Title: Gradients
Rating: M
Pairing: John/Punk, Punk/Dolph, John/Dolph, John/Punk/Dolph (with John/Nikki Bella, Punk/Lita, and will-they-or-won't-they Dolph/AJ)
Summary: Punk accidentally invites a concussed Dolph to Chicago…and ends up in Phoenix with him instead, setting off an irreversible chain of events. Angst, snark, and Rocky 4 references abound. Dolph/Punk/Cena with shades of all three built-in pairings. Slow build.
Author's Note: Hello all! Just wanted to give a quick explanation of a few things. First of all, this all sort of came to fruition after I read Annalore's "Perfection: A Drabble Collection". I had never really thought to myself hey! I should write Dolph/Punk/Cena or even that I should write WWE fic at all. But I read that, and it was super good, so I looked for more Dolph/Punk/Cena and there was pretty much none and then this just sort of came to be. This is in no way a spinoff or sequel to Perfection, just inspired by it (that being said: go read it. It's flawless).
The events in this story begin on May 9, 2013 - two days after the SmackDown taping where Dolph got his concussion and one day before the WWE revealed what happened. I'm very picky and specific about dates and places and continuity. This entire story is outlined for plot but will continue to follow actual, real life timelines, though on a slight delay. I will bend things where I have to, but otherwise, I like to follow real life as closely as possible with RPF like this.
I'm pretty sure just from things I've read and such that Punk and Dolph are better friends than I make them out to be here, but for my own purposes, they aren't too close in the beginning. John and Punk are as close as I believe them to be in real life – maybe a little more. All the usual players are here (Colt, Kofi, Daniel Bryan, Briley Pierce, etc) and all three guys have some other actual or possible relationship going on throughout a lot of this story. I'm not going to portray anyone (specifically: AJ, NIkki Bella, or Lita) as some cartoonish, unrealistic villain. Also, Amy Schumer is my spirit animal, so expect at least one cameo from her.
I will likely use kayfabe names/real names interchangeably. I apologize in advance for any confusion that may cause, but that's just how I roll. I'm not someone who walks around real life calling Dolph Ziggler Nick Nemeth, and I won't when I'm speaking in these author's notes, but I doubt his colleagues and friends go around calling him that. Punk is a special case because I think everyone calls him that all the time except maybe in the throes of passion, and even then it probably get's used.
Texting and social networking is very important here, especially for Punk and Dolph. Formatting for these is different, though the text responses of the person whose POV a section is in will usually be built into paragraphs (look for colons).
Also, this does not exist in a slash world where everyone is gay. Expect actual identity crises.
Woo. That was a lot. Here's Chapter 1! :) Enjoy!
Chapter Warnings: Language. Brief almost mention of AJ Lee's breasts. Near erotic descriptions of deep-dish pizza. Allusions to vomiting. Lots of twitter messaging. Unbeta'd.
Disclaimer: I do not know anyone portrayed in this story. The events and conversations portrayed here have never happened (not "likely never happened" – they never happened). I created fictionalized personal lives and conflicts for the people who portray fictional characters within the WWE universe. I don't think anyone portrayed here behaves in this way, interacts in this way, or speaks in this way. If you are uncomfortable with the idea of real person fiction, I suggest you exit NOW. If you have come here by googling your own name, for the love of God, I suggest you exit NOW. If you don't, I apologize for anything you might read here, but you were warned. Please don't sue me; I'm one of the people buying your merchandise. That being said, any intellectual or actual property owned by the WWE and/or any of its affiliates, or any non-affiliated copyright/trademark holder for that matter, which appears here is for entertainment purposes only. I receive no profit from this. No copyright infringement is intended.
Nick suddenly awoke, his skull throbbing. He suspected it was morning; his phone could confirm that, but he wasn't sure he remembered how to open his eyes. His head felt foggy, the same way it did after starting a nap in daylight and awakening, confused and panicky, after sundown. And – oh, God – was that churning feeling his stomach? No. It had to be someone else's and he was just having sympathy pain because no one woke up this sick to their stomach. He opened his eyes and immediately regretted it: how could you get dizzy lying in bed?
Oh. That was definitely his stomach.
Before he knew it, he was on his feet, hastily stumbling to the bathroom.
