see your world in traces

by spibsy

An FCW-era fic which covers from Seth and Dean's twenty-minute match for the FCW 15 championship all the way until the night before Survivor Series 2012. Sometimes, when you compete against somebody, you come to appreciate their skill. And sometimes, you even come to like them. This is how Seth and Dean learn to like each other.

1. close my eyes again

Seth really, really hates Dean Ambrose.

Being a wrestler, you get used to disliking people. Everybody's competing to be the best; you don't get into this industry without the intention of becoming a champion, and when everybody's vying for the same prize, everybody's butting heads. The guy who has the title is always the guy you want to beat, and when you are the guy who has the title, a lot of people want to beat you, and some of them are willing to cheat to do it.

So, yeah, Seth dislikes a lot of people in the FCW locker room. But he hates Dean Ambrose.

Dean Ambrose, who goes out there every week and tells the world that Seth Rollins is a joke, that he's a false champion, that he doesn't deserve to have what he does. Seth has worked his ass off to be where he is, and Dean fucking Ambrose has the nerve to show up and say that he's better?

It's been two weeks since he first got into the ring with Ambrose. Two weeks and no pins, no submissions, no falls at all. Two weeks and Dean Ambrose still hasn't beat him, but Seth hasn't beat Ambrose, either.

He'd heard that Ambrose was coming to FCW and, like any performer, had looked up old matches. Ambrose specializes in the kinds of matches that any sane competitor would avoid like the plague: dog collar matches, barbed wire matches, thumbtack matches. Ambrose seems to be in his element then, but the FCW 15 match doesn't have any of those things. It's just wrestling. And Ambrose is like no other wrestler Seth's ever scouted.

He's completely unpredictable. He doesn't wrestle like a human being wrestles. Seth's wrestled some amazing wrestlers in his time, but they all have a style, a method, a fluidity. Dean Ambrose doesn't have any of those things. He's jerky and his style is to have no style; he's methodical but it's not kind of method that Seth could use against him.

The man's laughed in Seth's face when he's punched him. He's taken Seth's finishing moves and kicked out of them. He's brought Seth to his absolute limits and Seth just can't. Fucking. Beat him. Fifteen minute matches. Twenty minute matches. It's unprecedented for there to be no falls at the end of an FCW 15 match. And yet they've had two matches, and neither of them's been able to beat the other.

Ordinarily, keeping his title would be enough. He's still the champion, he still has that, he hasn't lost it. But he can't help but feel that it's not winning if there are no falls. It's like keeping the title on a fluke, as though he keeps getting himself disqualified. It makes him feel dirty. He won this legitimately, because he's good at what he does, and somehow Ambrose is making a fool of him without even pinning him.

The first time was bad enough. Fifteen minutes with no falls makes for an amazing match with a shitty, nonsense ending. It's the Grease of matches, and Seth and Ambrose are sailing away in the flying car.

But now they've gone two weeks. Two weeks and no falls. Thirty-five minutes of wrestling and not one single pin. It doesn't make any sense. Seth's better than Ambrose. He's better than him, no matter what Ambrose spews on that microphone. Seth can beat him, so why hasn't he?

He's lucky nobody's come into his locker room to offer condolences, or, worse, congratulations. He couldn't handle congratulations. He doesn't deserve them, hasn't done anything, hasn't won anything. It was a good match. He knows that. But if there's no winner, it might as well have not happened at all.

And as though somebody could hear his thoughts, there's a knock on his door, five quick taps with someone's knuckles. Seth sighs. He's so incredibly not in the mood. He just hopes it's not someone from management because then he'll have to play nice. He doesn't feel like playing nice. He feels like punching somebody until they're unconscious and then pinning them, just to prove that he can still beat someone.

He'll just have to tell whoever's at the door to leave, and they'll have to deal with it. And if it gets him into a fight, well, good.

When he opens the door, Dean Ambrose is leaning against the door frame, not a care in the world, and Seth blinks, sure he has to be seeing things.

Ambrose grins at him. "Hey, sweetie, miss me?" he asks. Okay, so Seth isn't seeing things. No hallucination of his could be as annoying as the real thing. Somehow, the man knows all of Seth's buttons and he's pushed every one of them.

"What the hell are you doing here?" Seth asks, his teeth gnashing together. His fists clench without him really thinking about it, just at the sight of Ambrose's stupid smug face.

Ambrose shoves past him, hip-checking him out of the way and giving Seth's locker room a onceover like he belongs there. "Yours is nicer than mine," he comments, folding his arms across his chest. "I'm gonna file a complaint."

He's chewing gum. Doesn't give a shit about anything. Seth wants to make him bleed. He's never felt this intensely about anything, he doesn't think. He's never wanted to smash someone's face in more than he wants to smash Dean Ambrose's face in.

He looks back over his shoulder at Seth, raising his eyebrows. "You're pretty quiet. I was expecting more."

Seth slaps him across the face.

He was going for a punch but opens his hand at the last second, and the smack of his hand hitting Ambrose's cheek is incredibly satisfying until he hears it: another laugh, quiet and choked, a cut off hiccup of laughter. The spot Seth hit him is already going pink, and Ambrose is still just laughing.

He sees red. One moment he's standing up and the next, Ambrose is on the ground and Seth is on top of him and he's still in his wrestling gear and Ambrose is in jeans and a t-shirt and the contrast of it is harsh and rough and he's pretty sure Ambrose is still laughing even as Seth hits him and then Seth is the one on his back and Ambrose is the one hitting him and then it's Seth on top again and over, and over, and over, back and forth, neither of them winning. Just like the matches. Ambrose can't beat him, but he can't beat Ambrose.

Seth's breathing hard when he realizes that he's the one on his back now, and Ambrose is pinning him down with his hips and a hard forearm across his throat.

"Gotta say," Ambrose comments, breathing just as hard as Seth is, "I didn't expect that to be the thing that set you off. You've gotta work on your temper, kid."

Kid. At most, Ambrose is a year or two older than Seth and he doesn't even know that for sure. He's got no business calling Seth a kid, not when Seth's been doing this just as long as he has and Seth is just as good as he is.

"Get off me," Seth chokes out, trying to twist his legs out from underneath Ambrose, but all he ends up doing is shoving his hips up against Ambrose's, and Ambrose is hard, and Seth is hard, and Ambrose is still on top of him.

Ambrose laughs again, that boyish, freaky giggling, but he does get his arm off Seth's throat, and that's all the leverage Seth needs to catch him off balance and flip him over. Ambrose doesn't seem bothered, and that makes Seth angrier than anything else.

"What're you gonna do, Seth?" Ambrose asks. Seth's thighs are bracketing his, and even though Seth knows that this happens all the time, and it's part of the adrenaline rush, he can't help but feel like it's different when they're like this, when they're not in the ring. They're fighting but they're not wrestling and Seth's still hard and all he can think to do is kiss Ambrose in the hope that it'll surprise him so much that he never says anything ever again.

