Warnings: Slash (Ambrose/Punk), Profanity.
Jon sits and stares out of the window. Usually in situations like this, trapped thirty thousand feet in the air, with little hope of escape, he lets his mind wander, lets it map out possibilities, different scenarios, possible outcomes for every event he can come up with, but today it's infuriatingly quiet. He's grimly aware of the why of the silence. It had been a stupid question, he'd known it was a stupid question, and yet he'd asked it. He'd asked and exactly what he'd expected to happen, had. Phil remains difficult for Jon, difficult but interesting, if nothing else, he's not bored yet. It's been weeks and that strange itchy feeling his mind usually gets by now hasn't come over him yet, the worms in the pit of his stomach haven't abated either. Every second in Phil's company, they're there, squirming, wriggling, making him feel slightly sick, but it's not the itchiness, and Jon takes that as a good sign.
Are you coming?
It'd been an innocuous question on the surface, but the surface was easily breached.
Are you coming? That was the question Jon had asked, a simple inquiry as to Phil's travel plans. Only it was more than that, it was a whole host of other questions. Are you going to come to Mania to see me, are you going to come back to the WWE, are you going to ever tell me why you left in the first place, do you miss me when I'm not here, do you want me to miss you when I'm not here, will you come with me, will you be there for me? Those were the questions Jon was really asking and Phil had known it, had barely paused before he answered no. Two little letters. Two little letters that make the most powerful word in the English language.
Are you coming?
No.
Are you going to come to Mania to see me?
No.
Are you going to come back to the WWE?
No.
Are you ever going to tell me why you left in the first place?
No.
Do you miss me when I'm not here?
No.
Do you want me to miss you when I'm not here?
No.
Will you come with me?
No.
Will you be there for me?
No, no, no.
All those unasked questions, each answered in one little but so very powerful word. Yet, to say that there'd been a fight over it would be a lie. For all Jon is unpredictable, for all he likes to fling words, he'd not relished the prospect of getting into it with Phil, but he's not been given that chance. Phil left, plainly, simply left, and Jon hasn't heard from him since. Being in a relationship isn't quite what Jon expected, he misses the easiness of fucking Punk, confusing and capricious as he could be, at least he was something Jon could grasp, at least there was something like rules, understanding at least. Phil is a bewilderingly different creature sometimes, the glimmers of Punk are stronger as time passes, but they're wrapped up in this confusing mess of Phil.
"C'mon." Joe smacks Jon on the back and he stands, scrubbing at his face.
"Woman trouble?" Colby laughs and joins in the communal backslapping. Jon laughs absently, and runs a hand through his hair.
"A face like that? Always woman trouble." Joe squeezes Jon's cheeks and laughs. "C'mon, if we're quick maybe we can sneak past the hordes."
"Not a chance." Colby mutters, looking nervously out of the window at the runway. "We're gonna get molested."
"Oh goody." Jon smirks at his teammates. "That'll take my mind off things." He laughs and leads the charge off the plane and towards the baying crowd in the airport. He's in no mood for these people, he's not really in the mood for anybody who isn't a scruffy, ill tempered, cuddly Chicago bred bastard, who's still in Chicago, at least.
"You seriously want me to sign it Scotty? I'm gonna have to charge you $50 for it, man." Jon knows that voice, and whilst he's a Chicago bred bastard, he's the wrong one. "Okay, okay! Thanksss." Cabana turns from the little gaggle of Indy fans, and bumps right into Jon.
"Hello." Jon's given up trying to read Colt, the man has the same Chicago bred bastard unreadable eyes as Phil, the only difference is instead of mild irritation, Cabana's default setting is mild geniality.
"Mr Ambrose! How nice to see you! Can we talk? Is now good? Now is good? Oh good!" His hand wraps around Jon's bicep and he starts walking, dragging Jon purposefully away from people, towards some over-priced airport cafe. "What the fuck did you do?" He snarls, sitting down, and pretends to look through the menu.
"I didn't do anything." Jon snaps back, feeling on the defensive already.
"So Punkers is hiding out at my place because you did nothing?" His eyebrow raises, eyes narrowed.
"That's where he is?" Jon mutters, and sighs, looking away. "I asked him if he was coming down for Mania." Cabana snorts, and Jon looks over at him. "What? I know it was a stupid question... It's just..." Jon sighs again; he's growing sick of feeling like a little kid around Phil's best friend. "Look, I-"
"Sorry." Cabana cuts in, looks genuinely apologetic, and as is normal for dealing with him, Jon feels on the back foot. "Punkers is still... Prickly about wrestling. I should have warned you." He tosses Jon the menu. "Order something, my treat." He smiles easily, and flags a waitress over, flirting ineptly whilst placing his order, Jon simply has the same and the woman goes away.
