Disclaimer: I don't own anything.
Summary: The cold is all he knows, now that Dean is gone. Ambreigns, oneshot
Um, hello. Get ready for an obnoxiously long author's note. It's certainly been a while. Like, I'm almost embarrassed to come back after vanishing off the face of the earth for so long. I wish I had a better explanation, but really, I suppose 2016 hasn't been the best year for me. That's just the gist of it. I have missed writing so very much. This story has actually been in the works for almost a year now but I just haven't finished it. Until now. I'm actually quite proud of it. I've written slash before, but never WWE slash, which is kind of ironic since what brought me to this section of this website was the search for Punk/Cena fanfiction. If anything, I would have thought I would have written for them first, buuuuut Ambreigns ate my brain. Which is also funny, since I started out a hardcore Ambrollins shipper. Really, just Seth with anyone. Anyway! I'm rambling now. I've missed everyone so much here and I know this is completely different than what I've written before, pairings-wise, but I do have some ideas for our lovely lady wrestlers and hopefully I'll be writing more soon. I've just missed this fandom so much, much more than any other. Please enjoy. And please forgive me for being so absent.
Winter
"Yo, it's Dean. I'm obviously not able to come to the phone right now, so leave a message. Make it short; long-winded things piss me off. And you don't wanna piss me off."
Click.
The cold is the only thing Roman can register. It is strange, just how cold he'd been for the past few months; it is almost as if he can't remember anything before the cold. The feeling had seemingly become interwoven with who he was, enmeshed within each organ, infiltrating deep into his marrow.
Roman's breath mists as he exhales, almost visually proving this fact. His fingers clench, unclench, the only thing moving in this place of utter stillness. Not even the trees move with the wintry breeze.
"Roman."
He hadn't realized he had been gritting his teeth until the sweet, lilting voice causes him to tense up even further. Roman doesn't say anything, only grinds his heel into the snow. The crunching sound is satisfying, but not satisfying enough.
"Sup, Renee."
He can hear her frustrated intake of breath. Roman tries to find it in himself to care that she is upset, but can't seem to find the emotions within him. Maybe they were frozen, too.
"You can't keep doing this."
Roman lifts his strong shoulders in a shrug. "Seems like I can."
"You can," Renee says pointedly. "Clearly, it is something you can do, but not something you should."
"I should," Roman all but growls.
"You know what I mean."
Yes, Roman does, all too much, but he doesn't want to give her the satisfaction.
"What do you want from me?"
He can almost see her straighten her shoulders, her blue eyes flashing in determination. "I want you to get in my car and let me pay for your lunch. I want you to get away from here. I want you to stop spending hours upon hours here. Dea - "
"I'll go to lunch," he interrupts her before she can say his name. Just the implication of his name hanging in the air is enough to make the cold sink deeper. "Just give me a minute."
"Okay," she replies; her voice is watery. "Okay."
The food has no taste. Even the action of bringing the burger to his mouth, taking a bite, and placing the item back on the plate seems robotic, pointless. Roman only does it because other people expect it of him.
Acting "fine" was not effortless.
Acting "fine" was taxing.
Acting "fine" was a lie.
Renee, however, stares at him with knowing eyes. She had barely touched her own burger. "Roman..."
"Good choice," Roman says. "How did you know I liked this place?"
The blonde looks at him like the answer pained her. She says nothing, only goes back to her burger and takes a timid bite.
"Only Dean knew I liked this place."
Roman idly looks up and sees Renee's throat constrict when she swallows.
"Kind of mean for you to bring me here." He winks, but the action lacks joy, lacks the playful edge that he was known for.
"I...I didn't know," she says, and the tremulous nature of her voice tells Roman that she is being truthful. "I'm sorry."
Roman shrugs his massive shoulders. "I did say that I liked it here, didn't I?"
The blonde says nothing, only lets the silence overtake them once again.
The first time he sees the motorcycle, he knows it will be trouble, and he states as much.
"What?" Dean scoffs, cracking his neck as he tucks the motorcycle helmet underneath one arm. The other hand runs over his hair, making it more unruly that it was normally. "I can handle a bike, Ro. I'm not an amateur." The last word is said as if he were a snooty British gentlemen, his chin tilted into the air, a snarl on his lips to contradict it all.