Several minutes later, he found himself sitting with his knees pulled into his chest, highly alert (though he still somehow felt drowsy, the way he usually only did after all nighters, as if his body might never acknowledge his previous night's sleep). He propped himself up against the bathtub, leaning his pounding head back to rest against the edge. The cool fiberglass gave him some relief from the fire in his neck.
Fuck Swagger. Fuck concussions. Fuck his life right now.
He got that accidents happened in wrestling: spots were easily botched and mistakes were made. Hell, mistakes happened at least several times in every one of his matches. Mistakes were the greatest source of spontaneity they had. And he got that Jake had a lot on his mind with the upcoming trial and the horrendous racism storyline he was selling – like a champ, in Nick's opinion – but why did he have to be the one to suffer?
Yeah. He knew everyone had to go through their own lot of bad in their lives. But right now, he'd be willing to trade this concussion for a prostate exam and a colonoscopy on the same day.
He forced himself to try and remember arriving in Roanoke on Monday afternoon; that whole part of his memory was still gone. After watching Raw, he had most of his memory back from the event that night, though he still couldn't remember a lot of what had gone on for him when he wasn't on camera. He wondered if what he did remember was some sort of fabrication his mind was creating with the information it had from April, E, and the tapes. Traveling from Roanoke to Raleigh was totally missing, and so was the taping of SmackDown. He hoped watching it tomorrow night would jog his memory, but at this point he was fairly certain it wouldn't. He could remember the day before: waking up nauseous, shaky, and sore at the hotel. He remembered April and E accompanying him to his gate for his rescheduled earlier flight to Phoenix, taking the car service straight from the airport out to see the Suns doctor, and learning he had amnesia (though he'd figured that part out pretty well on his own).
He opened his eyes and groaned at the amount of light pouring into through the window and reflecting off the floor to ceiling white tile. He grabbed hold of the edge of the toilet and hauled himself off the floor, stumbling a bit before catching his balance and squeezing his eyes shut to ride out a less severe wave of nausea. His stomach growled, requesting food for the first time since before his injury. He took a few deep breaths, starting out ragged but eventually evening out. He opened his eyes and found the dizziness disappearing.
His head still pounded as he slowly returned to his room, but it was becoming a little more bearable. He grabbed his phone, discovering it was still mid-morning, and made his way out to the living room and switched on the television, tossing his phone onto the coffee table before he made his way into the kitchen. He threw together plain toast and a glass of juice, returning to the living room to curl in on himself with the throw blanket his mother insisted he take home last time he'd been back in Cleveland, and settled in to watch Sports Center.
Halfway through his first slice, his phone lit up, April's name and face (bespectacled and pulled into one of her many goofy expressions, a shot she had taken after stealing his phone away in some rest stop in the middle of no where) splashed across the display.
He accepted the call, pulling his blanket closer. "Hey, Ape."
"How are you feeling?"
"Hm…like I got kicked in the head by a 260 pound professional wrestler."
"Really? That's a little extreme. He's definitely only 240."
He laughed. "I'm okay. I'm less dazed than I was yesterday, but I'm still a little foggy. Nothing a day of bad television can't fix."
"Are you eating?"
"As we speak." He crunched into the crust of his toast to emphasize his point.
"Good. I was just…you know, worried. Have to make sure my boyfriend is back in fighting shape by the pay-per-view!" April joked.
Nick felt his stomach roll again, not with nausea, but with the same weird feeling he'd been getting whenever April used their storyline to joke around with him for the past several weeks. Ever since he'd taken the title the night after Wrestlemania…well, he wasn't sure what was going on. But people kept asking if they'd actually started to date – which they hadn't – and he was starting to think maybe they should.
Maybe. Possibly. He really wasn't sure where take that idea, so he just kept it to himself.
"Oh, let's be honest: I'm still better than everyone else there with this concussion. I mean really? A boot to the skull? Way to be jelly, Swags."
April laughed and Nick couldn't suppress the smile her normal, non-crazy, unforced laugh brought to his face. "No, but really, Nick. Jake feels terrible about it. He wanted to call you, but he didn't know if you were mad at him."
"Of course I'm not mad. Accidents happen. I wish it had happened to someone else, but I guess it was my turn, you know?"