Ambrose, instead, just surges up against Seth. His lips are chapped. His hands are sliding up Seth's back, and one fists in his hair, using it to tilt Seth's head so that he can kiss him at a different angle. He doesn't seem phased at all, only kisses Seth back twice as hard as Seth's kissed him. His mouth is hot and wet and demanding, and even if Seth wanted to stop kissing him, he doesn't know if he'd be able to.

He's kissing Dean Ambrose on the floor of his locker room. He can't pin him, or make him submit, but apparently he can make out with him just fine.

Ambrose uses the hand in Seth's hair to yank his head back and it stings, and then Ambrose's mouth is on his neck, biting and sucking and kissing, drawing noises from Seth that he doesn't want to be making. He doesn't want Ambrose to know he likes it. He wants to make Ambrose beg, wants to be better than him at this even if he can't prove he's better than him at anything else.

When Ambrose shifts, propping himself up on his elbows so that he can get closer, Seth gets an arm around his back and pulls, shoving Ambrose up into a sitting position. This way, Seth's taller, and he can get a better angle when he pushes Ambrose's face back up to kiss him again.

He's not sure, but he thinks the muffled sounds Ambrose is making are more laughter, and Seth wants to make him forget how to laugh at all. He gets a hand on the back of Ambrose's shirt and pulls it over his head, then kisses him again before he can react, more comfortable now that there's at least skin touching skin.

Ambrose makes a sound when Seth bites his bottom lip. It's not a laugh. It's not anything even close to a laugh. It's an aborted moan, twisting off at the end into a whimper, and Seth bites him again because it's one of the best noises he's ever heard. It echoes in his head like the sound of the bell when he's just won a hard-fought match.

"Like that?" he says. It's the first thing either of them have said since Seth kissed Ambrose, and it comes out harsh and mocking.

Ambrose grins at him, toothy and pink-mouthed, his hair a mess, a flush creeping down past his collarbones, and says, "You have no idea what I like, pal."

Seth has no idea about anything anymore, to be fair, but he knows that Ambrose likes biting. He knows more about Dean Ambrose than he did an hour ago, and he can build on that.

He does what Ambrose did to him, fisting a hand in his hair and jerking backward until he can get at Ambrose's neck. He bites him hard, wanting Ambrose to have to remember this when he looks in the mirror, remember that Seth can get one up on him just as well as Ambrose can. He wants to leave a mark on Ambrose. He wants to force Ambrose to think of him when he doesn't want to, wants to brand himself into Ambrose's brain until he's there forever.

While he's doing that, Ambrose's fingers play at the waist of Seth's trunks, and then dip inside, his hand curling around his cock in a hot, firm grip. It makes Seth jerk back, a protest on his lips that Ambrose must have been anticipating because he kisses him hard before he can get it out.

"I could try to get you off without touchin' your dick if you want," Ambrose drawls in that voice that makes Seth want to hit him again. "Could be kinda fun, but it'd take a while."

"Shut up, Ambrose," Seth mutters, getting his mouth back on Ambrose's neck. He's inherently markable, not even any tattoos, and Seth wants to bruise him more than he's wanted to bruise anybody else and it's for entirely different reasons. He likes the way that it makes Ambrose shudder, just a little, and the sounds that Ambrose tries to suppress but can't quite. It makes Seth feel powerful. Like he's beating Ambrose at his own game.

"You could probably call me Dean," mumbles Ambrose, tilting his head to let Seth do what he wants. That sends a thrill down his spine, too. "Considering I'm giving you a handjob."

To punctuate his words, the hand in Seth's trunks strokes up and then down in one smooth movement, and Seth's mouth falls slack on Ambrose's skin.

"Like that?" Ambrose asks in a direct mimic of what Seth had asked him, mocking him, and Seth bites him again.

"You have no idea what I like," Seth grinds out, his mouth hot and leaving kisses between words, "pal."

He feels like he's on fire, or maybe the world is. Ambrose somehow knows exactly how he likes it, a rough twist of his wrist on the end of every upstroke, and he's leaning up against Seth's mouth. Eager. Seth kisses him again and his mouth tastes like laughter and spearmint.

The hand that's not in Seth's trunks is on his thigh, blunt nails digging in just like Seth's seen him do in old matches, just like he's had done to him. He'd had red stripes down his back for two days, and one of his friends had asked if he'd had a good night with some girl. Seth told him he just had a match with a psychopath.

He wonders if Ambrose in bed is anything like Ambrose in the ring, then immediately shuts down that thought. He doesn't care and he's not going to find out. He's not sure what this is, but he does know that this is the only fucking time it's happening. He can call it a lapse in judgment when he wakes up tomorrow morning.

Ambrose huffs a laugh, breathless, and moves in a full-body roll of his hips, his mouth slanting across Seth's. "Figures," he mutters, his lips damp, his words swallowed by Seth's mouth, "shoulda known you'd be an uptight little thing even when you're gettin' your rocks off."

He laughs again then, and this one makes a shudder roll down Seth's spine, because it's more than a little unhinged. "I'm gonna like takin' you apart," Ambrose says, conversational, like he's asking about the weather. "Bet I could make you scream."

"Shut up," Seth growls. He wishes he knew where the off-switch for Ambrose's mouth was, or that he had some duct tape, or something. "Shut yourmouth."

"I've got a good mouth." Ambrose does, and that's the most infuriating thing, is that he talks a big game and he does it well, and right now his mouth is pink and shiny, and Seth wants to fuck it. Fuck it or gag it.

Seth wants to get up and shove Ambrose away from him, out of his locker room, out of his life. Instead, he grits his teeth, and Ambrose grins toothily at him while he undoes the button on his jeans. His other hand hasn't faltered on Seth's cock, and it's shooting sparks into his brain, which might have something to do with his general inability to tell him to shove it.

He hisses when Ambrose adjusts his grip, his hand now wrapping around Seth's dick and his own, sliding them together with slippery friction that feels so good Seth's not sure if this can actually be happening. It's not like he never gets laid, but he doesn't generally have this sense of rage at the back of his mind during it, and it's heightening all of his emotions. He feels so angry he could die and so turned on he could die and so frustrated he could die.

"I bet you've never even been fucked," Ambrose says out of nowhere, his hand tight enough around their dicks that it's almost painful but Seth's hips are still rocking forward into the touch. "Bet you've thought about it, though. Bet you've wondered what it's like."

Seth is nearly vibrating. He wants Ambrose to shut his mouth forever, wants to shut it for him, wants to punch him. Wants wants wants—he doesn't know what he wants. How's he supposed to think at a time like this? He's never – and he doesn't – but – but then – no, it's just Ambrose and his mind games again.

"Shut up." He tries his best to make his voice strong, but it comes out more croaky than he'd like. He should've known better. Showing any hint of a weakness in front of a man like Dean Ambrose is a mistake.

Ambrose grins at him, like a shark smelling blood. "Bet you'd let me fuck you," he pushes. "Bet you would. Bet you'd open up real nice for me, Seth. Bet you'd fuckin' love it."

