a/n: this idea was in my head before lana and dolph became a full-blown thing. idek where it came from, other than i just never got on board the lana/roman train when they had their dueling promos back when he would fight rusev. i liked their chemistry, for sure, but i just wanted to try something different for her. this is my first time writing her, hopefully i've captured her lana-ness.

~*~aluminum foil prince~*~

summary: he wasn't the white knight type – far from it, actually – but despite seeming to thrive in chaos, he's keenly aware of everything around him, and instead of offering to whisk her away on his mighty steed, he says, gruffly, "i hot wired hunter and steph's mercedes, and you're ridin' shotgun."

rating: t

If anyone noticed the subtle changes in her – a flinch here and there, the way she shrunk ever so slightly, a tremor coursing through her voluptuous figure – it wasn't supposed to be him.

Cena would notice, for sure, even though he was feuding with Rusev for the United States Championship. He was always ready to don the cape and become Super Cena at a moment's notice.

Roman, obviously, would. Despite being fierce and looking to demolish any opponent inside the ring, he was still the same boy that loved his mother with everything inside of him. A Mama's boy at heart. He also had sisters and even though, he was the baby of the family, he still protected them with everything he had. His whole world revolved around a little girl with sable eyes and tawny curls who he would lay down his life for, as well. And he wouldn't stand for any woman to be intimidated or dominated by a man.

Rollins would've even been ranked higher on the list than him. Sure, he might have been an egotistical, spoiled brat, but he was far from oblivious to the goings on backstage. If anything, he made sure to keep a very close eye on what was going on, always looking to exploit any perceived weakness he could find.

The only people less likely to notice what was going on between the Ravishing Russian and the Bulgarian Brute, would be Harper and Rowan, and that wasn't saying much.

Shoulders rolling and swaggering, he can't resist the jab on his tongue, as he makes his way toward her. A subtle flinch, as the teasing flows easily, his lips hovering over her ear, "Trouble in paradise, darlin'?"

Cool blue eyes flash, dangerously, like the blue around a flame. But quickly her composure is regained. Smoothing manicured nails over the silk of her pink suit, her red lips become set in their usual unamused frown.

"I would say there must be something better for you to do than spy, but given the current state of your," A bark of haughty laughter. "So-called career, Mr. Ambrose, I cannot."

"Who knew you were so invested in my so-called career," Low and hinting at laughter underneath the gritty tone. "Best keep that little fact to yourself, darlin'. We wouldn't want your big ugly Russian to wreck my pretty face, now would we?"

X

"You stupid, slovenly, man! Can you not see that I am walking?" The familiar Russian screech reaches Dean's ears, and he looks down, finding its owner plastered against him. "Or are you still intoxicated from whichever disgusting establishment you slunk out of in the early morning hours?"

"Darlin'," Bending just so, the rough stubble of his cheek, rubbing against her smooth skin. "If you wanted to cop a feel, all you had to do was ask." Cheeky as ever as she gasps, her ruby red mouth falling open in shock. "I'd be happy," He winks. "To oblige."

"How dare you!" A stomp of a high heeled foot as a perfectly delicate hand rears back, but he catches her before she can connect.

"Now, now," Teasing as his tongue clicks. "Let's not get rough just yet, darlin'. You'll have to at least buy me a drink first."

"Why you insufferable, uncouth..."

"Yeah, yeah ugly American," He interrupts, voice high-pitched and a fake Russian accent, laughing as she stomps her feet and sputters. "Darlin'," His voice back to its normal gritty pitch as he reaches to tug at the tightly woven bun atop her head. "You gotta loosen that bun. I bet you'd be a lot more fun if ya did."

X

All Dean could think about was bashing Seth's head in.

Thanks to that corporate lapdog Kane he had a chance to finally get his hands on that scumbag weasel. Not just that, but he had a one in four chance at taking his precious championship away from him, too. Of course, he couldn't give a shit about the odds. Didn't matter if the odds were one in a million. He had a fucking chance, which was more than he had in a long time.

He didn't think anything could break his focus, until he heard it, a rumbling bellow with a Russian accent behind it, "You stupid cow of a woman!"

This was more Roman's deal, being the white knight, saving the damsel in distress or what-the-fuck-ever. He was beyond out of his element here, but he'd seen enough women get pushed around – growing up in the broken down houses on Cincinnati's East End – to just stand by and not do shit. So, there he was, sandwiched between Rusev's heavy bulk and Lana's soft curves.

