[backdated] butterfly effect in full swing

[diagenesis]

who: james flint and john wick
what: john's on a temporal bender, oop.
when: backdated a touch
where: all through quarantine, most likely
warnings: potential for violence





[He keeps a quiet life. There is little here that sways him beyond it. He spends his days idly, not since early boyhood has he had so many pass him by without incident. It's not unwelcome, this strange peace. It's simply undeserved.

He is reading, when John finds him. John, looking angry and violent and bloody beyond all reckoning. It's a look Flint knows well, one he's worn.

A marker is placed between the pages of the book he's reading, something by Agatha Christie, as recommended to him by Peggy Carter, and he sets it aside.]

Is something the matter?

[Obviously, something is. But James isn't about to assume. He does, however, take mental stock of the weapons he has immediately on hand. It's entirely possible John is about to ask him for back-up, and he would not like to be caught unawares in such a case.]

Comments

[adiuvio]

Not anymore.

[The look in his eyes, dark, and heavy, says it all. Whoever John's wearing on his suit is no longer a concern to him, or anyone else, excluding his personal launderer. It's not easy to get blood out of silk, especially without questions, but John tips well, and he always picks up his dry-cleaning on time.

John slides out of his jacket, turning it inside out before draping it over a nearby chair. Wet facing away from the upholstery. John's not entirely without conscience, after all. He hadn't come to his friend's home to make a mess.

His hands go to the back of his waistcoat, beneath the vents, unholstering a gun from the small of his back and setting it on the coffee table. There's no threat in the gesture. He's just making himself comfortable before taking a seat on the bench next to Flint.

John's hands are red, the face of his watch, always turned inwards on his wrist, is obscured with blood. He licks his thumb and wipes it off. His wedding ring is absent. John puts the casual in casualty.]

I was in the neighbourhood. Thought I'd stop by, and say hello.

[diagenesis]

[Sharks smell blood in the water. Flint's thrown more than a few men overboard after a shipboard battle, watched the ocean froth red. A man that's been around danger develops a tolerance for it. What's one battle to a veteran of hundreds? What's one scar to a bareknuckle brawler? A bullet wound to a pistolier?

But John has always been more dangerous than most. Like knows like, and Flint is all too aware that something is wrong.

He smooths his beard down between his fingers. It does not make him cautious, as it might a lesser man, but it certainly sharpens his focus.]

You've been busy.

[No judgement. Mild inquiry at best.]

[adiuvio]

No shortage of work in these parts.

[He absently brushes a piece of tooth from the lapel of his waistcoat and onto the ground.

Busy was an understatement. Supply is barely meeting demand. Especially since John had killed most other suppliers. They hadn't taken kindly to a new face in an old business. John hadn't taken kindly to them not taking kindly. Suffice it to say, in less than a month, he's cornered the market. Winston would be proud.

And maybe that's what's got John's back up. It's been decades since he's had to prove anything to anyone. His reputation has always spoken for itself. Here, he's had to build himself all over again. Without the camaraderie, comforts, and convenience, of The Continental.

Yeah, he's angry about it. And there's no one who understands. He's alone here, and it's chewing at him, gnawing at his bones, in a way it never has before. Something is missing, and he doesn't know where to look for it, wouldn't know what it was, even if he found it.

Ever since he'd woken up here, as if from a fugue state, he's been on edge, and killing, for the first time, hasn't dulled it any. The more blood he spills, the sharper, and slippier, everything gets.

He looks at Flint with that sharpness, his eyes like razors without a safety guard.]

I need someplace to stay. Cop's got a warrant out.

[diagenesis]

[The wrongness twists like a knife tucked up under the ribcage. Flint straightens out the book he'd been reading until its cover is parallel to the edge of the rough-hewn table he'd made for himself.

(This house is nothing like Miranda's. And yet, there are touches of her in it everywhere. The tea service. The open fireplace in one corner despite the modernity of the kitchen stove. The musical instruments he doesn't play.)]

You're welcome here, of course. As long as you require.

[It's not an offer of amnesty, the way it would be would that he were a better man. But for now, there's no hidden meaning.]

I was about to start dinner. Hungry?

[adiuvio]

Appreciate it.

[John doesn't expect it. Flint is a friend, but their allegiance goes no farther than that. John has killed plenty of friends. It was the way of their world. That's why they lived in the moment, all of them, because the moment was all anyone had. Some people kept business apart from pleasure. Most didn't.

It's a small world, made smaller by every successful hit.]

I could eat.

[There's a hunger in his eyes. Flint will see that. John's the type of man who can never get his fill. It's like there's a hole in him. No matter how much blood he spills, it's not enough to sate him. That hunger is what makes John good at what he does. Like a wolf in lean times, John's always looking for the next meal. He doesn't have it in him to be anything less than predatory.

John slips his hand into the front of his waistcoat. There's a gun tucked under his left armscye, but that's not what he's reaching for. From within the safety of the bulletproof silk shell, he pulls out a book. The leather cover is remarkably clean, given the circumstances of its finding.

L’Étranger, by Albert Camus.]

For you.

[diagenesis]

[He touches the leather with deft fingers, tracing the lines of its lettering. The book and author are both unknown to him - much is, in this strange world - but he has some measure of trust in John's taste.

Books have always held special meaning for him. It's something he has shared with everyone he ever loved. Not just Thomas, or Miranda, but his mother and grandfather both, the former who learned letters in secret and the latter that overlooked it. It is a curious thing, to come to a world where nearly everyone can read, yet it's rare that anyone does.]

Hm.

[Almost a thank-you. He stands, the pads of his fingers lingering on the spine of the book before he stands away from the table and goes to the open kitchen. He has always known how to cook - it was a simple joy for him when he retired to the Hamilton estate - and though James Flint could not lower himself to a position of cooking for his men, James McGraw may not have minded.

He takes out the ingredients for a hearty stew - the sort that's good for building up expended energy - and begins slicing vegetables (the fucking variety of them still astounds him) for the pot. He'll use the open hearth for this rather than the stove. The smoke adds flavour to the food you can't get on a gas-top.]

So who's the poor bastard you're wearing? [Ha, ha, murderer humour.] No one I know, I assume.