Seth can't hear anymore, and he thinks he might've bitten off his own tongue. Ambrose laughs again and kisses him, and his tongue's still there because Ambrose's is stroking over it, his free hand sliding up over Seth's thigh and past his hip to the back of his trunks. He doesn't go any farther but the implication is clear.

He bites Ambrose's lip again. And then he comes, between them, making a mess of everything, and Ambrose doesn't stop. He just uses the slick of Seth's come to ease his own way, until he adds to the mess with a tremulous sigh against Seth's mouth.

Seth feels boneless. His limbs aren't quite working like they should, tingling and uncoordinated, and for a moment before he remembers himself, he drops his head to Ambrose's shoulder and breathes in. Ambrose smells like sweat and cheap cologne and something vaguely fruity.

And then Seth realizes what he's doing and jerks his head back, but not before he notices that Ambrose's hand was, tentatively, sliding up his back.

"Get what you came for?" Seth asks, pushing himself back off Ambrose's lap and tucking back into his trunks. He's sticky and uncomfortable now, prickly in more ways than one.

In contrast, Ambrose's movements are smooth, almost languid, as he refastens his jeans. He's smiling but it's a weird one, not one Seth's seen before.

"I just wanted to fuck with your head," he says, rolling to his feet. "I didn't think you'd go into heat."

"Fuck off," Seth mutters. Even though it's what he wrestles in, and the whole world (or at least the world that watches FCW) sees him in it on a weekly basis, he all of a sudden wishes he wore longer trunks. Maybe a singlet. Or something with pants. He can see smears of come on his stomach and he's not sure if it's his own or Ambrose's.

Out of the corner of his eye, Ambrose sketches out a mocking bow. "Your wish is my command, princess," he says, ambling toward the door. He pauses there, his hand on the knob. "You know they're gonna put us in another match next week, right?"

"They'll put us in matches until one of us wins." And the other one loses. Seth hopes it's obvious from his glare that Ambrose is going to be the one losing.

Ambrose smiles, breezy and confident. "I'm gonna get the first fall next week, I think."

Seth immediately commits to getting the first fall. And the second, just to rub it in. "Is that so."

Another one of those crazy little laughs, and Ambrose turns the handle. "Yep. See you next week, sweetie. Try not to miss me too much."

He blows Seth a kiss, and Seth grabs the first thing he can reach, which happens to be his wrist tape, and pegs it at the door, but Ambrose is already gone.

Seth doesn't know what he's expecting the next time he steps into the ring for a match with Ambrose. He doesn't know what he's expecting any time he steps into the ring with Ambrose, nobody does, but he doesn't think it's part of Ambrose's ring psychology to jerk off his opponents, though if his goal was to get into Seth's head, he's fucking done that. It's been a week and Seth can't stop thinking about it, what it meant, what it means, how the match is going to go.

Standing across the ring from Ambrose, everything else fades into the background. He knows wrestling, and that's what he has to do. His mind is clear.

Ambrose gives him this little smile, a smirky, smug smile, and Seth's confusion all settles into one feeling. He wants to slap the taste out of Ambrose's mouth. From then on, it's wrestling; nothing more, nothing less.

Seth has to give credit where it's due: Ambrose can keep up with him. He matches Seth at every turn, grapples and flips and pin attempts. He predicts Seth's move-set, and always manages to be one step ahead of him, but Seth's one step ahead of him, too. This is why they've had three matches and no falls so far; somehow, despite never wrestling before, they know each other too well.

He's just getting used to the pace of it, the tide turning ever so slightly his way, and then off a backflip Ambrose takes a deliberate step forward and kicks Seth right in the balls.

Everything's a haze of pain for a few minutes after that, and the next time Seth's fully aware of what's happening, Ambrose is up two falls to one. The first fall between them, the first fall after almost a fucking hour total of wrestling was a goddamn low blow because Dean Ambrose is a lunatic, and now Seth's down a fall.

Oh, for a person with no moral compass, it's a genius move. Sacrifice a fall in order to gain two. But it's an asshole move from an asshole person and Seth was determined to beat him before but now he's pissed off. He's going to beat Dean Ambrose here tonight or he's going to die trying.

The rest of the match is kind of a blur. The only thing Seth's paying attention to other than his blows landing is Cameron's voice whenever a fall is called, and then, at the end of the match, when all that time still wasn't enough, he gets a lifeline. Sudden death. Overtime.

He can work with overtime.

Seth finds an opening. It takes two Avada Kedavras but Ambrose finally stays down, and Seth wins, he beat Dean Ambrose, he did it, he retained his championship because he is better, he's better than Ambrose and now he has proof.

He lets himself celebrate the moment as the show ends, riding the high of victory all the way into the back, all the way into his locker room, where he can sit down and stare at the medal and try to stop shaking. He's better. He proved it tonight: he's better than Ambrose.

Seth has to breathe carefully in and out until the world stops spinning, the adrenaline making the walls tilt and the door look like it's moving.

Oh, or the door is actually moving. Opening. Seth's not even really surprised when it's Ambrose, still in his ring gear, sweaty and holding his head and not as good as Seth.

Ambrose is kind of glaring but he's also kind of smiling, which is a combination of expressions Seth wouldn't have previously thought possible. He doesn't know what Ambrose is going to say but it doesn't matter, anyway, because Seth beat him.

The door closes behind Ambrose. "Told you I'd get the first fall," he mutters, smug as ever even while he's rubbing his head.

"And who got the last fall, shithead?" Seth replies, pulling the medal down around his neck. Of course, Ambrose just smiles at him, barely even glaring anymore. "And mine was an actual pinfall, as opposed to your cheap shot."

Ambrose tilts his head, squinting at Seth. "You seem upset," he states, ambling toward Seth and plopping down on one of the other chairs in the room like he's been invited. "I'm sorry, did it hurt? It's a fuckin' wrestling match, dude."

"That's not wrestling. Considering it's against the rules, it's kind of the opposite of wrestling," Seth shoots back.

Ambrose isn't smiling anymore. He's frowning a little, actually, mirroring Seth's body language and leaning forward. "Are you actually pissed off about that?" he asks. "I told you I was gonna get the first fall. So it was a nutshot. I could've choked you out, too, or hit you with somethin'. I told you," he repeats, like that makes a difference.

"Or you could've gotten the fall legitimately?" Seth suggests, in disbelief that Ambrose thinks that his problem is with the method of disqualification.

Ambrose sighs heavily and folds his arms like Seth's the one invading his space, wasting his time. "I can't go back and undo it, can I? So you might as well stop sulking. What, do you want me to kiss it better?"

God fucking damn it all, Seth hesitates for just a second, a second too long when you're dealing with Ambrose, who seizes that second and devours it whole, his face gleeful, delighted.

"You do," he says, grinning at Seth. "Well, all you had to do was say so, Seth. I'll give you what you want, all you gotta do is ask for it."

