items in her right hand and turning back to the table.

She set everything down, and Winston chuckled nervously. “I suppose you’re right about that. It’s a bit early for a drink, though, isn’t it?”

She felt his eyes watch her as she brought her left hand up to steady the bottle of whiskey as she uncorked it with her right, and poured two fingers of the amber liquid into the glasses she’d brought over. She offered him one, and settled back into her seat with the other before responding. “I have a feeling this conversation is going to require something stronger than tea.” She tipped her head back, downing the contents of the glass in as a single shot. She swallowed, not reacting as the liquid burned down her throat, and set the glass down in front her with a loud thunk on the table. When she looked up at him, Winston was wearing an expression of surprise which settled into the vestiges of respect.

“Why are you here?” She asked again. “Don’t tell me you just happened to be passing by on your way to exploring your heritage and walking the passage to Spain.

The older man lifted his drink, swirling the liquid around in the glass for a moment before taking a sip, swallowing with a grimace. “That’s terrible.”

She shrugged. “Only the cheap shit to be found here. Sooner you tell me what you want, the sooner you can go back to your single malt special reserves at the Continental.”

At the mention of his hotel, Winston’s expression changed just slightly, before his finely honed composure returned. Interesting, she thought, and filed it away.

Winston sighed. “As you say, you’re off the grid. The Table has no reason to consider you a threat anymore, and your own associations are long gone. And no offense, but you live in the middle of nowhere, so even if someone did go looking, it would take a long time for them to look here. But they won’t, because for all intents and purposes, they think he’s dead.”

“Who?” She asked, her frustration mounting as he continued speaking around the point.

“A… friend.” He stumbled over the word, as if it held more meaning for him than expected. “He was injured a few days ago in Paris. Badly. He had surgery, but he’s not woken up yet, and he needs somewhere safe to recover. Or not.”

“He’s not expected to live?”

Winston shrugged, and took another sip of his drink, not reacting this time to the caustic liquid. “The injuries he suffered most recently weren’t overtly life threatening, but his body has been through a lot. And quite frankly, I’m not sure he wants to live. The doctors say his scans are normal, but he’s not woken up, and even if he does, he won’t be able to defend himself right away. It's too dangerous for him to be in Paris, and he’s too unstable to take back to New York in his current condition.”

“I’m not a nurse.”

“No. But you were trained in field medicine in basic, where you not? And we both know that the fact you’re still here means you’ve learned enough along the way. I’ll provide any supplies you need. And you’ll be paid, of course. Well.”

“I don’t need your money.”

Winston sipped the whiskey again, giving a small, pointed cough after he swallowed, then craned his head around to the patch of the wall she’d been working on before he’d arrived. The small pan of wet concrete had started to crack and dry around the edges and the crumbled bricks she’d been using to try and seal the hole were strewn haphazardly on the floor; the open gap in the wall whistled steadily as it let in the freezing outside air. “It can’t be easy, keeping a place this age up to code. Especially in the off season, when there’s not much income. I know the French are fickle about their rules, especially in these small towns.”

“Winston..” she gritted her teeth and heard the anger building in her own voice, and it flashed hotter as he waved her off. “You cannot come here and threaten me-“

“I’ve done nothing of the sort,” he said, sipping at the drink again. “In fact, you’ll find that your mortgage has been paid in full for the next two years. As well as the back taxes and fees that were owed, and a generous stipend has been added to your account to cover any other structural issues you might need to have addressed.” He glanced at the hole in the wall again before returning his gaze to her. “I’ll also arrange for a few heaters to be delivered this afternoon. It’s freezing in here.”

She held his gaze a long moment, debating her options. “How long?” She asked finally.

Winston grinned victoriously. “Two weeks. If he wakes up and stabilizes, I’ll arrange passage home for him. I promised him that much. If he doesn’t-“ he trailed off, and again she was surprised when a flicker of something - sadness? Regret? Flashed across his face. “-then I’ll still arrange to have him brought home. It’s what he wants.”

She reached for the bottle and poured herself another drink, knocking it back and letting the burn trickle down her throat before she answered.

“Fine. Two weeks.”

Winston clapped his hands together. “Wonderful. Let’s go.” He stood up from the table and began walking towards the front door.

She started. “Wait, you brought him here? Now? I’m not prepared-.”

Winston opened the door and paused, flashing her a toothy grin. “This is a guest house, is it not? Aren’t you always ready for weary pilgrims who need a place to stay and recover from their travels?” Without waiting for her reply he turned away from her again.

“Winston, wait,” she called after him, but he was already making his way down the stairs.

“Fuck,” she muttered, before pushing away from the table and followed him outside.

—

She pulled the ends of her thin sweater around herself as she watched the scene from the top of the steps. As Winston reached the shiny black car, another man got out of the passenger seat, stretching his legs as he stood and looked around the town. He was older but not quite Winston’s age, dark-skinned, and was dressed, well, like a homeless man, a threadbare jacket over layers of mismatched clothes. She narrowed her eyes.

Winston gestured between them idly as he grasped the handle of the back door. “King, this is Kate. Kate, King.” He opened the back door, and Kate could see a man spread out across the back seat, his tall frame twisted to make him fit.

The other man looked up at her and grinned, coming to stand at the bottom of the steps. “Enchante, madam,” he said with a terrible French accent and a lecherous grin, and he held his hand out to her. She ignored it, and came down the other side of the steps, carefully sidestepping him.

“King?” She asked, as she walked past him.

“It’s a name, and a title, all in one. It’s good to be the King,” he added in a sing-songy voice, and she rolled her eyes, passing him to get a better look at the unconscious man.

She stepped in next to Winston, and leaned down, taking in the way the man’s left shoulder was bound and immobilized to his body, and the thick bandages covering his abdomen. Her gaze flickered up to his head, where several deep bruises mottled his hairline. She reached out and brushed a tangled knot of long dark hair from where it had fallen over his face to get a better look at the bruising, and froze.

“Winston,” she said, pulling her hand back away from the man. “Is this John W-“

Winston cut her off. “No,” he said firmly, as he motioned for King to help as they began to shift him out of the car. “Not anymore.”

Both men grunted as they began to maneuver him out of the car, and Kate placed her hand on Winston’s back, holding him in place. “Winston,” she said firmly, trying to keep the rising panic she was feeling out of her voice. “I can’t harbor him here. He’s a fugitive of the High Table. If they find out they’ll come for me. They’ll hurt my s-“

Winston cut her off again. “John Wick has been granted his freedom from the Table. They will not come for him. But he does have many enemies that still harbor a grudge, and who would not shy away from the chance to put a final bullet in a dying man, just to say they did.”

He nodded to King and they resumed lifting him, clearing his body from the car before carrying him, grunting and straining, up the steps. Kate didn’t offer to help but got ahead of them, opening the front door and guiding them to the last door on the right, one of the guest rooms that was blessedly still made up.

They set him unceremoniously onto the small twin bed, and she watched his head loll to the right as Winston and King puffed and panted from the exertion. King left the room, and she eyed the man in the bed more critically.

“Is that what he is?” she asked. “A dying man?” His torso was bare but for the bandages wrapped around it, and deep bruising peeked out above the bandage, in various shades of colors, and a staining of blood around the midsection. A bullet wound on his right bicep had been stitched closed, the skin around it angry and mottled.

Winston shook his head sadly. “I don’t know. At this point, only he can decide.”

King reentered the room carrying several bags of medical supplies and set them down, before handing Winston a red folder. Winston took it in for a moment before holding it out to her. “His medical records from Paris. They’re in French, but I presume that won’t be an issue?”

She shook her head, and took the file reluctantly, flipping through it. Words like “collapsed lung”, “liver laceration,” “head trauma” and “multiple previously healed fractures” jumped out at her, and she closed the folder and set it down on the bedside table.

“And if he dies? I won’t be responsible-”

Winston looked down at him sadly. ‘No heroic measures are to be taken.” His hand moved toward the figure in the bed, as if he was about to reach down to grasp the other man's hand before he caught himself and stepped back. “He’s done the impossible. Twice. At the very least he alone deserves the chance to decide if he lives or dies.”

He backed away from the bed and looked at her critically for a moment. “Will you need someone else to help care for him? Someone in the town I could hire to come-“

She cut him off immediately. “No.” When his gaze strayed back to her left arm, she added, ‘I have someone who works here in the afternoons. I’ll be fine.”

He studied her face for a moment, then reached into his pocket, and set a small burner phone down on top of the medical records. “Keep me informed of anything you do need. And any changes.”

He took a last look at the injured man. “Goodbye, Jonathan.” He said, before turning back to her. “Thank you, Katrine.” He gave her a nod, then followed King out the door and back down the hall. She listened as their footsteps receded and paused briefly at the front door. It closed behind them with a soft click, and moments later the car engine came to life and the wheels squeaked as they made a U-turn on the narrow street and returned the way it came.

She glanced back down to the man in the bed, his breathing shallow, his forehead flushed with beads of sweat forming at the hairline, in pain or fever, or both. She reached for the phone and slipped it into the pocket of her sweater, before lifting the folder with his medical records again, and opening it to look more closely.

“Well, John Wick,” she said to the unconscious man in the bed, as she began to read. “Welcome to the Auberge des Lions.”

Chapter Text

Kate looked around the small room, satisfied. It had taken several hours to get things set up, but the supplies Winston left had been thorough and the medical records complete enough to give her a blueprint to follow. IV fluids, some anti-inflammatories and antibiotics had all been run into him via the IV that had left taped in place in his right arm from the hospital. She’d managed to get him rearranged in the bed, his torso pushed forward enough with a pillow to replace the soaked -through wrappings on his shoulder and abdomen. In that position she’d also discovered more bruising on his back and along the length of his spine, deep purple contusions that told the tale of intense blunt force traumas. The rare skin on his body that wasn’t covered in bruising was pale despite the multiple transfusions he’d been given in the hospital, and she suspected continued blood loss was only one of his problems.

The medical records had expressed concern about evidence of multiple previously healed injuries and though she was not naïve about the circles and circumstances someone like this man might have been exposed to, the degree of damage to his body when she’d unwrapped the bandages had still been shocking. The question in her mind was less how had he survived whatever this final encounter had been, but more, how had he survived all the ones previously, to get him to this place.

He hadn’t stirred at any time during her efforts, and as she tucked away the rest of the supplies for use later, she considered, for not the first time since he’d shown up on her doorstep that morning, texting Winston and demanding he move the man elsewhere. Anywhere was fine with her, as long as it wasn’t here, threatening the tiny sanctuary she’d managed to create. After everything that had happened, how dare he try to collect on his debt with someone who could cause and inspire as much destruction as the infamous John Wick.

The longer she thought about it the angrier she got, and she was halfway through typing out a message to him when the buzzer at the front door rang. Instantly she was on alert, staying close to the wall as she left the room and moved back towards the front of the house, dipping into the kitchen to grab her gun from where she’d left it on table before moving back to the front door, checking to ensure the gun was cocked. Only then did she chance looking through the small peephole, cursing as she identified the visitor.

She quickly flipped the safety back onto the gun, slipping it into her pocket and pulling her sweater around her to hide it before turning the lock on the door and opening the handle.

“Rene,” she said, willing her heart rate to calm and forcing a relaxed smile. “I’m sorry, I forgot I locked the door earlier. Is it 3pm already?”

The teen boy nodded. “Oui, Ms. Katrine.” He gestured to his feet, and only then did she notice the several bags and parcels that had been left at the doorstep. “Pour vous?” He asked, eyes wide as he took in the deliveries.

She was about to say no, when she read the words printed on one of the boxes. A heater. She sighed. “Yes, I guess so. Can you help me bring them inside?”

The boy nodded and dropped his backpack inside the door, and together they took several trips bringing everything into the kitchen. As promised, three oil heaters had been delivered, along with an overstuffed grocery bag filled with produce. There was also a small duffel bag, and as she peered inside she found an array of mens clothing - sweatpants, t-shirts and sweaters, and a few other necessities the man might need. If he woke up.

“Pour toi?” Rene asked again, and she gave him a warning glance.

“English,” she chided gently, and he grinned. “For you? A boyfriend?” He laughed, even as her heart fell at how excited he looked as he teased.

She shook her head. She hadn’t thought about how she was going to explain this yet.

“Rene,” she started slowly, as she decided what to say. “There’s a guest in room 3. A… friend.” She stumbled over the word the same way Winston had, not missing the irony. “He’s not well. Très blessé,” she switched to French to make sure he understood. “Please don’t go in the room right now. OK? It’s very important.”

Rene nodded his head in agreement, and she closed her eyes for a moment, grateful his upbringing had taught him to follow instructions without question. When she opened them he was still looking at her, the same concerned expression on his face that she often caught him looking at her with.

“Good,” she said, going back to English, forcing a smile to try and reassure him. “Can you take one of the heaters upstairs for me? Then you can start with your usual work.”

He nodded again and she waited for him to disappear up the stairs with the box before looking at the contents of the other bags. She pulled at a piece of paper that was tucked into the string around a large linen bag overfilled with fresh produce.

You both could use some meat on your bones.
W-

She sighed heavily and set the note down as she began unpacking the bag. Underneath the produce were several wax wrapped parcels of fresh food - robust cuts of beef and chicken, a dozen eggs, two loaves of bread, some butter, and a few different cheeses.

She put everything away in the refrigerator, eyeing the few eggs and stale bread that were already inside before shutting it again and turning back to the last bag. She opened it and sighed as she pulled out a bottle of single malt reserve whiskey. She debated opening it then and there, but the shuffle of Rene’s footsteps on the floor above her made her reconsider. Turning back to the cupboards she climbed back onto the stepstool and set the bottle on the top shelf before carefully placing the gun back into the jar and pushing it into the back of the cupboards.

Despite her very real concerns, and the stress that the situation had brought to her, she found a part of herself almost hoping John Wick might actually wake up, if only so she could find out what it was about him that inspired this unparalleled level of loyalty in Winston.

—

If John Wick didn’t wake up soon, she just might kill him herself.

The thought crossed her mind for at least the dozenth time that day as she finished rebandaging the wound on his abdomen. Three days in and the oozing from his wounds had slowed down considerably, and his color was starting to look more normal. His fever had broken yesterday morning, and the bruising across his chest and back, if not still a kaleidoscope of different shades, at least had stopped spreading, and in a few places was startling to fade away.

That was all the good news. The bigger issue was one she hadn’t quite decided how to address.

She busied herself pulling the sweats back down over his stomach, and as she tugged the sleeve down on his right arm, she realized her opening. Unplugging the IV line from the port, she coiled the line up on the hook, then carefully peeled the tape from his arm and removed the kinked catheter from his vein, tossing it into the trash.

After adjusting the oil heater in the corner so the room wouldn’t get too warm overnight she stepped out, returning a moment later with a large glass of water that she set down on the bedside table by his right arm.

“Your IV is blown,” she said, carefully watching his face. “So you can drink some water on your own tonight when I leave the room, or you can die slowly of dehydration. Your choice.”

She continued watching him for a moment, unsurprised when he didn’t react in any way. “Right then,” she said, and flicked off the light before stepping out, and closing the door behind her to head upstairs to her own room.

The next morning, she had to fight a satisfied smirk when she opened the door and found the water glass next to him half empty. He appeared just as he had last night, unconscious and unmoving, but she was unsurprised when his voice, weak and raspy from disuse, came from the bed as she was turned away from him readying supplies.

“Is this hell?” He asked slowly, each word a struggle for him to get out.

She turned. His eyes were open, clouded with a haze of pain and confusion, but keenly present all the same. “Close,” she said, taking a step towards him before pausing again. “Rural France.”

She watched him take this in, the implications clearly running through his mind as he considered it. If anything he looked disappointed, as if eternal damnation might have been the preferred answer over continued life here.

She couldn’t blame him. She’d had much the same thought many times in the last decade.

“You were shot,” she said, not sure why she felt the need to help explain things to him. “Well, that’s the part that’s easy to guess. The rest of it - well, it looks like you went a few rounds with a train and lost?” She waited a beat to see if he’d shed any light as to what had brought him to this state, but when he remained silent, she continued. “Your friend, Winston, brought you here. Uninvited, I might add. He wasn’t sure you were going to wake up, and didn’t want some thug trying to make a name for himself putting a bullet in your brain before you could make the decision for yourself, so lucky me, here you are.”

She pulled the cell phone Winston gave her out of her pocket and looked down at the date on the screen pointedly. “I told Winston I’d keep you here for two weeks. You were unconscious for the first three, and faking it for the last one, so you’ve got 10 days.” She shrugged. “Use them wisely.”

Instead of responding he pushed weakly against the bed with his right hand, trying to get purchase to lever himself up to sitting. She moved to his side, helping support his body and shoving another pillow behind his back to keep him upright. Though he didn’t make any noise, she noted how he became instantly pale and clammy as he closed his eyes and fought against the pain and nausea the movement brought.

“Here,” she said, holding out her hand to him. He cracked open one eye to take her in, then slowly raised his hand to her palm. She dropped three pills into it, and nodded for him to take them. “Pain pills and antibiotics. I haven’t seen the x-rays but the report from the hospital in Paris said you had eight broken ribs. One of them punctured your lung so they had to reinflate it, which in my experience hurts like a hell. They pinned the fractures in your collarbone when they cleaned out the bullet hole, and you lost a few feet of gut from that one,” she gestured to the bandage on his lower abdomen.

He didn’t respond as she listed off his injuries, except to continue studying the pills in his hand. After a moment, he shakily brought them to his mouth, and she handed him his glass to swallow them down before taking it back.

“Let those kick in. I’ll be back with something for you to eat.”

He found his voice again as she turned and reached the doorway. “How?”

She paused, momentarily confused about what he was asking, then turned back to him, the expression on his face confirming the question. “How did I know you were awake, you mean?”

He blinked.

She dipped her head towards him. “Your breathing. The cadence changed when you regained consciousness. The whole “breathe through the pain” thing when your ribs are broken is a real sonofabitch, isn’t it?”

The flicker of emotion that ran across his face had her turning away and retreating for the door again, lest he see the vestiges of the satisfied smirk on her face.

—

He woke from an unsettled sleep with a start, all senses on alert. Even through the drawn curtains of the room he could tell the sun was lower in the sky, the darkening rays of light casting an orange hue on the old stone of the walls.

Above him he could hear footsteps as the floorboards creaked with every moment, and the muffled sound of voices wafted through the old building. Two voices, he realized, as he listened to the cadence of the sound, unable to make out anything that was being said. That made sense; yesterday when he’d still been feigning sleep as he tried to glean more information about his situation, he’d heard the boy arrive in the afternoon, and enough of the conversation he and the woman had had in the hallway to discern he must work here for a few hours a day. Wherever ‘here’ was, which he still hadn’t really been able to figure out. The woman had said Winston had sent him here for care from Paris, but it obviously wasn’t a hospital; from the little he’d seen of it he’d be tempted to chock it up to some low end guest house, but that hardly made sense either given the woman and the boy were the only ones who seemed to be there.