Nick could envision her nodding in understanding: peering down at the floor, pursing her lips before forcing the tip of her tongue through to wet them to way she always did. The way her black hair rested on the slope of her shoulder, her nod causing the locks to separate: half of it sliding to hang down her back, just reaching her waist, and the other half hanging over her chest, grazing... "Yeah, it just sucks that it's now and not when you were still waiting on the title."
"They aren't going to strip me or anything. Fan girls across the nation would swarm Titan Tower in a sea of peroxide blonde wigs and teal shirts."
"You mean E and I would swarm Titan Tower!"
"Awe, way to be loyal."
"Only for my boyfriend!"
Nick laughed. Jesus Christ. "I'm gonna go and finish my breakfast that you so rudely interrupted with your genuine care and concern, okay? I'll call you later."
"Don't worry about it, you need to rest."
"I'll call you April. Bye."
"Byes!"
He crunched through his second slice of toast (God, carbs were amazing) and sipped at his juice before deciding to check twitter.
Pop.
Punk groaned as he unbent his stiff knee. While it was nowhere near as bad as it had been before, he really did need this time to recuperate, and it was helping. But running five miles yesterday afternoon, followed by a 10-hour YouTube/gaming/comic/pizza/texting marathon, and then passing out without icing or anything was probably not the smartest move he had made lately.
Rolling onto his back, he slowly pulled his knee into his chest and stretched for a few minutes. He considered what he had to do that day (a fat lot of nothing) and sighed. Free time was great, as long as he could fill all of it long enough to avoid boredom. There were only so many times he could harass Colt into sitting on the couch being bored with him. But he had done fairly well at keeping busy so far between baseball and hockey and every other sporting event he had attended. Amy would be up over the weekend, and she usually came up with things for them to do in Chicago that Punk hadn't even known existed.
Plus, he had become even more obsessed with his twitter, which was great if you enjoyed being pissed at 95% of the world and in awe of the 5% of amazing that existed out there.
Speaking of which…
Punk relaxed his leg and rolled over, stretching to reach his phone on the nightstand. He scrolled through his mentions and decided it was still far too early and he was still far too sore to start with any of these people. He opened his messages and replied to each. They were all pretty standard – except one.
Kofi
So Swagger popped Ziggler in the head Tuesday night and apparently he's got a really shitty concussion with amnesia or something
Punk grimaced. Amnesia? That seemed a little farfetched: I think that amnesia might be a slight exaggeration…
Kofi
Nah, it's what I heard from a lot of the guys. Retrograde amnesia I think? He can't remember Monday or Tuesday but he didn't forget who he is or anything
That actually sounded pretty scary to Punk. There were many reasons or his straight edge choice – most of them moral ones – but the most rational one was the idea of being able to blackout and forget chunks of time. Not knowing about your own life, having other people know more…the thought was pretty scary.
Punk had never been especially close to Nick Nemeth. Sure, they had worked together. They occasionally had some conversations. They were more than acquaintances, but they weren't exactly friends either. Buddies? Was that the appropriate middle ground? Was that even a mature enough term for men in their thirties? Did the label even really matter? They were just coworkers who chatted and hung out with some of the same people. But he'd had his fair share of concussions before (really, in this industry, you were an anomaly if you hadn't) and even though he was sure Nick had too, this kind sounded a little frightening.
Plus, the guy had only just won back the title after a long drought, so that probably made the whole situation suck a little more due to paranoia (especially since the company was so good about writing people out and stripping them of things because of injuries and all that).
He replied to Kofi: That sounds kind of intense.
Punk opened up his twitter app and searched for Ziggler. They might not be close, but the situation kind of sucked and Punk was man enough to admit he felt bad for him.
Direct Message to Dolph Ziggler HEELZiggler
Concussion and amnesia? The universe has it out for you (sincerely though, my condolences)
After pressing send, Punk dragged himself out of bed. He took a few minutes to stretch his lower half before going downstairs and getting himself a shake. On the way back up, he heard his phone start ringing and sped up to grab it before it went to voicemail.
"Ames," he greeted slightly winded.
"Hey! Phil, listen, I have to cancel on coming up…"
"Well, that's great, Amy. Bailing at the last minute. I defrosted a roast," Punk joked.
