Title: Cowardice
Author: Chimera
Disclaimer: I don't own the illustrious CM Punk, nor Colt Cabana. This is my second Ring of Honor fic, and I believe the second RoH fic on Fanfiction Dot Net. I have fun characterising these people basically as I see fit, but if you feel that they might be different I'd love to hear your ideas.
Timeline: Moments after Punk's match at Death Before Dishonor, 19 July 2003.
"He will not do that to me. He didn't know what he just did."
Colt Cabana raised an eyebrow. He'd been CM Punk's friend since training – and he'd seen him go through a lot of crap and say a lot of crap. Remarks about his brain, aka, lack of, notwithstanding. But he'd never heard him sound quite as composed as he did.
"Who do what, man? 'cause you know, a lot of people have done a lot of things to you," Colt remarked offhandedly.
Punk raised faintly bloodshot eyes to meet Cabana's. He smiled, a tolerant smile, though one eye flickered from Colt to some point just beyond his elbow. "Raven. He gave me a beer."
"Yeah…" Colt let the sentence trail off. Not being straight edge himself – far from it, and he had the drink-fuzzy and absent memories to prove it – he wasn't privy to exactly what Punk was feeling. But he did have to agree – Raven had gone too far.
"He's going to die," Punk said quietly, slowly, emotionlessly.
"Uh, murder's kind of illegal in this state, Punker…and in every other state you've ever been in."
Punk closed his eyes, and a blissful expression crossed his face. "I'm going to rip open his chest along that tattoo of his. And then I'm going to pour tequila and lemon and salt into it. And I'll watch him, and then I'll slit his throat." This proclamation sounded very precise, as if Punk had dreamed of it for years.
"That's very bloodthirsty of you," Colt sidestepped. He'd seen Punk after he'd come through the curtain – Colt had gotten rid of Danny Doring, and had been just about to go back out there when Punk came through the curtain, acting as if he was having a fit. He'd been screaming unintelligibly, but somehow Colt had found out Tommy Dreamer, tape and a Budweiser had been involved. That had been bad enough.
As soon as Punk had reached the locker room, he'd started throwing things.
Colt hadn't been quite dumb enough to venture into the room while things that weren't supposed to fly did. But when they'd stopped – after about an hour, mind, probably fifty-nine minutes after everything breakable in the room had been broken – he'd ventured in. Punk had collapsed onto a chair and stared unseeingly at the door as Colt had entered.
Colt had never had any intentions of heroism. Ever. Maybe if he did, he'd hunt down a messenger to tell Raven to watch his back – in the ring, in the locker room, in other promotions, on highways. But he'd never been very heroic.
He valued his own life way too much to chance doublecrossing Punk in this mood.