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[halfbakedangel]

First date

Hello! This is my first time writing a fanfiction in many years but I’ve found myself inspired by John Wick, so I hope you guys enjoy :) I’m also a brand spanking new account so followers would be appreciated

Warnings: Violence, death, mention of drugs.

Time to paint a picture. You’re a waitress at an extremely pretentious and highly suspicious club based in New York. You moved here from the UK last year to escape your family, who were high profile drug distributors that wanted you to be more involved with the business. And frankly, fuck that.

Tonight’s shift felt different. You noticed there were more security guards than usual, the other bartenders were clearly on alert, and your manager was actually watching over you for once. But, why? What made tonight so tense?

The truth is that you didn’t know, you didn’t want to. Obviously there was some kind of event going down in the city tonight, one worth celebrating by Russia’s finest cartel members; that alone was enough for you to mind your business. You’d had your fair share of gang related bullshit in your life back home, but it was a whole different ballgame here and you wanted nothing to do with it. The drama of it all was exhausting. Or so you told yourself.

“Girl! Get over here and bring your finest bottle of vodka” a thick Russian accent shouted over from the lounge area, a voice belonging to probably the scariest man you’d ever seen. 6’6 at the least, so broad he probably had to go through doors sideways. You shot over a smile, maintaining confidence as you walked over to the group of men with several shot glasses and a bottle of vodka neatly placed on a serving tray.

“Here you go gentlemen, I hope it is up to standard” you spoke, placing the drinks down onto the table before turning to walk away. Only, they didn’t want you to walk away just yet. “Are you new here?” One of the men asked, “I haven’t seen you before. We come here on occasion and I think I’d remember a face like yours” he winked, making you recoil internally. “I’ve been here for a few months” you answered simply, smiling through clenched teeth as you made your second attempt of walking away. The men whistled at you as you wondered back to the bar, “I will fuck her tonight even if it’s against her will” you heard a voice laugh. Excuse me?

Maybe it was cockiness, or just plain stupidity, that made you throw the metal serving tray like a damn frisbee back at the table, aiming exactly for the bottle and causing it to smash. The men laughed for a second before the big ones face turned to pure aggression, he stormed over to the bar and screamed in your face, “little girl, do you know who the fuck I am? I will end you in a heartbeat if you don’t stay in your place”, his face was so close to yours you could smell the alcohol on his breath. “I don’t care who you are” you uttered in response as your coworker, Ellen, frantically pushed you aside and began apologising profusely to the man - promising all drinks would be on the house for the rest of the night.

Your manager, after seeing this event unfold, pulled you aside into one of the backrooms, aggressively shoving you down onto the red leather sofa. “Listen Mike, I don’t want a striptease from you” you chuckle, finding the whole ordeal quite amusing. “Jesus Christ you British women are insane! Can you take this seriously for one fucking minute? I don’t care about your background. You’re nobody here! Nobody! These men will skin you alive and use it as a rug if you don’t pipe down. Do you hear me? Do you understand me?” Mike shouted, pacing back and forth before continuing calmly, “Look, you work for me. You are a reflection of me and how I run this business. You might not like the people who come here, but you chose to work here. You could’ve gone anywhere, but you chose here. So. Stay. In. Line.” His voice was assertive, but you could tell he secretly found your tray launching skills quite impressive. You were about to continue the conversation, expressing your apologies for disrespecting his and your workplace. However, before you could even speak, chaos broke loose in the club.

Gunshots. Every second. Screams so loud you couldn’t even make out the music anymore. Mike immediately poked his head through the doorway to see the commotion, not wanting to step foot into the battlefield you used to call a club. “Fuck. FUCK. What the FUCK? The god damn boogeyman is here for those bastards now. The god damn boogeyman. Fuck. Hah. I’m out of here, this is too fucking much. Fuck this.” he panicked, exasperated, heading quickly to the fire exit a short walk away, and abandoning ship. Classic.

For a moment, you just sat there. Not being able to process what he meant by “the Boogeyman” or what was unfolding next door. You were snapped out of your shocked demeanour when a body fell straight through the curtained doorway into the room, hitting his already mangled head onto the corner of the couch. Fear set in as you tried to follow Mikes plan and run to the fire exit, but at this point everyone had the same idea and you knew you’d never get through the flood of horrified people without being crushed. You were only small and you’d rather die by gunshot than by trampling. Faster, less suffering, you thought, back against the wall waiting patiently. Numb to the core as you prepared to die.

