DISCLAIMER: I do not own or wish to appear to be the owner of John Wick and any merchandise related thereof.

AN: I love this movie, but I was fascinated by the fact that he had to dig up his gear before he could start his revenge. I kept trying to figure out why he would do something like burying his weapons and then this plot bunny was born and I just had to get it down on paper. I hope you all enjoy it!

I knew something wasn't quite right by the third date. He was vague when speaking about his profession. He was in risk management, some sort of security, but when pressed about the name it was a company I "never heard of" or a place that "didn't matter". When I brought this up to my best friend she laughed and said he sounded dangerous. When I told my mother she frowned and said sternly he sounded dangerous. I tried to work up the sufficient amount of worry and caution that my mother thought I should have but I just couldn't.

He was kind and romantic, calm and intelligent. He had a quirky sense of humor that could make me laugh out loud, even in public. He didn't feel dangerous. He just felt right. So I continued to date him, gushing to my friends about how perfect he was and defending him to my mother that he wasn't going to "do something nefarious in the night". Truth be told though, there was still that nagging feeling in the back of my mind. My mother may be over protective, but she had been right when she taught me to follow my gut. It had never been wrong before and mine had stuck around after that third date even through all my defending.

So I started to be just a bit more observant when we went out. I began to notice little things. Valets refusing tips, people giving us a wide berth as we walked down the street, extra drinks or free desserts at restaurants. After a while it just seemed that we were perceived as a well to do couple that tipped generously and was kind so businesses would go above and beyond to keep us coming back. My worries waned and weeks turned into months, months into a birthday engagement, then finally a year. We went to this lovely French restaurant named Viande et legumes and were seated at a private table near the back. I could tell he had been planning this for a while because there was a short centerpiece between us, a bouquet of daises, and my favorite song was playing through the speakers softly throughout the entire room. It was beautiful and I felt special and loved.

A waiter came over just as I plucked a bread stick out of the dainty woven basket. In his hands he had what was apparently a vintage 1945 Red Burgundy wine from France. We looked over the bottle, it was clearly expensive and not something that we needed to splurge on just for a one year anniversary, it was tempting of course, but with smiles we waved it away. The man insisted, practically pushing it into my fiancé's hands. The waiter then said something that seemed very odd. He had said: "No please please take it, for gratitude". I looked over confused when the answer was a firm shake of the head and a tight smile. The waiter blinked in disbelief a few times then visibly relaxed when it was reconfirmed that we just wanted the menus and we were really just there to eat.

After he had left I asked what that was all about.

"Nothing," was the answer, "my…employer thought he was a risk at one time. He wasn't so I didn't have to manage him," he gave a shrug that held more weight on its shoulders than it should have. When he looked at me it was with a firmly clinched jaw, "It's fine."

My breath caught in my throat and all the red flags popped up once more with a force as if they had never even left. 'It's fine', those are words that are paired with danger.

Words that criminals yell into banks they are robbing:

"It's fine as long as you keep your head down!"

Words you'd tell survivors of a natural disaster:

"It's fine, we'll find out a way to rebuild it."

Words I'd tell my friends after I visit my cancer specialist:

"I'm fine."

I don't remember the details from the rest of the night, but I do remember that even with all those warning bells going off I never had the thought to run. I blame my father. My dad was a well-known defense lawyer. He represented anyone; he felt that everyone deserved a fair chance in the legal system. Our family, when we spoke about him to others, was proud of his compassion, work ethic and skills. We weren't blind though, outside looking in…he was shady as hell. Like I said before he represented anybody, even the worst criminals and gangsters in the city. And he could get them off too. Rapists, murders, drug dealers, sex traffickers, you name it, he defended it. So growing up I was around dangerous men. As I got older, I recognized they all had an aura that surrounded them and eventually I could decipher it and then know who I could be in the same room with alone. They were the ones I could tell about my school day as I made a peanut butter sandwich while we waited for my father to get home from some errand. Then there were the ones that weren't hostile, but they didn't want to speak with or entertain a young child either. Lastly, there were the men where the best course of action was to leave the house entirely and relax at the park. So if my fiancé did have some way of gaining money that wasn't exactly legal…it wasn't really a deal breaker. At this point though, I knew he was holding onto secrets, but I could smile at him while I made my peanut butter sandwich.

Never the less, another month went by and I began to realize that the red flags were starting to pile up and my lack of answers was having a negative effect on me. I was beginning to become paranoid. Every gesture of goodwill was beginning to look like a payoff. Any second glance people took to look at us started to feel like we were being observed. It all came to a head during a winter break at his lake house.

The cabin was beautiful. Large and well kept, this place showed off his wealth more than his everyday home did. When we walked in I was struck by the size of it, it wasn't built for a romantic cozy getaway, but rather it was a fortress. Large windows with thick double paned glass, security cameras inside the home, small locked doors that were too short to walk through and too many knifes, even for a gourmet kitchen. I stepped back outside and noticed multiple satellites on the roof, an odd periscope thing peeking out of the snow and a shed tucked away behind the garage.

Warning bells, louder than they ever had before, went off in my head.

I rushed through the front door and cried, "Who in the hell are you?!"

He looked up, startled at my tone and puzzled by my question. He had taken out a bottle of wine and he held the corkscrew above the cork, "Wha…"

"You heard me!" I took a deep breath and lowered my voice, "Who are you?"

He cocked his head then said, "John," a little amused.

"No no!" I stalked over to him pointing, "Who were you? Before all of this! Before me! Before us?"