"Just what the fuck do you think you're gonna do, Drago?" A low growl, deadly and menacing, through gritted teeth. "You think you're gonna lay hands on her? Is that what you think? Cause if that's what you think, you better think again."

"This does not concern you..."

"This does not concern you," Mocking and snide. "You think I'm gonna let this side? Continue my prep for my match, like this bullshit ain't goin' down? Take a step back," Knuckles cracking and lips curling into a snarl. "Or I'll make you."

Rusev's eyes flashed with deadly intent and then there was a clipped bark from Lana, "No, Rusev. This..." She paused, turning her nose up at Dean. "Common American vermin is not worth it. You have to prepare for John Cena. Come."

Turning sharply on a thin stiletto heel, Lana cast him a glare as Dean called out after her, cupping his mouth with his hands, "You're welcome!"

X

Flinch. Jump. Eyes darting in every direction. Every little noise has her doing the same thing and in the exact same order. Instead of looking bored as fuck or frowning at the nonsense going on around her, she looks like she might jump out of her skin.

Why the fuck do you even care a sharp tone questions in the recesses of his mind and Dean can't help but wonder why he does care. It's not like he's friends with the Ice Queen. Fuck, she acts like he's nothing but gum to scrape off the bottom of her pretty shoes. So why the fuck should he care if she's all spooked by her Big Ugly Russian, anyway?

Sighing heavily, he rubs his temples, willing his eyes to look away from the familiar curves of her gorgeous figure and to focus on anything else around him.

"The Authority's gonna do some big shin dig thing to celebrate Seth's win from last night," Vaguely Dean registers Roman's familiar smooth rumble. "What do you think about crashin' it? They're gonna have the champagne flowin' all night, and I say we stop that shit in it's tracks."

"I did not quit!" Is the next thing Dean hears then it's cursing – he may not speak Bulgarian or Russian or whatever – but he sure as fuck knows when someone's cursing, and his eyes dart over in the direction of the screaming.

"Oh, fuck no." He hears Roman's growl and the next thing he knows, the Samoan slams Rusev into the wall, the Bulgarian groaning from the impact. "You make a move toward the lady and I'll make you wish you were never born."

Dean knows Roman has this covered, that if anyone should be getting in the middle of whatever's going down between Lana and Rusev, it's him. He wasn't called the Samoan Superman for nothin'. But as if he's on auto pilot, his feet are carrying him in that direction. He's right next to Lana, as she bites down on that ruby bottom lip, her eyes darting fearfully between Roman and Rusev. He knows what she's thinking. He's seen that look before.

Please don't. You'll only make things worse. Stop it. No. No. No. It's fine. I can handle this. Please.

His stomach churns uncomfortably and he feels the sting of bile at the back of his throat. His fists clench tight enough that he thinks he might draw blood.

Instead of whisking her away like he should... Or more accurately tossing her over his shoulder in a fireman's carry or dragging her by her hair, he needles her, "Looks like the Ice Queen isn't so icy any more."

"SHUT UP!" She explodes, like he figured she would, but at least she isn't focused on Roman and Rusev any more. "SHUT UP, you gutter rat! You know nothing! Crawl back into your little hole! Rusev," Desperate as she struggles to pry Roman's forearm away from the other man's throat. "Come. We do not need to indulge in this foolishness any longer. Our business," She glares at the other two men, smoothing the non-existent wrinkles in her suit. "Is ours and does not concern the likes of the two of you."

"The Ice Queen isn't so icy any more?" Roman arches a brow, flexing his arm. "What the hell was that, man?"

"You didn't see her eyes," Dark and grumbling as Dean follows the sight of the smaller woman and hulking man down the hallway. "She was begging you not to pull that shit. She don't need you swoopin' in, Superman. Trust me," Fingers sifting through shaggy dishwater curls. "If Rusev's doin' anything, beatin' him up ain't gonna make him stop."

X

Challenging Seth for a title match at Elimination Chamber didn't get him anywhere. Well... it got him somewhere just not exactly where he wanted to be. At least he got the fucking match, though. It was more than he thought he was gonna get. He still wished he could've beat that weasel down with the steel chair.

Hunter and Stephanie, those fucking bastards, could have at least given him that much.

But Stephanie had to go all protective Mommy and panic that her baby boy was finally going to get his. God forbid.

Rolling his shoulders, Dean cracks his knuckles, as he walks through the arena's garage. A smirk curls along the seam of his lips as he spots a beautiful gleaming black Mercedes parked far away from the rented cars belonging to the Superstars and Divas. He doesn't have to look at the license plate to know it says HHH. He'd recognize the car anywhere.