He drops fluidly to his knees, remnants of that grin visible in the faint dimple in his cheek, and he mouths over Seth's cock through his trunks.

Seth wants to have the willpower to tell him to fuck off, because his dick's still throbbing faintly from the low blow, and because this guy's the one who did that to him, and this is the guy who plays mind games with him, who wants his championship. He wants to be able to knee him in the chin.

But the wisps of adrenaline are still coursing through his veins, and even if it's not in the ring, he has Dean Ambrose on his knees. That feels good. He can blame it on the adrenaline, on the rush of power, when he threads his fingers into Ambrose's hair and holds him where he is.

"Not going anywhere," Ambrose mumbles. His tongue swipes out over his lips, and he tugs down the waist of Seth's trunks enough to press his lips to the dusting of hair at the base of Seth's cock. It doesn't look like a position he's unfamiliar with. Seth wonders how many other opponents Ambrose has played this game with. He wonders if any of them told him to fuck off.

He thinks, looking down at Ambrose on his knees with his pink mouth and his wicked tongue and the carefully calculated submission in the downturn of his eyes, not many of them did.

"Off," Ambrose insists in a mutter, tucking his thumbs up the legs of Seth's trunks and pulling them down. Seth lifts his hips after a second to help, eyes flicking to the door. It's not locked, as far as he knows, but other than Ambrose, nobody would come in without knocking.

It's startling to see, to feel, when he's not feeling as much… feeling, when it's just them and Ambrose's hand on his dick, and there's no fluster or yanking or scrambling. Seth's clinging to the thought that it's just the remaining adrenaline, but he knows that he can't really blame it on that. The truth is that Ambrose is offering and Seth's been thinking about last week since it happened and he fucking wants to know what Ambrose looks like with Seth's cock in his mouth. That's it.

Ambrose is gripping with his right hand, his other hand on Seth's thigh, his nails digging in just enough for it to sting but not enough for Seth to move it. When Ambrose licks his lips, his eyes meet Seth's, and he smiles, the groove of that dimple in his cheek.

"I'm about to blow your fuckin' mind," he informs him before he mouths down over the head of Seth's dick. His breath is hot, and his tongue flicks in a movement that makes Seth hiss. His hand clenches in Ambrose's hair. It's probably hard enough to hurt but Ambrose doesn't even flinch, instead humming and letting his hand stroke up to meet his mouth.

He has really long eyelashes. That's a weird thing to notice when somebody's giving you a blowjob, but Ambrose's eyes are closed and that means his eyelashes are fluttering down. It makes him look uncharacteristically vulnerable, and Seth has no doubt he knows it.

As it turns out, Ambrose looks amazing with Seth's cock in his mouth. Seth half wishes he could take a picture as a flush spreads high on his cheekbones, his mouth dipping lower and lower to meet his hand. It's visible, the way he catalogues the noises Seth makes or the shifts of his hips, the way he stores the information to use later. When he pulls off to take a breath, through lips obscenely slick with spit that's smeared across his chin, he looks up at Seth through his eyelashes. Flirtatious and deliberate and cocky, everything Ambrose always is. It pisses Seth off and turns him on in equal measure.

He urges Ambrose's head back down with the hand in his hair and Ambrose goes willingly, his mouth opening to take in Seth's cock again, just as easy and hot as he did before. He's not gripping Seth's thigh anymore; instead his arm curls loosely around Seth's legs, draping himself across them. The slack grip of his hand around Seth's dick is just this side of not enough, his mouth just that side of too much.

"Do this often?" Seth asks. His mouth is dry, and he doesn't particularly want to know, but the words come out of his mouth anyway.

Ambrose laughs, and the vibration of it makes Seth shudder as Ambrose pulls off again, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to the side of Seth's dick. "Nope," he murmurs, "only for the prettiest princess at the ball."

His voice is raspy, pitched lower than it usually is. Seth did that, he thinks with a combination of alarm and satisfaction. He made Ambrose sound like that.

"I'm not a fucking princess," he says, because it's the principle of the thing, and he pulls with the hand in Ambrose's hair, hard enough that it definitely hurts. Ambrose moans, his mouth open against Seth's thigh, and Seth's expecting a bite or a snarky comment or maybe even for Ambrose to get up and leave.

Instead, he just murmurs, "Okay," in a voice that shakes in something close to a stammer, and kisses the crease between Seth's thigh and his hip, and puts his mouth back on Seth's cock.

It's an astonishing feeling, the sense of vague power in this, Ambrose on his knees, sucking his dick, how Seth can make him groan without doing anything at all. It shoots in pulses of arousal straight to his groin, his breath coming in faster pants. His head feels like it's going to float off his shoulders.

When he comes, it's an avalanche of sensation, his head tipping back even though a tiny voice in the back of his head tells him to keep his eyes on Ambrose, to watch him take it, to see the way he swallows Seth's come, because he is swallowing it, the tight suction of his mouth steady through Seth's orgasm. He does his best not to make any noise, but he can't help the quiet whimper that squeaks its way past his bitten lip.

By the time he can lift his head again, his limbs feel loose and achey, as though he's finished a satisfying workout, and Ambrose's head is leaned onto Seth's thigh, his eyes closed. There's a smudge of spunk at the corner of his mouth, and as Seth watches, his tongue curls out to lick it away.

Seth's hand is still in Ambrose's hair. He thinks about moving it, then leaves it where it is.

"Told you I'd blow your mind," Ambrose mumbles, the self-satisfied little prick. He's smiling, rubbing his cheek against Seth's leg like an oversized cat. He looks as loose-limbed as Seth does, and he opens his eyes to look up at Seth and raise his eyebrows. "Didn't I tell you? Man of my word."

"Shut up," Seth sighs. It's less antagonistic than it should be, considering, well, everything. But maybe Ambrose has earned a little break from unadulterated animosity, considering he's not exactly wrong.

"I did, though, didn't I?" Ambrose asks, his smile a full-blown grin. "I just gave you the best blowjob of your goddamn life. I'm a champion cocksucker."

"No," says Seth firmly, pushing Ambrose's head off his lap and ignoring the disgruntled grumble it provokes. "Get off me. This doesn't change anything," he warns, jerking his trunks up. The lazy pleasure of it all is dissipating, replaced with the natural vague irritation he feels whenever he sees Dean Ambrose's face.

It doesn't matter that said face is still flushed or that his mouth was just on Seth's dick or that he's still on his knees, his trunks tented, thighs spread to accommodate the bulge, unashamed and unapologetic as he keeps his eyes on Seth. None of that matters at all, because it's still Dean Ambrose and he's still a fucking asshole, and Seth still despises him. He needs to stop thinking with his dick and start thinking with his head again.

"Didn't expect it to, princess," Ambrose replies, bracing himself with a hand on the floor in order to get to his feet. He adjusts himself but doesn't otherwise make to do anything about his hard-on, even though it must be nearing on painful at this point. "I just wanted to kiss and make it better. Never had an apology suck-off before?"

