John was John Wick. The legendary assassin. The man, the myth, the legend. The fucking Baba Yaga. He had a heart that beat, blood that flowed through his veins—but in that world, in that world he seemed more than a man. In your world, he was just a man. And this man found himself at your doorstep, slightly hunched over with his hand over a gunshot wound that bled right through his suit.

The rain beat down onto him, drenching him. He didn’t know why he came here. To you. An ally. An enemy. A stranger. Somehow he left you behind long ago. He didn’t wish to rekindle whatever old flame the two of you once had. Nor did he expect you to take him in when he was this hurt. But you did. You didn’t turn him away like he thought.

That’s how he found himself sitting on your couch, soaking wet and lips pulled into a thin line as you stitched up his wound. He hung his head down, long wet hang framing down his face with and tightness around his eyes.

“Thanks,” John spoke, finally. His voice was gravelly and low. His dark eyes were trained on you now. You. He was a man of few words—but he found himself wanting to say a bit more. He just didn’t know what. He showed himself through action. His hand was cold as it brushed past yours. He just wanted to feel that you were real. Not some illusion or fragmented memory that the depths of his mind couldn’t let go of. He wasn’t sure where to go after this. He was just tired, exhausted. Of everything.

“I’ll pay you back.” No debt was left unpaid. And it was more than this. He had more to pay for with you.