DISCLAIMER: Dean Ambrose / Jon Moxley and Roman Reigns do not belong to me. They are the property of the WWE and/or the actors/sports entertainers/professional wrestlers that play them. The various other characters you will find in this story are products of my own imagination and any resemblance to anyone living or dead is purely coincidental.

TRIGGER WARNING: This is not a happy fun-time story, and it gets worse the further in we get. If you are the type that prefers happy, lighter stories, you should stop reading this now. While I love having as many readers as possible, I don't want to upset anyone more than they can handle. That isn't my intent when I write.

Rain Dance

1:00 am.

"You got the money?"

The man leaned against the wall and took a long drag of his cigarette as he studied the person standing in front of him. Kid, he thought. He's barely 18 or 19. Thinks he's tough, but he's wet behind the ears. "I got the money, you got the merchandise?"

The kid nodded. He looked around nervously and once he was assured that they truly were alone in this dark alley, he pulled something out of an inside coat pocket and showed it to the man.

The man studied the item, but didn't touch it. Then, he reached into the pocket of his jeans and pulled out a wad of money. He peeled some bills from the outside and handed it to the kid. The kid handed him the item. A reversal situation happened as the kid put the money in the pocket of his jeans, while the man put the newly purchased item in his inner coat pocket.

"Pleasure doing business with you," the kid said, smirking. The only light came from a streetlight at the edge of the ally, and the moon overhead, but the kid paused and shook his head. "Man, you look familiar. Do I know you from someplace?"

The man rolled the filter of the cigarette between his thumb and forefinger and in a deft motion, flicked it out of his hands and into a dirty puddle of water, where it hissed and went out instantly. Then, he turned and walked away, not saying another word to the kid.

1:12 am.

It was a small shop, a combination coffee shop and bakery, and it was open all night. The man stepped inside, appreciating the warmth, a shield against the cold night air, and the rich smells of cinnamon and coffee that wafted about the place. It had been a long time since he'd been out and free. Sure, there were smells where he'd been, but they were always faint, more the memories of scents rather than actual scents. This was no memory, these scents were alive, real, and so strong you almost tasted them as well as smelled them.

The place was void of other customers and the only other people in there were the baker and his assistant, who were obviously doubling as clerks. The man walked up to the counter. The baker, a heavy set man in his late '40s smiled at him. "Can I help you?"

"Don," the man said, reading his name from the name tag he wore, "If you were going to go and have coffee with a friend at this hour of the night, what would you bring them to go with said coffee?"

"That would depend," Don said, stroking his chin thoughtfully. The assistant, a woman who barely looked to be in her '20s, was bouncing from one foot to another, not nervously, but as if she was being forced to wait to do something she really wanted to do. "Is this person awake and waiting for you?"

"No," the man said, a sly grin pulling at the corners of his mouth. "He is sound asleep and has no idea I'm coming. But he'll wake up to talk to me, I know he will. So, I would like to reward him for his loyalty." He looked over at the assistant, who was still bouncing lightly on her toes. Her name tag read, 'Fifi,' which he found amusing. The first Fifi I ever met who wasn't a poodle. She didn't look like a poodle though, she looked more like one of those long, lean, Afghan hounds.

The man behind the counter continue to stroke his chin, giving this idea grave consideration. Which was making Fifi a little crazy. "Does your friend try to eat healthy?"

"Yes," the man said. "Very healthy. But I don't think that's going to be all that important to him tonight."

Hmm," the baker said, still thinking about this carefully, which the man appreciated. These days it was hard to find someone who cared so deeply about their craft. The man knew that Mr. Baker here really wanted to make sure he, the customer, made the right choice, because it would be a reflection on his skills as both a baker and a salesman. Pride in the simpler things was becoming a valuable commodity in an age where just about anything could be bought frozen then reheated and labeled "Home made." The man doubted that anything frozen had ever come in the door of this place, never mind been used in creating any of the delicacies that were sitting in the display cases.

The assistant, however, was getting too impatient. In a faintly jittery voice, due to the bouncing on her feet, Fifi said to Don-the-baker, "Can you show me how to bake another bun, Don? We made the chocolate ones, I want to learn another type before the morning rush starts."

"As soon as this customer is set," Don said, smiling kindly at Fifi, clearly pleased with her enthusiasm, if not her impatient interrupting. "Why don't you go in back and see if the cinnamon buns are done? You can take them out and put them to cool." He turned his attention back to the man. "Whole wheat oatmeal raisin muffins, if you wish to cater to your friend's desire to eat healthy. The cinnamon-pecan buns if you don't." He pointed to each item in the case.

