Warnings:7 Sins Continuity 2nd person Colt PoV, mild slash (Colt/Punk), kind of maudlin.
Waking up from a nap is at once an incredibly pleasant and incredibly disconcerting feeling; the transition from awake to asleep to awake can throw your entire day. You hadn't really needed this nap and really, you should switch the TV on. Raw will be on soon and you find yourself watching it out of habit, you can never tell when you'll end up trending thanks to Punkers and it's nice to have a heads up. Raw however is curiously Punk free. You've not heard from him, not had a single message since the Rumble. You assume that the new girlfriend is keeping him busy though. He's always down in Florida these days; you had an unreasonably good time teasing him about that bruise on his thigh. You think it's probably worth trying to remember her name, she seems kind of likely to be long-term, your bet with Ace pegs her as long-term at least. Ace is more cynical but he's been burned with bets too many times before, you were both horribly wrong with Amy, your mom on the other hand was spot-on. You get the feeling you will eternally regret that your mother somehow managed to get herself in on the Punk's girlfriend bets; she's a shark.
After Raw you intended to go to bed, what happened was you fell back asleep and are currently waking up from another nap on the sofa.
"Oww." Your floor generally doesn't complain when you step on it.
"The fuck you doing on the floor, Punkers?" You look down at him in the dull, bluish light of the TV.
"You were taking up the sofa." His voice is oddly toneless and you're calling bullshit. Punkers ends up on the floor for one of two reasons. One, he's too tired to make it to bed and two, he's in pain, be it physical or emotional.
"Where's the girlfriend?" It's your first thought, he looks at you mildly unimpressed, eyebrow raised.
"Working." Well, that's helpfully vague; you think but decide against pushing him on the subject.
"What you doing here?" You ask instead, his unimpressed expression melting into the most miserable one you've ever seen. "Shouldn't you be on the road?" He looks away from you, towards the TV screen you're certain he can't see.
"I quit." You laugh at him, that's ridiculous but he shakes his head, looking painfully serious and suddenly the whole situation feels mildly surreal. "I can't take their shit anymore." He sighs and sits up slowly, resting his head against your knee, wrapping his arms around your shin. It's an automatic reaction to start stroking his messy hair.
"Punkers." You start but fall silent, you've no idea what to say to him, it's rare he's this solemn and subdued; every time you've seen him lately, he's been a bristling ball of fury or in the company of the new girlfriend. She's a good enough influence on him, cheerful, focused, tries her best to stop him from brooding but sometimes there's nothing that anyone can do for him. Those are the times he's sent to you. You're certain that he comes with a 'Caring for your Punk' instruction manual and that you're listed as the solution to most problems. It's something the new girlfriend joked with you about, that if they had any issues, she was just sending him to you to fix. You get the feeling this might be why he's here. "What's going on?" He nuzzles against your knee; you can feel his breath against your skin, soft and warm.
"I can't do this anymore. I work my ass off for them and this is what I get. I destroy everything for them, my life, my relationships, myself and then fucking Dave gets my spot. Fuck them." You sigh softly, you're not sure what to say to make this better and settle for messing up his hair some more. "I'm tired, Colt, so fucking tired."
"Punkers." He sighs again and curls around even further around your legs.
"Sick and tired, Scott." It rather feels like he's trying to merge himself with you, like he's attempting to hide from the World against your legs. "I'm done." You can't think of anything reasonable to say to him, you can't quite believe that he would just quit. He's hot-tempered, he's impulsive but quitting, it feels so unlike him, to just roll over and quit. Quitting isn't him, leaving, walking away, getting rid of the negative aspects of his life in spectacular fashion, yes but to give up? Life has taught Punkers that the only person he can ever really make happy is himself so he has a tendency to act in a manner that seems overtly self-serving, you don't think that he is quite as self-centred as he seems but you are perhaps biased and quitting, you can't process this, you truly can't.
"It'll be okay." You mutter at length and then fall silent, quietly stroking his hair and trying to think of something more meaningful to say. You want some kind of grand verbal gesture to prompt him into explaining himself more but you can't think of a single thing. You aren't sure how long you sit together in silence, your hand moving through his hair, his face pressed against your knee so much like he's hiding, his breath against your skin and his arms squeezing your leg tightly. Eventually, you stand, disturbing him from where he was curled up and dozing.