"No," Seth states. He narrows his eyes at Ambrose, tipping his chin up. "You can leave now."

Ambrose mockingly holds a hand to his (shriveled, blackened) heart, and then he leans down, his face about an inch away from Seth's, his hands braced on Seth's thighs.

"One of these days," he says, that smirk at the edges of his lips again, "one of these days, I'm gonna let you fuck me, and I'm gonna be the best lay you've ever had, too, sweetheart. And that'll be a better win than that fuckin' medal any day."

He kisses Seth hard and Seth thinks he might crane up into it even though he means to pull away. Ambrose tastes like his come.

"Don't call me that," is all Seth can manage, a pathetic mutter against Ambrose's lips. Ambrose laughs at him and Seth deserves it, because he's weak and somehow, somehow Ambrose has managed to win even though Seth beat him in the middle of the ring.

"I'll call you whatever I want and it'll still get your dick hard, babe," Ambrose says. He laughs again, and then he leans back, upright and the self-assured tilt back in his hips. "This isn't over." He shrugs. "Maybe it'll never be over," he adds, then, with another grin, "I just can't quit you."

"Get out." Seth forces a little command into his voice. "Now. Before I make you get out."

"I'm going, I'm going." Ambrose holds his hands up as if to show supplication, but Seth doesn't buy it. Apart from a few lapses in judgment, he still doesn't want Ambrose anywhere near him, and he definitely doesn't trust him. "I just wanted to say one more thing."

There's a note to Ambrose's voice that Seth really, really doesn't like, but he can't figure out what it is. Ambrose is waltzing toward the door with a laugh and a skip in his step, peppier than he was when he first came in.

"It's kinda weird how we wrestled to a no contest three weeks in a row and you suddenly figured out how to beat me." Ambrose is practically singing. "Really weird, isn't it? One fall and you think it makes you better than me, but it doesn't."

"The match results disagree." Seth nearly bites his tongue off when he snaps back. "What are you trying to say?"

"Nothing." Ambrose laughs, a twisted, choked little sound. "Nothin'. You're not better than me, that's all. And in your heart of hearts, you know a pin in sudden death overtime isn't much of a victory."

"Get out," Seth says, half a second from throwing something at Ambrose when he finally disappears around the doorframe. Seth breathes in, feels like he hasn't done it in too long, and hopes (knowing it's useless) that it's the last time he has to deal with him.

Seth wishes he could say he's surprised when two weeks later, he's told he has another match against Ambrose. He just can't get away from the guy. At least this one's not for his title. It's for the number-one contendership for the Florida Heavyweight Championship, though, so maybe it isn't actually less pressure to win. And of course, he's got a bum arm.

He's trying not to think about that part, but it's hard when even taped, his arm throbs every now and again as a reminder of just how much he's screwed it up. But he's a fighter, and he always has been, and he doesn't intend to let a hurt arm take away his chance to fight for that title.

He can see, on his way to the ring, how Ambrose's eyes immediately focus on his wrapped arm, the black KT tape climbing up his shoulder. He didn't bother to hide it; the bruising underneath will be like a target for Ambrose anyway, and this way he has the few moments of relief from the tape before it's inevitably ripped away. Ambrose won't let it be there for long.

Seth's barely in the ring before Ambrose is in his face.

"Sure you wanna be facing me with a handicap?" asks Ambrose with a sneer as Seth yanks his shirt off over his head. "When you can barely beat me on your best day?"

"I appreciate your concern," Seth says, rolling his shoulder. "But I don't need both my arms to beat you."

"Is that so?" Ambrose asks. He's leaning closer now, intruding on Seth's space, crowding him.

"Get out of my face," says Seth, refusing to give an inch.

Ambrose smiles at him, a mockery of one, anyway. "I'll try not to hurt you too bad," he says, turning his back on Seth. His message there is clear, that he doesn't see Seth as a threat, and Seth nearly hits him from behind just to prove a point. But that's not how he plays things. He takes a deep breath to calm his jangling emotions, and the match is on.

Seth's never expecting their matches to start out with chain mat wrestling, and yet that's what they tend to do. Of course, all too soon after that, they degenerate into shouting, shoving matches, and Seth's not the most forceful shover with his arm practically useless, but he thinks he gives as good as he gets.

He hates Ambrose, and yeah, sometimes he forgets, but he never feels it more than when they're in the ring together, because Ambrose in the ring is infuriating. He fights dirty and he mouths off every chance he gets, and he's an asshole. He's a good wrestler, but he's an asshole wrestler, too.

He's surprised that it actually takes Ambrose more than two seconds to go after his shoulder. Maybe he'd thought Seth wouldn't be as much of a challenge as he is, Seth doesn't know, but it's at least five minutes in before he hears Ambrose growl and then slam his left arm into the mat with as much force as he can muster.

Seth sees stars, a little. The pain is immense, and he curls in around his arm in an attempt to shield it from further blows, but Ambrose can smell blood now, and he twists Seth's arm around the ring ropes, tearing at the wrap around it, leveling it with kicks and once it's exposed, twisting it behind Seth's back, stretching the torn muscle, digging his elbow into it once he has Seth in a hold that leaves him vulnerable.

If Seth's being honest, he doesn't remember much about the rest of the match. It's mostly a haze of pain and anger and more pain, armbars and stomps and trying to mount any offense at all but being foiled at every turn.

He remembers hitting Blackout, Ambrose rolling out of the ring, and thinking for some reason that it would be a great idea to jump out of the fucking ring onto him.

He remembers being on Ambrose's shoulders, and he remembers the bell ringing. He remembers it's not his name being called.

The next moment he's thinking clearly, he's back in his locker room and his arm's going numb which is good, because he can't imagine how painful this would be if it wasn't. He should get up, get some ice, but he's stuck on losing, stuck on being pinned by Ambrose.

He doesn't even bother looking up when his door opens, sure of who it's going to be. And he's right, because he recognizes the boots that enter his line of vision. There's a thump as Ambrose sits down on the chair across from Seth, then silence.

"Did you need something?" Seth asks, finally, just so that there's noise, and a little bit to make sure it's not a hallucination, because the pain not-pain numb-pain is sending some seriously weird signals to his brain.

Ambrose grunts, and Seth jumps when something cold and heavy lands on his leg. He grabs to keep it from sliding off automatically. It's a bag of ice.

"Figured you'd be too much of a stubborn asshole to go to the trainer's on your own," Ambrose says. "You're welcome, by the way."

Seth looks curiously at the bag in his hand, cold and wet with condensation. He turns it over in his hand and squeezes, just a little, to feel the cubes inside.

He hears Ambrose sigh heavily. "You're supposed to put it on your arm, idiot. Come on, this isn't your first rodeo. You need to ice that sooner rather than later."

"I know how to ice an injury," Seth mumbles, hissing through his teeth as he carefully presses the ice to his bruised arm. At least the tape's still there, so it's still doing its job.