She laughed. "No, I'm really sorry though. I got called for a last minute USO thing and-"
"And you never turn those down."
"Exactly."
"It's perfectly fine. I'll just sit here, drink a couple cases of Pepsi and I don't know…maybe the inspiration will strike me to start my own comic book."
"Except you can't draw."
Punk nodded. "But I can write!"
"Maybe. In my experience, you just end up doodling on yourself with the pens."
They were trying again. They had been since September. And it was a lot better this time. They weren't getting as pissed at each other as frequently as they used too. It also didn't feel as serious as last time. As if this time around, they were more about mutual respect and companionship than trying to create and sustain burning, fiery passion. Which made sense in a way: how many 80 year-old married couples did you know who were fiery and passionate? (But Punk was only in his 30s and…he just didn't know what he wanted right now.)
"I'll come up once I'm back though. It's not like you're running on any type of schedule right now. How's the knee?"
He rolled his eyes at her comment (she knew him well enough to know that if he protested it was because his schedule was some type of vaguely hashed out Scott Pilgrim reread plan) and resisted the urge to tell her he did in fact have a schedule and that graphic novels were just as important as wrestling. "Poppy."
"Poppy?" her tone betrayed her befuddlement at the description.
"Yeah, when I don't use it, it just goes 'pop!'." Punk even took it a step farther, digging his index finger into the inside of his cheek and creating the noise with a pull.
"Ah. Poppy. Sounds like my neck."
"You do have a very poppy neck. Actually, your neck is more crackly than anything."
"My neck sounds like a bowl of Rice Krispies."
Punk smiled. "I'll see you soon, Amy. I love you." He really did.
"Love you too."
"Stay safe."
"I'll try. Call the sitter and check on the dogs for me please."
"Will do."
And then she was gone. Punk was proud though. Last go around, this would have turned into a 30 minute screaming match about breaking promises and not caring enough and just insecurity.
He scanned over his home screen and saw he had new twitter notifications.
Direct Message from Dolph Ziggler HEELZiggler
Ha thankssss
How's the knee
Direct Message to Dolph Ziggler HEELZiggler
Poppy.
Punk got back in bed and turned on the television. He had a sick fascination with Kathie Lee and Hoda and he was not afraid to admit it. Though he had no use for the rest of the Today show – he was a Good Morning America man, through and through (that Robin Roberts just tugged at his heart strings on a regular basis).
Direct Message from Dolph Ziggler HEELZiggler
Your knee = my skull
Somehow.
Punk could empathize with that. The worst concussion he'd ever had – fuck, almost 10 years ago now – had left him feeling like there was pressurized air between his brain and his skull (plus that hospital bill had been a bitch. He'd been paying it off until he was on the main roster, $5 at a time). Concussions were wile bitches.
Direct Message to Dolph Ziggler HEELZiggler
Isn't it just the best feeling
Direct Message from Dolph Ziggler HEELZiggler
That
And also boredom
Direct Message to Dolph Ziggler HEELZiggler
Boredom is the best as far as I know. All that free time.
He stretched his knee out some more and considered stepping up his leg days once he was cleared. Strengthened all the surrounding muscles would help…fuck, he was starting to sound like Cena.
Direct Message from Dolph Ziggler HEELZiggler
Bc it isn't throwing fake ashes on taker
Jk
(Except really)
This was one of the reasons he had always liked Nick in theory: the guy got it. He got how infuriating creative could be. He got how irritating everything could be at this level of wrestling when you no longer had any character or storyline control, but all the power on the mic. He was unapologetically snarky about all of it – and publically too – which spoke to a part of Punk's heart that bled over from his in-ring persona. Really, their in-ring characters were disgustingly similar except for their looks and their preoccupation with them. And they had always been pretty similar outside the ring. Sure, there were huge differences between them too, but who cared about that stuff anyway? Who wanted to be friends with carbon copies of themselves?
Direct Message to Dolph Ziggler HEELZiggler
Precisely
Nick hadn't expected the direct message from Punk – or any acknowledgement of his injury from Punk for that matter. Maybe he would have asked him how he was when they ran into each other a couple of weeks or months from now. He would genuinely care but the conversation would also have started for polite and slightly superficial reasons. Mostly because even though they didn't normally extend those stupid societal niceties to most others, they had always extended them to each other because they were sort of the same and got why being polite was disingenuous.