He shifted slightly in the bed, trying to relieve the pressure on the bruises on his back, and groaned as the action only served to wake up his broken ribs, and they pulled and shifted as he tried to move his torso. He’d cataloged the injuries he could discern since he’d woken up, but the woman giving him the rundown had been helpful, if only to rule out some of the more sinister possibilities he’d considered, but it had also been lacking, as there wasn’t a part of his body that didn’t feel like it was swollen or bruised, if not overtly cracked or broken. He’d tried twice to get to his feet last night, determined to get out of this place before the woman woke up, but it was no use; he’d collapsed back on the bed both times without successfully making it upright. As he’d first learned several months ago now during his extended stay in the underground of the Bowery, even he had limitations of how far he could push his body on sheer will alone, and sadly it seemed he had once again reached them.

He remembered the duel. Remembered the satisfaction of shooting the Marquis. The relief in hearing the Harbinger declare, out loud, that it was finally over, that he was free of the Table. The gratitude that Caine had understood the unspoken plan and had emerged from the duel mostly intact but most importantly also free, able to move on in his life and with any luck, reconcile with his daughter without fearing for her safety.

He remembered the comfort of realizing he was going to see Helen again, very, very soon.

Then, nothing. He hadn’t known if he had been out a day, a week, or a month. The next thing he knew he’d woken up in this place - wherever it was - in a cramped bed, with an unknown caretaker. If the things she muttered to herself as she repacked his wounds and administered medication while she thought he was comatose were any indication, she had no desire at all for him to be there.

A good death only comes after a good life.

The words he and Caine had exchanged the night before the duel came back to him, and he chided himself for thinking the universe might have granted him the peace of death. It seemed that the cycle of his life - desperation to survive, a too-short period of relief and safety and love, then the pain of loss, and a great battle that left him clinging to a life he didn’t want to live - was doomed to repeat itself.

A thought occurred to him and he sighed. The woman had known he was faking sleep. Which meant the muttering hadn’t been just to herself. So, she was openly hostile about having him there. Also good to know.

He heard the footsteps above as they descended the stairs and approached the room. There was a short, sharp knock on the door and before he could answer it swung open, and the woman was there, her brows crossed and gaze hard as she approached him, closing the door behind her.

He’d been watching her, even before he’d admitted to being awake, trying to figure her out, but she was an anomaly that didn’t make sense with the information he had. Her clothes - a beige linen skirt, light blue button up blouse and a threadbare long grey sweater she wore over it, looked the part of the rural France she’d told him they were in. But she was clearly American; her speech had a slight East Coast accent - Connecticut or Upstate New York, if he had to guess, and her enunciation and the crispness of her speech placed her from a good family. Quality upbringing. Well-educated. She seemed to be the owner of whatever kind of building they were in, but from the thin sheets and sparse rooms, he had to wonder where that family money was now.

More confusing was her physical appearance. Helen had always excluded warmth, both in her personality and appearance, her soft, alluring curves, her features which could so easily flash him a smile that would melt his fiercest walls, the softness of her coffee colored hair, the curls falling easily over her shoulders. While beautiful, this woman was ice in every way that Helen had been warmth. She was tall but almost painfully gaunt, hollows in her cheekbones and the thinness of her wrists he’d noticed as she’d rewrapped his bandages yesterday. Her skin was pale, which highlighted the slight bruising under her eyes, telling of a chronic lack of sleep that went far beyond what could be blamed on his time here. Her eyes were a stunning shade of ice blue, which made the near-blackness of her mostly straight shoulder-length hair even more unusual.

In another situation, he’d have no trouble believing her to be on the cusp of society, at home at fancy cocktail parties in tight black dresses that showed off her lithe body. But there were surely no society parties to be had here and if he had to guess, it had been a long time since she’d seen anything that resembled that type of crowd. Instead, he’d noted the slightest limp in her gait, and that her left shoulder was uneven with the other, and she mostly avoided using that arm.

His body wasn’t the only one that had seen extreme trauma in this place, of that he was certain.

She cleared her throat with an annoyed expression, and he winced at being caught out not listening to her. He looked up, and she sighed.

“I said, ‘How's your pain level? Do you need more meds?’”

He considered briefly, then shook his head no. He was in pain, but he wanted to remain clear headed, and whatever he’d been prescribed seemed to almost instantly make him pass out.

“Are you hungry?”

He shook his head again. Even the thought of food made his stomach turn, though if that was due to his injuries, or simply because it had been so long since he’d eaten, he couldn't be sure.

“Suit yourself,” she said.

He shifted in the bed to relieve the pressure off a bruise on his right hip and was reminded of one thing he did need.

“Catheter,” he said and looked pointedly down his body.

This immediately elicited another pained sigh from her, but before she could answer she stiffened, as the other set of footsteps could be heard starting down the stairs.

“Katrine?” The boy’s voice called from the stairs, and John watched as her expression changed, first softening, then setting daggers into him as she took him in, as if daring him to say anything.

“One minute, Rene. I’ll be right there.” She called through the door, then turned back to him, her gaze ice. “Rene goes home at six. Once he does I’ll come help you. If you can stand and walk to the bathroom, we can remove the catheter. If you can’t, it stays in. I’m already cleaning up enough of Winston’s mess, I’m not cleaning that up too.”

Without saying another word she turned back the door and slipped out, closing it behind her with a definitive click. As he relaxed back into the pillows, shifting slightly as he tried to find a position that wasn’t painful to lay in, his mind wandered again, as he tried to answer what had quickly become the most pressing question.

Who the hell was she, and why had Wintson left him here?

Chapter Text

Kate knocked on the door again, more forcefully this time. “Did you die?” She called through the door, slightly concerned that the exertion of getting John to the bathroom might have been too much for his body.

Her hand was on the knob getting ready to turn it and check on him when she heard him bark out in a low rasp, “Give me a minute.”

Well, that answered one question she had: it turned out he could say more than one word at a time, all prior evidence to the contrary. Their interactions through the day had been little more than perfunctory as she’d checked on him and he’d answered her queries about how he was feeling and what he needed in gruff, single-syllable responses.

That was fine with her - the less she knew about him or his situation, the better. She didn’t know much about John Wick beyond the reputation of the Baba Yaga that was hidden behind dozens of myths and rumors about his apparent superhuman-like proficiency in his field. However, she knew too well the kind of trouble that got a person into the condition he was in, and getting anywhere near that was a mistake she knew better than to make again.

A shuffle of movement and a grunt of pain sounded from behind the closed door, and when nothing else happened for another minute, she knocked again.

“I’m coming in,” she warned, before turning the knob. She opened the door slowly to find John sitting fully clothed on the closed toilet, slouched into the wall for support and breathing heavily. On the floor next to him was the urinary catheter and collection bag he had pulled out, and she leaned down, picking up the two ends of the bag using a tissue, wrinkling her nose.

“Stay there,” she said unnecessarily, quite sure without help he wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon, as she took the offending item out the back door to the garbage bin.

When she got back he hadn’t moved, and she looked down at him, assessing. His long hair obscured most of his face in this position, the strands clumped and greasy. His left shoulder and arm hung limply in the sling, and for not the first time since she’d seen it she wondered what else was going on there that the doctors in Paris might have not noticed.

He turned his head to glance up at her with his left eye and she held his gaze, the burst blood vessels in his sclera clearly visible, deep red inkblots stark against the white of his eyes. He didn’t say anything, but after a long moment he reached his right hand out to her, and she took the hint, grasping his forearm and pulling as he lurched to his feet, groaning. He staggered once before finding his balance, and she could feel his muscles trembling under the damp cloth of his shirt where her hand wrapped around his bicep.

“Can you make it back?” she asked, not quite sure what the plan would be if he said no.

“Yeah,” he grunted, not waiting for her to react as he took a halting step forward, then another. At the door to the bathroom he grabbed for the door jam and she adjusted her position, coming to stand on the left side of him with her hand around his back to help steady him as he levered his weight between her and the wall for balance as he lumbered slowly down the hallway.

Making it back to his room, he had pushed off the wall again and they were within two steps of the bed when he stumbled, his tired limbs tripping over themselves, and he started to go down like a ton of bricks. Kate instinctively tightened her grip around his waist to try and keep him upright, but she was no match for his dead weight. He pivoted around her to try and lever his body to fall onto the bed. A push from both of them got him there and as he crumpled towards the bed he instinctively grabbed for her other arm to try and slow the impact, pulling it and her down on top of him. Her arm lit up with pain from the unexpected movement, and she bit her lip hard to suppress a cry as she scrambled to extract herself from his grip as he breathed heavily atop the bed, the exertion wearing him out.

Pain radiated from her shoulder down to the tips of her fingers and up to her neck and spine, like a million bolts of lightning going straight through her body. She felt the edges of her vision narrowing in on her and she gritted her teeth to try to keep from blacking out as she backed out of the room. She cradled her left arm to her body, relieved that he was too occupied with his own pain to notice her reaction. Through clenched teeth she addressed him, forcing the words out of her mouth between waves of pain. “There’s water by the bed. I’ll help you in the morning, don’t try to get up alone.”

She made it through the door and closed it halfway before taking a second to try and gather herself in the privacy behind it. She fought to steady her breathing as she gasped through ragged breaths, and she leaned her forehead into the cool wood of the door to force her body to relax despite the unrelenting pain. Pushing away from the door reluctantly, she cautioned him harshly, "If you go down, you just might have to stay there." Turning away, she almost fled back up the stairs, desperate to get to the privacy of her own room before she lost control or consciousness.

–

She was halfway through getting dressed the next morning when she heard the toilet downstairs flush, followed a few moments later by a loud crash. She swore under her breath as she carefully shrugged the faded grey sweater over her blouse, pulling the sides together and knotting the tie in the front. She had slept later this morning than she usually did, thanks in part to the two generous shots of whiskey she’d taken to try and numb the pain in her arm. It had worked, maybe a little too well, as the soft light streaming through the windows had finally woken her, and, apparently, her unwanted houseguest.

She made her way down the stairs, relieved when she didn’t find him sprawled on the floor of the hallway. Reaching the ground floor she next checked the bathroom, which was also empty. Finding the same in his room she turned down the hall to the front of the house, wondering if he was stupid enough to try and leave in his condition, but stopped short at the doorway to the kitchen.

In any other case, on any other day, the scene would be somewhat normal. A guest of the inn, sitting at her table, waiting for breakfast or a coffee, eager to chat about their plan for the day or ask her questions about the area.

This situation was anything but normal.

He was sitting in one of the chairs at the table; well, more like sprawled, she mentally amended, as the sound she’d heard had obviously been him collapsing into it. His gaze was fixed on the surface of the table and he didn’t look up as she approached, but she saw the way every working muscle in his body tensed at the sound of her steps behind him.

“I thought I told you to wait for me,” she said, forcing herself to move forward into the kitchen, crossing to the fridge and examining the contents from what Winston had sent over.

“I thought I could make it,” he said to her back, his voice stronger today, the deep baritone rumbling through the open space.

“Hmm,” she responded, grabbing the milk and eggs with her right hand before turning back to him, letting the fridge door shut behind her. “And how did that work out for you?”

He didn’t answer, but met her gaze for a moment, his deep brown eyes much clearer than they had been yesterday as he took her in, sizing her up. She turned away again.

“Water or tea?” she asked as she filled the kettle and placed it to heat on the stove before locating a skillet and setting it on a different burner.

“Coffee?”

“Machine’s busted.” Without turning around she gestured to the drip machine in the corner of the countertop that had burned out towards the end of last season. “I suppose with Winston’s generous stipend for taking care of you I could get another one, but there are a few more things around here that are a bit more pressing than a new coffee maker to take care of first.” She nodded her head to the far wall, where Rene had stretched several plastic bags over the missing bricks and taped them into place to keep the cold and wind out. An inelegant solution for sure, but she had to admit between it and the new oil heaters, at least it wasn’t as freezing inside as it had been a few days ago.

Satisfied with the temperature of the skillet she cracked two eggs into it, letting them begin to cook as she returned to the fridge and retrieved the cheese and bread that Winston had also sent over.

The kettle whistled as the eggs finished up and the bread popped out of the toaster. Setting a teabag in the first mug, she walked it over and set it down in front of him. “Let me guess, no milk or sugar?”

He grunted.

She felt his eyes on her again as she returned to the counter, and she made a point to carefully grasp a plate in each hand before setting one in front of him, and the other at the spot opposite of him, much as she’d sat across from Winston days ago. Finally returning with her own tea, she sat, and raised the mug to him in a mock toast. “Normally I’d offer you some whiskey to go with your tea, but given your condition, that seems ill-advised.”

He nodded, staring at the food on the plate in front of him.

“You should eat something, though,” she said, taking a bite of the toast. “By all accounts, it’s been several days.”

“More than that,” he choked out gruffly, before picking up a piece of bread and taking a tentative bite, seemingly not quite trusting how his body would react to food.

They continued eating their breakfast in silence, him with increasing gusto for the food. After several minutes, he spoke again.

“Saint Girons?”

She looked up from her own nearly-finished toast with surprise, his voice breaking through the quiet of the house.

He nodded to the table where one of the brochures for the Inn was sitting next to his plate. He must have found it from the display in the entryway, and she frowned. How long had he been up and poking around before she’d heard him?

He turned the brochure over, where several full color photos of the area showed off the bridges and rivers of the local terrain. “Looks picturesque.”

She scoffed. “Lots of things do, till you get a better look at them.” She considered leaving it there, then changed her mind. “Le Chemin de la Liberté.”

“The freedom trail,” he translated back, almost instantly.

“You speak French,” she said. “Ça aurait pu être utile à Paris, si tu avais été conscient bien sûr.” That might have come in handy in Paris, if you’d been conscious, that is.

She switched back to English. “Your medical records had several… shall we say, colorful theories as to what could have caused your injuries. Seems you created quite a stir at the hospital. No wonder Winston wanted you out of there.”

He didn’t respond to that, but instead took her in again. She could feel him assessing her. Calculating if she posed a risk to him. “Your French accent is flawless, but you’re American,” He said, finally. There was no question in his statement.

“I am,” she confirmed, without volunteering anything further and picked up her toast.

“Katrine?” He asked and she nodded her head towards the town outside the kitchen windows.

“The French call me Katrine. My name is Kate.”

By the expectant look on his face she could tell he was waiting for her to reveal her last name, and before he could ask, she turned the question back to him. “And you. John Wi-“

“John.” His voice took on a quieter tone, even as he lowered his eyes back to the table. “Just John.”

She waited a beat for him to raise his gaze again, and when he didn’t, she gave a short nod of understanding.

The awkward introductions put a stop to his questions and after a long moment of shared silence they both went back to their breakfasts, the only sound in the kitchen the scrape of silverware against the plates and the plastic covering the broken wall rippling slightly from the wind . Kate finished her toast and sipped her tea, watching him out of the corner of her eye as he tried not to eat voraciously, satisfied that at least he wouldn’t die of starvation before she shipped him back to Winston.

Before long his plate was clean, and she stood to collect it, pointing to a photo of the mountains in the brochure next to him as she did.

“When France was divided in World War Two, this region, Ariege, was still free. Saint Girons became the starting point for a secret escape route for Jews and refugees to leave the country over the Pyrenees into Northern Spain. Several other routes also came in and out of use, but the Saint Giron path remained operational for the duration of the war. The trek was arduous, taken on by men, women, children and the elderly alike, and many died on the journey, either from German forces on patrol, or from the crossing itself. But despite the danger, it was a path to freedom, for those who had no other options.”

His eyes widened at that, and his gaze changed as he suddenly looked far away, lost in his own thoughts.

She took his plate from the table, returning it to the sink and turning on the water as she continued. “The trail is a historical site now. Pilgrims from all over the world come to retrace their ancestors' path, or feel the history of it, of the horrible things that happened here, and how the actions of a few who helped to guide the crossings saved thousands of lives.”

She glanced back at him as she picked up a dish towel and began to dry off the plates by hand.

“That’s the thing about our actions, isn’t it. We can never truly know when one of our choices has the potential to change everything. For ourselves, or for the history of the world.” She sighed, and gestured out towards the town outside the kitchen window with the dry plate before setting it back in the cupboard. “The whole path is over 70km, with many high altitude climbs, and Saint Girons is where they gather before setting off.”

She turned and chanced a look at him, wiping her hands on a rag as she did. His attention was back on her again, but instead of the intense assessment of earlier he seemed more relaxed, taking in what she was telling him.

“Slow season?” he asked finally, and it took a minute for her to figure out what he was asking, but as she did she nodded.

“The path is even more treacherous in the winter. Only the most experienced or those with a death wish try to cross until the snow melts in the mountains and the last of the winter storms pass. The town is quiet until that happens, and then the pilgrims arrive. A few more weeks and they’ll start trickling in.”

He nodded in understanding but it quickly turned into a wince as one of his wounds reminded him of their presence.

“You should go lay down,” she said, coming round to him again. “You shouldn’t be on your feet at all yet. I have to do some work upstairs, but I’ll be back down in a few hours. Can I trust that you’ll stay in bed and not try to traipse around until then?”

He didn’t answer, but carefully turned his body in the chair, planting his feet on the ground and grasped the table with his good arm. She moved in to help support him again from the left but he waved her away. “I got it,” he barked out gruffly, and she watched as he levered himself to standing with a pained groan. His bruised knuckles were almost white as he gripped the table for dear life as he found his balance on his feet again, seemingly determined to prove he didn’t need her assistance.

She retrieved his mug from the table. “I’ll make some more tea, bring it to you so you can take your medication. Don’t be a hero and try not to take it. The pain isn’t worth it.” She didn’t expect him to answer and he didn’t, and as she busied herself turning the kettle back on and getting another teabag ready she listened to his heavy footsteps on the cement floor, each one a struggle between his will and his body. When he paused and spoke again, she couldn't help the slight startle that went through her body.

“So why are you here? Family, or history?”

She forced herself not to respond physically, to keep her body from reacting to his words, before finally speaking her answer to the countertop.

“Everything we do in life has consequences, John. This place is mine.”

Chapter Text

John was dozing in bed, letting the pain meds she’d given him wear down the worst of the discomfort in his body, when he heard the front door open and close. Checking the clock next to the bed, he found it had only been about two hours since Kate had gone upstairs, and he hadn’t heard her come back down. As he continued listening his body tensed and he bit back a moan as he tried to lever himself up, his eyes darting around the room for something that could be used as a weapon even as he tried and failed to rise on his first try.

“Katrine?” A boy’s voice called from the entryway, and John recognized it as belonging to the kid who worked at the inn. He sagged back into the pillows, the pain from even that small attempt at movement momentarily overwhelming.

Kate had left the door to his room partially open, so when the boy made his way down the hall and passed his room calling for her again, John responded.

“She’s not here.”

There was a shuffle of footsteps and a teen appeared in the doorway. He couldn’t have been any older than 14 but was tall and lanky, his sinewy frame all long limbs and features that spoke of a growth spurt that no amount of eating could keep up with. His chocolate brown hair was wavy and unruly despite being cut short, and he had matching hazel eyes that were kind and intelligent. He carried a book in one hand, and a large cloth shopping bag in the other.

“Hello,” John said, trying to ease the boy's obvious nervousness. “I’m John.”

“I am Rene.” The boy was careful to speak slowly, enunciating the words as he practiced them in English. “Katrine is not here?”

John shook his head. “She said she was working upstairs for a while. That was a few hours ago, but she hasn’t been back down yet.”

“Oh.” Rene looked strangely concerned at that tidbit of information and glanced back towards the hallway. “Then maybe I will leave this for her and go.”

“You aren’t working today?” John asked, still trying to get a handle on the schedule the boy kept.