After what felt like an eternity, the sound of gunshots and screams finally stopped. You quietly walked back into the main area with caution, surprised nobody had come and killed you. You were about to leave now the scene had cleared when you were stopped you in your tracks, “you the bartender?” A low American voice asked, “fix me a drink, bourbon.” It requested bluntly. Turning around, you saw a tall man with long black hair standing at the bar, dressed in a suit that would’ve been nice if it weren’t covered in blood. “Okay” you sheepishly replied, terrified to do anything other than submit to his request.

“Here you go” you smiled as you poured him a glass, despite being terrified you had gotten used to faking confidence in the presence of a killer. But that’s a story for another day. “You the boogeyman?” You blurted out, half expecting the strange man to shoot you down after asking such a thing. Instead, he just nodded his head, drinking his whiskey in a matter of seconds before pouring himself and you another. It fell silent for a moment before morbid curiosity took over once again. “How come you kept me alive? Why did you kill those Russian dickheads?”

“I needed a bartender, and like you said. Dickheads.” He replied. Although this man had just shot and killed multiple people meters away from you, you weren’t intimidated by him for some reason. Maybe because you didn’t know his reputation yet. Maybe because he had a weird charm about him, one that intrigued you in the strangest of ways. Maybe because you were in shock. Maybe all of the above.

The club fell silent once more, it was weird hearing it so quiet, you wished the DJ stuck around but obviously he hadn’t. Either that or he was lying dead next to the speaker. You didn’t want to look and find out. The silence lingered for a minute or two before you heard a shout and the sound of a gun, and before you could even react you’d been shot in the side of the stomach. You’d been stabbed before back in England but never shot, so the pain was unlike anything you’d ever known. The floor was littered with broken glass which didn’t help the impact of your fall, cutting you in a variety of places before being knocked unconscious by the impact of hitting the ground.

It felt like only a moment had passed when you came to. But it was clear you’d been out for some time. This was clear because miraculously you’d been bandaged and stitched up, and found yourself in what appeared to be a hotel room. Scared and in pain, you sat up quickly, feeling a sharp pain in your abdomen as you did. It felt like Hell, you felt like hell, you began to question if this was hell and if so, why was the room decor so nice? The walls where pure white, the modern furniture impeccably clean, the bed, ohmygod the bed, it felt like being on a cloud that had been blessed by angels to be more cloud-like. As nice as the room was, you needed to know where you were and what had happened to you. Standing up wasn’t an option just yet, as you’d realised from the struggle it took just to sit up, however there was a phone on the bed stand. Debating on what to do for a moment, you hesitantly decided to pick it up, hoping that this wasn’t some fucked up institute ran by those Russian guys at the club. Hoping that they wouldn’t groom you into the life you were running away from back home, or worse, hoping that you wouldn’t become their personal plaything.

The voice on the other end of the line seemed calm, professional. He said something about the Continental but you were finding it hard to focus on what exactly. “Continental? What? Is that where I am? Why am I here? Who helped me?” You stifled, realising that even speaking hurt your very bruised ribs. “Ah, I see. John will be with you shortly upon his return” the man promptly replied, leaving no time to respond before ending the call. Who the fuck was John? It didn’t sound Russian, which was a relief, but the anxiety that was now wreaking havoc in your mind and body refused to fade. You were a strong woman, you had a mighty reputation at home, never in a million years would you have expected to feel so weak. So powerless. The pain in your body was excruciating, but you forced yourself to stand up despite already knowing what a stupid idea that was. Predictably, you fell to the floor after one step, but began to crawl towards the door hoping that you could somehow make your way to the exit without anyone noticing. Naive.

Suddenly, the door swung open. You were on the floor, looking like a wounded animal, but still, you swung your head up to look at the man now stood directly in front of you. “Going somewhere?” He asked. You realised that it was the guy from the club, and couldn’t help but find him attractive now he was no longer covered in blood. “Should I call you John or the boogeyman?” You asked in reply, ignoring his question, locking eyes with him as you were still on the floor like some kind of weird spider. “John is fine” he chuckled, shaking his head in disbelief at your statement. He knelt down next to you, grabbing your underarms and pulling you back to the bed. Usually, this would be a scary experience, being dragged to bed by a stranger, but you could tell he didn’t want to hurt you. You wondered if he was the one who’d bandaged you up or if he’d taken you to a doctor; whoever tended to your injuries was definitely experienced in the practice. After being placed onto the bed, you weren’t sure what to say, you hoped John would break the silence but he didn’t. He just looked at you. Looked at the alcohol cabinet across the room, then went to pour himself a drink. Pulled out a chair and sat down. Looked at you again.