"Why? What's he told you?" Here Cabana laughs, as though it should be obvious that Phil's told him everything, has probably relayed in exacting detail what happened between himself, Vince, and Paul that morning. "Why won't he tell me?" Jon sighs again. He thinks this is getting too dramatic for him, that being with Phil, might be too much hassle, but the worms awaken at the thought of walking away from Phil, not the itchiness, so he stays put, watching Cabana texting someone.
"The beloved." He holds the cell up, so Jon can see the screen.
I can't just tell him, Colt! It's not important. Besides, I told him that I was no good for giving him a leg up, if that's what he wanted, he barked up the wrong tree! He got stuck in a relationship instead! Do you think I should go? I don't want to but do you think he'll change his mind again if I don't? I know, I'm being a girl. Going to watch True Detectives and eat ice cream. When you get home, you'll have no ice cream, well you will but it won't be this ice cream, because I'll have eaten it.
Phil it seems really does relay everything to his best friend, a stab of jealousy fills Jon at hearing Cabana calling him beloved, but the memory of being laughed at after accusing him of being Mr Rebound comes to Jon, slight exasperation replaces jealousy easily. There's nothing to be jealous of about their friendship, other than having someone who knows you completely, though in all honesty, that is possibly something Jon is more than a little jealous of.
"He gets written diarrhoea when he's worried." Cabana laughs, and sets the phone down.
"Answer him." The thought of Phil sitting alone, eating ice cream, watching TV and worrying about Jon, makes him feel terrible, makes him want to be there for him, right then cuddling on the couch sounds perfect to him.
"I will, eventually." Cabana shrugs, taking his order from the waitress and pushing food around his plate. "Hasn't he told you anything?" Jon shakes his head and sips at his drink.
"Nope." He takes a bite, and scrubs at his face. "Is he always..."
"Difficult?" Cabana laughs, nodding. "Very, constantly, perpetually, all of the time, but that's Punkers."
"Great." Jon eats more of his food, the worms feel like they're rebelling at its introduction, roiling even more, but it seems like it would be rude to ignore the over-priced food in favour of feeling mildly unwell.
"I warned you, man." Cabana laughs, and Jon scowls at him. "What? I did!" He protests, somehow managing to look thoroughly innocent.
"You kept fucking telling me Punk was dead. How the hell is that warning me?" Jon snaps, sipping at his drink, feeling torn between petulant and annoyed.
"Punkers, Phil, isn't Punk... I warned you, fair and square." Cabana shrugs, setting his cutlery down, and picking his cell back up, typing at it. Jon tries to see what he's writing back, but gives it up as a lost cause.
"Yeah, fair and square. Fucking Chicago bastards, none of you make any fucking sense." Jon mutters, vaguely recalling saying something rather similar to Phil not too long ago. Rehashing conversions with Chicago bred bastards something Jon thinks he's going to have to get painfully familiar with.
"I make perfect sense!" Cabana sounds mildly offended, and finishes his drink.
"I'm willing to bet the only person who actually understands you is Punk." Jon pushes his plate towards the middle of the table, and smirks as Cabana rubs the back of his neck. A grin spreads over Jon's lips, it's not often he scores one over the Second City Saints; it makes him feel rather smug.
"Two peas in a pod." Cabana mutters, as his cell beeps again. "Oh for fuck sake. Here." He tosses a twenty on the table and stands. "Look, my advice, and I know you didn't ask for it, but you're getting it anyways, is after Mania, go to Vegas. No matter what, go to Vegas." Cabana leaves Jon sitting alone, to answer his cell, swearing profusely at whoever is on the other end of the line.
Going back to Vegas wasn't exactly what Jon had wanted to do, he'd wanted to go to Chicago but Phil had been silent, no texts, no calls, no acknowledgement of any of Jon's attempts at communication, in a moment of desperation, he'd even sent a dm on Twitter, but that too had gone ignored. It's galling that there should be moments of desperation. Jon doesn't do desperation, at least not in this context and yet as ever, for Phil it seems what Jon does and doesn't do goes out of the window. Yet, Cabana's advice won't leave him peace, the almost order to go back here stays with him, so Jon does as he was bid. It's not something he does often, but between the worms and Cabana, he doesn't feel like arguing much, sometimes it's better to do as you're told and accept the way the cards fall. It might not be what he wants to do, but it seems like Cabana is on Jon's side in this whole thing with Phil, so trusting him is probably a good idea, so he comes to Vegas, ignoring the urge to fly to O'Hare instead.
The trip back was uneventful; Jon spent most of the flight feeling at once buzzing with energy and utterly drained. He pinned it all on post-Mania blues, and not the persistent radio silence from Phil.
