Disclaimer: I don't own anyone.
Rated: T
Warning(s): Slash, Injured!Randy, H/c, Fluff, Schmoop, Spoilers for RAW 1-20-14, etc.
A half-hour after the conclusion of RAW, John Cena found himself a quarter-mile from his hotel room, itching to do just about anything but deal with Randy Orton.
His rental had gone painfully cold, as he'd cut the engine upon pulling into the secluded parking lot, and he could see his breath as it puffed out in thick plumes of whitish condensation in front of him. All was dark and still around him, the sheer calmness of it borderline unbearable. The blood was still boiling in his veins. He was twisting and turning on the vinyl, trying and failing to make himself comfortable. The final scenes of RAW played over and over in his head.
He'd charged the arena, not even bothering to think up a substantial game plan. Red bled before his vision, and he knew that attempting to think logically was pointless. Before he was able to even fully comprehend what was happening, Randy's head was in his hands. Wham! Into the ring post. Wham! A second time. Wham! Ascending the stairs, into the railing. Wham! Onto the concrete. Dizzy, disoriented eyes started into his own... and then Randy ran.
The memory of the sheer amount of pain and anguish visible in those beautiful, icy blue eyes was enough to turn his anger down to a simmer. He stopped fidgeting. His head a little clearer now, he began to wonder about that car that Randy had jumped into. Who was the driver? Did Randy even know him? Didn't he realize that that was how people got kidnapped, or raped, or killed? He started to fidget again. Surely, Randy would realize...
His heart practically stopped altogether as the visage of those beautiful, dizzy, disoriented eyes returned. Randy was totally out of his head, and John, of all people, should know that all-too-well. He knew what that look meant, that far-off, space-cadet, meet-me-next-century look meant that Randy was brewing one hell of a concussion. And oh shit, oh damn, oh fuck, oh hell - he'd gotten into a car with a complete fucking stranger with a mind scarcely more competent than Spaghetti-Os.
Quickly, John fumbled for his phone. Amazing how one's outlook on a situation could change at the drop of a hat. He frantically dialed Randy's number and waited... waited... it cut to voicemail and John felt his heart plummet in his chest. He knew that his imagination was probably getting the best of him, but fuck, what if it wasn't? What if it had been some psycho behind the wheel, or a deranged fan? And damn if his mind wasn't replaying scenes from Stephen King's Misery...
"Fuck!" John slammed his hand down on the steering wheel, before frantically groping about for the key that was still dangling from the ignition. All vestiges of anger had vacated his system, only to be replaced with heart-wrenching worry for his lover. "Fuck... fuck... fuck... fuck!" The engine roared to life.
Suddenly, all thoughts of his father and his injuries were forcibly relocated to the back of his mind (after all, his father was a trooper - such insignificant battle wounds would scarcely faze him). His foot pressed down on the gas pedal with almost lethal force, the world around him little more than a blur. He was so frantic that he almost missed the entrance to the hotel parking lot. Tires screeched on asphalt. Burning rubber filled the air. And that's when John saw it.
The light was on in their hotel room. "Randy..."
Randy knelt beside the toilet bowl, his chest heaving as he frantically sought to fill his burning lungs with precious (if not a tad foul) air. He'd spent most of his time post-RAW on the bathroom floor, having scarcely found the time to change into loose black sweatpants and a baggy white tank top before the first wave of nausea hit. The room was spinning and the light was damn-near lethal, but Randy couldn't find the energy to turn it off. Thankfully, something else did it for him.
The idea that he should be frightened did not cross his mind until a large hand settled firmly on his shoulder, and an undeniably masculine voice whispered into his ear, "Is that better?"
"Get the fuck off of me!" He shouted - his first mistake. The sound was like a Ping-Pong ball trapped inside of his cranium, increasing in volume every second. Then, he swerved - his second mistake. The sudden movement forced him to revisit foul, acidic bile. All of it left him feeling weaker than before.