But the message was welcome. And the building conversation was pretty good too. Especially since they both had a lot in common right now (granted, Punk had input in his current status on the disabled list, but still).
Nick had been worried for a moment; maybe bringing up the whole Wrestlemania storyline was a step too far. He knew that Punk had a hand in the layout of it. And the ash throwing was ingenious – some of the best stuff he had seen in a while. But it wasn't like it changed anyone's expectations for Taker to win again. If anyone had to break the streak, it should have been Punk. At this rate it would be Fandango. But, like he always assumed about Punk, the man was fine to poke fun at himself. So why not poke fun at Nick?
Direct Message to CM Punk CMPunk
I don't get my story
Am I standing up for immigration?
But also not?
Am I jealous about the spit bucket?
Direct Message from CM Punk CMPunk
The spit bucket. It's prettier than either of them.
Direct Message to CM Punk CMPunk
Yeah
It rivals my face
Or my abs
Not sure which is more painted
Direct Message from CM Punk CMPunk
Precisely. That's why I don't let makeup near me with those spray paint cans.
Direct Message to CM Punk CMPunk
No but really
What does one do with time off
Idk what that is
He really didn't. He felt like he'd just been going nonstop for…how many years was it now? God, was it almost nine now? That was insane. He'd worked so hard for so often for so long he hadn't even noticed…even if his mom did send a card and tin of cookies every November.
Direct Message from CM Punk CMPunk
Idk man I'm doing pretty good so far. Sporting events seem to help.
Ew. He wasn't doing sporting events in Phoenix. Who even played here? The Suns? The Coyotes? Fucking Diamondbacks?
Direct Message to CM Punk CMPunk
Except I'm in Phoenix
Cleveland for life
Direct Message to CM Punk CMPunk
So far I've managed to:
Get up
Puke
Make toast
Sportscenter
Direct Message from CM Punk CMPunk
That's probably good enough for these first couple of days. Don't want to overdo it.
Direct Message to CM Punk CMPunk
Oh I've heard
Do you know they actually decided to tell me I had amnesia?
Like I couldn't figure it out when I couldn't remember things.
Direct Message from CM Punk CMPunk
Doc is good like that
Direct Message to CM Punk CMPunk
Wasn't even Doc
Sent me back home
Then sent me to the Suns doctor
Direct Message from CM Punk CMPunk
Oh, NBA docs…is Doc not good enough for you? Are you that important, champ?
Direct Message to CM Punk CMPunk
I'm not sure what the idea was
But I obviously am
Got to see a "real" sports doctor
Direct Message from CM Punk CMPunk
I guess LeBron didn't get any leg cramps this week
Direct Message to CM Punk CMPunk
Obvs
Direct Message to CM Punk CMPunk
Idk though
They gave me the all clear for light workouts once the headaches are gone
But no work for at least 3 weeks
And he was really looking forward to those workouts. He could feel the endorphins now…if only he could just get an hour in on the treadmill maybe his head would – no. He was going to lie here, on this couch, and recuperate properly. No reason he couldn't be back in the ring for Payback even if Extreme Rules was a bust at this point.
Direct Message from CM Punk CMPunk
Could always use my method
Direct Message to CM Punk CMPunk
Which is?
Direct Message from CM Punk CMPunk
Either lose 2% body fat…or gain it. It's your choice.
Direct Message from CM Punk CMPunk
Depends on how good the pizza is in Phoenix.
The pizza here was…all right. There were a lot of transplants in the area, but they tended to do better with New York-style slices. He still hadn't found anything he could cling to and he wouldn't dare go near a chain – that kind of pizza stayed inside you forever.
Direct Message to CM Punk CMPunk
Had better
Direct Message from CM Punk CMPunk
Awe too bad, man. Deep-dish for life.
Nick nearly groaned. Deep-dish pizza sounded…erotic. Stomach churning at the moment, but the theory behind it at the moment was just…yes.
Direct Message to CM Punk CMPunk
Oh god
Don't even right now
Oh…but yes. Right now. Nick thought about it for a second: that thick soft pan crust, the sauce, and the cheese pulling apart as you scooped a slice out. He nearly had to wipe the drool off his phone screen.