“No, it’s Sunday,” Rene said, as if John was the only person on earth who couldn’t possibly know this.

John nodded, considering. “Well, I’m sure she’ll be disappointed to have missed you. You could go upstairs and check in with her?” The affection Kate had for the boy was unmistakable, and he was starting to realize why. Rene shook his head and was about to answer as John moved to sit up, swearing under his breath when one of his ribs shifted, sending tiny pinpricks of pain through his chest.

Dropping the bag, Rene took several steps into the room before stopping at the foot of the bed, looking conflicted. “Are you OK, Mr. John.”

“Yeah, kid. I’m fine. What’s in the bag?” He gestured towards the bag the boy had dropped, hoping to change the subject.

“A delivery for Katrine. I was at the market after church and the-” his brows furrowed as he tried to think of the word. “L’epicier,” he mumbled to himself as he struggled.

“Grocer?” John supplied, and the boy nodded.

“Yes, Grocer! He said someone had ordered for Ms. Katrine, and asked if I would bring it here.” He cocked his head, giving John a more serious once over. “You speak French?”

“Un peu.” A little.

The boy grinned, his enthusiasm growing. "Katrine m'aide à pratiquer l'anglais quand je suis ici.” Katrine helps me practice English when I am here.” He took a step closer to John. “Elle a dit que vous étiez blessé. Qu'est-ce qui vous est arrivé?“ She said you were injured. What happened to you?

John sighed at the loadedness of the question. “I had a bit of a run in with a few cars. Fell down some stairs. And jumped out a window.” He left the multiple gunshot wounds, stabbings, and other penetration injuries off the list, for fear of giving the boy nightmares, as his kind eyes were already as big as saucers as he took the information in.

“Out a window? How high?”

John chuckled softly, then gripped his ribs to still them as the action caused another burst of pain. “4th or 5th floor, I think. I didn’t really pay attention at the time.”

Rene’s eyes got impossibly wider.

“Why?”

“I was being chased. And was late. It was the fastest way out.”

The boy nodded, clearly still dumbstruck. “Katrine has never had a friend here before.”

John added this to the mental tally he was keeping about her. “Is that so?” He asked carefully.

“Oui.”

“Well, I won’t be here for long. As soon as I can travel I have to leave. ”

“To America?”

He nodded. “New York.”

Rene’s expression got impossibly brighter. “I want to visit America one day! Do you live there?” He asked, as if it was the most glamorous thing he could imagine.

John was about to nod his head yes, but paused, considering. The house he had shared with Helen, their home, had been destroyed six months ago by Santino. The Continental, which had been his home away from home for so long before he got out the first time was itself gone, destroyed, as punishment for his sins. The last five months he’d spent holed up in the sewers of the Bowery had hardly been a home, and the idea of returning to the underground for even a moment made him feel sick.

There had been only thing keeping him together, focused, these last months. It had driven him to excommunicado. It had driven his recovery from the shot on the roof. The squalor of the underground had only fueled his rage further, which had driven him to get stronger. Train harder. To do anything he had to do to reach his goal.

Kill them all.

The singular focus had also kept him from drowning in grief. From considering the smoldering pile of rubble that had once been the only home he’d ever truly had and the last tie he had to Helen. So long as he pushed himself further every day, trained that much harder, forced his body to recover from impossible injuries that much faster, he didn’t have to think about what might happen after, because there was no after. His was a suicide mission, and so long as his own demise came after theirs, he welcomed it.

I’m going to kill them all, included himself.

And now, another impossible life. No home. No family. No place he belonged on this earth. He was no longer John Wick, husband of Helen, nor was he John Wick, the Baba Yaga, Lo Spettro. Every part of his identity had been stripped from him, by choice or by consequence.

He looked up at Rene, still hanging on his words, waiting for an answer, and at that moment John realized he was as alone in the world now as he had been when he was the boy’s age, cut loose from the Ruska Roma, living life on the streets, desperate for any kind of shelter where he could feel safe for a few hours, a few days. For a short time that hadn’t been his life anymore - Helen had brought that to him, and she was gone. Without her, without the life he had with her to fall back on, he had nothing. Was nothing.

John shook his head slowly. “No. I don’t live there. Not anymore.” I don’t live anywhere anymore.

The boy opened his mouth to say something, but the sound of footsteps coming down the stairs interrupted his response.

“Rene? Is that you?” Kate’s voice rang out from the stairwell, and her footsteps approached. Before the boy could answer she appeared in the doorway and froze.

“What-“ She looked from the boy to John, and he watched as her expression tightened instantly. She narrowed her eyes, the ice blue of her irises suddenly flashing pure fire as she pursed her lips, her mouth pursed into a thin line. She glared at John for a long moment before turning her attention back to the boy. “Rene, I told you not to come in here.”

Rene became instantly flustered, a blush rising on his pale skin as he stammered an apology.

“It’s my fault,” John interjected, trying to diffuse the situation. “I couldn’t reach my water glass. I heard him arrive and asked him for help.” He caught the boy's wide eyed stare and settled him with a subtle nod at the lie.

The words had the desired effect, transferring Kate’s anger from Rene to him. She looked between them both, blinking as her body vibrated in barely-contained rage. Finally she settled her gaze back on the boy, visibly forcing herself to speak to him more calmly. “Rene, take the bag from the market into the kitchen and go home. I'll see you tomorrow.”

He nodded, and John watched her as she watched him leave, her gaze following the child until he was out of her sight. When she turned back towards him, he was taken aback to see fear in her eyes, layered just below the anger. He watched as she tried to control her emotions, biting the inside of her lip even as she stood taller, but it was still there in her gaze, an emotion he understood only too well.

She jumped at the sound of the front door closing as Rene left the house and again he could see a tremor run through her body. He braced himself, adjusting himself in the bed to sit up further, not relishing the idea of taking whatever hell she was about to rain down on him laying down. But instead of addressing him again she seemed to change her mind, turning from the room and closing his door behind her before making her way back down the hall.

He heard her footsteps turn into the kitchen, and the rustle of the cabinets opening and closing before the scrape of the chair against the floor and the sound of a glass being set atop the table.

Then there was silence.

—--

He waited over twenty minutes, watching the minutes tick by on the clock on the wall, as he debated what to do. On one hand, he had no desire to further provoke her, and thought it better for both his tenuous position in her space and his even more tenuous physical condition to not engage her until she had a chance to recover from what had just transpired.

On the other hand, he recognized the look in her eye as she’d watched Rene leave the room. He knew that look too well, the one that spoke of the terror of having the thing you loved most ripped away from you, and being powerless to stop it. He had seen it in himself too recently to not feel for her, and while he didn’t have the whole picture of her situation, it was quite clear she was otherwise alone here, without anyone to confide in, much less lean on.

Not that you’re the one to do that, his mind supplied, and he agreed, at least theoretically.

Then he remembered Marcus. And Aurelio. Addy. Sofia. And the few others who had, somewhere along the way, reached out to him, after. And how much their words had meant when they had. At the time they’d seemed empty, a weak attempt to fill the unfillable, but with a bit of distance, John had come to appreciate them for what they were, gestures meant to connect, to show him that he wasn’t alone with his grief, much as it felt that way for so long. The last six months of isolation had taken its toll on him, and from what he could tell, Kate had been isolated here for over a decade. She owed him nothing and she had taken him in; the least he could do was offer her a moment of solace. And if she wasn’t able to accept, he understood that only too well, also.

He levered himself from the bed, grateful that the meds he’d taken after breakfast were still swimming in his system. His first few steps were unsteady and he had to reach for the door jam to steady himself. Glancing down he remembered the walking stick he had noted and liberated from the entryway on his way back to his room earlier and grasped it in his right hand, letting it take some of his weight as he made the turn and continued down the hall slowly.

He found her where he expected to, sitting at her place at the big oak table. She was hunched over, her eyes staring down at the table, and didn’t lift them to acknowledge him as he paused in the doorway.

In front of her sat a large mostly-full bottle of a single malt Macallan, the cork off, and she had a tumbler filled with a generous pour of the amber liquid sitting next to her right hand, seemingly untouched.

Again he debated turning around and leaving her be, but then he noted the slight quake in her body. Tension or rage, or something in between he couldn't be sure, but the shake came in waves, moving up her body as if she was outside in freezing temperatures and shivering to keep warm.

“I’m sorry,” he said from the doorway, watching her carefully. “I didn’t mean to-“

“What?” She said, whipping her head up to look at him, the ice in her eyes flashing. “Interfere? Disrupt my life? Put Rene in danger?”

John met her stare. “I don’t know what you think you’ve heard about me, but I would never hurt a child,” he said, insulted that she would think otherwise.

“You don’t have to hurt him to threaten his safety. Just you being here is enough to destroy everything I’ve managed to cobble together. If the Table comes here looking for you and finds me, they won’t stop to consider what they’ll do to me, and Rene…” she trails off, momentarily overwhelmed. “I’ve done everything to keep him safe. To keep to the agreement. And now you’re here, and I can feel it all slipping away. Like nothing I’ve done since has mattered.” She took a shuddering breath and wiped at her face with her right hand, swiping at her eyes furiously before any tears could dare come.

He shook his head, trying to follow her train of thought but knowing he was still missing a large part of the story. “If they come, I’ll protect you.”

She shook her head, a sardonic laugh bubbling up through the continued tears. “You can barely stand up on your own, how can you protect anyone? And what happens when you leave? The great Baba Yaga returns home, a martyr or a hero, who can tell, and leaves us here for some two bit assassin to track down, following your trail.”

She grasped the glass, downing the whiskey in one swallow, before slamming it down to the table, the sound reverberating through the kitchen. “I thought I was done looking behind me. That after all these years, I could trust that it was over. I should have known that nothing in your world is ever what it promises to be. That death is the only certain escape.”

She poured another shot, the liquid sloshing out of the cup as her arm continued to tremble. As she went to set the bottle back down on the table it slipped from her grasp, bouncing to its side before rolling off the end of the table, and shattering on the hard concrete floor.

“Goddamnit,” she cursed, the extent of her frustration and anxiety palpable in her voice. She pushed her chair away from the table, dropping to her knees in front of the ruins of the bottle. He watched for a moment, uncertain what help he could offer. As she began picking up pieces of the bottle with her bare hands he pushed away from the door and made his way across the kitchen, retrieving the garbage bin from under the sink and bringing it closer to her.

“Here,” he said, setting it down next to her. She glanced up at him, and for just a moment he saw another flash of the depth of pain and fear she otherwise kept buried. It was gone almost as soon as it flashed across her features, but the reminder was like an added physical pain to his own battered chest. How many had suffered because of his mistakes, or simply his mere presence in their lives? Marcus. Gianna. Charon. Koji.

He watched her carefully pick pieces of glass from the floor and drop them into the bin and made a promise to himself that not one more would suffer because of him. Not one more.

“Shit,” she swore under her breath, and he was shaken from his reverie at the sight of a line of bright red blood blossoming on her left palm as she dropped the offending shard of glass from her grasp, her blood dripping from it. He moved back to the sink, grabbing a handful of paper towels before coming back to her side.

“Here,” he said, holding out the paper towels towards her. She grasped them with her good hand, and carefully wrapped them around the palm of her other, staunching the flow of blood. He pushed the chair back towards her and she took the hint, gripping the table with her right hand to push off the floor and sink back into the chair, her expression dazed. Underneath her, the remnants of the whiskey and her blood mixed, staining the concrete in dark puddles.

He went for the paper towels again, this time taking much of the roll before bringing it back and settling them over the mess to soak up the wreckage. Pulling another chair over to the left of her a little, he settled into it with a groan, before holding his hand out.

“Let me see,” he said softly, and he was surprised when she held out her hand with only a brief hesitation and let him grasp it. The wound had bled through much of the paper already, and he slowly unraveled the soaked bandage, careful not to jostle or pull at her arm. He cautiously lifted the last layer of paper towel, and released a breath he didn’t realize he was holding as only a small trickle of blood continued to seep from the wound.

“This could use a few stitches,” he said, carefully prodding at the long gash that ran diagonally across her palm, superficial at the ends but quite deep in the middle. “Is there a hospital in town, or some kind of urgent care?”

She shook her head vehemently. “No, it’s fine. There’s no need for that.” She went to pull her hand away, but stopped when he didn’t press the issue further. Looking down at her hand again, he winced as the flexing of her palm pulled the sides of the wound apart slightly, and the line of blood increased again.

“There was a suture kit in the supplies Winston had sent over, wasn’t there? I could sew it for you… here.”

She looked up at him, her lips just slightly upturned in an amused grin. “No offense, but I’ve seen the final results of what could only have been your own handiwork on you, and I think I’ll take my chances with letting nature take its course.”

He grinned in response and the expression felt almost foreign as his facial muscles stretched in ways they were unaccustomed. “Fair point,” he acquiesced with a nod. He grabbed the few remaining fresh paper towels he had brought over earlier, and as she dipped her head in answer to his unspoken question, he carefully rewrapped her palm with them. As he finished fastening the end by tucking it under the rest of the wrap around her palm he kept hold of her hand for just another few seconds, marveling at the way her long, elegant fingers looked cradled against his much bigger hand.

“Thank you, John,” Kate said, breaking the spell as she pulled her hand away. He quickly released his grip and dropped his own hand, nodding his acknowledgement of her thanks.

She pushed up out of the chair and went to step away to finish cleaning the mess, tucking her bandaged hand into the pocket of her sweater, but she paused when he looked up at her once more. “Can I ask you something?”

He watched her consider her answer before nodding once in the affirmative, her expression curious.

“Does Rene know? That he’s your son?”

He regretted the words before they were even all the way out, her body jolting back into rigidity the second he mentioned the boy's name. He watched the color drain from her face, watched her clench both her hands so tightly the knuckles turned white from the strain. Her breath caught in her lungs, as if his words had momentarily shocked her heart, a jolt of electricity that rolled like a shock wave through her entire being.

“I’m sorry, it just… he looks so much like you, I assumed-” She shook her head once, and he trailed off, recognizing the second the progression of reactions cycling through her - from surprise to fear to fury - coalesced into one single, pure emotion.

Her face went blank, but for the fire burning in her eyes. A vibration ran through her as she continued to hold herself still, as if the intensity of the emotion could barely be contained within the cage of her body.

Rage.

He knew what that felt like all too well. He had lived it, breathed it. Willingly leaned into it, in hopes that it would burn so hot, it would obliterate him in its wake as surely as anyone who crossed him.

What similar creatures they were, him and this woman.

The thought was terrifying.

When she finally spoke, her voice was lower than he’d ever heard it. Deadly.

“Whatever you think you see, I assure you that you don’t know anything. You have eight days left here. I suggest you go back to bed and use your time wisely.”

She turned and left the kitchen without looking at him again, her long sweater swinging at her hips as she stalked out of the room and made her way up the stairs, shutting the door to her room behind her with a resounding thud.

John shook his head slowly. “Fuck.”

Chapter Text

Kate woke to a headache pounding through her skull, throbbing in time with the thuds of her infuriatingly steady heartbeat. Even before she managed to wrench her eyelids open she knew she’d slept late again, the early spring sun beaming through the windows from its place in the sky, warming her face.

She cautiously opened one eye, then the other, letting her pupils get used to the light before glancing over to the clock on her bedside table, confirming her suspicions that it was well past 9am. She sighed and pushed up from the bed to sit up, cradling her left arm to her body to keep the muscles from moving more than they had to until they loosened up a bit. A different pain in her hand caught her attention, and as she looked down and caught sight of the bandage wrapped around her palm, she remembered.

Her more righteous anger at John’s question had burned itself out after an hour or so of seething in her room. How could it not, when he was far from the first person who had ever asked the question. The last two seasons at least a half dozen pilgrims staying at the inn had asked her, and she had overhead others ask Rene at least as many times as well. At first, she’d told herself it was just because of the situation - an inn owned by a single woman, the only other person working there a teenage boy - she told herself she might have jumped to the conclusion that they surely must be related also, if she’d been confronted with it anywhere else.

But sometime last summer, she’d realized it was more than that. As Rene got older, his body elongated and he grew willowy and lanky. She watched, with equal parts horror and fascination, as puberty melted the baby fat from his cheeks to reveal an angular chin so much like her own, eyes that reflected both her and David, and a nose that was all his fathers. Still, she told herself that it was nothing that couldn’t be explained away with a laugh and a gentle demur. That their safety had not been compromised; that taking this chance to see him a little bit every day was not really a chance at all, that it would be fine.

Until last night, when John Wick had asked, and for the first time, she had been unable to deny it.

Her anger at herself and at him had finally given way to the more predictable stage of anxiety, as her mind flipped through endless scenarios of the wrong people finding out the truth. The afternoon had slipped into evening into night, and with the only thing that could usually stop such a spiral having shattered all over her kitchen floor hours earlier she was powerless to stop overthinking, and unwilling to venture out for another bottle for fear he would still be downstairs, waiting for her.

She must have exhausted herself, for she had fallen asleep at some point, though by the state of her sheets her subconscious mind had taken over playing horror scenarios for her. As she stood in front of her sink and stared at herself in the mirror, she was unsurprised to find she neither felt nor looked any better this morning; the only saving grace was that she was too exhausted to manage to work herself into another full-blown panic. At least for now.

She leaned down, cupping the water from the sink in her right hand and splashing it on her face, trying to wake herself up more. The reflection in the mirror stared back at her, all pale, thin skin and sharp bones jutting out from underneath, the dark circles under her eyes the most color in her whole countenance. She pulled the elastic from her messy bun, smoothing the worst of the tangles in her hair with her fingers before expertly managing to twist and pull it back again with one hand. She ran her fingers across her hairline, frowning at the persistent white hairs that kept sneaking in amongst the dark ones, then chastising herself for even caring.

Gingerly raising her left hand to the sink, she cautiously unwound the paper towel bandage from around her palm, remembering as she did how careful he had been as he wrapped it, how gently he had held her hand in his and avoided jostling her arm. She suspected he had figured it out by now; after all, he had already uncovered one of her darkest secrets, she supposed it was only reasonable he’d have figured out one she could do little to hide.

As she pulled the final layer of paper off, she was pleased to find that the laceration on her palm was red and irritated, but had stopped bleeding and had no sign of infection. Rummaging in the cabinet to the left of the sink she found a wound pad and a roll of gauze left over from before, and made quick work of rewrapping her hand.

Finished, she took one more long look at herself in the mirror, steeling herself to go downstairs to face him again. She’d not gone down at all last night, not even to make him a plate for dinner, so surely he must be starving. She didn’t care, not really, except that if he told Winston, she didn’t know what the older man might do to her or her Inn. Winston could be as cruel as he was generous, she knew that all too well, and with only seven days left to keep John Wick under her roof, she knew she needed to try and keep herself together. After all, it was only seven more days.

He already knows too much about you after being conscious for less than three days. Think of how much more he can find out in another week?

She shook her head, trying to banish the thought, even as a pit began to reform in her stomach. Maybe if she called Winston, explained the situation... John was alive and healing, surely that was more than enough on her part and someone else could take over caring for him until he was able to travel. Maybe if she asked Monsieur Ibarra he would consider letting John stay there… surely in another day he could manage the walk down the street to Le Jardin?