"Hi." Phil's voice comes as a surprise. He was the very last thing Jon expected to see on his doorstep. Truly, it seems that Cabana is playing at relationship counsellor for them. "Thought I'd come check out Vegas." He's smiling slightly, something unsettled in his eyes. Jon nods vaguely.
"Was thinking of going on holiday, you're lucky I'm here." Jon mutters and opens the door to his apartment, letting Phil in. He doesn't mention he'd come here on the vague orders of Colt, it seems rather like a given, Phil was probably sent on them too.
"Luck is for losers, Jon." He laughs, and stops just in the door. "It's bare." He gestures at the empty apartment, Jon shrugs.
"Does the job." Jon's arms wrap around Phil's waist, pulling him closer, so that his back is flush with Jon's chest. "You stopped being a girl?" He asks softly, lips pressing kisses to Phil's throat.
"You and my mom been talking again?" He laughs, and turns in Jon's arms, kissing him carefully, as though slightly uncertain how welcome his kiss will be.
"He's a chatty bastard." Jon shrugs, kissing Phil firmly, hands squeezing his waist gently. "Wanna take the tour?" He laughs and nods.
"Can't wait... Oh!" He pulls away from Jon, and starts rooting around in the bag he has with him. "Present." He hands Jon a box of chocolates, it looks expensive and Jon isn't quite sure what to do with it, other than eat the contents, it's entirely unexpected, and kind of makes him wish he had something to give in return. "You don't strike me as the flowers type..." Phil glances up at him, his expression infuriatingly unreadable.
"Nope, you're the girl." Jon tilts his chin up and kisses him. "Chocolate kind of seems more like a present for you though." Jon tosses the box on the sofa, and catches Phil's wrist. "So tour?" He leads to the way into the kitchen. "All the modern conveniences, microwave, juicer..."
"A stove that's never been used?" Phil laughs and Jon shrugs.
"Hmm... Feel free to pop its cherry. The living room, TV, table, couch."
"Very nice. I like the whole never used look, very modern." Phil mutters, and Jon shrugs again. "Do we get to pop the couch's cherry too?" He steps closer, leaning against Jon's side and whispers in his ear. Jon snorts and nods.
"Oh yeah, there'll be plenty of popping on it, later." He grins and Phil rolls his eyes. "And finally, the bedroom." Phil steps away from Jon and toes his shoes off, before flopping on the bed, looking up at him with a grin.
"Very nice." He pats space beside him. "You look like shit, c'mon sleep." Jon shakes his head and kicks his sneakers off, then settles down on the bed by Phil. "We can pop cherries in a bit, yeah?"
"The one cherry I'd like was popped long ago." Jon laughs, and Phil smacks his chest lightly, then snuggles up against him.
"I'm sure you'll get over it." He mutters, pulling Jon closer. "Go to sleep and I'll consider cooking for you."
"You cook?" Honestly, the thought of Phil cooking amuses him, the amount of burnt coffee grinds Jon's watched him throw away has him worried, but maybe it's just coffee that hates Phil.
"I'm not a child, Jon." He mutters, sounding half-asleep already. "I can mostly cook, you got any food in?"
"I've got a selection of takeout places that deliver's numbers." Jon snakes one arm around Phil's shoulders and tugs him to rest against his chest, one hand running through his hair. "I highly recommend the Italian place." He yawns and kisses Phil's head. "Cook me breakfast instead. I'll take you to the store after dinner."
"Shopping, popping, we've a busy evening planned." Phil murmurs, Jon nods vaguely and yawns again.
"Go to sleep." Jon swats the back of his head, now that a nap has been offered, he feels tired, sleep is something he'd like right about now.
"Gimmick infringement." Phil squirms, moving to lie on his stomach, head still on Jon's chest.
"You ain't got a gimmick, Phil." Jon glances down at the top of his head.
"Punk, call me Punk, Phil's..." He sighs and shakes his head. "Just Punk, okay?" Jon shakes his head and sighs, sphinx bastard. It feels like Jon's going to have to take some kind of course in understanding Chicago bred bastards, there has to be one in the freezing hole of a city somewhere.
"Fine, but you still don't have a gimmick, Punk." Jon kisses his hair, and yawns once more.
"Do too. Sleeping now." He kisses the underside of Jon's chin, and gives an overstated snore.
"Good, noisy bastard." Jon mutters, and closes his eyes.
"Love you too." The sentiment makes him freeze, love? The worms decide then that no matter how much he wants this nap, he's not getting it.
So... This wasn't quite what I wanted to write but it seems that Dean and I only manage to agree on writing something when everything else is being uncooperative... so as ever, as he and I aren't friends by a long shot, I'd appreciate any all comments on my interpretation on the tricky little shit that is Mr Ambrose.
Reviews, comments, concerns and asides are always welcomed.