Starbursts and Assassins (John Wick)

Chapter five: John Drives a Minivan

When I wake up, there's light streaming in from the windows. At first, it's blinding, and I struggle to grasp exactly where I am. The bed is so plush under my back, the sheets soft under my fingertips. I brush my cheek against the ever-soft pillow, and when I inhale, I smell the unfamiliar fragrance of a hotel room.

I turn to my side, reminded by the sunlight in the windows of the past day.

Quickly, I sit up, checking the door to see if the chair is still under the knob. It's still is.

Sighing in relief, I check the time and notice it's quite early in the morning. I wonder if this room has any spare toothbrushes.

I tiptoe into the bathroom, aware that I'm still in a hotel suite with an intelligent assassin who can probably already tell I'm up and about. I wonder if he tried coming in my room during the night and slitting my throat. Or maybe he tried smothering me? Would that do the trick?

I ignore the nagging questions in my head, the heavy, sour feeling of anxiety rising in the pit of my chest.

I'm a fucking mess when I see myself in the mirror. Dark circles, unkept half dried hair, and a look of utter shit.

I search the cabinets for a new toothbrush and find one still in its packaging. I find Coldgate toothpaste and find it kind of funny that high class hit men don't brush their teeth with toothpaste named, like, MenKiller or ArcticBomb.

I wash my face and brush my hair out with my fingers.

When I step out of the bathroom, I shriek.

John stands by the door, the chair to the side neatly, his hands in his pockets as if he is meant to be just standing there in my hotel room.

"What the hell!" I shout. "How did you even get in here!"

I linger by the bathroom door, heart hammering. John's wearing the same suit as yesterday, his hair neatly gelled back, beard expertly trimmed. It's as if he slept on his back, keeping his assassin look immaculate, and then just woke up to come terrorize me.

He doesn't say anything. He gestures to the bed, where I see there's a black wool long sleeve, trousers, socks and underwear, and by miracle, a fresh pair of Vans.

"I put the chair under the knob," I say, pathetically gesturing to the chair John put back in its place.

"Oldest trick in the book," he mutters, scratching the bridge of his nose. "Also, that doesn't work when the doorknob is round."

I swallow thickly, embarrassed. "At least I tried."

"You don't have anything to fear from me, Ophelia," he says, matter of fact, and when I raise a brow at him, he adds, "anymore."

I sigh impatiently, rolling my eyes, crossing my arms over my chest like a real entitled brat. "So, what now?" I ask. "I'm gonna get dressed in a female version of your kill suit and what, go gallivanting around New York, stabbing people?"

For the first time, I see John smirk.

And instead of finding it endearing or cute or whatever – because yeah, he's sorta hot – I get angry. "Oh, so it's all just fun and games for you?" I grit.

He doesn't say anything, still trying to stifle a laugh. I find myself wondering what he even sounds like laughing.

"Stop it!" I demand, all but stomping my foot like I'm four. "Explain yourself!"

He does a face that's between an eye roll and an angered sigh. "I'm going to bring you to the High Table." He says this as if I'm supposed to be like, yeah okay, cool.