She retrieved her phone from the nightstand and perched on the edge of her bed. She ignored the notification about three missed calls and voicemails on the screen and instead began texting her neighbor about the situation, when she paused. What would Winston say if she sent John elsewhere? Worse, what might he do to her? And god forbid if Monsieur Ibarra was somehow caught in the crossfire if anyone tracked John and came for him while he was there… she’d never forgive herself if something happened to the older man because of her.

No, she decided, dropping the phone back to the bed. She couldn’t take the risk. She’d agreed to two weeks, and somehow, she’d make it through the next seven days with John Wick in her home.

The skirt she’d slept in from yesterday had several large dark brown stains in it from the felled whiskey incident, and Kate had just opened her closet to find something else to wear for the day when the front doorbell buzzed. She stiffened, mentally running through who could be calling. Rene was at school, and he never rang the doorbell, he just let himself in. She wasn’t expecting any deliveries and even if she had, the delivery boys in town were perpetually intimidated by her and almost always just left things on the porch without ringing the bell, if they were willing to bring them to her at all. Even Winston himself had only knocked before simply inviting himself in.

The bell rang again, and she grabbed for her favorite sweater, wrapping it around herself and tucking her left hand into the pocket as she made her way down the stairs.

Peering through the peephole, the sight of the ranking officer of the Gendarmerie nationale de St-Girons unit in town did little to allay her concerns, but she opened the door and gave him a slight nod, pulling the ends of the sweater around herself more tightly as a burst of cold air swept through the open door.

“Bonjour Madame Katrine,” the older man tipped his navy hat at her. She returned the greeting, taking in the National Guard’s 4-wheel drive vehicle parked on the narrow street behind him, another officer in the passenger seat, watching them. The ground itself was covered in a thick layer of fresh snow. She remembered the radio saying they were due for at least one more spring snowstorm before winter left them entirely; apparently it had finally come.

“Excusez-moi de vous déranger, mais vous ne répondiez pas au téléphone.” I'm sorry to bother you but there was no answer on the phone.

Kate shook her head and winced inwardly at having slept through the calls that morning. “Je suis désolée, mais il ne fonctionne pas bien depuis quelques temps.” I’m sorry, it hasn’t been working right, she lied. “Y-a-t-il quelque chose que je puisse faire pour vous, Monsieur l’agent?” Was there something I could help with? Kate asked, a nervous clench forming in the pit of her stomach.

“Nous avons reçu un appel ce matin d’un agriculteur sur la piste. Un homme tentait de traverser et a été pris dans la tempête à l’aube. J’ai vérifié auprès des autres auberges de la ville et personne n’a encore eu de pèlerins cette saison, mais je voulais être certain qu’il ne
logeait pas ici?” We received a call this morning from a farmer on the trail. A man was trying to cross and got caught in the storm, and was found down at dawn. I've checked with the other inns in town and no one else has had any pilgrims yet this season, but wanted to confirm that he was not a guest here?

Kate shook her head. “Non, pas de pèlerins encore. Le froid les tient toujours à l’écart.” No, no pilgrims yet. The cold is still keeping them away.

The officer nodded. “Oui, seul un imbécile tenterait de traverser dans ces conditions.” Yes, only a fool would try to cross in these conditions.

He tipped his hat. “Merci de nous avoir accordé du temps. Si vous entendez quoi que ce soit, prévenez-nous. Nous avons missionné une unité pour le récupérer mais il semble qu’il soit dans un mauvais état. Le fermier a également indiqué qu’il pourrait être américain. Donc si c’est bien le cas, j’aimerais l’identifier rapidement afin d’éviter tout problème avec l’ambassade.” Thank you for your time. If you hear of anything, please let us know. We've dispatched a unit to retrieve him but it sounds like he's in bad condition. The farmer said he might be American, so if that’s the case I’d like to identify him quickly, so we can avoid any trouble with the embassy.

Kate nodded idly in agreement, hoping that was the end of the conversation, then froze. “Américain?”

“Oui, apparemment il marmonnait dans sa barbe quand il a été retrouvé, bien qu’il soit inconscient maintenant. Il n’a aucun papier d’identité sur lui, donc nous aurons du mal à savoir qui il est s’il ne se réveille pas.” Yes. Apparently he was mumbling to himself when he was found, though he's unconscious now, and has no ID on him, so we may have trouble identifying him if he doesn't wake up.

Kate shook her head, a sick feeling coming over her. “Un instant, s’il vous plaît.” Please, wait a moment.

She stepped back into the inn, leaving the door partially open for the officer as she turned back down the hall. She glanced into the kitchen, already knowing it would be empty, then continued to the closed door of John’s room. She took a breath before grasping the handle, hoping that she was wrong, but already knowing what she’d find.

As the door opened with a creak, her heart sank. The bed had been carefully made, sheets tucked in with military precision. Everything else had been cleared from the room, the medical supplies neatly stacked in the corner in the canvas bags they’d come in.

The bedside table was bare, but for a short note scrawled onto the inn’s stationary he must have found in the foyer.

Kate,

I’m sorry for any trouble my being here has caused you. It was not my intention. Be well. Tell Rene he’s a great kid, and I hope he gets to New York one day like he wants to.

My thanks.

J

PS - Winston, this was my choice. Kate was a kind and gracious host. Please make sure she has whatever she needs, on me.

She grasped the note, ignoring the tremor in her hand as she folded it into her other pocket, then made her way quickly back to the entryway, grabbing her heavy coat that hung on the doorway, even as she noted that one of the others was missing.

Monsieur, vous pouvez me conduire jusqu’à lui ? Je pense savoir qui c’est.” Sir, can you take me to him? I think I may know who he is.”

The officer nodded and gestured to the waiting car. She pulled the door closed behind her and hurried down the stairs, the officer behind her matching her urgency as they both got in the vehicle.

–

"Attentif!,” Careful! Kate called to the officers, as they carried John through the inn. She held the door open to the bathroom, wincing as the three men maneuvered him into the narrow room, nearly knocking his head on the side of the wall as they lowered him into the old bathtub. She rolled her eyes as the men stood up, still seemingly unconvinced about why they had brought the unconscious man here instead of the hospital.

“Merci pour votre aide.” Thank you for your help, Kate said to them as they eyed her, gesturing to the door. “Je vais me débrouiller maintenant.” I’m good from here.

They tipped their hats and filed out the room, their footsteps in their heavy boots thunking noisily down the hallway and back out the front door, grumbling loudly as they did about how foolish it was to not take such a sick man to the hospital. She pointedly ignored them, waiting until she heard the door shut behind them to turn back to her new problem, and when she did, she sighed heavily.

The officers who found him on the scene had removed the heavy jacket he had taken from her entryway and covered him with a thick wool blanket, but the rest of his clothes - sweatpants and a sweater from the supplies Winston had sent over for him - were still on him, soaked through and freezing. His long hair still hung in icy clumps that had only started to melt on the long ride down the mountain.

She took a towel and rolled it up, carefully lifting his head from where it was lolled to the side of the edge of the tub and placed it behind his neck to support him. Pulling the blanket away from him, she turned the knobs on the wall, letting the water begin to flow and fill the tub. She waited until the hot water warmed up, then adjusted temperature further, until it was coming out of the faucet only barely lukewarm. As it continued to fill she rummaged through the cabinet over the sink, finding a pair of scissors and set them on the porcelain while she retrieved a chair from the other room and dragged it to the side of the tub.

She considered him for another long moment before untying her own damp sweater, shrugging it off her right shoulder and arm before slowly peeling it off her left, leaving her in only in the thin sleeveless cami she’d slept in last night. Setting the sweater to the side to dry, she leaned over him, and began to cut his clothes off.

She made quick work of his pants, leaving him in his boxers, then turned to his upper body, unclipping the sling from around his torso and neck and slipping his left arm out of it. She reached for the scissors again, cutting from the neckline down of the garment before setting them down again, and grasped his right arm, pulling it free of the sweater. She continued to pull it up his torso and over his head, before carefully rolling it down his left arm and removing it intact. Turning, she threw it into the corner of the bathroom to deal with later.

She took him in critically, looking him over for evidence of any new injuries, but the dark bruising that stood out starkly on his pale skin was largely the same as it had been the last time she’d seen it a few days ago, before he woke up. The incision on his left abdomen was mostly intact, a small amount of blood oozing from between the stitches, no doubt angry from the unexpected movement of its owner. On his left forearm, the most recent brand on his skin was continuing to heal well, with no evidence of infection over the scabbing letters.

The bruising on the right side of his ribcage had not changed, but the left looked worse, fresh dark hemorrhaging present in the skin layered over the impressive colors of the older bruising, and when she pressed lightly over the now larger area of damage to check for rib displacement he groaned, but didn’t otherwise move. Nonetheless it was the first sign of life she’d seen from him since shortly after she’d arrived on the scene and she was willing to take it as a win, even with the possibility of more serious lung damage.

He groaned again when she prodded his broken collarbone, the plate and screws that had been inserted into the bone palpable under the skin, but seemingly still intact as well. Under her fingertips she felt him begin to shiver, another good sign, as his body started to warm slowly.

Placing her right hand behind his neck she carefully pushed him forward to check his back. The severe bruising that had peppered his back around his spine looked better, but two new deep blue bruises were blossoming on his lower back, the skin in the center red and angry but unbroken. Her eyes traced the tattoo over his shoulders, slightly uneven now due to the damage to his left arm. She stopped short of touching the brand in the center of his back, the raised rosary-shaped scar tissue thick and rippling over the faded ink of the larger image underneath.

So many contradictions in one man and that was just when he was unconscious.

She lowered him back and readjusted the towel under his head. His breathing was more regular now, but there was also a telltale rattle building in his chest as he exhaled, an ominous harbinger of what lay ahead for him. For not the first time in the last few hours, she questioned her choice in bringing him back here, unsure if she’d made the choice to keep him safe, or if she was inadvertently signing his death warrant.

She opened the door and was out of the car before it even came to a full stop. She almost slipped twice as she waded through the snow, having rushed out of the Inn without pulling on boots. The new snow soaked through her cloth house shoes, but she ignored the cold as she hiked up to where two other vehicles and half a dozen officers from Les Pelotons de Gendarmerie de Haute Montage surrounded a figure on a gurney. Her heart sank as she got closer and realized none of the mountain rescue officers or medics from a nearby ambulance were doing anything to help him… was she already too late?

She slowed her pace as she approached, forcing her features to neutral as she approached the cadre of men, greeting them casually before forcing herself to look at the figure on the gurney.

He was wrapped in a thick wool blanket, but his skin was shockingly pale, his lips tinged blue. He was eerily still, and she held her breath as she watched him for a long moment, relief flooding through her as she finally saw his chest move just slightly as he took in a breath.

“John,” she said, placing her hand on his uninjured shoulder. He didn’t stir, but the feeling of him under her hand was reassuring, so very cold but clinging to life, instead of the lifeless rigidity of the freshly dead she had braced herself for. Again another breath came, shallow and slow, but present nonetheless. The jacket he’d taken from her was tossed to the side, soaking, and as she lifted the edge of the blanket, she found the rest of his clothes soaked through and freezing.

She looked up at the sound of approaching footsteps to see the senior PGHM lieutenant approach her. “Je suis surpris de vous voir ici Katrine. C’est un de vos résidents?” Un peu tôt pour les pèlerins, non? I’m surprised to see you out here, Katrine. Is this a boarder of yours? It’s too early for pilgrims.

She shook her head. “Non… c’est un ami.” No… a friend. She winced at the description. “Que s’est-il passé?” What happened?

“Cet imbécile a essayé de gravir le passage. Si c’est un de vos amis, pourquoi ne pas lui avoir dit de ne pas traverser avec cette neige ?” The fool tried to climb the path. If he’s a friend of yours, why didn’t you tell him not to try to cross in the snow?

Kate tucked the blanket further around him, futilely trying to keep him warm. “Je ne savais pas qu’il allait essayer.” I didn’t know he was going to try, she said quietly.

The lieutenant rolled his eyes and huffed under his breath. “Les Américains.“

Kate glared at him, and he at least had the good sense to look chagrined. “Désolé, je voulais juste dire-” Apologies. I just meant-

Kate cut him off, her frustration with the officers and the situation quickly overpowering her shock.

“Pourquoi est-ce qu’il n’est pas dans l’ambulance? Il a besoin d’être à l’abri du froid.” Why isn’t he in the ambulance? He needs to get out of this cold.

The lieutenant obviously did not share her sense of urgency, which only added to her growing anger. “L’ambulance est restée coincée dans la neige. Pas de chaînes sur les pneus.” The ambulance got stuck in the snow. No chains on the tires. He gestured across a large frozen field, towards a small cottage in the distance.“Le fermier est parti chercher son chasse-neige, il va nous le descendre de la montagne pour qu’on puisse l’envoyer à l’hôpital de Toulouse.” The farmer went to get his snow plow, he’ll take the pilgrim down the mountain for us so we can get him to the hospital in Toulouse.

Kate looked up from John, and fixed her sternest glare on the other man. “Non, pas d’hôpital”. No, no hospital.”

The man looked taken aback. “Il est en hypothermie sévère, et ses poumons sont déjà touchés. Il aura de la chance de s’en sortir. Sans compter les dégâts faits à la clôture du paysan…" He’s severely hypothermic, and his lungs are already affected. He’ll be lucky if he makes it at all. Not to mention the damage done to the farmers property-” he points to a gap in the fence she’d not noticed before, three of the boards broken straight through, and a herd of sheep in the distance that had obviously escaped through the opening and were spreading out over the mountains. “S’il s’en sort il faudra aussi qu’il rende des comptes à ce sujet.” If he makes it he’ll have to answer for that too.

Kate looked from John to the gap in the fence for a moment, debating. “Dites au fermier que je prendrai en charge tous les dommages. Mais s’il vous plait, ramenez-le à l’auberge. Je vais prendre soin de lui.” Tell the farmer I will take care of any damages. But please, bring him back to the Inn. I will care for him.

The lieutenant scoffed, and exchanged a smirk with the group of other men obviously listening in on their conversation, before speaking to her slowly, as if she was a child. "Vous avez beaucoup de talents cachés, Katrine, mais vous n’êtes pas médecin. Il va aller à l’hôpital. Il a aussi beaucoup d’autres blessures suspectes. Des brûlures, des contusions, des fractures en cours de guérison.” You have many strange talents, Katrine, but you are not a doctor. He will go to the hospital. He has many other suspicious injuries as well. Burns. Bruises. Healing fractures.”

He lifted the side of the blanket, pulling out John’s left hand, the missing ring finger clearly exposed. “Ça vous dirait de me dire de quoi il en retourne?” Care to tell me what all this is about?

Kate shook her head. “Je ne sais pas vraiment,” I don’t really know, she said, and it wasn’t completely a lie. Winston hadn’t told her the details about how he got most of his injuries, though it didn’t take a detective to deduce what he might have gone through, she certainly hasn’t particularly wanted or needed to know what caused the latest round of injuries, layered over so many that had come before.

Realizing she was not going to convince the other man, she shivered, pulling her sweater around herself more. “Je vais attendre dans la voiture,” I’m going to wait in the car, she said, backing away from the group of officers as they paid her little mind, talking amongst themselves again as they speculated about John.

Just before she slipped back into the passenger seat of the vehicle she fished her cell phone from her pocket and snapped a quick image of the scene. Sitting down in the back seat of the police car, she scrolled through her contacts, and her finger hovered over a name for a long moment before she sighed and pressed the call button.

It rang multiple times without an answer. Part of her was relieved every time the ring receded and the call wasn’t connected.

On the 6th ring there was a muffled, “Commandant.” Commander.

“Marcel,” She willed her voice to sound strong. “It’s Kate.” There was a long pause, and she added with no little exasperation, “Katrine.”

“Katrine, my apologies. I did not recognize your number. It’s been a long time.”

He paused, seemingly waiting for her to explain herself, but instead she let the silence drag out as she weighed her options once more. She looked back out of the car, where the officers and paramedics were still just hovering around John, taking him in as if he was a museum piece instead of treating him.

She pulled the phone away from her ear, and tapped on the screen a few times before bringing it back up to speak.

“I need a favor.” She heard his phone chime as the photo message was received by him, and waited as he went silent for a moment, looking at it.

“This is the unknown pilgrim found on the path the PGHM went to retrieve? A friend of yours?”

“He can’t go to the hospital,” she said, then added reluctantly, "it's not safe for him there.”

“And you, you’re responsible for his safety?”

She winced inwardly. She was, she supposes, until she fucked it all up.

“Yes,” she said, grateful her voice sounds steadier than it feels.

“Vous avez repris du service Katrine?” Are you working again, Katrine?

“No,” Her response was rapid and definite. She knew he would want more than that, but it’s all she was willing to say right now.

The silence dragged on for a few long minutes, and she kept her breathing even, even as she could almost hear the other man thinking through the receiver.

Outside on the scene, the men all looked down at their cell phones as they began to chime. They read the message, then simultaneously looked up at where she was sitting in the vehicle.

“It is done,” the other man said finally. “I hope you know what you’re doing.”

She watched as the lieutenant approached the car as she spoke into the receiver one last time. “So do I.” She hung up the phone, slipping it back into her pocket as the man opened the passenger side door and informed her they'd been instructed to release John to her care.

–

She watched his chest rise and fall for several long minutes, the increased steadiness a good sign, even as it brought with it increasing crackles from his lungs. When she finally leaned back, she was surprised to see his eyes half open, unfocused and dazed, but staring at her.

She took him in, nodding in acknowledgement. “Welcome back,” she said finally, his expression inscrutable as he took in her words. “As far as dumb ideas go, trying to make it up the passage in your condition is almost as high up there as having your own Hamilton/Burr moment with another assassin, but I guess you just don’t ever do things the easy way, do you?”

His gaze was still fixed on her but he didn’t answer, the tremors in his body increasing. She reached down to check the temp of the water in the full tub before letting out the stopper and adjusting knobs again slightly to replenish what was being let out. When she righted herself he was still watching her, his eyes flicking down her left arm for a long moment before returning to her face, and she fought the urge to reach back for her sweater and cover herself up again.

He seemed to notice her discomfort and kept his eyes on hers before managing to croak out “cold,” his voice shaky from the tremors. He tried to take a deeper breath but it instantly turned into a cough, and she winced in sympathy as it wracked his body.

“I know,” she said apologetically, when his breathing had steadied again. “But we have to go slow with the rewarming. Your temp was unreadable when they found you; they were worried your heart was about to stop. You’re warming up, that’s why the shivering is getting worse, but we still have to go slow or it can cause more injury to your extremities.” She dipped her head towards the fingers of his right hand, which were still ghostly white even while the rest of his skin was still slowly pinking up. “This may take a few hours, but it’s the safest way to get your temp up without going to the hospital.”

He nodded his understanding slowly.

“Do you think you can drink something? Some warm tea could help the process but only if you’re sure you can swallow.”

He seemed to consider this a moment before nodding again once.

“Right.” She checked the temp of the water, and satisfied, turned the tap off and stood up. “I’ll be right back. Don’t try to get up,” she added, knowing it would be almost physically impossible for him to do so in his condition, but also more than aware that she couldn’t fully trust him not to try. He responded with a slow blink of his eyes in agreement before she stepped out of the room to head back to the kitchen.

As she set the kettle to warm, she heard him cough again from the bathroom. She froze, listening as he hacked weakly multiple times before it stopped again and he groaned, the coughing no doubt wreaking havoc with his broken ribs. There was silence for a long moment and she cocked her head, listening, trying to tamp down the concern that it was suddenly too quiet, when she heard it. His voice, straining and pained, called out her name once, before the house got quiet again.