"You're sucking all the fun out of this win," Ambrose complains, prodding at Seth's ankle with the toe of his boot. They're not his wrestling boots, just generic black thick-soled boots. "I wanna gloat, but you're so pathetic right now it just wouldn't be any use."

"I thought wild cruelty was kind of your thing," says Seth. He shakes his head a little, trying to focus on anything but how much his arm is killing him. He'll live. He's had worse.

"That's better," Ambrose says when Seth looks up, peering at him as though he's expecting to find something in Seth's expression. "Even now."

Seth hums. "For now," he agrees, shifting the ice into a more comfortable position.

"Kinda surprised you're not saying it doesn't count," Ambrose says. He's hinting at something with his tone, still squinting at Seth. "Considering your little problem there."

"Wouldn't have gotten into the ring if I thought it was going to be a problem," Seth says. He tries to make it as forceful as possible. "I don't make excuses, Ambrose. I lost, so I lost."

"Huh." Ambrose leans back in his seat, regarding Seth thoughtfully. "Interesting."

"Not really," Seth sighs. "Have you gloated enough?"

"Oh, I'm never done gloating," says Ambrose. Less thoughtful now, he's back to looking like the smarmy, smug bastard Seth knows he truly is inside. "Seriously, I bet after that last match we had you thought it was finished, that you'd, what, proven yourself? Turns out we're only ever as good as each other after all."

It's that, that exactly, that's been bothering Seth so much about this. He can take losses, he's been beat before and he'll get beat again, and ordinarily, even getting beat by Ambrose wouldn't rankle this much. But he'd thought it was over. He'd thought that he'd proved, once and for all, that he was better, and two weeks later, he's right back where he started, basically. Two contests fought to a draw, and each of them have one win. They might as well have not had any of those matches, because one win apiece is the same as no wins for either of them.

He grits his teeth. Ambrose notices, he's sure.

"We'll see," he says, rolling his shoulder. His arm's starting to hurt like hell again, the edge of adrenaline-fueled numbness wearing off, and he should really get ready to go before the pain gets so intense he has trouble driving. He knows he's got friends, who would drive him back if he needed the ride, but it's a hassle and, and… and it would feel a little like admitting defeat, even though he's already been soundly defeated.

"I would really like to take a shower and go home," he says frankly.

Ambrose leers at him, and Seth rolls his eyes while he stands up. "Want some company?" asks Ambrose.

"Do I want company in the shower from the guy who just pinned me and then followed me to my locker room to brag about it?" Seth asks, deadpan. "No. No, I really don't. And you'd better be out of my locker room by the time I'm finished."

"You sound like a sore loser!" Ambrose shouts after him. "This isn't over and you know it!"

But he is gone by the time Seth gets out of the shower, at least.

Naïvely, Seth actually thinks he might be done with Ambrose for a while there. He has a blissfully Ambrose-free week, where he doesn't even have to look at the guy, much less deal with a match against him. It's so nice not to have to play by somebody else's rules that finding out he's defending his title against Damien Sandow the week after that is a blessing to him. Sandow's a jerk, and he talks too much, but Seth knows he can beat him, at least, and he's definitely not Ambrose.

He is, therefore, entirely surprised when his match gets interrupted with ten seconds to go by Ambrose in his stupid jacket, sliding past Seth – past Seth? Why would he – no, no – and then it hits him, as Ambrose goes barreling over Sandow and the referee has no choice but to call for the disqualification. That puts Sandow up a fall, and there's no time left for Seth to do anything but stare as Ambrose slips out of the ring and back up the ramp.

The bell rings, and Seth's lost his title.

It takes hearing the announcement for it to actually sink in, that he hasn't just lost the match but the title, as well, the referee hanging it around Sandow's neck. Sandow, who's still flat on his back. What a joke. What a fucking joke, except Seth's not laughing, but Ambrose is. By the time Seth figures out how his legs work again, Ambrose has disappeared into the back.

He tells himself it's not worth it to find Ambrose and try to kill him. He'd get arrested, and then he can never get his title back. But it's so tempting, and he considers it for a long second before he decides he'd rather just get out of there as quickly as he can.

Seth almost makes it to his car. He got dressed at warp speed and kept his head down while he nearly sprinted to the parking lot so that nobody would try to talk to him. He doesn't know what the fuck anybody would say to him anyway. How could words make any of this better?

Ambrose cost him his title, and he wasn't even in the goddamn match. One outside interference and now Damien Sandow's going to be parading around with his medal like he actually earned it, knowing full well that without Ambrose, it would've been a draw.

He wants to go home and lie on his bed and stare at the ceiling for a few hours, and he almost makes it to his car. Almost.

"Did you like that?" Ambrose's voice makes fire streak down Seth's spine, smug and gleeful, so happy about what he's done. "I told you it wasn't over, didn't I?"

"Walk away," Seth says without looking behind him. He's staring at his own reflection in the driver's side window. "Fucking walk away from me right now or I will knock your teeth down your throat."

"Kinky." Ambrose's voice is closer now, of course, because he has no concern for his own safety. "What's wrong? Don't you like me anymore? You liked me a whole lot when your dick was in my mouth."

"Turn around. Walk away." Seth's teeth are grinding so hard he thinks he might break one.

"Or what? Are you gonna spank me?" Ambrose laughs, and then hooks an arm around Seth's neck from behind him, like they're buddies, like they're old friends. Seth rolls with the momentum of it and grabs Ambrose's arm, yanking forward and stepping backward so that Ambrose is shoved against the car. He grunts, but he's still smiling.

"I am not in the mood." Seth has his forearm jammed against Ambrose's throat to hold him in place, his thigh pushed between Ambrose's for the same reason. He's not even struggling, trying to get away. He's calmly letting Seth hold him where he is, arms at his sides. "I'm not in the fuckingmood to play your fucking games." The expletives fly from his mouth like cannonballs. They feel nice on his lips.

"Sure you don't wanna play any fucking games?" Ambrose says suggestively, tilting his hips enough that they're pressed flush with Seth's, and he tips his head as though to receive a kiss.

Seth wants to smash his head into the car, he wants to knee him in the balls, he wants to punch him in the face, he wants to fuck him so hard that he can't see straight.

"Why are you doing this?" Seth asks, shoving Ambrose against the car harder. "What's the point? What's the fucking point?"

"You're asking the wrong questions." Ambrose licks his lips, and smiles when Seth's eyes are drawn there. "Why not? Why not do this?"

"You got what you wanted, I lost. I lost my title. You win or whatever, okay? I lose and you win." Seth shakes his head, stepping back and then pushing Ambrose out of the way so that he can unlock his car. "Leave me the fuck alone."

"And you're still so wrong!" Ambrose's voice rises suddenly, angry where he was mocking before. "How are you still so wrong? What's it like, being so wrong all the time?"

"Fuck off," Seth spits, yanking one of the back doors open so he can shove his bag in the footwell.