Despite himself, Roman laughs, the sound deep and rich and echoing.
"I know you're not that," he replies quietly, the smile lingering on his lips, but not as bright as it was before.
"Then what's the problem?"
"Steve Irwin wasn't an amateur," Roman states, softly. "Neither was Houdini."
Dean's gaze is focused on his own, those blue eyes so clear and yet betraying nothing. After a while, he rolls his shoulders and smashes the helmet on the back of the motorcycle, absently saying, "So you're saying you expect me to fuck up?"
"No, nothing like that," he explains, gently reaching out a hand to press against Dean's shoulder. The shorter man tenses, his bicep twitching. "There are risks in everything. I just worry - "
"You big softie," Dean spat, a mixture of affection and irritation. Roman could practically see the smile in his voice.
Roman finds his lips quirking into a smirk as Dean spins around on his heel. "C'mon, I'm starving, big guy."
The Powerhouse stands back a few moments, looking back at the motorcycle.
Irwin and Houdini also didn't have the desire for self-destruction like you do, Dean.
He doesn't listen to Renee; Renee, who knew Dean almost as well as Roman himself did. He continues to visit the silence of the dead, continues to stare at the stone in front of him, continues his vigilance.
Roman Reigns is, if anything, loyal.
"This place is a mess."
"Hello to you, too."
Roman tries not to feel self conscious as his cousin's wife steps into his apartment. Naomi's normally bright face is calm, subdued, her clothing even reflecting such. She's dressed in a simple pair of lounge pants and a sweatshirt, her hair tied back in a low ponytail.
"I don't even have to guess who sent you."
Naomi shrugs, the gesture strangely elegant. "How long are you planning on sleeping on the couch?"
Roman looks over to the couch that has served as his bed for the past couple of months. Blankets and pillows spread across it in disarray, a couple of Chinese take out cartons litter the floor around it. A few empty energy drink cans join the mess.
Roman shrugs, the gesture less elegant and more rough that usual.
"Here," Naomi throws some cash at him. Roman can't find it in himself to feel insulted. "You go see a movie and I'll clean up the place."
Roman blinks. Doesn't move.
"I thought that might have this kind of reaction." Naomi turns her head the slightest amount toward the open door and calls, "Looks like we're going to need you after all!"
In the blink of an eye, Tamina gracefully moves into view, her intimidating frame somewhat softened by the waves of hair around her face. She looks at Naomi skeptically before crossing her arms and staring at Roman until he sighs and moves forward, his shoulders defeated.
Tamina moves out of the way for Roman to head out the door, and snidely comments, "Oh, and by the way, we are not seeing one of those romance flicks you love so much."
Somehow, miraculously, Roman finds it in himself to smirk.
Dean pants, his chest heaving against Roman's, his exhausted breath fanning against his skin. Spent and boneless, the two find themselves in a familiar position, limbs so entangled with one another that it was mildly ridiculous, and something that Roman knew Dean found slightly suffocating, but he dealt with it because Roman enjoyed the closeness - and, to an extent, Dean did too.
Roman murmurs an endearment into Dean's skin; Dean snorts - declarations like that always made him feel awkward and useless - and buries his face in the mane of his partner's hair, breathing him in.
A light dusting of snow is beginning to fall when Tamina drops him off at his apartment hours later. She gives him a short and stiff hug, but the warmth is still there and the coldness in her eyes gives way for the faintest of moments; it causes him to smile.
"You'll be fine," she says, and the conviction is all there in her words. She is more sure of this than he has ever been about anything - well, almost anything.
"If you say so, 'mina," Roman says, reaching out and brushing his fingers against her shoulder for the briefest of moments. There's a pause, as if there are words that should be said between the two of them, but neither of them fill the void. Tamina nods and leaves.
His apartment hardly looks the same. Naomi had long gone, leaving the place cleaner than it has ever been. On the couch are folded his makeshift bedding, with a pillow placed on top. The various items of trash have been tossed out. The place has been vacuumed, mopped, and dusted within an inch of its life. Roman closes his eyes and smells nothing but the artificial, sterile scents of cleaning products.
