Chapter Text
Chapter 38: Sleepwalker
The house was quiet. Not the unnerving kind of quiet—the kind that came with safety.
John had always kept the space that way. Peaceful. Sparse. Still. The kind of quiet that felt like a breath held just under the surface. The kind of quiet you only noticed when it gone.
You hadn’t said much since returning.
Ares had handed you off with a nod when the private physician had declared you fit enough to move on your own. Santino had been noticeably absent since that night in the wine cellar. You didn’t care; it was better that way.
You found it difficult to care about too much in the days following that event.
Dog followed you around incessantly, big brown eyes baleful, ears lowered. He knew you smelled different, like someone else’s home, but there was something else there. You patted him, absentmindedly and you didn’t take him for walks or runs. John still did those things, but Dog wanted you.
Now you were home. The real kind. The kind you’d bled for.
John hadn’t asked you anything. Not yet. You could catch it in his glances, the weight behind his flickering gaze, the protector trying - and failing - to give you space.
But he was watching you closely. The way you moved. The way your eyes lingered. The way your fingers brushed the satin ribbons of the pointe shoes before tucking them away inside your dresser drawer, hidden beneath old shirts and softer things. You hadn’t worn them since that morning just before everything changed, and you hadn’t told him about the gift. But he knew. Of course he did.
You didn’t speak of Devon.
Not of the cellar.
Not of the blood that had pooled under your feet.
Not of the final scream or the way your hands had trembled as your body broke open and the last part of you that had once believed in goodness died in that cellar.
John knew what it meant to come home altered, irrevocably changed.
He didn’t push. But you caught him watching—every time.
And it was wearing on you, slowly, silently, the way rust eats into steel. The quiet was no longer just peaceful. It was growing too loud inside your bones, just like it had before that night in Miami that now seemed so far away, when John looked at you with something like jealousy before it turned into something more.
Tonight, he cooked. Something simple. Something you used to love.
You ate in the kitchen while Dog curled by your feet and John pretended not to look at the way your shoulders flinched at sudden noises. You tried to hide the gaping hole in your chest when he took your plate and brushed his fingers along yours.
You tried not to feel the soft ache in your ribs or the deeper one in your chest. You knew you were struggling, could see yourself spiraling with nothing to break your fall. You wanted just to feel like yourself again instead of this hollowed out stranger using your flesh and bones.
You knew John could see it too - knew that in the Ruska Roma, you either fought through it or died trying. But what happened if you already felt dead? Or worse, that you had been taken over by something darker?
You felt like two entities were fighting inside of you now - that bloodthirsty part that enjoyed killing and that other part that loved your softness, your flowers.
The worst part was that you knew he could see it on you and you didn’t want him to. Marcus would have probably pushed you off of a building or something (possibly literally) by now - told you that you had to fly again, baby birds don’t return to the nest.
John knew. He just didn’t say it.
-
The record came out after dinner.
It had dust along the edges—old, worn, cared for.
The label was in Cyrillic.
The soft hiss filled the room like a match being struck.
And then—
The music began.
It was nothing to most people. Just strings. Low, tense, building like a breath in your throat. But to you—
Your spine snapped straight, the mug in your hands trembling slightly before you set it down. You couldn’t breathe. Not properly.
You knew this piece.
You had danced to this.
No, not danced.
You had killed to this.
The bloodthirsty part of you curled her lips, ready.
This music had once played on scratchy speakers in a warehouse behind the theatre. It was the kind of track The Director liked to use in her private sessions—when the girls were ready to become something more than dancers. When the blood needed to run in rhythm.
“John…” you whispered.
You didn’t realize you were on your feet until he stood with you, horror washing over you that you didn’t remember even standing.
You turned slowly.
He wasn’t smiling. Wasn’t angry. He looked like a man standing in a field he used to know—something old and ruined beneath his feet.
“I kept it,” he said simply. “I knew the sound would trigger something. I just didn’t know if it would hurt.”
You stared at the record. At the floor.
And then it hit you.
Your knees buckled and John caught you before your body could hit tile.
You crumpled in his arms, clutching his shirt as the sob broke free from your throat. It had been a long time since you had cried and you cried harder for it.
“I remember.”
John knelt with you, his back against the cabinet, your weight pressed to his chest - solid, unyielding, but human. If there was one man who understood, it was John Wick.
“Talk to me.”
You did.
In pieces.
You told him about the assignment that went wrong—about the light that crushed your ankle and the man you were meant to kill but couldn’t.
About the trinity of tattoos on your back, the same ones he carried.
About waking up in a hospital that didn’t ask questions, knowing something was wrong but not what.