The man looked from one pastry to the other. "I'll take two of the cinnamon-pecan rolls," he decided. "And two large coffees, regular on both. The Kona blend."

"You have excellent taste," Don remarked as he carefully extracted two of the huge, sticky pastries from the tray and put them into a wax paper bag. Fifi, who had not listened to her boss and gone in the back, decided that if she wasn't going to do as requested, she would at least be helpful, began making up the coffee.

Don rang up the order, while Fifi finished making the coffee and putting it into one of those cardboard trays with the individual compartments for each cup. When Don gave him the total, the man pulled the wad of money, the same one he had used when buying the item from the kid, and peeled a fifty from it. Don handed him his change, a twenty, a ten, and two silver coins. There was a jar by the register marked, "Tips." When Don turned away to see how the coffee was coming, the man tossed it all into the jar. He took the tray with the two coffees diagonal and the bag of pastries between them. "Thanks," he said, as he turned and walked out the door.

1:28 am.

There was a tiny park the man cut through to get to his final destination. While most parks were not the safest places to be in the middle of the night, this park was well lit and the man wasn't afraid of much. People didn't mess with him, well, smart people didn't. As he walked along the path, he saw a man and a young boy with a telescope, observing the night sky. The man couldn't help but smile at the scene. They were probably father and son, and this was probably a rare night time treat for the boy being allowed to stay up this late to look at the stars with his father.

Although they were in the edges of the park, far away from the lighted path, as he walked by, the man could still hear the boy asking, "Can your telescope tell me where the sun's gone?"

The man chuckled. "No. The sun isn't gone, Christopher, it's just that right now, in this part of the world, the earth is away from the sun. It will continue turning until morning, when we'll start seeing the sun again."

"Can we look at the sun in the morning with the telescope?" Christopher asked.

By this point, the man was too far away to hear the father's reply, but he was pretty sure the answer was no. The man wasn't a scientist, in fact, no one would ever accuse him of being a scholar of any type, but even he knew you didn't stare into the sun. But, he liked the boy and his father talking like this, there was a complete rightness to the scene, like everything was going the way it should tonight. He was able to get what he needed, the baker and his assistant were happy producing pastry, a boy and his father were looking at stars, having one of those father and son experiences that were supposed to stay with you forever.

It was one hell of a night, and it was only going to get better. It had been so long since he'd been allowed to be out, fully out, and about, but here it was, he was out, he was in charge and he was taking over.

1:40 am.

The man walked down the thick pile carpeted halls, This was a nice place, a really nice place. A lot better than the places they used to stay at, back in the days when they were all trying to make it. Those places had industrial strength carpet that always felt slightly sticky, as if through the years, soda had been spilled on every inch of it. And, even though carpet was supposed to muffle footfalls, in those cheaper places, you still heard hallways vibrate as people walked up and down them to the point where you might as well have just left the door open. But not this place, this place the carpet was so plush you could almost lose your shoes in it. And there was a thick padding underneath it to further muffled the noise.

Yep, the man thought, as he walked down these halls, catching his reflection in the mirrors that lined the hallways. I've come a long way from the beginning. We all have. Life is good. What's that song I keep hearing in elevators and everywhere else sappy music is played? Good life? It's gonna be a good life? Yeah, I think that's it. That should be my theme song from here until the end.

He passed the door of the room he was using and went to the one next door. We're neighbors, he thought, chuckling. They used to be roommates, now we're all important enough that we're just neighbors. If we had a few years, we'd end up barely knowing each other. The better life gets, the less we have to deal with anyone. Shifting the tray with the coffees and pastry to one hand, he used the other to knock on the door. "C'mon, buddy, c'mon," he called out. "Get up and answer the door,"

When a few seconds passed without a response, he knocked louder, when that didn't work, he knocked even louder. When even that failed to get results within ten seconds, he started kicking at the door.

A few seconds of pounding and kicking, and the man paused to listen. The doors were pretty thick, so it was hard to be sure, but he thought he could hear someone moving around in the room, stumbling as they tried to get their bearings after being deeply asleep. Just to make sure they didn't go back to bed, he kicked and pounded the door again. "Wake up, wake up, WAKE UP!" he was almost screaming by the time the tall dark haired man opened the door. "'Bout time," he said, softer now, as he pushed his way past the man into the room. "Wakey Wakey, eggs and bakey!" Since this was not a cheap motel room, there was a small kitchen area off to the side with a table and chairs. The man walked over and put the coffee and pastries on the table. "Well, not eggs and bakey, I don't have that. But I do have coffee and cinnamon-pecan rolls."