This, somehow, causes a panic to rise within him. He inhales again - the same result. Roman lifts himself from the couch and starts to pace. Back and forth and back and forth and shaking his head, threading his fingers through his hair and resisting the urge to pull.
Fresh, clean scents, with no sign of the previous resident anywhere.
With an almost manic stride, Roman moves to their bedroom and flings open the door.
And the rising flood waters recede.
The room looks just as it did on that day, the covers messy and pooling over onto the floor, like some waterfall of linen. Various movies and CDs are stacked on the small trunk at the foot of the bed. The curtains are shut, allowing no random streak of sunlight to rear its head. On Roman's side, there are two pillows, while on Dean's there is only one. A silly thought arises in Roman's head that he can see the vague imprint of where he once lay.
While the sight of this brings Roman back from the edge of panic, it also sears a new stripe of pain into his skin.
He sinks to the floor and takes out his phone.
"Yo, it's Dean. I'm obviously not able to come to the phone right now, so leave a message. Make it short; long-winded things piss me off. And you don't wanna piss me off."
Click.
"Well, I guess now you don't have to ride around on that bicycle with the baseball card stuck in the tire, huh?"
Dean snarls at Seth Rollins, looking as fierce as Roman has ever seen him, one hand propped on the motorcycle and the other's fingers hooked through the helmet.
"Why don't you go redye your hair and paint your nails with Stephanie?" he snaps. "I'm sure she misses you."
"Yeah, yeah, you're so incredibly clever, but you've never been Champ, and you never will be."
Dean's growl doesn't fade until Seth is gone and Roman's hand is in his.
You've never been Champ, and you never will be.
You never will be.
You never will be.
Roman stands in the doorway one night after a long show. His eyes graze over the surroundings, over the little pieces Dean left behind. His heart clenches like it is a foreign object. The Powerhouse almost smirks; he thought by now he would be used to the pain, but life continues to surprise him.
Continues to surprise, and wreck him.
"Are you coming back anytime soon, Roman?"
Over the phone, Triple H's voice is stern but there is an underlying kindness beneath it. Unlike Vince, who called him the day after the funeral with harsh words and harsher realities, Hunter is surprisingly kind, but not to the point where it would damage his reputation. Roman is grateful regardless.
Roman glances at the granite stone in front of him. Somehow, going back to wrestling without him feels like a betrayal, but what else is he to do? How else is he supposed to -
"Roman?"
"Soon," Roman gives the same answer that he does each time, "soon, Hunter."
"I'll be back soon, Ro." Dean smashes the helmet over his head.
"I'll hold you to that," Roman says, softly smiling.
The flash of Dean's grin is his last memory of him.
A snarl curls Roman's lips. He kicks the beer bottle out of the way of Dean's headstone with a particular kind of anger. There's something so inherently disrespectful of leaving that there, despite the fact that Dean loved a cold one as much as the next person.
His brows furrow when it tips over and rolls away. The cap is still firmly on the bottle, the liquid cold and almost ready to drink due to the chilly weather.
Roman snorts, looking at the label, Like he would drink that pretentious swill...
The phone hangs limply in his hands, the person on the other line frantically whispering Roman's name.
He's gone.
An accident.
He's gone.
Did all they could.
He's gone.
And Roman knows nothing else.
"Yo, it's Dean. I'm obviously not able to come to the phone right now, so leave a message. Make it short; long-winded things piss me off. And you don't wanna piss me off."
"De - " A name cut off by a growl and shaking fists.
Click.
He knows he sounds like a bad romance novel, but every place tends to remind him of Dean, and this makes every place doubly toxic.
No place is as toxic as a wrestling ring, he finds.
Just the thought of it, the thought of being in that squared circle without his partner by his side, without the anticipation of his hand slapping his knuckles in a tag, or the thrum of his entrance music, or the cutting edge of his words as he berates the system in a scathing promo...
Roman can hardly take it, so here he stands, outside of the ring, hands shoved in the pockets of his hoodie, the hood over his head, as if not wanting to be seen.
However, Roman cuts an impressive figure no matter where he is, apparently, because no sooner than he decides to turn to leave, a voice is calling his name.
"Roman." The voice is soft, softer than he'd ever heard it when addressing him. The authoritative tone is slightly duller than usual, but there nonetheless. Roman supposes that Stephanie McMahon can hardly turn off her persona as much as he can turn off his.