Without thinking, she flicked the burner on the stove off and rushed back to the bathroom, stopping at the doorframe as she took him in, unconscious again, his head lolled weakly to the side, and a steady trickle of blood running from his mouth.

Chapter Text

Returning to consciousness after what he expected to be his final breaths was getting to be a little too familiar, John thought to himself, as awareness slowly returned to him.

He blinked, trying to clear his vision as he took in his surroundings, his initial instinct to take stock of his situation and find an exit calming almost immediately as he recognized his location as the room at Kate’s. He tried to remember how he’d gotten there again this time; the last thing he recalled was climbing up the mountain in the snow, stumbling and trying to catch himself on a fence and crashing into the ground, struggling to stand again and then… nothing? He shook his head, trying to clear the fog, but his memories were confused, blurry.

He relaxed his head back against the thin pillow of the small bed and took stock of his body, pleasantly surprised when he found his extremities stiff, but not overly sore. He chanced a deeper breath and his ribs pinched, but the discomfort was greatly reduced from the searing pain he'd felt in them as he’d tried to get back to his feet after falling in the snow, his lungs slowly filling with fluid as he lay there in the cold, unable to get up.

With a groan he levered himself with his good arm to sitting, again surprised at the relative ease of the movement compared to the last time. Placing his feet flat on the floor, he pushed himself off the bed, teetering a moment before grabbing onto the back of a chair that was pulled near to the bedside to find his balance. He took a few halting steps towards the bathroom, unsteady at first but then more sure, his body seemingly waking up with him.

After relieving himself he winced as he caught a glance of his face in the mirror. His beard was long and wild, with a few unruly grey hairs peeking through the longer dark ones. Even beneath the untrimmed beard he could see how gaunt his face was, obviously having lost weight, and he wondered just how long he’d been out this time.

He considered trying to take a shower, as it clearly had been far too long since he had, but the sound of a door shutting from the hallway got his attention and he made his way slowly out of the bedroom, hoping to find some answers, some food, and Kate. Mostly Kate.

She wasn’t in the kitchen or the foyer, and the other two rooms on this floor were still empty when he checked in on them. He was eyeing the stairs up to the second floor, considering if he felt up to trying them, when a flash of movement caught his eye through the glass pane of the back door.

He walked towards it, peering as he did through the window, and felt his mouth go dry.

She was standing next to a table on the back porch, bathed in sunlight. Her usual long grey sweater was off, laid across the back of one of the other chairs, and she wore only a form fitting black tank top layered over dark leggings that hugged her lithe body. Her dark hair was pulled back into a short ponytail, revealing the pale skin of her elegant neck. She had a towel laid out on the table, and atop it were the pieces of a Sig p365 that she was meticulously cleaning, the sun glinting off her pale skin as the muscles of her right shoulder and back flexed in time with the small brush she was using to clean the grip module of the gun.

He grasped the handle of the door, opening it and stepping through, making sure to let the door click closed so she would know he was there. He glanced out over the low wall of the porch, for the first time realizing that the inn was built against a riverbank, as a lazy greenish-blue river ran under several picturesque bridges surrounding the town.

Kate didn’t stop what she was doing, but he knew she was aware of him as he walked out further onto the patio, and he pulled out the chair across from her and sat heavily, watching as she moved onto the slide channels, then the guide rod, making sure each piece was free of debris before setting it down and moving onto the next.

She expertly finished cleaning and re-lubricating the barrel and moved on to reassembling the gun, piecing it back together with a well-practiced ease. As she snapped the barrel back into the slide she spoke, her voice lighter than he’d heard it before, and with an air of teasing.

“I wondered when you were going to wake up again,” she said, snapping the spring back into place.

“How long was I out?” His voice was scratchy and hoarse from disuse.

“Eight days. You had a nasty pneumonia. The next time you decide to go for a walk in a blizzard, maybe don’t do it while you’re already recovering from multiple penetrative injuries and have no immune system to speak of.”

He chuckled, surprising himself with the sound. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“How do you feel?” she asked, and looked up briefly from the gun to take him in. “You smell like shit, by the way. Rene and I got you moved from the bath to the bed once but after that it just wasn’t possible…” A shadow came over her eyes and he immediately felt regret for having caused her any more problems.

“Nothing a shower won’t fix. And I feel ok, actually. Surprisingly so. Thank you.”

She nodded and returned to the gun, connecting the slide to the grip module, bringing the two main segments of the weapon together. He took the moment to study her in the sun, but his eyes were drawn almost immediately to her left arm. Her hand was on the table, holding the gun steady, and he followed the limb upwards, suddenly remembering her taking off her sweater to help him in the bath when he’d been brought back to the Inn. That she’d been willing to let him see it had pierced through his barely conscious state, and filled with gratitude for her then, and again now.

He hadn’t really been aware enough to make sense of it then, but seeing her arm again in the daylight he was struck by the extent of the poorly-healed injury. The skin around her shoulder and upper arm was mottled and had an uneven texture, clear evidence of healed partial thickness burns to much of the skin. There was an old puckered circular scar even with where the point of her shoulder should have been, and he resisted the urge to rub the same sore point on his own left arm where Caine’s shot just missed traumatically dislocating his shoulder. She had obviously not been as lucky, and her left arm hung about an inch lower than the right, the socket itself either severely damaged or gone completely, he couldn’t be sure.

He felt her eyes on him as he continued to look, and glanced up to her face, embarrassed at being caught. “That looks like it hurt,” he said, gesturing to her arm, hoping he hadn’t already fucked up whatever truce they seem to have found between them again within ten minutes of regaining consciousness.

She searched his face, seemingly looking for any signs of pity or fear, and finding none, she finally nodded once. “Everything hurts, John. It just depends on what you can learn to tolerate.”

He grunted in agreement, letting out a shaky breath as she watched him for a moment longer before returning her attention to the gun, leaving the bullets sitting on the towel as she locked the empty chamber back into place. She turned and cocked the gun, lifting it over the wall of the balcony, and before he realized what was happening she dry fired it three times in quick succession, the grip firm in her right hand. Seemingly satisfied that it was in working order she turned back, lifting her eyebrow at him with a hint of mirth before setting the weapon back on the table and sitting down in the chair across from him.

John tipped his head back, the clean air and brightness of the winter sun a welcome change to his system after weeks inside, and months underground before that. He cracked his right eye open just slightly to steal a glance at her, then another, observing her as she sipped from a tea cup she’d brought out with her

A handful of questions bubbled up in his mind, warring for priority. How had she found him out on the mountain? Why had she bothered to bring him back here? Just because Winston asked her to? And what did Winston even care at this point, now that he didn’t need John as leverage to get his hotel back?

One topic of inquiry rose to the top of the list. He so desperately wanted to know her story. Why was she here, in this town, living this life? What had happened to her that made living here her only option? Why was she terrified to have him identify Rene as her son, when she so clearly lived for the few hours a day he came to work here, seemingly oblivious to who he spent the afternoons with?

Okay, he conceded to himself, he had more than a few questions about her. It was an unusual feeling for him, wanting to know more. He prided himself on being neutral, not really caring about the reasons for much at all. In the old days at the Continental he’d been held up dozens of times as an impartial party, called upon to settle scores between feuding factions before they could turn deadly, because everyone knew John Wick didn’t take sides. A glass of good bourbon and he’d listen quietly then deliver his verdict and walk away before both parties could get any further along in the debate. If he was called upon later to settle the score in a more permanent way, he had no qualms about doing so for whichever side hired him and paid him the most coin; there was nothing more impartial than death, after all.

In all those times, in all those kills, curiosity never factored into his choices. He never listened and hoped he could find out more. Never delayed a kill so his interest could be sated.

Kate had no desire to have him there, that much was certain. She was more than capable; had obviously survived despite whatever hell had been rained down on her, had adapted to the life she led, had kept herself and her son safe for years. So what could Winston have on her that she was willing to go to what had no doubt been great lengths to manage to keep him alive? To allow him to exist in her space, temporary as it was.

He eyed her again under hooded lids, and pushed the hope that he would have an opportunity to earn her trust so she might confide in him down deep. He was awake again now, and felt better than he had since the duel. Surely she’d let him know any minute that he was on the next train out of here, never to see or hear about her again. She’d remain a mystery.

It was better that way.

At least, as he repeated it to himself in his head, he hoped it would be. If only for her sake.

The moment stretched on for several more minutes in a comfortable silence, as they both enjoyed the warmth of the sun's early spring rays as it thawed winter from the ground and air.

A noise from inside caught both of their attention, and he sat up and opened his eyes. When he glanced at Kate for guidance, she just said, “Rene”.

He nodded, understanding. “Uh, I’ll go back to my room while he’s here,” he offered, already pushing up from the table to go.

“It’s ok,” Kate said quietly, standing up and collecting her sweater, carefully pulling it up her left arm before shrugging the rest over herself, effectively hiding the worst of the injury. “He’s been worried about you, he’ll be happy to see that you’re awake.”

She engaged the safety on the gun before carefully reloading the bullets into the chamber, then folded the towel over it and tucked it under her right arm. “Are you hungry?” She asked, walking around the table to stand a few feet from him.

At the mention of food his stomach rumbled, and a soft grin crossed her face, the ice blue of her eyes glowing bright in the sun at the response. “Good. Rene is always hungry after school too. I’ll make something for both of you.”

She reached for the door and he went to follow her, stopping short when she did, and suddenly she was right in front of him, a different kind of emotion in her eyes.

“Rene doesn’t know that he’s… that I’m his mother.” She stumbled over the last part of the sentence, seemingly unused to saying the words aloud. It took him a minute to catch up, to remember the question he’d asked her that now felt like ages ago. Before he could say anything she spoke again. “And it’s better that way. Safer for him.” This time when she flicked her gaze to meet his, he recognized the warring emotions in her wide eyes. Fear. Concern. And also the faint hope that she could trust him.

John nodded solemnly, resisting the urge to reach for her, to reassure her with physical touch. “I understand,” he said, and she nodded once at this before reentering the house with him a few steps behind her.

—

Kate stirred the soup as it simmered, listening as the water in the ancient pipes of the inn shut off. Taking a small taste, she added a bit more pepper before stirring again, her mind wandering.

Lunch with John and Rene had been surprisingly enjoyable. Rene clearly idolized John, a fact she couldn’t be too upset about considering the dearth of male role models in his life. More surprising was how good John was with Rene. She’d first thought him a little slow, his measured tones and almost pained reluctance to say more than a few words at a time quickly a source of irritation to her. But watching as he conversed easily with Rene, she realized it was his way of protecting himself, of shielding his own thoughts and heart from a world that punished you for ever letting your guard down. She pushed down the pang in her chest as she realized just how similar they were in that respect.

The conversation over the sandwiches she’d made had been wide-ranging, as Rene rapid-fired questions at John who answered them carefully, often checking in with her silently to ask what he could or couldn’t answer. For her part she’d been content to watch, her own contributions mostly limited to reminding Rene to practice his English when he’d get so excited about a thought that the French would just pour out of him, and admonishing John from translating certain words into French when Rene would get confused about meaning.

About 45 minutes after they’d sat down at the kitchen table and John was still valiantly trying to keep up with Rene when she noticed him begin to sink a little lower in the chair, his right knuckle gripping the edge of the wooden tabletop tightly as he fought against exhaustion and pain. She gently interrupted the lunch, sending Rene out to the market to pick up the groceries she had ordered, and silently came around to help John to stand, watching as he made his way slowly back to his room.

She’d returned to him a few moments later, intending to give him some painkillers, but he was already asleep in the bed, and as she had for the past several days, she found herself watching him as he slept, taking reassurance from the steadiness of his breaths, and the healthier color of his skin.

It was long past dark when she put the soup on the stove to heat, knowing she’d need to wake him for his medication and hoping she could get him to drink some of the broth as she did. But before she had a chance she’d been surprised to hear the pipes roar to life as he turned on the shower in his room. She was relieved that the activity of the afternoon hadn’t set him back too badly, and that he seemed to be truly on the mend.

She was just ladling the soup into two bowls when he made his way into the kitchen. She turned to set the first on the table as he walked in, dressed in a clean pair of sweatpants and a plain white t-shirt. His hair was longer fresh from the shower, still damp and combed out, the dark strands falling over his eyes as he gave her an easy nod in greeting.

“Feel better?” she asked, as she retrieved the second bowl and utensils for both of them.

“Much,” he agreed. “That might have been the best shower of my life.”

She chuckled. “A pretty sad statement, given the lack of water pressure in this place.” She gestured to his left arm, hanging at his side. “You should put the sling back on. It’s not good for the nerves to hang like that while it's still healing.”

He looked like he was about to argue, then rethought it, and shook his head in agreement instead. “Ok, thanks.”

“You can eat first,” she said, giving him a short grin so he knew she was teasing him.

John pulled out the chair, sitting down in front of the bowl of soup. “This smells great. I’m surprised how hungry I am.”

Kate frowned. “I tried to get you to eat something whenever you were lucid, but the infection had you out most of the time.”

He shook his head quickly. “No, it’s not a complaint. I’m grateful for all your help. Truly.” His expression was warm and open, and she nodded once, accepting his thanks, even if she didn’t really even know herself why she’d done it.

The peace in the air between them lasted a moment before he cocked his head and seemingly considered his next words. She took her own seat at the table and met his gaze, waiting for him to continue.

“In the shower,” he started hesitantly, evidently still unsure what he wanted to ask. “There’s a new incision that I don’t remember from before. Here.” He placed his hand over his right rib cage, careful not to put any pressure on his still healing ribs.

She nodded, raising a spoonful of soup to her mouth as she debated how much she wanted to reveal. “You had fluid building up in your chest,” she said, setting the spoon back in the bowl before continuing. “It probably started from one of the rib fractures, but your little excursion on the mountain did it no favors. You weren’t responding to antibiotics, the infection was getting worse, and your breathing was terrible. She bit her lip, remembering the moment she’d decided something else had to be done.

“Winston,” she said, relieved the other man had answered the phone this time. “He’s getting worse.”

She listened to him for a moment, before cutting him off. “No, there is no more time. The new antibiotics aren’t doing anything. I don’t have a pulse ox here, but his lips are starting to turn blue. The right side of his chest is barely moving air, all I can hear are wheezes and crackles.”

She sighed as he cut in again, her frustration boiling over. “Winston, you’re not hearing me. If we don’t get a doctor here, a real doctor, he’s going to die. Not in a few days. Today. It’s not fair to have put him through all of this and then just turn your back on him.” She tried to tamp down her emotions as she listened to the other man explain his reasoning for the dozenth time, telling herself this was not her fight or any of her business, for that matter.

But you caused this, she reminded herself. It’s because of you he went out there.

“Winston, please.” She hated the pleading note she could hear in her own voice, but pressed on. “You had him treated in Paris, I don’t understand why this is any different-”

This time when he cut her off she let him, aware the conversation was going nowhere. She’d seen Winston like this before, resolute, resigned to the consequences and unwilling to budge. If his loyalty to John after what he’d done for him wasn’t enough to change his mind, nothing she said would.

She’d learned that lesson the hard way long ago.

“I understand,” she said finally, when he stopped talking at her, even though she didn’t. Not even a little bit.

She hung up without waiting for him to respond, throwing the burner phone onto the foot of the bed in disgust.

“Katrine?”

She looked up to Rene, who was standing in the doorway, his large eyes impossibly wide, the concern in them palpable. “Est-ce-que Monsieur John va mourir?” he asked, and her heart clenched as she thought about all the loss he’d already experienced in his short life. She turned away from him, struggling to keep her own emotions in check as she considered the man in the bed once more.

“No,” she said finally, looking back up at the boy. “He's not going to die. Not when he’s gotten this far.” She stood up from the chair next to John’s bed, and gestured for Rene to follow her as she walked out of the room and into the foyer. Grabbing a piece of paper from her desk, she scribbled out a note then folded it closed. “Can you go and give this to Doctor Luc at the clinic,” she asked, pressing the letter into Rene’s hand. “Tell him it’s urgent and to please come now.”

She stood from the table, retrieving two cups from the cupboards and filling them with water before setting one down in front of him. When she went back for her own and turned, his dark eyes were focused on her, his gaze unwavering as he studied her and waited for the rest of the explanation.

“The doctor was able to drain the fluid from your chest. It helped immediately, and he left a chest tube in, to make sure it didn’t build back up again. I pulled it after three days, when your fever finally broke and your lung sounds were clearing up. The stitches are from that.”

She lifted her cup to her lips, wishing she had poured herself something stronger than water.

“Thank you,” he said, and she nodded once, dropping her eyes to the table when the intensity of his gaze became too much.

“It just didn’t seem right,” she said after a long moment, struggling to find the way to express how she felt about the situation. “Not to see it through.” There was so much else she wanted to say, about Winston and the people of that world, but she stopped herself before she could. It was his world too, after all. The Baba Yaga was the poster child for everything the Table stood for. Or at least, he had been, last she had known.

“Can I ask you something,” she said, still studying her bowl of cooling soup, echoing his words from days ago. At his huffed acknowledgement, she continued. “Winston said you got out, that the Table released you.”

Out of the corner of her eye she saw John nod once, and she pressed on before she could think better of the question. “Do you worry that even if they said you were free, it won’t be real? That they won’t hold their end of whatever agreement you made?”

She felt his eyes searching her, felt him trying to determine just what she was asking, before nodding again slowly as he reached for the words. “The first time, no,” he said, and the pained note in his voice made her look up, and watch him as he spoke. “I left because I met my wife. I wanted to have a life with her. A real life. I’ll never understand how she could know everything about me, and still find a way to trust me, but she did. And I knew I had to spend every moment we were together proving that that trust wasn’t misplaced.” He ran his finger over a groove in the old table, following it as it circled inward. “I just never thought that time would be so short.”

He glanced down at his left hand where it was cradled in his lap, the stump of his left ring finger twitching slightly as he did. Kate felt her eyes widen as she watched and took in what he was saying, his explanation unlike anything she had imagined. “I’m sorry, I had no idea…” she let her words trail off, overcome by how inadequate they sounded next to the obvious freshness of his grief. “You don’t have to say more, it’s alright.”

He nodded, glancing up at her for a moment before returning his attention to the ridge of the table, large rings etched deep into the surface, a map of the life the old oak tree had led before being struck down. “After Helen died, nothing made sense. All I had was anger. It led me to make choices that had consequences.” He shrugged, and met her gaze again through the fringe of his long hair. “Now, I don’t know what to expect. I fought for freedom because it was the only thing left for me to fight for, but I have no one to go back to. No home of any kind.” He looked up at her, his deep eyes soulful, almost tortured. “Does it matter if you’re free if there’s nothing on the other side of it?”

She found herself agreeing with him, her head bobbing along with his careful words, even as she glanced down at her own left hand where it rested on her thigh. The phantom feel of the delicate band that had been gone now for years longer than it had been present was still so clear to her there was always a second of disorientation when she noticed it wasn’t there. She focused on it for a long moment before realizing he had asked a question, and was looking at her as if she could possibly know the answer.