It had been a long time since he hot wired a car, but he knew he hadn't forgotten how. And he couldn't let Seth's Mommy and Daddy have all the fun. Since they wouldn't let him beat their precious golden boy with that chair, they wouldn't mind if he took the Mercedes for a little spin. It seemed like a fair trade; Seth's pretty face still intact and him driving the Mercedes around.

X

In the fairytale books he used to read to his little sister when they were huddled together under the same blanket while their mother was God knows where doing God knows what, the prince or knight or whatever, was always supposed to ride up on a horse to save the princess.

Well, he didn't have a horse and he'd already hot wired Hunter and Stephanie's car. So it's not like he could go out onto the streets and steal a cop's horse. Also, he wasn't Roman, so he didn't know how to whisk the damsel away or any of that romantic shit.

Bringing the tires to a screeching halt in front of the platinum blonde, he rolled down the window and said gruffly, "I hot wired Hunter and Steph's Mercedes, and you're ridin' shotgun."

Lana's pouty lips fall open in shock, but before she can say anything, he leans further out the window, and his face softens ever so slightly, just like the tone of his voice. "Look, I ain't sayin' I know what's goin' down between you and the Big Ugly Russian, okay? But I know signs when I see 'em. And I've seen enough. Sure, you've got a stick shoved so far up your ass, it's a wonder you can breathe and you ain't the nicest person I've ever met, but who gives a fuck? You saved Drago's ass against Cena at Payback. You don't deserve the shit he's pulling. So just get in, okay?"

"And pray tell, Mr. Ambrose, why I would go anywhere with the likes of you? And in a stolen vehicle no less?"

"It's either me or I call Mr. Samoan Superman, and if you think Roman's gonna let what he saw at catering earlier go, you're dumb as hell, and I don't think you are. So hop in already. We're burnin' daylight."

X

Lana couldn't believe she was sitting in the front seat of Hunter Hemsley and Stephanie McMahon's Mercedes with Dean Ambrose of all people. He wasn't anyone she ever paid any mind to. He with his rarely combed, unruly dishwater curls that were always matted to his forehead. His unshaven face and grimy tank tops with ripped up jeans, hooded jackets and scuffed motorcycle boots.

He was something unworthy of her time. Someone who did deserve to be graced with her presence.

Yet he was – aside from Mr. Reigns earlier today at catering – the only one who noticed how she had been changing. How she had let her cool as ice facade falter, ever so slightly. No one else had noticed.

Glancing at him from the corner of her eye, she took in the roundness of his cheek that smoothed perfectly into the hardness of his strong jaw. The broadness of his shoulders stood out under the heavy black leather of his jacket. The strength in his arms – though covered – was obvious as well. There was a slight shiver as she remembered feeling the hard planes of his frame pressed against her when he drove a literal wedge between herself and Rusev.

"Take a picture," An attractive dimple peeks through stubble. "It'll last longer, darlin'."

Darlin'. Darlin'. Darlin'. Darlin'.

Drawled and lazy and it should infuriate her that he cannot bother to pronounce the 'g' at the end of the word. She does not enjoy terms of endearment. They are used to make women weak. To make them fall over themselves and flutter their eyelashes in pathetic displays because some man thought them worthy of a stupid, insipid name.

"That is not my name."

"Take a picture," He repeats, dimple growing more pronounced. "Lana."

And oh... Her heart, it skips, inside of her chest and there's a warmth – yellow and sunny – bursting across her eyes. Still drawled and lazy from a mouth – which is not perfectly formed for kissing, definitely not – that is slanted into a lopsided smirk, she straightens in her seat, ignoring the shiver curling at her spine.

X

"I would not have expected you to show me to my room." Lana shifts awkwardly from one high heeled foot to the other.

"What can I say?" There are those dimples again. "I'm full of surprises, doll face. It's," Leaning in close and she's engulfed in the smell of leather and sandalwood. "Part of my charm."

"Charm?" A bark of laughter that is not haughty as she shakes her head. "Hot wiring your employer's vehicle and kidnapping a woman is what is considered charming in America?"