He turns. Behind him, two NXT wrestlers size each other up in the ring. The familiar thud of skin on canvas is enough to cause a wave of nostalgia to run over him. Nostalgia, and pain.
Roman is unsure what she wants, but he knows it can hardly be good. She stands in front of him, arms at her side, eyes betraying nothing. "It's good to see you near a ring again."
The sentence is a simple one but filled with many implications. Are you coming back? When are you coming back? We need you. Ticket sales are down and Seth needs an opponent for the next Pay-Per-View. So? What do you say?
And then, an even fainter thought, but one that crosses his mind regardless, Dean wouldn't want you to do this.
Roman doesn't address those unasked questions. "Baby steps, I suppose."
A surprisingly genuine smile crosses Stephanie's lips. "Yeah. Baby steps."
An awkward silence settles between the two of them. Stephanie reaches forward, thinks better of it, but then in the end places her warm and strong hand on his shoulder, squeezing in reassurance.
"Whenever you're ready."
Roman allows a smile, faint as it is, to cross his lips. "Thanks."
The special RAW airs the week after the accident. The whole roster lines up while the Titantron displays Dean's image, each Superstar and Diva wearing the latest Ambrose Asylum apparel.
There will be no new matches, no new storylines, Renee says, the episode will air all of Dean's best matches and promos - barring the particularly violent, bloody ones from his early career - from his beginning days before WWE up until his last match.
Roman stands off to the side - Atlas, in human form.
It's a strange thing, the heaviness in his chest. The complete and utter suffocating presence of it for hours and hours and days and days on end. Never ceasing, never releasing its icy fingers from around his throat. Roman wonders just how one can survive such a thing completely intact. It feels as if his entire mind is shattered into thousands of pieces, and his broken consciousness cannot be retrieved unless he manages to unfreeze himself and move to piece them back together.
But, each and every time he manages to chip the most minute piece of ice from his person, it grows back, stronger and stronger still, holding his form tightly, rendering him helpless.
Stagnant.
They buried him quickly but not quietly.
Apparently, Dean had plans all laid out in case of his death - the morbid little thing. Wills and whatnot, everything in its place, all tied up with a big black ribbon.
The only thing Roman registers of the reading of the will is, "I love you, Roman, you big lug."
It is at that point that he closes his eyes and tries to will it all away.
He fails.
The first time he calls his number after the accident is completely unintentional. His fingers press against the buttons nonchalantly, muscle memory through and through, and the tell-tale voice comes on the answering machine.
"Yo, it's Dean. I'm obviously not able to come to the phone right now, so leave a message. Make it short; long-winded things piss me off. And you don't wanna piss me off."
And there it is, his voice, crisp and clear as if he never left in the first place, as if he wasn't six feet under, as if he was still here with him.
Atlas crumbles.
His latest wintry visit is interrupted before it even starts. Curses ring throughout the night, familiar and rough sounding. There is a slight slur to the words, and this in and of itself causes Roman's lips to curl in pity. He wonders just where this voice is coming from, how angry the person sounds...they must have some definite unfinished business with their departed loved one.
It isn't until he nears Dean's grave that he sees him, standing tall and thin, wearing all black as per usual, one fist clenched around a bottle of Jack Daniels and the other ripping at his mass of hair.
Unfinished business indeed.
Seth Rollins looks even more angry than usual, swaying from side to side. His back is to Roman, but he can imagine the expression on his face. It sends a sharp pain into his chest just at the memory. The Sell-Out raises a foot and attempts to kick the gravestone - his combat boot ultimately misses and he lands on his ass in the snow. The site would have been comical in any other circumstance - the Architect always tends to destroy things, in the end - but Roman can't find it in him to laugh.
Seth lets out a string of curses that would cause Dean himself to blush, if he were here. He pounds his fists into the snow several times, each time harsher than the last, undeterred by the pain. Roman watches his fists turn red with the bite of cold.
Roman can't figure out what takes over him at this moment, but as he watches Seth attempt to struggle to his feet, the larger man steps forward, closing the distance, and grabs Seth's shoulder.
Seth looks at him slowly, blinking in confusion, before grimacing in disgust.