Direct Message to CM Punk CMPunk
Dry ice one
And ship it
Jk
(But really)
Direct Message from CM Punk CMPunk
I don't know how well that's going to hold up, man
Direct Message to CM Punk CMPunk
If they can ship steaks from Omaha…
Direct Message from CM Punk CMPunk
Touché
Direct Message to CM Punk CMPunk
I can't anyway;
2 slices of toast this morning:
Carb limit for the year
Direct Message from CM Punk CMPunk
Oh fuck that. You're injured, you can eat Crisco from a can if you want
Direct Message to CM Punk CMPunk
As appealing as that sounds
No
(terrible influence)
Direct Message from CM Punk CMPunk
I've heard that a million times before.
Direct Message to CM Punk CMPunk
Bc you bring up deep-dish
When people are trapped in the southwest
Direct Message from CM Punk CMPunk
Well, this is the first time that's the reason, but I imagine it will happen again
Direct Message to CM Punk CMPunk
From me
Bc I'm never going to stop thinking of deep-dish
But really. Deep-dish. Nick was already scrolling through google images looking at photos like they were porn. Pizza. He just wanted pizza.
Direct Message from CM Punk CMPunk
Well, I've got a guest room. If it's that much of a problem, come to Chicago and get some.
Well, that wasn't something Nick had expected. Was Punk actually serious? Like, should he take this invitation seriously? Even if he shouldn't, he couldn't travel right now anyway. He couldn't even drive himself for the next few days – he was relying on cabs right now.
He wasn't all that sure how to interpret that message. But, he could maybe politely turn it down and extend a counter invitation and when Punk turned that down he would know it was a joke?
Wasn't like he would end up heartbroken over it.
Direct Message from Dolph Ziggler HEELZiggler
As great as that sounds
Can't fly
But you're welcome to come to AZ
I've got a pool
Oh fuck. Punk was an asshole.
Punk hadn't actually meant to invite Nick to Chicago. He really hadn't. But he'd just sort of typed the message as a joke and then…concussion rationale on Nick's end had missed the joke? Was it even Nick's fault? It was probably Punk's fault.
This was why Nick added "Jk" to everything.
He wasn't really sure how to progress from this point. He could play it off and turn him down. He could point out he had been kidding. But what if Nick really had misunderstood? And wouldn't it be rude to turn him down in that case? Did Punk actually care if he was being rude?
No, not really.
But concussions really were the worst. So if the guy had actually meant his part of the invitation – actually wanted the company – turning him down would probably suck. Concussions fucked with your head, made you do weird shit you normally wouldn't even consider. He really didn't want to be a dick here. He didn't. Maybe he was getting soft at the ripe old age of 34. (Cena would probably tell him it was a sign of needing to be "wifed up" or something ridiculous like that. Because that was Cena. Who would show up on your doorstep unannounced if you had a concussion and bake fucking sugar cookies and "forget" tell you they weren't vegan.)
And, okay, a pool? It might be May, but that wasn't exactly pool time in Chicago. You weren't really safe for pool going until the end of June around here. And of course, when he'd dropped all that money on this house (enough that he'd had to go vomit after the closing at the reality of the sheer fortune he was responsible for) he'd picked a place with no pool. Because apparently he didn't think it was a priority. Sometimes he wondered about his past decisions: who didn't think pools were a priority?
But the next message Punk sent really came down to one thing: wasn't he terrified of boredom right now? Of his time off getting stale? Of not using this down time to his absolute advantage?
Direct Message to Dolph Ziggler HEELZiggler
Arizona adventure it is. I'll bring the deep-dish.
Author's Note: If you google "CM Punk house" you will come up with the place he is currently living. I like to imagine that all those pictures of the way it was when he bought it is the way he kept it just for fun. Because that place is a little hilarious. And yes, it has no pool. If you want to be super creepy and google "Dolph Ziggler house" you can find a satellite image, and he does, in fact, have a pool.
I know this chapter was rampant with American sports and popular culture references. If you didn't catch some of them, let me know, and I can fill you in.
As a general warning, I am one of the worst updaters in the history of fan fiction. Chapter 2 could be up today, tomorrow, or several years from now.
Favorites, alerts, and reviews are much appreciated! Tumblr username is the same as this pen name.