Instead of answering she pushed away from the table, stood and crossed over to the cupboard, pulling the new bottle of whiskey that had arrived on her front step this afternoon and two more cups off the shelf. She felt his eyes on her as she poured two fingers of the amber liquid into each cup and carefully grasped one in each hand before she turned back to him and held the cup in her left hand out towards him, ignoring the tremor in her hand as she fought to hold her arm steady. He grasped the cup, their fingers brushing against each other for a moment before she withdrew her hand, letting it fall back to her side. Instead of immediately drinking from the cup he continued holding it up and nodded to the matching set in her other hand. She brought it up to meet his, but instead of clinking the glasses together she paused.

“I don’t know that I have any wisdom to offer you, John. I wish I could say that it gets better; that the grief and the pain and the rage - that any of it fades. But it doesn’t. It just becomes one more thing you carry. One more thing you learn to live around.” She looked down at her left shoulder pointedly before returning her gaze to his face. “Some days you think maybe you’ve managed to adapt. And some days, it takes everything you have just to survive till midnight, and then it starts all over again the next day.”

She chinked his glass as if it was the button on her statement, and before he realized she was even done talking she downed the content of the glass in one sip. Lifting his towards her he did the same, the smoothness of the fine whiskey surprising him as it coated his throat, and numbed the nerve endings as he swallowed.

“That’s nice,” he said, setting the glass down over the largest, deepest groove on the surface of the table, perfectly symmetrical but for a blackened burn scar worn deep into the oldest ring, natures way of keeping the record of the trees survival before, during, and after the disruption in its growth.

She nodded, making her way back to her side of the table and sliding back into the chair to finish her soup. “At least Winston’s good for something.”

Chapter Text

“So I was wondering,” John started, as he drank the last of the tea from his cup. “The next time you have to go to the store, could I come along?” He watched her closely, trying to gauge her response.

Kate looked up from her barely-eaten plate, her eyes wide for a moment till she seemed to adjust to his question. “Sure,” she said without sounding sure at all. “Need something in particular?” Her casual tone was obviously forced.

John nodded. “A shaver, for one thing.” It had been weeks since he’d trimmed his beard, and every time he looked in the mirror the long, grey streaked scruff on his face was a bit of a shock. He’d thought about trying to scissor it, but without the use of his dominant left hand he was certain it wouldn’t lead to the ideal outcome.

Kate hummed lightly in agreement, then looked back out over the balcony across the river, seemingly lost in thought again. The day after their shared drink she’d suggested taking breakfast out here the porch, and again he’d been surprised at how she’d seemingly relaxed around him. She’d gone upstairs for a few hours during the day, as she usually did, but had invited Rene to stay after he finished work, and this time she’d even participated in the conversation a bit more when Rene peppered him with questions over a simple chicken dinner.

This morning she was different. The relaxed, more open Kate he’d just begun to get a glimpse of was gone. She’d turned down his offer to help with breakfast, only nodding silently when he asked if they should eat outside again. Until he’d broached the subject of going into town, she’d not said three words to him all morning, and she seemed to be back on full alert, holding herself rigidly and barely touching her food. He suspected he knew why, and mentally started making plans. The store was only one part of those plans, that apparently he needed to put into motion as soon as possible. He’d already waited too long.

“Also,” he said, trying and failing to catch her eye. “I think I’m going a bit stir crazy.”

She nodded sharply without ever turning back towards him. “OK.”

Her responses were so rote and unemotional that he wanted to say nevermind and abort the whole idea completely, but then he remembered the ticking clock.

She seemed to anticipate his next question and cut him off before he could ask it. “I have a lot of work to do here, to get things ready for the first bookings next week. But if you wait till this afternoon, Rene can take you. I need a few things from the grocery and he can bring you along when he goes.”

John raised his eyes in surprise at her words. “OK. Thanks.”

She nodded then stiffened, taking a few shaky breaths before she glanced at him again and continued. “I have an account at the store, you can use it to get what you need. I’m going to go work upstairs for a bit; I’ll leave a list for Rene in the kitchen.”

Without waiting for him to answer she pushed away from the table and stood, pausing for just a moment before reaching for her plate. “I can clear that if you want,” he said, fully expecting her to decline the help as she always did.

Instead she released the plate from her hand and it clattered back to the table, causing her body to get impossibly stiffer at the sound. “Thank you, John,” she said tightly, and before he could respond again she was already moving through the door and back inside the house.

He looked down at her plate and the slice of toast she’d left untouched, frowning. The past few days had felt good to connect with someone… anyone… but clearly she did not feel the same and was upset he was still there. She’d told him the timeline from the beginning and he’d overstayed it. Unintentionally yes, but overstayed just the same and obviously it was time for him to leave.

He took the slice of toast from her plate and took a bite. He had a few hours till Rene would be there after school, and he intended to use it to get prepared.

—

Rene grinned bashfully as he made himself slow down and match John’s slower, lumbering pace.

Despite having told Kate the truth, that he was feeling much better, and he was going quite stir crazy, they were only a block from the Inn when he started feeling winded. The air, warmer every day but still brisk, burned as it entered his lungs, expanding his barely-healed ribs uncomfortably with the exertion. It was nothing like the pain he’d felt as he’d tried, and ultimately failed spectacularly, to make it up the first part of the passage in the snow, but it was a reminder that his body was still far from ready to return to the extremes he’d pushed it to recently. The slight wheeze he could hear in his chest as he panted to try and keep up with Rene was its own reminder of how close he’d come once again to death, if not for Kate’s intervention.

Kate. There was something familiar about her, something he couldn't quite put his finger on. He prided himself on a virtually eidetic memory, remembering the names and faces of people he’d met just once decades ago without fail, but he couldn’t place her. He’d mentally run through dozens of rolodexes in his mind - fellow assassins, associates, informers, high table brass, crime bosses, their extended families he’d met at parties, waiters and employees at Continentals around the globe, attendees at society events he’d attended while working a job, even cashiers he’d encountered once at drugstores and markets worldwide, and nothing matched her.

Given Rene’s age and what little she’d said about the situation, he calculated she’d been here for about twelve years, and even narrowing that down, he came up with nothing. He wasn’t even sure she was of the Underworld herself. She was clearly amply proficient with a gun, knew of him and his reputation. And the injuries she lived with and the fear she had of being discovered screamed more than a passing familiarity with the Table. But there was something else. And that missing piece was driving him crazy.

He shook his head. Then again, maybe his memory was just shot from falling down those 222 steps. Twice.

Rene paused ahead of him again. John waited till he’d caught up with the boy to stop and try and catch his breath, his right hand pressed to his side to keep his ribs steady as he panted.

“Should we go back? Katrine said-”

John shook his head. “I’m ok. Just give me a second.”

Rene didn’t look convinced, his brows furrowed, and his eyes flickered back towards the direction of the Inn like he was considering running back to get Kate.

“What about you, kid. Where do you live?” John asked when his breathing had normalized a bit, hoping to distract Rene from his concern. With a deep breath that pinched his chest John forced himself to take a step forward, then another, and then they were moving again down the cobblestone street, towards what looked like the city centre.

Rene pointed down the street to the right. “There.”

John followed his gaze and frowned. “The church?”

The boy nodded. “Oui. Des soeurs apostoliques.” With the apostolic sisters.

Whatever John had been expecting, it was not this. “How long have you lived there?” he asked, a sick feeling growing in his chest that had nothing to do with his weakened lungs.

They walked slowly by the church building, an imposing gothic behemoth of old stones and high-pointed towers.

“I was eight.” Rene seemed to grow more somber as they got closer to the building, and John picked up his pace a bit, determined to get them past it more quickly. Until that moment, he’d assumed the situation with Rene was rather straightforward: he’d been placed with a new family for his own safety from the Table, and Kate had stayed close, but not too close, toeing the line of being near her son while still having probable deniability about who he was to her. John had facilitated arrangements like that for others in the past. But this new bit of information changed things.

As they made it past the church and towards the center of town, John looked back towards Rene, who still looked pensive. “Tu sais, j’ai aussi été élevé dans un orphelinat.” You know, I was raised in an orphanage too.

“Ah bon?” Rene’s eyes widened with disbelief. John nodded.

“Oui, En Russie et ensuite en Amérique. Mes parents sont décédés quand j’étais très jeune.” Yes, in Russia. And then in America. My parents died when I was very young. He winced internally at the lie, but Rene didn’t need to know that he’d been sold into the assassin trade by his own parents before he’d been able to read.

“Mes parents aussi sont morts. Dans un accident. Les sœurs m’ont accueilli. Elles auraient dû m’envoyer en ville à l’orphelinat pour être adopté, mais elles m’ont laissé rester finalement. Est-ce que vous viviez avec d’autres enfants là-bas?” My parents died too. In a crash. The sisters here took me in. They were supposed to send me to the city to an orphanage to be adopted, but they let me stay instead. Did you live with other kids there?”

John nodded, switching back to English. “I grew up with dozens of other children my age and older.”

“Like brothers and sisters?”

Sure, John thought. If your brothers grew up trained to be your enemy, and your sisters were pimped out to be their whores. “A little bit, I guess.”

Rene considered this. “I’m the only one there. It gets lonely sometimes, but I want to stay. I’m glad I get to help Katrine. I don’t know what would happen to her if I wasn’t there.”

“What do you mean?” John asked, his brow furrowing even as he fought to keep his tone even, to not tip the boy off as to how curious he was to find out more. “What would happen to her?”

“When it is busy, if I’m not there she tries to do too many things, and it hurts her very much. In summer it is better, because I can come help all day while there are pilgrims. But sometimes, when I am not there she does too much, and then she won’t come out of her room, and I worry.”

Oh. John shook his head, recalling how stiffly she’d held herself this morning, how uncomfortable she’d seemed with every movement. He’d assumed it was because of him, that she was upset he was still there, but maybe… “So when she says she’s working upstairs…”

Rene nodded solemnly. “Her arm hurts very badly.”

Right. So many questions he had about her snapped into place with that revelation.

“She doesn't like anyone to see it. Not even me. But one time, before I worked for her, when I was just delivering for the grocery, she didn’t answer the door when I got to the Inn. I went inside to leave the bags, and she was on the floor and I couldn’t wake her up. I had to call the doctor and they took her to the hospital.”

“But she was ok?”

“When she came back she said she took too much medicine and that she was sorry she worried me. But I don’t want her to worry about me. I want her to be ok.”

John let himself fall back into French. "Elle compte beaucoup pour toi, n’est-ce pas?” She’s pretty important to you, isn’t she?

The boy nodded. “J’ai commencé à travailler pour elle après l’école ensuite. Les sœurs se sont arrangées avec elle. Quelques fois, j’aimerais qu’elle me laisse rester avec elle. Je pourrais l’aider d’avantage si j’étais là.” I started working for her after school after that. The sisters arranged it. Sometimes, I wish she would let me stay with her. I could help her more, if I was there all the time.

“Mais elle ne veut pas.” But she won’t allow it, John guessed.

Rene nodded again. “Elle dit que c’est impossible, mais je ne comprends pas pourquoi.” She says it’s not possible. But I don’t understand why. He paused and turned to him, cocking his head and looking at John intently before asking, “Elle vous en a parlé?” Did she say anything to you?

John shook his head. “No, kid. She hasn’t.” His reply sounded forced to his own ears, but Rene didn’t seem to notice. John noted a look of dejection on the boy’s face before he turned back to the street and kept walking.

John sighed and followed. The ‘why’ Rene so desperately needed was no doubt far more complicated than he - or the boy - would likely ever know.

Rene led them around a turn, and they found themselves in what must have passed for the town square, with a half dozen store fronts: a café, a book store, a clothing store, and a handful of stores filled with tchotchkes geared towards the pilgrims that would soon be flooding the town. As they crossed the square, John noted with satisfaction that his guess had paid off, and there was indeed a small general store connected to the grocery that Rene was steering them towards.

As they walked, John felt a frisson of unease pass through him, the first return of the anxiety he’d felt about those around him since the night he’d tried to make his way to Sacre Coeur, and his enemies had surrounded him from all directions. He looked around now, trying to hide the action under the guise of admiring the buildings, and found no snipers in the windows, no undercurrent of exhaust in the air to indicate bus fulls of attackers. No assassins hiding in plain sight taking in a coffee at the café, waiting to shank him when he came within range.

It was just townspeople. An older woman who paused from tending flowers on a third floor balcony. Two shopkeepers on the far side of the square who had stopped their afternoon reverie. An older man sitting at the outdoor cafe, sipping a coffee. A trio of middle-aged women sitting on a bench in the square, their heads bowed as they whispered between them, taking turns glancing up as they did.

All staring at him.

The apprehension grew within him. He tried to ignore it, redoubling his effort to keep up with Rene and keep his attention focused on the boy as they passed the café connected to the grocery, and every head turned towards him as they entered the store.

Rene was unaffected, not noticing the attention they had garnered and walked in with an easy smile. As the boy conversed with the grocer and another shopkeeper John wandered up the aisles, listening in on their conversation as he sought out a few necessities.

“J’ai entendu dire que Katrine avait touché le gros lot. Elle a payé sa note d’épicerie en totalité.” I heard Katrine got quite a windfall. Tore up her grocery tab.

“Qu’est ce qui lui est arrivé? Qui est-ce?” What happened to him? Who is he?

He located a shaver and was heading back to the register to add it to her account when an older woman with curly grey hair approached him, looking like she just stepped out of a vintage French country kitchen.

“Vous êtes le pensionnaire de Katrine?” You are Katrine’s boarder? She asked, sizing him up with a critical eye.

He nodded.

“Je ferais attention à moi si j’étais vous.” I’d watch yourself, if I was you. The old woman gave him a conspiring look that made it clear she was more interested in creating a stir than watching out for his well being.

“Et pourquoi donc?” Why’s that?

“Katrine, elle est dangereuse. Elle a tué son mari. Tout le monde le sait.” Katrine. She’s bad news. She killed her husband. Everyone knows it.

John feigned a thoughtful nod. “Vraiment?”

She nodded solemnly. “Elle est toujours camée aux pilules et à l’alcool. Elle ne s’en est sans doute pas rendu compte avant de redescendre de son délire.” Hopped up on pills and booze, that one always is. Probably didn’t even know she was doing it till she came down from the bender.

“Vous le connaissiez?” Did you know him, John asked, even as he looked around, categorizing what he could use to take the woman out before he even realized he was doing it. A large, robust carrot from the produce area. A frozen baguette.

The woman didn’t notice his distraction. “Non, c’était avant qu’elle arrive ici, émaciée et en manque, un cadavre ambulant. Monsieur Ibarra a eu pitié d’elle et lui a donné un endroit où s’installer cet imbécile.” No, it was before she came here, all gaunt and strung out like death warmed over, and Monsieur Ibarra took pity on her and gave her a place to stay like a fool. She took a step closer to John and waggled her finger near his face, and he had to concentrate hard to not grab her hand with his right and break her wrist.

“Soyez prudent. Ne laissez pas son apparence de demoiselle en détresse vous abuser. Elle dort avec un pistolet sous son oreiller et elle est capable de l’utiliser à une main.” Be careful there. Don’t let the whole wounded bird act of hers fool you. She sleeps with a gun under her pillow and she can fire it with one hand.

She certainly can, he thought appreciatively, remembering the afternoon on the porch.

“Je m’en souviendrai.” I’ll keep that in mind, he said, trying to sidestep the woman.

“Faites donc ça.” See that you do. The woman humphed at herself, and then turned on her heel and walked straight back out the door, not even pretending she had come into the store for any reason other than to interrogate him.

He returned to the register where Rene had two cloth bags full of groceries ready to go. “Mr. John, did you want anything else? Katrine said to put it on the account.”

“Just this.” John handed the electric razor to the man at the register with a nod.

The man watched him for a moment, studying him, before nodding and speaking in heavily accented English.

“Rene says you were in an accident,”

John nodded. “Yes. But getting better every day.”

“And how long are you staying here?”

“Leaving soon,” John said, getting frustrated with the nosiness of the townspeople. He turned back to the boy. “Rene, I’m going to go next door to the other store. Meet me there when you’re done?”

The boy nodded and John made his way out, only to find that the stoop now had several more people on it than when he walked in, including a police officer. He nodded to the officer as he sidestepped the group and entered the general store.

The man at the register looked up at him, surprised, but hid it fast. “Bonjour. Puis-je vous aider avec quoi que ce soit? Good afternoon. Can I help you find anything.

John nodded. “J’ai besoin de réparer un mur.” I need to fix a wall.

It was a relief when the man helped him quickly, without twenty questions, but as they made it back to the register with his selections, John frowned at the police officer leaning on the countertop, watching him.

“You’re the pilgrim from the mountain. The one who tried to cross in the snow.”

John nodded, continuing to place the purchases on the counter and ignore the other man, who carried on with his questioning in heavily accented English.

“There are always a few each year, who try to cross before the thaw. Most don’t make it, and we have to send the dog teams up there to bring bodies back down on a sled.”

John nodded again, wondering where this was going, but the officer pressed on without needing the encouragement. “But I’ve never seen Katrine leave her house for one. Or for much of anything, for that matter.” He shot John a wicked grin. “In fact, I think the last time she left her house was on a stretcher, half dead from an overdose. After that, the boy either brings things to her or she gets them delivered, but she never goes out herself.”

The cop stood up, and took a step towards John. “And then she came for you.”

John clenched his left fist and a bolt of pain ran up his arm, reminding him it would do him little good in a fight. He kept his gaze locked on the officer as he mentally reviewed the weapons within arms reach. A bin of small picture hammers that would be deadly in the middle of the forehead. Several planting spikes that would slice an artery. The shopkeepers ballpoint pen, laying next to the register…

He forced himself to focus again on the officer, and give him a noncommittal shrug to try and deescalate the situation. “I know nothing about that. But I’m grateful she came for me.” As he said it, he was surprised to realize he meant it.

The officer grinned lasciviously. “If you’re sticking around hoping you’ll get a go at her, don’t bother. You thought it was cold up there on the mountain - it’s nothing compared to her. She must have been something once upon a time - I mean, look at her - but she’s been ruined. Plenty have tried.” He winked conspiratorially at John, then feigned a look of pity. “She’s used up and bitter about it, to boot. She’s wasted most of the time anyway now. It’s only a matter of time till she turns up in the river, I think. Such a shame.” The man shook his head, and locked eyes with John again, his expression daring him to argue.

John didn’t respond, except to continue staring at the other man. The officer obviously didn’t consider John a threat, as he wasn’t even carrying a gun - a simple sweep off his feet and John could have grabbed his billy club and bludgeoned the other man to death with his own weapon. He observed the faint outline of a utility tool in the man’s blue uniform pants and calculated that even one-handed, he could grab the officer's left arm, flip him over onto his back and slit his throat with the knife from the tool before the other man could scream.

Instead, John held the stare until the officer nodded slowly and looked him up and down. “What happened to you?” He said, nodding to the sling.

John didn’t alter his gaze, looking the other man square in the eye. “Car accident.”

“Right.”

The man turned slowly and headed back towards the door. John’s fingers itched to grab for the bin of quick screws on the countertop, the exposed skin between the officer's head and neck perfect for one throw…

“You should be careful of the company you keep, sir. There are many in this town who have overactive imaginations, and Katrine has made quite a reputation for herself here, I’d hate to see you caught up in that. It seems like you’ve barely healed as it is. Why get involved with one who isn’t worth it.”