"Wha' d'you want..." His response was clearly meant to be snappish and defensive but instead it comes out weak, without bite.
Roman can't find any words to say. His hand lingers a bit too long, relishing touching his friend in a non-violent for the first time in what seems like years - has been years. His eyes, however, flicker to an unopened bottle nestled in the snow next to the gravestone. One mystery solved. It makes his chest hurt.
Seth jerks his shoulder away, his cheeks flushing with something other than cold. Embarrassment, Roman surmises, as Seth had caught him staring at his little secret.
"...jus'...wanted to drink with 'im..."
Roman finds his throat suddenly tight. "Goddammit," he chokes.
There is a moment of silence in which the two just stand and stare at the gravestone. Roman looks at Seth through the corner of his eye, finding that Seth is still staring at the stone, a strange shadow passing over his face. The Powerhouse feels his teeth clench at the sight, and then grabs the half-full Jack Daniels from Seth, who mildly protests, but ultimately relents.
Roman slumps down and makes a seat on the fresh snow, uncaring of the wetness and how the cold seeps through even the thickest of his pants. He twists the cap off and takes a swig.
"Come on," he says, using his free hand to motion to the place beside him, "let's have a drink, all three of us."
The wetness on Seth's cheeks is unmistakable, but there is no tremble in his voice as he says, "Alright," and collapses on the snow next to him.
"Yo, it's Dean. I'm obviously not able to come to the phone right now, so leave a message. Make it short; long-winded things piss me off. And you don't wanna piss me off."
Click.
"Hey, Hunter, it's Roman...I think I'm ready to come back."
"If you look up ring rust in the dictionary, you'll find a picture of you, Ro," Seth says almost haughtily, the little shit. There's a smirk on his face and his clothes are a bit too loose. Roman has the strange thought that he's not eating enough, and stamps it down. This is no time for that.
"Why do you think you're here, Rollins?" Roman grunts, rolling his neck from side to side.
"Oh, a myriad of reasons," Seth says, grinning like a cat. His muscles are like a cat's too, graceful and powerful, not bulky and disarming.
Roman wrinkles his nose.
"Come on, big guy, lock up."
Roman charges at him.
Roman's flat on his back for the thousandth time in two months. His chest rises and falls and he hates himself for not being better, for not at least getting in the ring at running the ropes while he was away. It was difficult, when even the sight of the ring made him think that Dean was going to be there, at any minute, walking through the doors, saying something snarky, patting him on the back...
He shakes his head. Seth's exhausted laugh rings in his ears. That's enough to bring anyone back from spiraling down the drain.
"That was actually decent, Reigns," Seth says, giving him a smile. "I broke a sweat there."
Before Roman can enact his plan to use his legs to sweep Seth off of his feet, the Architect offers a hand. "Come on, let's get lunch."
The familiar weight of Seth's hand settles in Roman's and - for the first time in a long while, he feels like he belongs.
Another month passes before Seth and Hunter both look at Roman and deem him ready for his re-introduction.
Roman hasn't been this frightened in a long time.
He paces back and forth backstage, waiting for his cue. Roman's fists clench and unclench. Out in the ring, Seth Rollins is issuing a blistering promo, the title belt around his waist a calling card to anyone wanting to dethrone him. And there were many.
Roman finds himself one of those many.
He waits, coiled and ready to spring - a panther, thirsty for blood and yet antsy about attacking - and tries not to picture Dean, his bright eyes smiling at him. For a moment, Roman can see him standing next to him, lips curling as he says, "About damn time you came back, Ro."
Roman almost rolls his eyes. I've finally lost it. "You've gotta be joking."
And he's lucky that no one is around, that no one can be witness to his final plunge into insanity. The Dean-figure gives him a wink, his skin translucent, his features the same as they were the day he drove away for the last time.
"Not a joke," the illusion says, before fading away, quick as he came, "I love you. Now go kick his ass."
At his last sentence, Seth Rollins says the line that ques Roman's music, "I am the champion! There is no one backstage who can take me; I dare them to even try!"
And try Roman does.