"Pay attention to me!" Ambrose shouts at him, like a child throwing a tantrum. "Why won't you just pay attention to me and none of this would have to happen!"

"What are you, eight?" Seth shoves his hair out of his face as he turns back to Ambrose, red-faced and frowning, arms folded across his chest. "What are you even talking about?"

Ambrose's hands are cold where they settle on either side of Seth's neck, and his eyes are wide and blue. On anybody else, Seth might think they were pretty. He's deceptively gentle as he leans in and kisses Seth. Seth's all ready to push him away, sick and tired of his stupid mind games, but the kiss doesn't last long enough. It's just a press of lips and that's it.

"I just wanted to get your attention," Ambrose insists, his thumbs tucked underneath Seth's jaw. "To make sure you don't forget about me."

"You're crazy," Seth says, the words faint with disbelief. "You're out of your goddamn mind."

"You're not allowed to forget about me, Seth." Ambrose's voice is rising again, and without even thinking about it, Seth puts a hand on his hip. That calms him down, apparently, because his volume's back to normal when he keeps talking. "Everyone forgets about me, but you're different. You're special. You beat me."

"That's not the first time someone's beat you," Seth says suspiciously.

Ambrose frowns at him like Seth's not understanding some important part of this conversation. "It's the first time it mattered."

"Wow, being full of shit just comes naturally to you, doesn't it?" Seth shakes his head again, or tries to. Ambrose's hands are in the way. "Have you ever been honest a day in your life?"

"If you can name one fucking lie that's ever come out of my mouth when I've been talking to you, I'll leave you alone. I'll walk away." Ambrose's mouth is set, eyes on Seth's. "Name one lie and I'll go. I'll start bothering someone else."

Try as he might, Seth can't. Ambrose even told him he was going to get the first fall in their thirty minute match a few weeks ago. He's an asshole, and he's insulted, he's bothered, he's schemed, but he hasn't lied. Not to Seth's face, at least.

Ambrose kisses him again and Seth still doesn't stop him even though he should. This one's not soft or gentle, it's Ambrose's lips and tongue and the occasional sting of his teeth, one hand in Seth's hair and the other sliding down his arm. It's more familiar than the first one and part of Seth wants to sink into it because at least he recognizes Ambrose when he's violence instead of sweetness.

"Get in the car," Seth mutters. He's not doing this (whatever this is) out in the open in the parking lot when the show's probably over soon and people will be starting to leave. The door's still open and Ambrose isn't moving fast enough for Seth's liking, so he just gets a hand in Ambrose's collar and shoves him into the backseat of the car.

"Pushy," Ambrose comments. He doesn't look very upset about it. Actually, he just reclines with his head pillowed on his own arms, his feet dangling out the open door. All limbs, is Ambrose. It's more obvious when he's in his trunks. "You're still angry about me interrupting your match," he observes.

"Yeah, I'm a little pissed off about that, still," Seth says, feeling another flare of irritation at how Ambrose can say that so calmly, like he didn't just cost Seth his title, like Seth is overreacting somehow.

He ducks into the car and grunts when Ambrose's stupidly long legs wrap around his waist and force him down over him, hips to hips, though Seth manages to catch himself in time to keep from falling face first onto Ambrose. At least Ambrose doesn't keep his legs there, instead settling one foot on the seat while his other leg drops down into the footwell. He looks up at Seth with raised eyebrows.

"You might wanna close the door," he observes. "Unless you wanna give ol' Husky a show."

Seth's head whips around to look out into the parking lot, his heart pounding, but there's nobody there. Ambrose is laughing, under his breath, Seth can feel it in the shake of his thighs.

"Just wanna keep you on your toes," he says. He switches between moods so fast that it's impossible to keep up, from sweet to angry to weirdly seductive to amused and everything in between. It makes Seth's head spin.

He reaches back and yanks the door shut behind him. He's not surprised that he's a little dizzy; there's something about Ambrose that gets him from numb rage to semi-hard in record time. At least he's not the only one. Their hips are shoved together in the tiny space and Ambrose is just as happy to be here as parts of Seth are.

"Why'd you do it?" Seth asks. Ambrose's shirt has risen up with the lift of his arms, and Seth slides his hands underneath it. Maybe if he's being distracted, Ambrose'll be straightforward instead of dancing around the question. "Why'd you cost me my match?"

"Mm," replies Ambrose, his eyes on Seth's hands rather than his face. He's worrying his lower lip with his teeth, and his hips move in tiny increments against Seth's.

Seth, after a moment of thought, gives Ambrose's nipple a pinch. He can play games just as well as Dean Ambrose can. "Focus," he says. "Why'd you cost me my match?"

With a blink, Ambrose's gaze unfogs. He lets his head drop back against the seat, and his hands move to Seth's wrists. He doesn't move Seth's hands, just settles his own on top. "You're too good for it," he says. "That title. You should be going for the big one."

"Didn't you want the FCW 15 title, like, last month?" Seth asks, skeptical. He's always skeptical of what comes out of Ambrose's mouth.

Ambrose is smiling again, his thighs tightening as he moves in a slow, filthy grind of his hips against Seth's. "I wanted to wrestle you, and you were the FCW 15 champion," he says.

"Bullshit," Seth mutters. It's easy enough to read between the lines, and he doesn't believe that for a second.

Ambrose has the nerve to look hurt, even as he's sliding his hands up Seth's arms, thumbs tucking into the sides of his jacket and pushing it back off his shoulders. Seth takes it off the rest of the way. It's too hot to wear it in here, anyway, even if outside the car the cold chill of the nearly-November night is upon them.

"I told you, I don't lie to you." Ambrose pushes himself up after a struggle, bracing himself on his hands and finding Seth's mouth for another kiss. "You bring out the best in me."

"If this is your best," says Seth, mumbled as Ambrose doesn't bother to stop kissing him, "I'd hate to see your worst."

"Hope you never have to," Ambrose says, hooking two fingers into the collar of Seth's t-shirt and pulling him down as he leans back, until they're pressed together chest-to-chest as well as hips-to-hips. The friction is subtle, but Ambrose keeps moving up against him, in shifts that would seem like he's just trying to seem comfortable, except for how rhythmic it is.

Seth has no idea what he's doing. He's still angry, so angry, because that title was his, and he was proud to represent the company by holding it, and Ambrose took it from him just as surely as if he'd been the other participant in the match. And he knows he can get it back – knows he can beat Damien Sandow, just like he knows he can beat anybody else (except, sometimes, the guy underneath him) – but it's the principle of the thing. It was his title and Ambrose made it not his anymore.

But even with all that, he can't bring himself to push Ambrose out of his car and just leave. He can't do it, and it's stupid that he can't do it, but he can't.

"You're thinking about it too hard," Ambrose says. He's watching Seth very closely, one hand moving in a seemingly absent motion, the backs of his fingers stroking Seth's side over his shirt. "It's not complicated. Don't overthink it."