John nodded. “Thanks for your concern, officer.” He turned to the shopkeeper, and began asking him to ring up his purchases but looked up as a bell on the front door chimed and Rene entered. The boy paused just inside the door, sizing up the situation nervously as he looked between John and the other man.

“Rene! Tu as l’air plus grand à chaque fois que je te vois.” You look taller every time I see you.

The boy murmured a greeting to the office and crossed the store, coming to stand just behind John at the register, his arms full from the two bags of groceries he carried. Out of the corner of his eye, John noticed Rene’s defensive posture, and he unconsciously flexed his right hand, the phantom feel of the other mans nose breaking under his fist so tempting he could almost feel the blood and gristle running down his arm. John forced himself to take a breath, to let the fantasy slip through his fingers instead.

The officer tipped his hat and took several steps to the door, pausing as he grasped the handle of it. “Tu devrais être prudent, René. Soeur Lise peut être très persuasive, mais elle seule, ne peut pas faire le choix de te garder à St Girons. Si le conseil pense que tu serais plus en sécurité en ville, il est de notre responsabilité de faire ce choix pour ton bien être. Et pour honorer les vœux de tes parents bien sûr.” You should be cautious, Rene. Sister Lise may be very persuasive, but she alone can’t make the choice for you to stay in St. Girons. If the council believes you’d be safer in the city, it’s our responsibility to make that choice for your benefit. And to honor your parents wishes, of course.

John looked between the kid and the officer, again struggling to keep his anger in check. “C’est une menace?” Is that a threat?The officer quickly hid his surprised reaction as he realized John had understood him.

“Pas du tout.La présence de ce garçon est emblématique dans le village depuis de nombreuses années. Il est comme notre mascotte. Ce serait dommage de le perdre par peur qu’il passe trop de temps avec ceux qui pourraient avoir une mauvaise influence sur lui. Not at all. The boy has been a fixture in this town for many years. He’s like our mascot. It would be a shame to lose him for fear he was spending too much time with those who might influence him poorly. He tipped his hat and departed before John could say anything else.

John watched the man leave, following his meandering steps across the square until he lost sight of him, before turning back to Rene, who was busy studying the ground. He thought better of saying anything else right then, and quickly settled up with the shopkeeper, balancing his own bags of supplies on his right arm before nodding towards the door and letting Rene lead the way back out of the store and across the square.

–

They made their way home slowly, John’s stamina fully spent between the walk, the weight of the bags he was carrying, and the posturing with the townspeople. He watched Rene, who still looked pensive after the encounter with the officer.

“Can they do that,” John asked, as they passed the church again on the way back to the Inn.

Rene nodded. “The church here is not supposed to take charges. Sister Lise was a friend of my mothers, so she made an exception, but there are many who think I should be sent to Toulouse for adoption. He rolled his eyes to cover the fear that was palpable in his voice and John understood what he wasn’t saying.

“But you’re worried what would happen to Kate if you left.”

The boy bobbed his head.

John paused, conflicted between a pressing need to know more and knowing he was far overstepping. “Do you know what happened to her? How she hurt her arm?”

Rene shook his head. “When people ask, she says it was an accident. But I…” he trailed off, looking conflicted.

John took a guess. “You don’t believe that?”

Rene paused, like he was going to stop speaking altogether, then took a deep breath and switched back to French.

“Mon ami Léo à l’école, il avait l’habitude de faire du moto-cross. Il sortait près de la décharge après les cours chaque jour, jusqu’à ce qu’il manque un saut et tombe. Il a cassé son bras à trois endroits et a dû subir deux interventions chirurgicales. Il a manqué le reste de l’année scolaire. Quand il est revenu cette année, il m’a montré les cicatrices. Son bras n’est pas aussi fort, et il ne fait plus de moto, mais ça ne lui fait pas si mal. Pas autant que souffre Katrine.” My friend Leo at school, he used to ride dirtbikes. He would go out by the landfill after school and ride every day, until he missed a jump and fell. He broke his arm in three places, and had to have two surgeries. He was out of school for the rest of the year. When he came back this year, he showed me the scars. It isn’t as strong, and he doesn’t ride his bike anymore, but it doesn’t hurt him so much. Not how Katrine hurts.”

The statement all but poured out of him rapid-fire, and John watched as the boy tried to regain his composure as he caught his breath, his big eyes looking up at John as if he somehow could begin to answer his questions.

John thought back to what he’d seen of her injuries; what he’d seen in the bodies left behind of others like her that he’d encountered over the years, left alive to suffer. “Some things can’t be fixed, Rene. Not the way we want them to be.” He considered the boy in front of him, his pale face starting to look more distraught the longer they discussed it. John looked around, guiding them towards a bench a few streets away from the Inn. “I gotta take a break, kid,” he said, setting the bag before sitting roughly on one side of the bench. Rene mirrored him and sat down on the other side, still fighting for his composure.

As they sat, John tried to gather his thoughts. On the surface, he agreed with Rene, and the thought had crossed his mind too. Re-examining all of his encounters with her with the added information from the boy, it dawned on him just how much pain she must live with. That she was still here at all, despite whatever she had learned to lean on to get through it, was a testament to her strength, her will to survive, and he suspected most of all, her devotion to ensure her son’s survival.

John tentatively flexed his left hand, his eyes drawn to his missing digit. He studied the short stump, as healed as it was going to get, but thin and muscle wasted.

It had taken months underground, plotting his return to Elder’s lair, to recognize that what he missed was the ring, not the finger. When he’d realized the ring was lost to him forever, he’d been struck by how apropos the loss of the finger was; to have one but not the other could never be right. Without the ring, without that last anchor back to Helen, perhaps the loss of the digit was what he deserved after all.

He sighed. “And maybe that’s not what she wants,” he said finally, and felt Rene’s gaze lift from the street to stare at him once more.

“I don’t understand. Why wouldn’t she want to feel better? The people in town say many things about her. Things that aren’t true. Things that are horrible. That she deserved to get hurt. That she had a family but left them. Many things. I don’t know why they are so mean to her. Why they won’t just leave her alone? Why won’t she make them?” Rene’s eyes were glistening with tears, and when John rested his right hand on his shoulder to comfort him, he could feel his body shaking through his light jacket. “What can I do to help her,” Rene added plaintively, looking up at John as though he could possibly know the answer.

John watched the streetlamps start to flicker on as dusk finished settling on the town. They needed to get back soon, or he was certain Kate would worry about what might have happened to them being gone this long.

“Qu’est-ce qu’elle a répondu quand tu lui as dit que tu voulais rester avec elle?” What did she say, when you said you wanted to stay with her? John asked softly, and Rene looked up towards the direction of the Inn, before glancing back at John.

“Elle a dit qu’elle souhaiterait que ce soit possible. Qu’il n’y avait rien qui puisse lui faire plus plaisir. Mais que ce n’était pas prudent pour moi de rester là. Et que ma sécurité était tout ce qui comptait pour elle.” She said she wished that it were possible. That there wasn’t anything she’d like more. But it wasn’t safe for me to stay there. And that my safety was all that mattered to her.

John nodded. “Dans ce cas c’est ce que tu peux faire pour elle. Tu viens après l’école, tu l’aides, tu rentres chez toi et tu restes prudent lorsque tu pars. Je ne connais pas très bien Kate, mais je sais qu’elle tient beaucoup à toi. Et lorsque tu tiens à quelqu’un, faire en sorte qu’il soit en sécurité et qu’on veille sur lui est plus important que quoi que ce soit d’autres. Même si ça te coûte ta propre tranquillité d’esprit.” Then that’s what you can do for her. You come, you help her after school, and you go home and stay safe when you leave. I don’t know Kate that well, but I know that she cares for you very much. And when you care for someone, making sure they are safe and taken care of is more important than anything else. Even if it costs your own peace.

Or freedom, he thought to himself.

He watched as Rene processed this, and after a few moments, the boy nodded. “That’s it?” he asked, standing up and helping John to his feet when he reached out his right hand for help. John groaned at the motion, his muscles screaming from the increased activity of the day and the colder night breeze lazing through the alleyway.

“Believe me, kid. You might not think it’s much, but to Kate, I think it’s everything.”

Chapter Text

John sensed her watching him as he continued to take bites of the roast. He kept his attention on his meal, determined not to interrupt whatever it was she was looking for, but when the silence persisted for several minutes he looked up, unsurprised to find her pale eyes locked on him.

“What?” He asked, genuinely perplexed as to what was wrong. She’d seemed pleased about the fixed portion of the wall after he’d shown it to her. She had thanked him demurely before retreating with a slight blush on her cheeks. When she’d called him in for dinner a few hours later she’d poured the whiskey in both of their glasses, and nodded her cup towards him in mock toast as she’d taken the first sip. Since then neither of them had said much, taking in the food in a comfortable, dare he almost say a friendly quiet, but now, somehow, it seemed he had misstepped again.

“What?” he asked again, when she didn’t answer the first time. She watched him again for a long beat before nodding towards his left shoulder. “You left it out of the sling today, didn’t you?” she asked, glancing meaningfully towards the drying bricks in the wall before returning her gaze to him.

He nodded slowly, trying to figure out what she was getting at. “Yeah. I needed two hands, and it was feeling better so I thought it would be ok.”

She nodded sagely, seemingly already expecting his answer. “And now?” she said, her question clearly leading.

He looked down at the offending limb, resting again in the sling he’d put back on when it had started throbbing fiercely shortly after he finished working on the wall.

He flickered his eyes back to hers, and gave her a self deprecating grin. “It aches a little,” he said, punctuating the words with a shrug, which then had him biting back a wince when another shock of pain radiated from the wound in his shoulder to the tips of his fingers.

“Looks like a little more than an ache?” She raised an eyebrow, and though his first impulse was to deny it, he settled on the truth instead.

“It’s pretty sore,” he admitted reluctantly.

She hummed in agreement, then went back to her own food. The amicable silence returned between them, and he wondered if the conversation was over.

She finished her plate and knocked back the remaining whiskey before standing and clearing her dishes first. He stood from the table and collected his own plate, and nearly bumped into her when she turned from the sink, not expecting him to be there.

“Sorry,” they both murmured awkwardly as she sidestepped him to let him place his dishes in the sink. She crossed back to the doorway of the kitchen, and he expected her to bid him the usual hasty goodnight on her way up the stairs when she paused and turned back to him. “Meet me at the front door in five minutes. Bring the robe from your room,” she said, without offering any other explanation before she made her way up the stairs to her own room.

It took him only a minute to retrieve the robe and make it back to the front door; he spent the next four minutes wondering what was going on, until he heard her footsteps back on the stairs, and looked up. She’d changed out of her usual leggings and sweater, and her lower legs were bare, the edges of some kind of shorts she now wore brushing above her knees, just visible underneath the slightly threadbare, creme colored robe she wore over herself. Without pausing as she passed him she opened the front door, continuing through and down the stairs, only then looking back at him as he watched her, confused.

“Follow me,” she said, the corner of her mouth pulling in the slightest hint of a sly smile before turning and heading further down the lane.

He pulled the front door shut behind him and caught up with her quickly, ignoring the burning in his lungs as he breathed in the brisk night air and shuffled along to keep up with her steady pace. The street was empty and quiet, a lamp every 100 feet or so the only illumination down the narrow path.

“Je ferais attention à moi si j’étais vous.” I’d watch yourself, if I was you.

The words from the old woman at the store came back to him as he continued to follow Kate down the darkened, narrow streets. He let himself fall back a few steps behind her, and began scrutinizing his surroundings a little more carefully, making mental notes as he went along. A strand of string lights on the fence. A mailbox sitting on a small post that could be easily pulled out. A hanging sign with slightly rough edges.

Logically, he knew she’d had ample opportunity to take him out, if that’s what she wanted to do. He was at her mercy for days, twice, unconscious and unable to defend himself or even have any idea what was going on. She could have snuffed him out with a pillow. Injected too much pain medication into his IV. Or simply let his lungs continue to fill with fluid and drown him without anyone questioning the outcome. Winston had all but told her to do so.

“Soyez prudent. Ne laissez pas son apparence de demoiselle en détresse vous abuser.” Be careful there. Don’t let the whole wounded bird act of hers fool you.

And yet, she’d let him live. Fought for him, even. Until now he’d not questioned her motives, but as they passed the craggy and forbidding facades of the old pre-war buildings, he couldn’t help but note that even though it was only a little after 9pm, there were few lights in the windows. Maybe this was the game; after all, what was the challenge in murdering the half-dead? Build him up, get him to let his guard down, then lead him away into the darkness while the town slept…

“I’ve never seen Katrine leave her house for someone. Or for much of anything, for that matter.”

He continued to follow her, past another turn and down an even narrower alley. Surely, he told himself, he was wrong, but it didn’t stop him from cataloging a large, flat stone laying against a streetlamp, and a short length of rope that was tied between two sparse looking trees, keeping them bound upright to each other that would come loose easily. His good hand flinched towards it as he passed, and he was about to stop and refuse to go further without more information when she turned right suddenly at a small picket fence. A sign marked Le Jardin Saint Girons with a vacancy sign hanging underneath it, swaying lightly in the night breeze. Instead of following the short flight of neatly stained-wood stairs up to an equally lovingly restored front door of the establishment, she cut again to the right, and made her way along a stepping-stone path around the side of the building.

“And then she came for you.”

John paused at the gate for a moment, considering, then made a decision and passed through. He closed the gate behind him, taking in the one room on the 2nd floor that had a light glowing in the window as he passed. Following her he cursed as he misjudged one of the stone steps and stumbled. Righting himself, he trailed her around the blind corner she’d disappeared behind, and stopped short.

The garden was small but lush, with leafy green potted trees and shrubs tucked along the sides. The back of the garden was fenced off by a low wooden trellis, covered liberally in a dense climbing vine. Pebbles created paths on the ground from the back door to several sets of wooden tables and chairs scattered around the garden, and small solar lights illuminated the paths and made the whole space glow ethereally in the low moonlight. Between the paths were three small but impeccably tended rose gardens, the plants themselves still cut back for the winter but no less impressive for not yet being in bloom.

“Incredible, isn’t it?” Kate asked from her place at the far side of the garden. John nodded, still surprised at how such a small space could feel so removed from the gothic and unfriendly feel of the town it was part of.

He took in the low fence again, just able to make out the outline of the river behind it, and the bridge at the city center behind that in the dark. Hundreds of tiny buds were beginning to flower on the bush, a brilliant dark pink burgeoning amongst the dark green leaves. Almost like the pale pink cherry blossoms of Koji’s gardens, bright even in the dark, a moment of beauty he’d held onto just before-

“You ok?”

Kate’s question cut through the air, stopped the rapid cycle of thoughts before he could get lost to them.

He nodded again. “Yeah… It’s just… it feels like… peace.” He shook his head, trying to banish the memory of Osaka, of having sanctuary offered to him only moments before it burned to the ground, solely a result of his own choices.

She cocked her head slightly and studied him, as if she concentrated hard enough, she could read his thoughts. “Good,” she said finally, seemingly accepting whatever it was she observed in him. “Because you haven’t seen the best part yet.”

She followed the path to the far side where it turned into a set of hidden circular wooden stairs and continued upwards. John’s eyes widened as he realized what he had assumed was part of the protruding deck was actually a small hot tub made of the same stained wooden planks and built into the side of the deck of the building. Flipping a switch on the side of the house the hot tub came to life, with small jets beginning to churn the water that was now illuminated in its own soft glow from below.

Before he could properly recover from the surprise and ask what was happening, Kate had dropped her robe onto a chair next to the hot tub, toed off her sandals, and stepped into the water, submerging herself up to her chin before turning to him with a teasing grin. “Don’t tell me the great John Wick is afraid of water?”

She dipped under the water without waiting for his answer. Her head fell back as she surfaced with her eyes closed, her dark hair slicking back behind her and exposing her pale neck. He caught the hint of a long, faded scar that looped from the back of her neck up towards her left ear, and flicked his gaze away just as she straightened her head, opened her eyes, and glanced back up at him with a daring grin.

"Have you given a thought to where this ends?"

He steeled himself against the memory of Koji’s question, as he forced himself to shake his head no to her gentle tease and look away from her as he made his way up the stairs. Setting his robe down on the chair next to hers, he paused for a moment, torn on how to proceed, and chided himself for suddenly feeling self conscious. He slipped off his shoes and eased his left arm out of the sling, the muscles throbbing deeply again as he lowered his arm to his side. He dropped the sling onto the ground next to the chair before glancing down at her nervously. He was tempted to ask her to turn around but then remembered she’d been the one taking care of him when he was unconscious. Twice.

As if she could read his mind, she teased from the water. “Nothing I haven’t seen before,” but still seemed to cut him a break, turning away from him to gaze over the edge of the tub towards the river beyond the garden.

Quickly he took the moment, removing his sweater and t-shirt before untying the house pants he was wearing and letting them pool at his feet. Stepping forward in just his boxers he followed her lead, slipping in and down into the hot tub before she turned around.

The water was warmer than he expected it to be, almost the perfect temperature, and he felt his whole body relax as he sank deeper into it. Finding a seat built into the side of the wood he relaxed into it, relishing the feel of the jets against the sore muscles of his back, and he leaned his head back against the rim of the tub, closed his eyes and just let the simple pleasure of the moment wash over him.

“It helps, doesn’t it.” It wasn’t a question, and he opened his eyes but didn’t move, taking in the clear sky above them, and the stars shining brightly in the pitch dark sky, unoccluded by clouds or smog or city lights.

“Yeah.”

She was quiet for several more moments before she spoke again, her voice so quiet he had to strain to hear her over the sound of the bubbling water. “The owner of this place is one of the first people I met when I came here. He’s from the Spanish side of the mountain, but he took over the property from a family member when they died.”

He fought the urge to sit up and look at her, sensing that she would shut down whatever impulse had led her to share if he did. Instead he kept his eyes on the night sky above, tracing the half-crescent moon as it shone brightly, tracing shadows and textures on it he’d never appreciated before.

“For a town that owes its survival to a crossroads of history, it is not particularly kind to outsiders.” She scoffed lightly, reacting to her own understatement as he thought back to the nasty gossip he’d heard on his trip to the market with Rene. “But Mounsier Ibarra was always kind. After-” she trailed off, lost in her own thoughts. Despite still knowing next to nothing about her, he could name at least a half dozen tragedies that she’d obviously endured, and he had no doubts that likely didn’t even scrape the surface of her experience.

She cleared her throat and tried again. “The locals believe that the waters here have healing properties from the unique mineral content. There’s a dozen thermal spas built into the mountain for those who come to the area just to take the baths. He trucks the water in from there, and he brought me here one day. Said he thought it would help.”

John lifted his head and took a chance to glance at her, and again was unsurprised to find her watching him. “Did it?”

Kate shrugged, her right shoulder moving freely under the water while her left remained limp. “Have healing properties? I’m not sure I’d stake my claim on that. But many times when nothing else helps, I’ll admit that this does.”

John glanced down at his own shoulder, the bullet wound from Caine now just an angry scar after she’d helped him to cut the stitches out of the healed skin two days ago. Experimentally he flexed his fingers under the water, then bent his wrist back and forth, pleased that the movement seemed easier than it had even earlier that day before he’d overused it, though whether because the waters were healing, or that the warmth had loosened up his tight muscles, he wasn’t about to take sides.