The familiar, deep, first notes of his entrances blazes through the arena. The thousands of people in the stands collectively gasp and erupt into cheers - there is no former trace of the old maliciousness that followed him in her previous run. Instead of coming through the crowd, Roman barrels down the ramp, sees Seth's eyes widen in shock, and spears him as hard as he can - he can feel the oomph as Seth's breath is taken from him, the sweet sting against his skin as he collides with the canvas.
"WHAT?! CAN IT BE? ROMAN REIGNS IS BACK! ROMAN REIGNS IS BACK!"
"Seth asked for a challenge, didn't he?"
"I don't think he wanted that kind of challenge!"
Roman rises to his feet, throws his head back, and gives his signature bellow - the primal nature of it causes the crowd to ignite around him. The arena is electric. He watches as Seth rolls out of the ring and grab the belt, clutching his ribs, playing the scared fool. But beneath that, his eyes say something else, something like, Well done.
Roman's entrance music still plays as he paces the ring, warding off Seth like a hound does a rabbit.
He is back.
About damn time, is right.
The night is over, congratulations are given, and Roman finds himself in his apartment once more, staring at the door to their bedroom. Roman runs a hand over his hair and wraps his fingers around the knob. He holds his breath, pushes the door open, sighs.
Roman knows he shouldn't. He really does. He feels as if he's made so much progress in the past months that he shouldn't even entertain this idea, he's not ready to sleep in a bed - their bed - without Dean, but...
But...
He steps into the room, his bare feet sinking into the lush carpet. Roman gives a slight shudder as the familiarity sweeps over him, the smell of Dean still in the air despite all this time. His eyes sweep over the familiar trinkets, the posters on the wall, the comic books on the nightstand, the movies lying next to the television stand, his PS4.
Roman finds himself stopping at the edge of his bed. His fingers brush gently over the mussed comforter, his breath still in his throat. With a singular, trembling motion, Roman swings himself into the bed, presses his face into the pillow, and breathes.
For a moment, with the familiar scent in his nostrils, he feels tears prick his eyes. God, he hasn't cried in so long.
Dean, he thinks, Dean.
A buzzing comes from his pocket. Roman pries himself away from the moment and reads the message.
It's Seth: "Let's see him."
Roman could never deny that request.
The night is crisp but not freezing as Roman makes his way to the gravesite, his feet knowing this path better than most. It doesn't take long until he finds Seth standing in front of the gravestone, decidedly less drunk than before, no sway in his stance, no half-empty bottle in his hand. Instead, he's got a full bottle of Jack Daniels in one hand and three glasses in the other. Roman can see him move his lips, but can hear nothing. He waits a moment before making himself known, wanting to give them a moment.
Seth interrupts the moment before Roman has the chance to. "You just gonna stand there?"
Roman feels a smile curve his lips despite himself. He doesn't respond, only edges forward and closes the space between the two.
Seth hands him one of the empty glasses. Roman takes it and immediately sits on the snow that has built up in front of the grave, yet again, no matter how many trips they take to this place, it still piles up. He watches as Seth leans forward and nestles one of the two remaining glasses in the snow directly in front of the grave.
The Architect then takes a seat next to him, his long limbs graceful as he settles down and pops the top off the bottle. He fills Roman's glass first - the gentleman - and then his own, before finally filling the glass in front of Dean's grave. It is so completely silent as he does this that Roman can hear his own heart throbbing painfully against his chest.
"Cheers." Seth tilts his glass in the direction of the gravestone. It stares back, blank, lifeless.
"Cheers," Roman echoes, follows Seth's gesture with his own.
No sound permeates the silence of the dead, not for a long time, not until Seth says, "Roman came back. It took a while, but he kicked my ass."
Roman blinks a bit, and then smiles.
"It's hard not to want to kick his ass, Dean. It's what you would have done."
"Nah, nah," Seth continues, "Dean would have lost his shit. Running around and pacing and grabbing his hair. Snarling. Right, Ambrose?"
Despite the silence of the grave, Roman feels more whole than he had months ago.
"To Dean," Seth tilts his drink in the direction of the grave yet again. "Miss you, brother."
"To Dean," Roman follows.
The cold begins to ebb.
"Yo, it's Dean. I'm obviously not able to come to the phone right now, so leave a message. Make it short; long-winded things piss me off. And you don't wanna piss me off."
"I love you."
Click.
End.