After the teased reunion of the Shield tonight on Raw - and the painful reality of realizing it wasn't going to happen - I cranked out a one-shot telling how I think Dean Ambrose felt regarding the situation from start to finish. Ambrose's perspective, target listener being Seth Rollins. Enjoy~
It was stupid to trust you.
From the beginning your motives were questionable, impure. You're a liar. Anyone could attest to this. Bring me to trial and I'll say it under oath, that's how true it it. You broke my heart. You hurt me. You plunged an imaginary knife down, down, deep into my back. Left us behind. Left me behind. Forgot about me, about all we'd been through? What did it mean but not a damn thing. I watched you walk. I've watched you walk away before. I tortured you. I gave you hell. You deserved it. I tried to let you go.
And yet. And yet.
The words that trickled from your lips like the shit you're full of…they stupefied me like that damn spell from Harry Potter. Think it's actually called Stupefy, the Stunning Spell, yeah, for obvious reasons, there. You were mad that someone called you out. You were humiliated that an old wrestler, a true legend, someone I know you secretly respect no matter how much shit you talked straight to his face…told you what you surely already know.
I wanted to protect you.
Not that you're mine to protect. Not anymore.
You couldn't resist. You absolutely could not combat that pull, not after what he said. You don't need protection. You don't need help. If we needed a partner, you were there. You were in.
You were it.
That spell you cast on me had some crazy-ass side effects. Like actually believing you. Like actually having a little thing called hope. Hope for us. Not just us, the team. Us, you and me.
But I knew. I knew.
This wasn't to reunite the Shield. This wasn't because you miss me or Ro as much as I miss you. This was to prove a point. This was complete defiance out of your own insecurities. You had to bite down on the hook, lips dripping blood, just to smile and say you can do anything. You're the man. What man can't pair up with his old buddies, former teammates, erstwhile brothers…for the sake of yet another win? Can't get enough of those, can you? This match wasn't even to defend your title, or claim another. No. This match meant nothing to you. You had a point to prove. This was to defy Triple H, defy Shawn Michaels, prove to the world—and try so goddamn desperately hard to prove to yourself—you can rise above any dispute that you're anything less than you think you are.
I knew. I knew.
Yet I believed. I believed you.
I watched you appear. Music was your cue. You can't move in or out of the ring without it? Proved that tonight. Anyway. Roman was just laughing next to me. He didn't believe you'd even show up. Not once. He didn't waste a single particle of energy in the thought of you stepping up and doing what you said you'd do: be our partner.
Not like me. I lavished many a particle.
I'm not so smug and pompous that I can't admit that. You, though, you'd never admit to something like that. Makes you look pitiable, am I right? All you can admit to feeling is damn good about yourself, even if it's complete shit.
So color me pitiable.
So used to that from you by now.
Or. Thought I was.
You came into the ring. Had a lot to say. I hear it, I get it. You're the man. You're the champion. You bring that belt with you everywhere you go. Think we don't know all you've accomplished since leaving us? It's your life support. You can't carry on without that goddamn title.
Can't lie, can't lie. I was stoked. Blame the adrenaline, the crowd, my own fucking ignorance, but this was good. This was so good. No we weren't reuniting but dammit we were a team, a team in this ring. For now. For once.
For the first time in a long time.
Ever again? Ever again.
The Wyatts showed up. You, incredibly, stood in formation with us. Something tugged at my insides, something I wanted to shoo away but never got around to. Even when Roman and I stood up to the Wyatts, you were there. Took you a second, what I should have taken as a sign. But silly me. Dumb old Ambrose feeling impressed that Rollins had the balls to step up. You looked Erick Rowan dead in his eyes and even insisted you go first in the fight.
Tell me. What kind of "champion" talks like he knows exactly what he's doing, then bails?
You. You.
You backed out of that decision in a snap. Let someone else fight first. Fine. Okay. This is a team thing, after all. I had a turn. The Wyatts were irate. Someone mixed Red Bull with their steroids because they were fucking madmen. And with the Wyatts, that's saying something. Not my proudest moment. Not the shiniest penny of my career. I was getting my ass handed to me. Served up on a golden platter with caviar, the works. Back and forth, from Strowman to Wyatt to Rowan and flipped over to start the process all over again. It hurt. Everything hurt. Arms, legs, back, shoulders, head. Heart. Heart, the most. Fuck my heart, dude. Wish I could have removed it for that match and that match alone. Fight with strength, not with sentiment. Think with your head, not with your heart, isn't that what you said backstage about my Roman just a little while ago?