“Why’d you help me?” You finally inquired, realising that he wasn’t a man of many words. He scratched his head and thought for a second, almost like he was looking for the right words before responding, “You were going to leave, I made you stay, and that bullet was meant for me. I felt bad.”

The man who had just wiped out every Russian in the club, felt bad that a bartender got shot? Interesting.

“I know who you are by the way.” He followed. “Your father is involved with much more than you know”. You shivered at the thought of what he meant. You were the baby of the family and you ran away when things started to get serious with the business, much to your father’s disappointment. “Does he know where I am?” You asked, “no, and he doesn’t have to”. Hearing this statement was a relief, but didn’t take away from the anxiety still sitting heavy on your chest. John walked over to you calmly, carrying the chair and placing it next to the bed, before walking into what appeared to be a bathroom and coming out holding a first aid kit. “No disrespect but I need to replace your dressing. Can you take your shirt off for me?” He questioned. Until this moment, you hadn’t even thought about what you looked like or what you were wearing. You saw that your work uniform was thrown into a corner, soaked in blood, and that you were wearing a plain black button-up shirt. Was this Johns shirt? Does that mean he’d already seen your body? At least buy me dinner first, you thought, growing embarrassed at the thought of him undressing and dressing you like a doll. It was necessary though, nothing strange about it in context, but still a little awkward. “I can do it myself” you insisted, gesturing for him to toss you the medkit. He seemed slightly taken aback by your request, but obliged nonetheless, taking a seat next to you as you began to unbutton yourself.

The bruises on your ribs were worse than you thought, and the right side of your body was cut up from shards of glass poking into your skin. It was hard not to gag at the sight of your bullet wound, even stitched up, it looked disgusting, leaking plasma which had soaked through the bandage you now held in your hand. Despite this, you cleaned and rewrapped yourself, glimpsing at John whilst doing so as he pretended not to watch.

“Is this your shirt?” You asked, beginning to button it back up. “Yeah, it was, I hope that doesn’t make you uncomfortable” he said, almost like a question but remaining fairly blunt, not requiring an answer. It’d be silly to feel uncomfortable at such a thing really, anything is better than your work uniform, especially when it’s hardened with blood.

The two of you sat in comfortable silence for a moment, unsure on what to say under the strange circumstances. This gave you the opportunity to really look at the man who had saved you. You noticed how sad his eyes were, yet could see how passionate they were too. His beard was well maintained, sculpted to his facial shape well. His hair was dark, long and slicked back, he looked like artwork in his own way. Quickly, you were snapped out of your admiration as he once again asked you a question, “you want a drink?”. Yes. God yes. You needed a glass of wine or 5 more than anything right now. “How about a nice bottle of red?” You smiled, adjusting your posture to sit more comfortably as the sharp pains in your torso became hard to ignore. “And how about some food? You were unconscious all of yesterday, you must be hungry” he asked. He was a man full of questions but at least it made conversation easy. In response, you simply nodded your head, unsure as to why he was being so comforting. It wasn’t something you wanted to challenge though. Free food wasn’t something you were prepared to turn down. And he was right, you were hungry.

Room service delivered the most amazing spread of food you’d ever seen within moments. You went from questioning if this was hell moments ago to questioning if it was Heaven. “Stay with me and we’ll eat and drink together” you insisted, noticing that John was preparing to leave, not wanting to overstep any boundaries. He smiled, not like a half smile or a smirk, a proper smile, and you all of a sudden found yourself smiling back at him softly.

To think you went through so much horror two nights ago was a hard concept to grasp, but it wasn’t so traumatic now you were safe, boozed up and eating the finest food you could imagine with one of the most handsome men you’d ever laid eyes on. “This is one heck of a first date” you laughed, looking over to John who was chowing down on some udon. “If that’s what you want to call it, I’ll accept” he chuckled, now contently sitting next you on the bed. It was a strange sight, seeing this man, this killer, so comfortable around you. You wondered how many people had seen this side of him, even your manager, Mike, knew who he was and was scared. A scary reputation doesn’t always equate to a scary man, you thought. Relating back to the thought of your family back in Britain, who were known as horrible people despite your mother being the most loving woman you knew. You missed her sometimes, but it wasn’t worth reaching out in case your dad tracked you down and brought you back. Now he, was just straight up horrible.

“Thankyou, for all of this” you sighed happily, looking over to John with pure joy. “Anytime” he smiled, looking back at you with the same look. Happiness suited him well.

Was this the start of something?