He glanced up at her again to find her biting her lower lip, as if trying to make a decision. Before he could ask, she stood from her side of the hot tub and approached him slowly, crossing the three steps to his side of the pool before stopping directly in front of him, the steam rising around her body as water droplets rolled down her neck and chest. The black tank top she was wearing had molded to her body like a glove, and he fought off a wave of nervousness as that same tickle of anxiety flickered within him as she reached out with her right hand, stopping just short of touching him.

“May I?” she asked, and it took him longer than it should have for him to realize she was referring to his left arm. He nodded dumbly, then watched as she reached for his elbow, cupping it gently before carefully extending her left hand to grasp his wrist. Her fingers were soft, and she held his arm in hers as if it were a delicate object, instead of a tool he’d used to kill countless people.

His heart rate surged as he watched her study him; his skin felt like it was burning as she moved her fingers from his elbow upward. Her brows furrowed as she concentrated, watching the muscles of his arm as she used her right hand and gently palpated and maneuvered his arm, feeling for points on his bicep, his tricep, and along his collarbone as she continued the gentle movements of his arm at each point.

“I did some range of motion while you were out,” she volunteered quietly, as she continued to examine his shoulder with a practiced eye. “I didn’t want it to seize up on you, and I suspected there might be more going on than the report from Paris said, but I couldn't be sure…” she moved her fingers to the area between the bullet wound and the surgery site, and when she moved his arm again he hissed as dozens of pinpricks of pain shot down his arm and up his neck into his spinal cord. “-That there was nerve damage, until you were awake.” She let his arm go and took a step back, but stopped short of retreating to the other side of the hot tub.

He mourned the loss of her touch as she moved away. It had been so long since his body had been treated as anything but a specimen - to build a suit around, to fix, to rebuild, to weaponize - he hadn’t even realized he’d missed the intimacy of such a simple act of touch. A tiny glimmer of normalcy that he hadn’t ever expected to experience again. Or deserve.

He took her in again as she stood in front of him. The green-hued lights of the hot tub reflected in the sky blue of her eyes, and illuminated against the night sky from below and the fairy lights above she looked almost otherworldly, but even with how little he still knew about her he knew it would be a mistake to define her that way. The paleness of her skin contrasted against the dark fabric of her tank top and the curtain of her wet hair slicked down over her neck. As he continued to look at her, he noted the slight blush the warm water had brought out in her cheeks, and that her face seemed slightly less drawn than when he’d first met her. Idly he found himself hoping that his being there hadn’t been all a detriment to her, if only because she was eating more regular meals than she usually did, sharing them with him.

She cleared her throat and he realized he’d been staring. Lifting his gaze back to her face, he raised an eyebrow. “So what’s the prognosis, doc?”

It had the desired effect when she bit her lip again, this time to hold back a shy smile. “You’ll live, apparently.”

“Thanks to you,” he responded quietly.

She looked as if she was going to argue with him, then seemed to change her mind, nodding once in acknowledgement of his words. “Your arm should get better with time. Let the pain be a guide for how much you can use it - if it hurts, stop.” She said the last part slowly, as if he were affected and she wanted to make sure he understood her words. “I don’t think I’m going out on a limb here to say that you’re probably used to just pushing through the pain, but in this case, you can’t. It’ll heal if you give it time, but until then, you have to lay off the blunt force trauma.”

“Ha.” The smile his face stretched into was starting to feel less foreign for having happened several times now over the past few days. Placing his right hand over the tenderest part of his chest, he added, “That won’t be so hard. Right now I’d do just about anything to just stay in this water forever. This is the best I’ve felt in months. You sure that healing properties thing doesn’t have anything to it?”

Her response was dry and he had to strain to hear her over the jets as she spoke under her breath. “If it is, it sure picks who it chooses to help.” Seemingly realizing what she’d said, she added. “It won't do much for the nerve damage, but it’ll help soothe the muscle spasms as it heals.”

It was hard not to let his gaze flicker back to her own ruined shoulder as she spoke, and wonder how much of what she was telling him was from first hand experience.

"The table only takes life, and only gives death. "

Again, Koji’s words came to him as he watched whatever boldness she had seemed to recede from her, and before she could back away from him again, he reached for her left hand, and when she didn’t pull away from him, grasped it softly in his and held it between them. “Is this ok?” he asked, gesturing to her shoulder, and she nodded once in acknowledgement.

He looked down at her thin hand, dwarfed in his palm, tracing the sinewy tendons and muscle with his eyes. He watched her carefully for a reaction as he slowly turned her hand so the palm was up, the memory of the last time he’d done this guiding him as to how much she could extend her arm and move her hand without it causing her more pain. He looked down at her open hand, and ran his thumb gently across the diagonal scar across her palm from where the broken glass of the whiskey bottle had sliced open her hand after he’d first asked her about Rene.

“This healed well,” he said quietly, brushing the tip of his thumb to the edge of the newly healed skin, slightly paler than the rest from the heat, then froze when he felt her tense up at the contact. He expected her to pull away, and when she didn’t, he once again checked in with her before resuming running his thumb over the palm of her hand. The scar was a visual reminder of the damage he’d done her simply by being here, and again he swore to himself that nothing else would happen to her because of him.

He gave her hand a gentle squeeze, the feeling of her soft skin under his calloused pads almost intoxicating. He cautiously began to massage her hand under the water, watching her reactions carefully to guide him as he worked each finger gently, progressively pleased when each stiff digit and joint he moved to slowly loosened with the gentle manipulation, and the taut tendons of her hand seemed to relax and smooth as he worked them.

He moved upward, grasping her wrist with his left hand, again taken aback by the smallness of her compared to him. “Still ok?” He asked again, and she nodded. She was flushed from the heat of the hot tub, and droplets of water dripped from the edges of her hair, rolling down her chest and disappearing under her tank top.

He forced himself to look away, and turned his attention back to her wrist, expecting to loosen under his ministrations it like her fingers. Though visually there was no obvious damage, he immediately realized the joint was largely fused; her hand and wrist could flex side to side a little, but it was almost completely up and down. He felt her tense again as he discovered her limitations, and without giving her time to overthink it he changed tactics, carefully massaging her wrist and lower arm without trying to move it. When he felt her take a breath and soften again underneath his fingers, he returned to her hand, giving it a final squeeze before he released it gently, and watched as she pulled it shakily back to her side, and dropped her gaze to the water once more.

He wanted nothing more than to understand her demons, and to comfort and ease whatever burdens she’d carried alone for far too long. The simple feel of her under his fingers had told him more about her in just a few short minutes than he had learned in the last 17 days living in her space. In those seconds she’d accepted his touch, the path forward felt clear, and dangerously simple.

When the silence between them stretched on and had become comfortable again, he couldn’t help but smile and said, simply, “Thank you.”

–

Kate looked up slowly from where she was studying the bubbles on the surface of the water, and let her confusion at his statement show on her face.

“For taking me in. For bringing me back from the pass. For showing me this.” He gestured to the garden around them. “Thank you,” he repeated again, and after a long moment she nodded, accepting the thanks, before looking out over the fence into the black expanse of the river behind them.

“It just didn’t seem right,” she said quietly, repeating what she’d said to him the other night. His slight intake of breath told her he’d given up hope of her engaging with him again at all. She chanced a glance back up at him, and had to force herself not to immediately turn away, the intensity in his expression almost overwhelming. His large brown eyes were suddenly incredibly clear, so much so she could almost imagine she could see herself reflected in his gaze as he watched her, taking her in so completely that she had to still her hands from reaching for the sweater she so often wore and pull it around her.

A shudder ran through her, her own body’s reaction catching her by surprise, and she gasped softly at the sensation. She closed her eyes for a moment and when she reopened them his gaze had changed, and she could see the warring emotions within them: concern, fear and a flicker of hope. Too close to the pity she expected to see there, she blinked away from him again before he could try to reassure her.

“Anyway, it’s like I said before. It wasn’t right, to save you once, to make you go through that-” her right hand lifted from the water as she gestured to encompass his body and the injuries it had endured - “and after everything, to just give up, and say no more. It wasn’t anyone else’s decision to make for you. Especially not Winston’s.”

She heard the anger she felt bleed into her voice as she spoke the last part. Determined to cut off any possible reaction or line of questioning, she turned away from him, set one foot on the step to climb out of the hottub, but his voice stopped her in her tracks.

“I thought I was supposed to die in Paris.” She paused but didn’t turn back, wondering if he’d say more. Surprising herself by hoping he would.

“It felt apropos. Fated, almost. What could be more fitting for someone like me, to fight for an impossible prize, win it for a second time, then die without the freedom it promised. Because ultimately, what I was fighting for wasn’t attainable at all. That battle was already lost, when she was.”

“To love is to suffer,” Kate recited quietly before turning back to him, and he nodded once in recognition.

“Yeah.”

She turned on the step and sank back down into the water, taking turns between stealing glances at him, and watching the bubbles as they burst on the surface.

They sat in comfortable silence in the warmth of the water, the only sounds between them the soft gurgling of the jets as they circulated. Again, she marveled at the two sides of the man before her. John Wick, who’s reputation preceded him. Feared by all who knew his name, and many more who only knew him by myth alone. And John. Soft-spoken. Thoughtful. Broken in ways that were eerily familiar. For the first time since he’d revealed the reasons behind his actions, she wondered if she had done the right thing by fighting so hard to save him. Not because of who he was and what he had done, but because it seemed like the dichotomy between John and Wick was such that he would be doomed to exist between worlds, never able to find his place or his peace, in or out of service to the Table.

“And now?” she said after a few minutes, curiosity winning out over her reluctance to break the easy silence. “Do you still regret not dying at Sacre Coeur?” When he didn’t immediately look up from the water or respond, she added, “after all, what could be more climactic than that.”

She bit her bottom lip, wondering if she’d overstepped with the gentle teasing, but when he glanced back up at her from between the strands of his dark hair, there was an unmistakable mirth in his expression.

“No. I don’t.” He lifted his right hand from the water, and used it to brush his hair from his face before setting it back on the side of the hottub. “Meeting you. Rene. Even just being in this town. It reminded me.”

“Of what?” Kate asked, unable to temper her curiosity further.

“Life goes on,” he said, and this time when he glanced at her she knew he was taking her in, his gaze washing over her face, her neck, her ruined shoulder. She forced herself not to turn away, to let him look, even as she concentrated again on studying the pattern of the bubbles on the surface of the water. She ignored him the first time he called her name, and only looked up when he said it again more firmly.

“Hnmm?” she answered, chancing a glance back at him, relieved to find his eyes focused solely on hers.

“I mean it. Thank you.”

Her first impulse was to argue, to tell him he’d already thanked her numerous times and it was unnecessary, but the seriousness of the way he said it made her pause, and after a moment, she nodded back, accepting his thanks.

“It’s me that should be thanking you. I resigned myself to just pushing a cabinet in front of that hole in the wall so the guests didn’t notice it until I finally got around to fixing it.”

“It was the least I could do. And I know I’ve overstayed. I know it’s been longer than two weeks, and I want you to know, I’m working on getting out of here. I’ve messaged Winston twice, I’m just waiting to hear when and how he’ll send for me. He’s a bit preoccupied, I guess, with the plans for the building, but within a few days, I’ll be out of your hair for good.”

Kate nodded. “That’s… good.” She winced at how fake her voice sounded to her own ears. She looked back down at her left hand where it was resting on her knee under the surface of the water. She could still feel the ghost of his touch on her skin, how his hands felt around hers. Under his careful attention her joints had relaxed in a way they never did, his touch seemingly more potent than any therapy she’d tried herself. When he’d moved to her wrist he hadn’t flinched, hadn’t looked surprised or horrified to discover yet another part of her that was irreparably damaged. Instead he’d immediately changed tactics, searching for other ways to soothe that didn’t exacerbate the conditions she lived with. She flexed her hand gently, and the only ache she felt was absence of his touch. How was that even possible? She glanced back up at him.

“Where will you go? Even if Winston’s hotel wasn’t condemned, you can’t even go there. Or to any of the Continentals. You’re not Table. You’re free.”

John nodded slowly. “Been trying to figure that out. I need to go home. See if anything survived the fire. Visit Helen’s…” he trailed off, unable to say the word. “Visit her,” he said after taking a deep breath. “After that, I’m not sure. I could rebuild on the same foundation. I have a few other places that I kept over the years, safe houses, crash pads when I was working. Two in the States. A few in Europe. But nothing feels right.”

Kate shook her head in agreement. She knew that feeling, too.

“You could stay a bit longer,” she said, surprising herself with the offer even as the words were coming out of her mouth. She watched as John looked equally surprised, his dark eyes widening and his mouth forming the slightest O as he took in her offer.

“I mean, if you wanted to.” Kate said, and shrugged, struggling to seem indifferent to what he might decide to do. “You’re barely back on your feet - you got winded just walking here, and you won’t be able to use your arm much at all for at least another month. Maybe it would be safer to not travel for a little while longer, let yourself recover fully.”

He continued staring at her, looking a little dumbfounded, and she forged on, pointedly ignoring the pit that had formed in her stomach at the idea of him leaving, only to resume wandering aimlessly through the world. “It wouldn’t be free of course - but the next few weeks are booked pretty full, and Rene’s at school most of the day, so I could use an extra set of hands at the Inn. There’s a few other things that could use fixing, too, like the wall. If you’re willing, we could call it a trade?”

She forced herself to stop talking; couldn’t quite bring herself to look at him when she did. She drew her knees up to the step she was sitting on, and wrapped her right arm around them to keep herself from fleeing from the hot tub altogether.

“I don’t want to impose.” His voice when he spoke was gravely and uncertain, but tinged with a lightness she had thus far only heard when he was conversing easily with Rene.

“You’ve already done that,” she said, lifting her head reluctantly and raising one eyebrow as their gazes met, making sure he knew she was teasing him again. He barked out a short laugh.

“Yeah.”

“No pressure, of course.” She added hurriedly, suddenly certain the whole thing had been a terrible idea, but he cut her off as she opened her mouth to say so.

“I appreciate the offer. I’d love to stay for a little longer. And I’m happy to help as much as I can. Please put me to work.”

Kate nodded once sharply. “Great. That’s settled then.” She got to her feet and stepped up and out of the hot tub, needing to put more distance between herself and him. She picked up her robe from the chair and carefully slid it up her left arm before shrugging it over her right and pulling the ends together before tying it in place. Behind her, she heard him groan as he stood and made his way up the steps back out of the water. She busied herself gathering her things and turning off the jets and lights for the hottub, and when she turned around he was ready, his arm back in the sling, draped over his own robe, his wet hair covering much of his face, dripping onto the wood deck.

She caught the look of surprise on his face as she turned away and brusquely stalked off, but she was too conflicted with her own warring emotions to try and correct it. She made her way out of the garden without looking back again, the sound of his heavy footsteps behind her assuring her that he was following.

As she made her way through the front path and back towards the street, she was so busy berating herself in her own head for making the offer for him to stay that she forgot to hold the gate open, and it slammed shut just as he was passing through, hitting him with a loud crack, and a muffled sound of pain from John.

“Shit,” muttered Kate, as she turned back to him to find him rubbing his shins. “I’m sorry, I got distracted, I didn’t think-”

“It’s alright.” John straightened to look at her. “I’ve survived worse.” He shook his head, tossing his wet hair out of his field of vision. “I guess the old lady at the market was right though - I do have to watch out for you.” He gave her an easy grin, obviously teasing, but Kate frowned instead, barely suppressing a groan of her own as they began to make their way down the street back towards the Inn side by side.

“Oh don’t tell me. Yay big-” she held her right arm up to his shoulder level. “Looks like she’s about a hundred and fifty years old. Never met a rumor she didn’t run with, probably gave aesthetic lessons to Julia Childs?”

John nodded. “Infamous, I take it?”

Kate dropped her chin to her chest in frustration. “Let me guess… because I live alone, and choose not to engage with her or anyone else in this ridiculous town, I’m a spinster witch, a wanton whore, and god help whatever pilgrims or innocents-” she tipped her head towards John with a roll of her eyes - “wind up in my evil lair. Does that about cover it?”

John nodded, and flashed another grin at description. “Also, you apparently killed your husband, and keep his body in the basement.”

She tripped on a cobblestone, losing her footing with a gasp. She felt herself falling, and instinctively turned her body to land on her right side, her right arm outstretched to try and protect her left from the fall. She winced in anticipation of pain just as she was to hit the ground, when an arm wrapped around her, pulling her back from the ground and back upright.

“I’ve got you,” he said, holding her steady to his chest, the warmth of his skin palpable even through his damp robe, his frame solid against her even in his recovering state. For a fleeting moment she was tempted to give into it, to let him hold her up and take the comfort he offered. Instead, she went to pull away from him but stumbled again, and his strong arm held her tight against him. “You’re ok, Kate. Give it a second.”

She could feel the adrenaline from the near miss coursing through her, and struggled to slow down her breathing as he continued to hold her to him, keeping her steady. Despite several slow breaths, she could still feel her heart racing, but she knew that had nothing to do with tripping.

Suddenly overwhelmed by the feeling of being so close to John she began to twist in his arms and he instantly released her, but kept a hand out in case she lost her balance again. She took two tentative steps back from him, and forced herself to look up. “Thanks.”

He flashed her a small, crooked smile. “You alright?”

Kate nodded, and took a shaky step forward, then another. “Yeah. I’m fine. Come on, you need to get inside, the last thing you need is to redevelop pneumonia from being wet out here.”

She forced herself to focus on the ground, taking slower steps, making sure she didn’t stumble again, even as she felt him watching her, ready to jump into action if needed. He kept pace with her, sticking close to her left side., As they walked she began to drift away from him, consciously trying to put a little more distance between them. Each time she did though, within a few dozen steps she found herself drifting back towards him, following an instinct she couldn’t seem to fight. As she once again found herself so close to him her hand could brush his if she reached out, she moved away again, determined not to let her body overcome the warnings flashing through her mind. To do so felt tempting in a way nothing had for a long time, and utterly dangerous.

They made it the rest of the way back without incident. She pulled the key from her pocket and had to concentrate to get it into the lock on the second try, as her hand shook. If John noticed he didn’t say anything, and Kate waited for him to enter through the front door before passing through it herself, locking it behind her. Turning back to the entryway, she found John studying her again, and she tried to bypass him with a hurried “goodnight” as she headed towards the stairs.

“Kate.” Again, his gravelly voice stopped her as she began her ascent upstairs. She paused and turned towards him, gripping the banister to keep the tremors running through her at bay.

“It’s all bullshit. Whatever they all think. Whatever they say. I don’t know what you’ve been through, or what you had to do to survive here, and I don’t have to. You’ve done what you had to. Never forget that.” He looked at her with an intensity she hadn’t seen before from him, and she nodded once.

“Good night, John.”

She turned back and continued to climb, reaching for the railing at the top of the stairs as she got there and sagged into it. She gripped it tightly with her right hand to keep herself steady as she closed her eyes, futilely trying to block out the barrage of images and sounds running through her head on repeat. Metal collapsing in on itself. A sharp wail cut off mid-breath. A quick succession of cracks ripping through the air. Intense, all-encompassing pain.

She heard the quiet click of John closing the door behind him as he entered his room, and released hold of the banister, allowing herself to slowly crumple to the floor on her knees, unable to hold herself up any longer.

If only you knew, John, she thought to herself as she leaned her upper body against the railing to keep from sprawling out entirely on the floor. If only you knew.