And yet. And yet.
You were encouraging the crowd, frantically waving your arms, a straight-up Wacky Waving Inflatable Arm-Flailing Tubeman. The Universe, they were going for us. Chanting "this is awesome" even before the match began. Screaming "LET'S GO SHIELD!" Oh, fuck, they called us the Shield. It wasn't just a tagteam match to anyone. Goddammit, we were the Shield. We have been, and we were. We were, in that moment, we were, and I chose to believe it. You were hopping. Maybe not at first. Maybe you had your second thoughts. That would never pass through my head in surprise. The point is you were. Into it. Like a cheerleader who'd downed the same Red Bull the Wyatts charged themselves with before the main event. Jumping for me. Cheering. Screaming, yelling. Did my name pass your lips? Does my hearing tell a lie?
Or are these ears so used to hearing shit that it's all they'll ever buy?
How weak I was. How weary. How useless I felt. How my muscles were failing. Roman was gone. On the floor. Off somewhere. Disappeared. I was alone, alone, alone with you. With you. Alone? Perhaps…not?
You reached your hand out to me.
I saw it through my slit eyelids. Wasn't a dream. Wasn't delirious. Didn't take a hit so hard to the head that I was seeing things. You. Were reaching out to me.
To save me. To protect me. Get out of the ring, brother. Tag me in. I'll take it from here.
I am yours.
It was an effort, sure, a wearying try on my end just to make it from center ring over to you. My one hope. My only chance in the world at survival. Protection. In the moment I gave in. Succumbed to everything I had left. You. You were what I needed, what I wanted, I TRUSTED YOU FOR THE FIRST TIME IN OVER A YEAR, YOU WERE HOME…!
Then.
And then.
What happened? Hard to tell. You started grabbing at your ankle. Didn't even see you hit it on anything. You leaped off the apron. The hand that had been reaching for me suddenly sagged towards the floor. The figure that had been springing like Tigger on the apron was limping away. The brother I had and lost, and had again…was lost again.
I could only blink. What?
What?
No, seriously, what?
Earthquake set off in my mind. Hurricane in my heart. How did I not see it coming? How? How was I not prepared to watch you walk away? I'd done it so many times, watched you walk, that it was routine. Mandatory in your behavior. Anticipated. How? How, how, how, how did I fall for it again?
I watched you walk. Away. Again.
The rest of the match was not in the mind but in the body. I had to use a Kendo stick to protect Roman from unconsciousness, ending the match in a disqualification. Braun Strowman broke the weapon in half. I was delivered mercilessly to all three Wyatts. It hurt. Oh, God in heaven, devil in hell, zombies in their graves waiting for the apocalypse, did it fucking hurt. No, not like that. They couldn't hurt me any worse than you had.
Roman rescued me. He always does. He's always there for me. Leaped from the ropes and collided with the plantation of Wyatt bodies. Hurt Bray Wyatt pretty bad, too, in some one-on-one time in the ring. He was mad. Not mad because you walked away. No, he's not stupid. He never believed once that you'd returned to us for good. Change of heart, my ass, he probably thought. He was mad because I was in trouble. I was hurt. I was in danger. And it was up to him to save me.
He did. He has. He always will.
He's no you.
You, who lied. You, who opened up a key to my place that I forgot I'd lent you years ago, made yourself at home inside, then left the place trashed and expensively-damaged before taking off. No. You didn't even use a key. You knocked, and I let you in. I allowed you to walk into my fucking home sweet home after everything you'd done, then had the audacity to question how you could ever do something like that.
You left me.
You hurt me.
You took away everything I held dear. Twice. Somehow. Somehow.
Except Roman. And you're not getting him. No way in hell.
I'm not letting him go.
I once thought the same thing about you.
Now I have to unlearn what I taught myself again tonight.
I have to let go of something I wasn't even aware I was holding onto, even so, tightly, tightly.
It was stupid to trust you.
Color me fucking dumb.