"Look, I know that I hurt you earlier..." John rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly, not fully comprehending Randy's initial reaction. "I can't exactly say that I'm sorry, 'cause I'm not. Well, no. I'm sorry that I hurt you so badly. I just... I wanted revenge, but not like this. No... this is cruel. You didn't deserve this."
Randy wiped his mouth with a wad of toilet paper, before flushing it all. Then, he squinted up at the broad-shouldered man behind him, offering a feeble, "John?"
"In the flesh." It was a dry joke, and neither man was laughing. And then, on a more serious note, "I'm not here to pick another fight."
"I should hope that you'd be above picking a fight against someone that can't defend themselves." Randy retorted coldly.
John couldn't help but feel the corners of his mouth dip down into a frown. "What do you call that brawl with my father, then? You're thirty-three, he's twice that. Do you really consider that a fair fight?" Randy didn't answer. John didn't expect him to. "And how is that supposed to make me feel? I can't just pick sides!"
"You know that this storyline they have me in is absolute garbage -," but John cut him off.
With a slow shake of his head, John said, "You can't keep hiding behind everything else, Ran. Sometimes, it really is your fault."
An awkward silence prevailed. John felt very much the bully, hiding behind Randy's attack on his father to confront the fact that, ever since he'd become WWE Champion, he'd been a total ass all-around. It wasn't fair to engage in a mud-slinging contest when Randy was bent over the toilet, heaving his brains out. Yet, at the same time, it wasn't fair to put John in a situation where he had to chose between Randy and his father. He just couldn't pick sides.
When it was clear that neither man intended to break the silence, John sighed, filling up a little Dixie cup with ice-cold water and handing it to Randy. He used it to rinse the vile taste from his mouth, and looked very much relieved afterword. And then, as gently as he could, he took the WWE World Heavyweight Champion into his arms and carried him into the bedroom. Setting him down onto the mattress, he took a seat on the other side. All of the UK could have fit between them.
"Do you know what I hate most about these storylines, John?" Randy suddenly broke the silence with this soft, almost hesitant question.
"Why?" John asked, keeping his gaze intently fixed on the ceiling.
"I wish that I could have them with anyone but you." He confessed softly. "Yeah, they're great for business and all... but disastrous for relationships. Every time we have a storyline together, I can see the damage that it does to us." And then, even softer, "And soon, the damage will be irreparable."
John continued to stare at the ceiling, even as he pondered aloud, "Do you know why I came back to the hotel room tonight?" Randy made a small grunt, encouraging him to continue. "Because I was worried that, in your concussed state, you'd hopped into a car with a rapist."
"You think so highly of me." Randy retorted.
"Yes, I do. But it was more than that." Here, John rolled over. Taking hold of Randy's hands, he gently pressed his forehead to Randy's. He stared into the taller man's spaced-out blue eyes, and once again, felt overcome with guilt for being the cause of that suffering. "You hurt me, my family... but that fear was still there."
Randy met John's eyes, attempting to read the emotions lurking there, and finding himself unable to do so. "Meaning?"
"Storyline or no, foot-in-mouth disorder aside, I'm in this for the long haul... because I can't imagine my life without you."
The declaration was sappy and romantic and cliché - everything that he hated from plot-less soap operas and chick-flick romantic comedies. And somehow, it was exactly what Randy needed to hear. John gently scooped up the taller man and pulled him closer, connecting their mouths in a chaste kiss that was brimming with aching emotion and poorly-contained passion. When they broke apart, Randy dropped his head on John's broad chest and closed his eyes.
"I really am sorry about what I did to your father." Randy said.
"Yeah, I know." John gently stroked his head, trying not to aggravate any of Randy's injuries. "And tomorrow, we'll be going to the hospital so that you can say it to his face." And then, noticing a poorly concealed wince, "And if you're not feeling any better, we'll get you checked out too."
"Sounds like a plan." Randy whispered, closing his eyes. Within seconds, he was out cold... and John followed soon after.
A/N: Just to put the disclaimer out there, Randy Orton does not actually have a concussion. This is merely a product of creative liberty.
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