Roman rubbed his eyes, trying to think through the sleep fog. Mentally, he was still in that warm, comfortable bed he had just left to find out what the banging was about, and now to find out what the lunatic wanted. He was wearing nothing but a pair of boxers, and while he was under the covers, that was fine, but now that he was up, the room was pretty chilly. He had a really busy schedule the next day, no make it later today, and he just wanted to get some sleep. The last thing he wanted or needed was coffee and a sugar fix. "Dean," he began. "C'mon..."

The man ignored him, but instead started opening up the cupboards in the kitchen area until he found the few plates the hotel had for their guests. He took two of them and brought them over to the table. Carefully, he pulled the cinnamon rolls from the bag, and placed one on each plate. He put one plate on one side of the table, and the other across from it. "C'mon Romy," he said, "Dig in."

"Dean," Roman said again, hoping to nip this in the bud so he could go back to sleep, "It's-"

The man looked up at him. "Dean's not here," he said, sitting down at the table. "Sit down and drink your coffee."

Roman's brow furrowed. "Say what?"

"You heard me," the man said. "Dean isn't here. Dean is sleeping. I got tired of Dean, just like everyone else did. Dean pretends to be crazy, I don't pretend shit." He motioned to the chair across the table. "Sit down and drink your coffee, Roman, don't make me tell you again."

Roman stared at the man. "Okay then," he said slowly, "So you're not Dean. Who are you, then?"

The man grinned and Roman noted it was a grin he had never seen Dean make before. It was colder, meaner, and didn't reach his eyes. "Jon Moxley. Now that we have the introductions over with, get your ass over here, sit down and drink your motherfucking coffee."

There was something in his voice that made Roman nervous, but he shrugged it off, thinking this had to be some type of weird joke Dean was playing, for reasons that were only clear to him. "Okay, uh, Jon," he began, stressing the name. "It's great to meet you, but I have a really busy day later and I have to get some sleep."

"Nope," Jon said. "Nothing is happening tomorrow. There's been a change of plans and your schedule is now as clear as a bottle of filtered water. We have all night to talk."

"Riiiight," Roman rolled his eyes. "I supposed the Powers that Be called you and said, 'Dean-'"

"-Jon," Jon interrupted, his eyes narrowing.

"No, they don't know you're Jon yet, so they would have called you Dean," Roman said, glaring at him. If this was some joke Dean was playing, it wasn't funny. Roman had been the victim of a lot of Dean's joke in the time he had known him, and he could roll with the best of them, but this was taking things a little too far. If Dean had a problem, he would be there for him, but this just seemed like Dean was bored, unable to sleep, and decided to mess with him for a little amusement. Enough was enough. "So the powers that be said, 'Dean, you want to talk to Roman all night? Go for it. We'll just cancel that radio interview, we'll cancel that visit to the Children's Hospital, and everything else, just so he can shoot the breeze with you, Ambrose."

"Something like that," Jon agreed. "Now, get over here, sit down, and drink your coffee."

"Dean-"

"-Jon," Jon snapped.

"Fine!" Roman almost shouted the word. "Jon then, okay Jon, joke is over, Jon, I need some sleep, Jon, so take your coffee and your danish and get the heck out of my room, Jon."

Jon rose from the table and walked over to where Roman was standing. "Interesting. Somehow you got the impression that drinking this coffee and having conversation I'm looking for is optional on your part."

"It is," Roman said firmly.

That was when Jon decided to show Roman the purchase he had made earlier that night. Reaching into the inner pocket of his jacket, he pulled out the Smith and Wesson 9mm. and pointed it at Roman's head. "No, it isn't," He hissed, leaning so close to Roman's ear that he could feel his breath on his neck. "Now, sit down and drink your motherfucking coffee, and eat your motherfucking pastry, okay?"

End of Pt I

Author's Notes: Yeah, this one is creepy. And it will get creepier. When it's finished, I'll have some author's notes to explain how this little tale came to be. This fic is the results of a challenge that was put in front of me, a challenge Betagirl gave me, because I've been blocked lately.

Reviews are welcome. Seriously, I love to know who's reading my stuff and what they think of it, even if it's not always favorable. And if you do leave a review, you'll get a shiny thank you note in your in box, or, if you give an anon review, I'll thank you on the author's notes for the next chapter. Why? Because that's just the kind of author I am. I like to make sure my readers that take the time to review know how much I appreciate them.

And yes, I am working on the sequel to Chasing the Moonlight. I don't know why, but it's harder going than I thought it would be. I'm hoping that this little trip to the dark side will leave me longing to write something happier and warmer instead.

Well, until next time, thanks for reading!

Willow