Mr. Winter

BY : Prentice
Category: Marvel Verse Comics > Crossovers
Dragon prints: 135
Disclaimer: I do not own Marvel, nor its characters. I do not make money from the writing of this story.

Title: Mr. Winter
Author: Prentice
Fandom: Marvel/John Wick
Rating: ADULT
Warning: Violence
Pairing: Gen
Author's Note: Written for the 50 Fusions Fic Challenge. Prompt 1. Universe - "John Wick". 

Summary: The Soldier didn't always use the hotel.


The Soldier didn’t always use the hotel.

He should’ve; in-house medical wasn’t easy to come by, even with the amount of money he had access to, and the Rules of the House made it so that he could actually get a good night’s sleep if he needed it without worrying about getting his throat cut but, for all that the Continental provided safe haven, he still preferred not to cross paths with most of the other men and women who stayed there.

It wasn’t just that he was a solitary creature by nature. (In some other life, he hadn’t been, and sometimes, late at night, could remember following the glint of sunlight off hair so blond it looked like gold, boney elbows digging into his side as he jostled forward, his arm winding around scrawny shoulders that felt like home).

It wasn’t just that the hotel sometimes felt stifling, so many bodies in so many places that it was nearly impossible to keep track of them all. (The Rules had to be adhered to, everyone knew that but that didn’t stop bullets through windows or prices so high that anybody might chance it because the Continental was good, maybe even the best, but it wasn't the only game in town and everyone knew that).

It wasn’t even that he was working more than not these days, exclusivity like his calling card because everyone who was anyone knew he didn’t do open contracts. (Sleep didn’t come easy anymore anyway and probably never would; the memory of cold and ice and hands holding him down like a constant weight around his neck; the beautiful elegance of the hotel around him absurd and unsettling as he cleaned blood from metal fingers).

No, it wasn’t really any of those things.

It was just that…

 (Malia had gone down easy, blood spilling across the pavement as her hair had fanned out like a beautiful halo as she hit the ground. Josef hadn’t been as simple; he’d fought like a wild cat, cursing him in Farsi, in Urdu, and finally, tellingly, in French, his mother tongue tripping off his tongue as his bloodied fingers had scrambled against an unforgiving metal forearm, breath wheezing and gasping until suddenly, finally, he was still. Natalia’s death had  been ugly in ways that he didn’t like to think about and could never quite forget, the knife she’d managed to embed in the Soldier's shoulder stinging as he’d shifted to his feet and limped back to his hideout, her little girl’s screams still ringing in his ears .)

He didn’t like to kill his friends, so it was just easier not to have any.



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