"C'mon Phil." You head towards to the door to your bedroom, words are failing you tonight, in the morning, you'll try and make sense of his tangled mind, try and work out if he's being ridiculous or reasonable. He stands, scrubbing at his eyes, his hair a fluffy mess; he takes your offered hand and leans against you, his weight warm and familiar. You wrap your arms about him firmly, squeezing him tight. "Let's go to sleep."
Once you're both in bed, he curls up in a little ball, his back to you, you wrap yourself around him, moulding yourself to his back and he catches your arms, tugs them tight around himself. "It'll be okay." You mutter again into his hair and he makes an odd noise, something small, soft and not quite sad. You're beginning to question who you're reassuring here, he seems less like he needs reassurance and more like he needs shelter, somewhere to hide for a while. You can only imagine the mess of the internet, the noise the marks will be making, is it a work, is it legit, has Punk really, in the time-honoured tradition of Stone Cold Steve Austin taken his ball and gone home? You squeeze him tightly and press a kiss to the back of his head, he lies still in your arms, stroking your skin, it's gently soothing and you feel sleep sneak up on you.
You're awoken by his phone, habit makes him stash it under the pillow, if you're honest you do this too, you never know when Punkers might want a three a.m. conversation, a hazard of your best friend status with him. He squirms in your arms and you let him go to flop onto your back.
"Is it important?" The harsh light from his cell lights up his features oddly, whatever it is he looks even more miserable. "Is it Ace?" He shakes his head. "The girlfriend?" Name, you're going to have to remember that one, another shake. "Your sisters? Mom? Anyone important?" Another shake of his head so you grab his cell from him and toss it to where you're certain the pile of clothes you both shed is, he looks at you mildly concerned for his cell, a soft frown on his face. "C'mere." You pull him to you and engulf him in your arms, holding him close to your chest. "Sleep." You kiss his hair again and he lays still, a thread of tension in him, you stroke the skin of his back and feel him trying to relax, trying but failing. "What?" You ask him softly and he moves, propping himself over you, looking down at you, he's trying for a closed and distant expression but he can't manage it with you, you know him, inside and out. He's your best friend, more than your friend, more than your brother, more than any mere word could describe. You love him, he loves you and whilst you decidedly aren't in love with him, there's very little you wouldn't do for him, there's no doubt in you that you love him. He can't hide from you, not physically, not mentally and certainly not emotionally. "What?" You ask again, stroking his face and hating every single sad little line around his eyes, the bags under them and soul deep misery in them. He shakes his head slightly and kisses you softly. You return the kiss, refusing to let him deepen it, refusing to let this become more, he doesn't need it, not right now, maybe in the morning but for now he needs rest.
"Thanks." He says as he settles back against your chest, his forehead against your chin in a mildly awkward and uncomfortable fashion, you chuckle softly and squeeze him.
"S'okay, Punkers. Go to sleep." He moves slightly, presses a soft kiss to your jaw line and squirms down to tuck his head beneath your chin; you feel one of his hands clutching at the fabric of your sleep shirt, the mess of his soft hair feels slightly tickly against your skin.
"I'll explain better tomorrow." He sounds so very tired and you can feel a spark of anger building in you, this broken down man is not your best friend. Sometimes you wonder if the pride he feels for you and your empire isn't coloured with jealousy, he might have been living the dream with the WWE but it was destroying him, has possibly completely ruined his love for professional wrestling. You might be on the hustle, wrestling in no name towns, selling your own merch and booking your own jobs but at least you're in charge, at least you don't look as thoroughly weary, at least you still love wrestling. "G'night Colt." He presses another quick kiss to your jaw and you squeeze him as tight as you can, silently trying to let him know that no matter how little or how much he chooses to explain to you, you understand, you care, you love him and will support him. You kiss his hair and squeeze him again.
"G'night Punkers."
Happy New Year everyone... Though with the current news, I can't see how.
I hope it's a work but if Punk really is gone, then we've lost so much and I hope he can enjoy his retirement as much as I will mourn him.