I saw the moment my question clicked. His small smile fell, his eyebrows furrowed. He began to calmly push the corkscrew into the wine bottle. He watched his hands as he worked, ignoring me for a time. Then he looked up and said, "I am John Wick."

"No!" I had shouted, "I mean-"

"My name is John Wick," he interrupted me, his voice hard lined and stern, "I don't have an alias," he narrowed his eyes and whispered dangerously, "I am not afraid of anything."

I just stared at him, wide eyed; I wasn't sure how to answer. I wasn't sure if there was anything to say.

He looked at me for some time; he seemed to be debating with himself, wondering if I could handle more information. He blinked suddenly and apparently a decision had been made. He said softly, "I do have another name. Some call me Baba Yaga."

I don't remember leaving the cabin.

I had though, I was standing in the snow, bent over, gasping for air like I had just been punched in the gut. In a way I had. I knew that nickname, had heard some of my father's clientele whisper it during meetings. As I got older I realized that name popped up everywhere. It didn't matter what side of town the thug was from, if their business was big or small, if they belonged to simple local street gangs or were part of a large cartel; everyone, sooner or later, spoke of Baba Yaga. The Boogeyman I was told later. My father told me to never deal with anyone who's been touched by Baba Yaga. Those were the only time my father actively refused cases. Over the course of years I learned that Baba Yaga was not the Boogeyman, but the person you sent to kill the Boogeyman.

When I was a child I used to think that if you turned out the lights the Boogeyman crawled from the shadows. He lived there; I had been sure, waiting for you to be blinded by the dark so he could leap out and eat you. Just the name would make me tremble and I learned from other children at school I was not the only one. Just about every friend of mine had some version of the Boogeyman that gave them horrible dreams at night. He would crawl through windows on rainy nights I was told. No, said another, he hides in your dirty clothes. It didn't matter, I just knew this beast was scary and just about every person had experienced the deep down fear just the idea of him brings. So much so that even as adults when the word 'Boogeyman' is spoken it conjures up memories of that childhood dread.

So now there I was, on some secluded frozen property alone with the man who could slaughter the beast that every human fears. This man, my John, terrifies and destroys the most heinous criminals that thrive off the protection and perceived danger that the night brings. And I knew, from my memories of the expression on my father's face that he was not some well-meaning vigilante. John Wick was not a hero. I lurched, vomited, then turned around and ran.

John was sitting on the plush beige sofa when I returned, sipping wine in front of the fire. I said nothing, just walked over and found refuge near the blessed warmth. My teeth began to chatter as John stood up and walked into the kitchen. I could hear him moving about as I began to remove my sodden, muddy clothing but I didn't bother to see what he was doing. Once I was down to my panties and bra I sat on the floor and took a deep breath. John came back; he had a cup of coffee in his hands and a thick blanket. He covered me up, joined me and pulled me close. He sat quietly as I told him the story of what I knew of Baba Yaga. That was all that was said for the rest of the night.

The next morning I woke before John. I thought about leaving, but really what was the point? I already had figured out he was into something illegal (granted, world class assassin wasn't what I expected) so clearly I wasn't a paragon of values if I was willing to overlook it. I got up and decided to see what was in the kitchen for breakfast. As I cooked I replayed John and mine's life together up to this point. By the time he came into the kitchen, yawning and scratching his belly I had made up my mind.

I handed him his plate of waffles, fresh fruit and country ham, "Are you still Baba Yaga?"

"I've toned it down a bit, since I've met you," he looked up at me through the fall of his dark bangs as he picked up a grape.

" 'Toned it down a bit'? Really?" I got my own plate and leaned over the island so I could be across from him, look him in the eye, "Do you have your targets in a queue or something?"
He smirked, looking cool and handsome, "Something like that."

I took my time eating a bit. He looked at me for a while before he too decided to eat. It was a pleasant silence, no tension at all. Finally I said, "I love you John."

"I love you too," he smiled at me.

"I want to live away from the city," I said sweetly, "I think we should build our own place. Not in the country per se, but away from all the busyness."

He put down his fork.

"Something we can plan from the ground up. Something unique."

He sat back and crossed his arms, his expression blank.

"With a large basement, lots of windows," I smiled at him, "What do you think?"

He cocked his head, "I think that sounds fine," he drew it out. He sounded suspicious.

"Good," I began to pour us both orange juice before I spoke again, "I want you. Just you. And I want you to have me," I looked up at him as I slid him his drink, "I don't want Baba Yaga. I didn't fall in love with Baba Yaga. I'm here, with you, until death do us part," I lifted my hand and pulled off my engagement ring, "But I will not marry Baba Yaga," I reached forward to hand him the ring but he grabbed my hand. He looked me in my eyes, his full of passion and he nodded once yes. He took my left hand and slipped the ring back on.

"I want two stories," he said, "so we can have a balcony off the master bedroom. I think that would be a nice place to drink coffee in the morning."

It took many months of planning and finding the right builders and securing the permits, but finally the day came that the foundation to our home would be poured. John came up that day, insisted that we be there. When I stepped onto the property there was a large black trunk next to the hole in the ground that would soon be our basement. Without a word he opened the box. The amount of guns that fit into it was astounding, up until this moment I hadn't seen John's tools of the trade. It made me uneasy, seeing how comfortable he was with them, but I didn't say a word. I just watched, wondering what on earth he was doing. He closed the box and pushed it into the hole. When he looked at me I understood. This was his promise that Baba Yaga was dead, put to rest, buried with his weapons and gold under layers of cement.

I pray that he will never have to dig it up.