"It ain't kidnappin' if you went willingly, and if I remember right, Lana," Another shiver rushing through her body. "You went willingly. So let's not get it twisted. But, hey," Low and full of heat, and oh, his every inch – wonderfully muscled – pressed against her own. "If you're into playin' cops and robbers, I'm down. I don't know if you know, but I just recently filmed a movie where I played a cop. I still have," A large hand spanning her entire waist, fingers spreading while the other hand's fingers, slowly move up and down the curve of her neck. "Props from the shoot. Though, to be honest," A soft chuckle as lips touch her neck briefly. "I'm much more into the whole naughty teacher thing, and you've got plenty of suits. You've got the bun down, too. All you need is a pair of glasses and a ruler."

"Mr. Ambrose!"

"Calm your tits." He holds his hands up in defense, trying his best to look innocent, as he backs away.

"Excuse me?" The slow arch of a perfect brow and ruby lips set into a tight frown.

"Relax, darlin'. I ain't lookin' to get in your panties. Well..." A slow smirk blooming across the seam of perfectly formed lips. "At least tonight I'm not. I just wanted to get you out of the arena in one piece. Like I said," Soft with a hint of vulnerability as knuckles graze her cheek. "You don't deserve being yelled at like that. Or having someone in your face and actin' like they're gonna lay hands on you. No woman does. Take care of yourself."

X

Lana expected this; Rusev wanting to make things right, and though, she despised his recent actions, they had been through a lot together and she could not just toss him away. He had a right to tell her how he felt. Just like she had every right to tell him how she felt.

She couldn't help – with him looking at her like that – to reach out and take his hand, to let him fold her into his arms and hold her.

And in an instant, everything fell apart. He looked at her and told her he wanted her to say those three magical words, i was wrong. It was as if she were holding snow inside her hands and she had stood in the sun a fraction too long, and all she was left with was melted ice, streaming through her fingers.

Her whole body went stiff, back arching like a cat ready to raise its claws. Her face changed, from warm and open, to cold and distant, her eyes hardening as she stared into suddenly unfamiliar brown eyes as Rusev ranted wildly about owning her and knowing her place.

"No." Firm and strong, as she stepped back through the ropes. "You're a liar and a quitter. And you're so cowardly, you can't even take responsibility for your own actions. You do not own me. I belong to no one. I am not yours, and I am no longer your victim. So you can take your stupid ways, and I am not going to listen to your cruel, caveman, brutish, thick-headed, moronic mouth AGAIN!"

Stepping back through the ropes, she pushed her way through the curtain to get backstage, when suddenly it felt like she had slammed into a solid, brick wall. Stumbling back, a gloved hand quickly caught her before she could fall. Scathing remarks were ready to be unleashed, when she found herself staring into grey eyes, and she could feel her brows furrowing in confusion.

"Mr. Reigns?"

"That's my Pops. Cool out with that shit. I got a first name, and I'd prefer if you used that. Don't ask me cause I may be Dean's best friend, but I don't understand half the shit that goes on in his head. He had one phone call and he called me, but he wanted me to tell you this, in case Rusev tried to pull any more of his bull shit."

"Mr. Ambrose wanted to relay a message to me? What could he possibly have to say to me?"

"Somethin' important. He wouldn't have made me take this down and repeat it to him eight times, if it wasn't. I don't know what you got goin' on, but other than me, you're the only person on the whole damn roster he actually talks to, so don't get your panties stuck further up your ass about it. Just listen, okay? Maybe the Princess could save herself. That sounds like a pretty good story too."

Lana felt that yellow sunny warmth burst across her eyes, the same kind of feeling she felt the week before when she was sitting in the car with him and he called her 'darlin'.' Though, the words were said in Mr. Reigns' low, rumbling baritone, she could imagine them in Dean's gritty drawl. How his lips – perfectly pink and full – would curl at the edges, not a smile but more than a smirk, and lazily form the words as he peered through the fringe of those unruly dishwater curls.

His steel eyes would glimmer. And he would probably punctuate the last sentence with either darlin' or doll face. Maybe even something knew. Or... a shiver curled along the base of her spine, he would have punctuated the last sentence with her name, emphasizing, the four letters purposefully and giving her a cheeky wink, those attractive dimples appearing in the apples of his rounded cheeks.

"You will stall for him, yes, Mr. Reigns?" The words spill from her ruby red lips before her brain can catch up.

She is not surprised by the arch of the Samoan's brow. Or how his grey eyes narrow suspiciously. "Dean's my boy, it's us against the world, so don't think you can pull the wool over my eyes, lady. If I think you're tryin' anything, I'll shut you down."