You told him about The Director sending no one for you. You weren’t excommunicated; you were broken, damaged, of no use.
And Devon - where you had died a second death, one to servitude and allowing yourself to be made small because you believed that was all you had left.
About how Marcus found you—pale, thin, broken, and quiet. How he brought you back to life without asking anything in return. How he gave you purpose again, even if it was just paperwork and data and staying out of the line of fire.
“Marcus kept me alive after…,” you whispered. “Until they killed him.”
You didn’t have to say who. John knew.
You told him how Devon found you again after that—how he’d waited, hunted, haunted.
How he dragged you behind that bar, tried to kill you for real this time, and how you ran.
To John.
Bleeding and terrified, nearly dead.
And you’d never left.
John didn’t interrupt. Didn’t move except to hold you tighter.
When you finally looked up at him, your voice was raw.
“I’m not like her anymore. Not the dancer. Not the weapon. Not the girl Marcus saved.”
John’s hand cupped your cheek.
“I know,” he murmured. “But she’s part of you. All of them are.”
“I killed him,” you whispered. “And it felt…easy. Like slipping into an old role. I was her again. For a minute. And I’m scared I won’t find my way back.”
John leaned in, his forehead pressing to yours. He was warm, familiar. Your chest ached with the knowledge of his body.
“You already did.”
You let out a shaky breath.
His lips brushed your temple.
You both sat there, surrounded by shadows, strings, and quiet memories.
The record ended with a soft hiss.
And you stayed—folded into the man who had never once asked you to be anything other than what you were.
Because he knew.
He’d been there too.
And now?
You weren’t alone in it.
Not anymore.
The dam had broken. The words had spilled out. Now there was only quiet.
Not silence—John was there. His presence was like breath itself, quiet but steady, always moving through you, anchoring your spine. But for a long time, he didn’t say anything. Just sat close, his body angled toward yours, letting the record finish its last crackling notes.
When he finally stood, it wasn’t abrupt. He moved like someone trained to comfort animals—slow, assured. A hand brushed your hair back from your face, thumb catching a damp streak of salt and sweat. “Come with me,” he said, soft but certain.
You didn’t ask where. You just followed.
He led you down the hall, not to the bedroom, but to the bathroom. There were fresh towels stacked on the counter, and the light was dim, just the golden warmth of a single bulb over the mirror. Steam began to fill the space as he turned on the water in the tub, testing it with the back of his hand until it was just right. You sat on the closed toilet lid, watching him with glassy eyes.
“I can do it,” you murmured when he knelt and reached for the hem of your shirt.
“I know,” he said. But his hands didn’t stop.
He undressed you gently. Carefully. One layer at a time, he peeled you from the fabric as if you might bruise from the weight of the cotton. Your body was still healing—faded bruises, tender ribs, the ache of deep tissue still caught between old and new trauma. He didn’t touch what hurt unless you nodded first.
When you were bare, he looked at you. Not like a man with desire, but a man cataloguing pain, like he had that night you had first appeared. The bruises, the lacerations, the scarring, your tattoos only made you more beautiful to him.
With a deep breath, he helped you into the bath.
The warmth hit first. Then the ache. You winced, hissing as the heat soaked into your battered body, but he steadied you with a palm at your back, easing you in.
“You’re safe,” he said.
You didn’t realize you were holding your breath until you let it out and nodded.
John rolled up his sleeves and took the washcloth, wet it, lathered the soap. He started at your shoulders, working in slow, gentle circles. He didn’t speak—he didn’t need to. He cleaned the flecks of blood that hadn’t washed away since your stitches had been removed. He lifted your arms and cleaned the bruises along your biceps. He moved around you, careful not to pull or jar you.
When he reached your thighs, he paused. You opened your eyes and nodded once.
“I know where he touched you,” he said, voice low and soothing. “I know where you fought him.”
He cleaned you anyway.
There was no pressure. No shame. Just care.
You felt the tears again, not sharp and shaking—but warm, grateful. John was kneeling on cold tile with soap on his hands and grief in his jawline, and he was loving you in the only way he could tonight—with silence, and reverence, and gentleness.
When the water cooled, he helped you out and wrapped you in towels. He dried your legs, your arms, your back, then held out a soft cotton nightshirt—his. You took it, slipped it on. His hands caught yours when you wobbled, and he steadied you until your feet found purchase again.
When you made it back to the bedroom, he pulled back the covers and slid in first, opening the space beside him like a question. You curled in, fresh and clean and exhausted, and he curled around you. One arm around your waist. One hand resting on your heart.
“Still here,” he murmured.
Your voice cracked as you whispered back, “Still mine?”
His mouth pressed to your hairline.
“Always.”