She doesn't shrink away. "He helped me more than your little display of machismo at the catering area the other day. I do not have to justify my actions to the likes of you. Boys," Spat like so much bitter. "You may be with, Mr. Ambrose, but you know nothing of our..." Pause, tongue slipping to lick suddenly dry lips. "Relationship," She settles on that word; friendship is too much and anything more than that is more than too much. "So do not presume to understand. Or accuse me of wanting things I do not want. I am not these little American women who flock to him night after night, desperate and panting like dogs in heat. Now," Firm as ice blue eyes stare into hardened grey. "You will stall for him, yes?"

"I told you, Dean's my boy, which means I got his back till the end."

X

"Man, I know it's your birthday and you know I love shuttin' down the bars with you, but fuck..." Everything else dies on Dean's tongue when, instead of Roman's impressive frame, filling the doorway of his hotel room, he finds himself staring into Lana's ice blue eyes.

"The fuck?" He rubs at his eyes and blinks. "Are you wearing jeans? Is this even real? Ow!" He screams, eyes narrowing into slits, as his face twists in momentary pain. "What the fuck?! You just fucking pinched me! What the hell did I do to you?!"

"Is that not American custom to pinch someone when they do not believe what they are seeing?" She's almost innocent, if it wasn't for an underlying gleam in diamond eyes.

"You're lucky you're hot as fuck, darlin', otherwise I wouldn't tolerate that shit. What are you doin here, anyway?" Soft and confused, head cocked to the side. "It's, like, one in the morning. Don't ravishing Russians need their beauty sleep or some other girly shit like that?"

"Maybe the Princess could save herself. That sounds like a pretty good story too." Perfect brows burrowing down. "I am afraid I do not understand the message you had Mr. Reigns relay to me, Mr. Ambrose."

"Dean. For fuck's sake, darlin', call me Dean. Who the hell is Mr. Ambrose? Cause whoever the fuck that is, he sure as hell ain't me."

"Dean..."

"That's better. It's a line from this book..." A low and throaty chuckle, goose bumps rising on her skin. "Don't look so shocked, darlin'. I ain't just a pretty face. Just like I'm not some lunkhead who goes around getting his ass kicked for shits and giggles all the damn time. Remember, I told you I was full of surprises. Anyway," There are knuckles against her cheek, rubbing, and then fingers curling around a strand of blonde hair that falls around her shoulder. "I figured your Big Ugly Russian would try to get ya back, and thought you could use a, I dunno, confidence boost or somethin'. A little reminder that you don't need some white knight whisking you away on a mighty steed and all that fairytale shit."

"You are right." There's a beautiful pink tint to her flawless skin and fuck, red velvet bursts inside his chest, warming him from the inside out. "I do not need a fairytale. I am strong and it is like I told Rusev tonight, he does not own me. I belong to no one."

"Damn straight."

"Your sentiment behind those words, even though they are not your own, is..." A heavy breath leaving ruby lips. "Very wonderful, Mr... I mean, Dean, and though I usually regard sentiment with weakness, I do appreciate them. You are, as you say, full of surprises. What will you commandeer next? An aeroplane, perhaps?"

"After I bash that scumbag Seth Rollins' skull in at Elimination Chamber, I'll steal one of those fancy ass corporate jets Hunter and Steph got layin' around, and then you and me, baby, we're off to some beach somewhere. Pack nothin' but bikinis. And be waitin' at the tarmac for me. You'll know which plane's mine cause I'll have crossed off the WWE logo with a big spray painted DA."

"And what exactly makes you think I would go anywhere with the likes of you? And in a stolen aeroplane? I do not look good in orange, and I do not wish to go to prison as an accessory to your crimes."

"Baby, you know, you'd look good in anything."

Lana doesn't know what exactly is happening, how this man – so different from anything she should want, is supposed to want – is getting under her skin. Is making her heart skip beats and fill her stomach with those butterflies she's always scoffed at as she listens to the other women in the locker room coo and swoon over the men in their lives.

But here she is feeling those very things and in the presence of the last man she ever thought possible.

He is not the white knights fairytales are made of. He is not the dashing prince little girls build their hopes and dreams around. He is... not solid metal, gleaming perfectly, in the light. Or beautifully shining gold. He is something different, something more like... tin foil she decides, as she takes a bold step forward, her body now perfectly aligned with his.

She would never dare tell him, as she bends ever so slightly, capturing those perfectly formed lips of his with her own, that she believes him to be her aluminum foil prince. It is a little girl's sentiment. A childish dream not meant for a woman.

But she clutches to it, the sentiment, as tightly as she clutches broad shoulders when their tongues begin to dance.