"I'm not thinking at all," Seth mutters, huffing a laugh with no amusement in it. "Obviously."

Ambrose actually rolls his eyes at him. "I know you're not this fucking uptight all the time. Look, you can think you hate me, or whatever, if that's what helps you sleep at night—" arrogant prick; Seth wants to fuck the backtalk right out of him, and that scares him a little, "—but we're adults, we both clearly wanna do this, it'd be fucking stupid not to do it because you're caught up in the bullshit." He grinds up against Seth again, his hand tucking under Seth's shirt to span across his ribs. "It doesn't have to mean anything you don't want it to."

He kisses Seth's neck, and then where it curves into his shoulder, he bites him. Not hard enough that Seth shoves him away, but enough that he hisses at the sting. Alternating between pleasure and pain seems kind of like Ambrose's thing.

"It doesn't mean anything," Seth says. He twists his head to find Ambrose's mouth, biting his lower lip like he had a few weeks ago, because Ambrose had liked it, then, and he still likes it now, his mouth opening in a groan that Seth feels throughout his bones.

"Not a damn thing," Ambrose agrees. There's something off in his tone, something breathless and cut-off, but it doesn't matter what it is because Seth doesn't have to understand Ambrose to get off with him.

It's odd that he's been in this position with Ambrose often enough to know what things he likes. Seth knows that Ambrose likes an edge to his softness, likes a gentle touch to end with a pinch. It's hot in the car now even with Ambrose's hand pushing his shirt halfway up his back, and he's glad he took his jacket off.

Ambrose's is still on even though his shirt's shoved up underneath his armpits. Seth wonders if he's too warm, Seth pressed so close like he is and all his clothes, for the most part, still on. If he is, he doesn't say anything about it.

When Ambrose shifts – an actual shift this time, Seth thinks, drawing his leg up out of the footwell and curling it over the back of Seth's calf, something… clicks. Seth automatically adjusts his balance but to do that it means he has to lean with his hips to adjust his center of gravity, and it's only when Ambrose makes a strangled moaning noise that Seth realizes the position they're in now.

Most of Ambrose's weight is balancing on his upper back, and Seth's hips are pinning his down in a way that's like, it's like Seth's fucking him but all their clothes are still on.

"Just—just—" Ambrose is fumbling for words and there's a part of Seth that finds itself unbearably smug at the thought that he caused it. On a whim, he curls his hand underneath the bend of Ambrose's knee and pushes it back. It means his hips shove down even harder and Ambrose makes one of those choked-off sounds again, only this one sounds a lot like he's saying, "please," and, well, Seth doesn't want to think too hard about why that turns him on as much as it does.

"Yeah?" he asks, the word coming out like a gasp, and he's moving like they're screwing, without even thinking about it, a rhythmic rocking of his hips against Ambrose's. Ambrose's head is tilted back, his neck pale and vulnerable and Seth wants to bite it, wants to see if Ambrose is far gone enough yet that it'd make him come just like that, right in his jeans.

He wonders what it'd be like to do this with their clothes off. Maybe in a bed instead of in a locker room or in his car, which is going to smell like sweat and sex until he gets a chance to air it out. Ambrose told him that he'd let Seth fuck him someday, and that it'd be the best lay Seth ever had.

Seth doesn't doubt that, not with how much chemistry they have in and out of the ring. He might not like admitting it to himself, but they're good against each other whether they're wrestling or exchanging messy handjobs.

No use thinking about that, though, not when he's got better things to think about, like the way Ambrose is pressing back against him with increasing urgency, his eyes closed. Maybe he's thinking about what it'd be like if they were really fucking, too.

Seth wants to wreck him, to ruin him in more ways than one. He can't help it anymore; he dips his head to bite Ambrose's neck, hard enough that he's pretty sure he'll have a hickey there. Seth's never been one to do things halfway, and he's not leaving a halfhearted hickey on Ambrose, so he keeps his mouth where it is even as Ambrose practically claws down his side, muffled swears spilling from his mouth.

"Kiss me, fucking kiss me," Ambrose hisses. It's not much of a hardship to move his mouth the six inches to Ambrose's, to let Ambrose crane up into the kiss, uncoordinated and frantic, like Ambrose is a bomb ready to explode.

Seth knows what's happening when Ambrose's leg tightens around his waist again, and he doesn't back off even though Ambrose is muttering into his mouth, nonsensical mumbles between moans as he jerks, moves in twitching ruts against Seth. Ambrose almost bites his tongue off.

He doesn't argue when Ambrose's hand snakes into his sweatpants to rub him off, what would seem like an automatic motion when Ambrose is blinking at him, shell-shocked, his mouth still open. Seth grinds against Ambrose's palm like a teenager getting his first handie, and it's one of the best orgasms he's ever had.

That seems like another thing Ambrose is good at, not that Seth will ever tell him. He probably knows already, anyway.

The windows are steamed up like a movie cliché and Seth is sticky, sweaty, and still angry. But Ambrose has a blooming bruise on the side of his neck and even if Seth didn't punch it there, he put it there. That'll have to be enough, for now. Until he can get another match against the bastard.

"When's your birthday?" he asks. Even as he's saying it, he has no idea where it came from. He doesn't care when Ambrose's birthday is, but—

It caught Ambrose off guard. He's frowning, still short of breath, a wrinkle between his eyebrows.

"December," he says slowly, suspiciously, like he thinks there's some ulterior motive here. If there is, it's one Seth doesn't even know he has. "Why?"

"What year?" he asks insistently.

"Why?" Ambrose asks again, his mouth twisting in the sullen half-pout that makes Seth want to hit him again. "December of '85."

He answered anyway, without waiting to find out why Seth wanted to know. Something about that makes him feel weird.

"No reason," he mutters. "You're older than me."

"By like six months or something," Ambrose scoffs, but Seth pushes himself up where he'd been not-quite-resting on Ambrose and frowns right back at him.

"How did you know that?" he asks, unsure of whether he should be creeped out or kind of impressed at the thoroughness of Ambrose's research.

"Public record, isn't it?" Ambrose shrugs. "Asked the office for your tapes and stuff to do some scouting. Never know what information might come in handy."

"You're a freak," Seth tells him. It's less scornful and more bewildered than he'd like, but then, Ambrose is more confusing than he is annoying, sometimes.

"Professionally." Ambrose shrugs again, and then wrinkles his nose, adjusting himself through his jeans. "Ah, don't s'pose you've got, like, a towel or something?"

"Maybe," mutters Seth, twisting and turning until he can reach his bag in the footwell. He hefts it up and drops it on Ambrose's chest just to hear him grunt. He mostly has workout clothes and protein bars, but in the bottom is the towel he keeps on him when he needs to shower at the arena. It's wrinkled, but he doubts that'll matter.

He offers it to Ambrose who takes it, absently nibbling at the thumbnail of his right hand. Or – no, he's not, he's sucking on it, because he just got Seth off with that hand and so there's spunk smeared between his fingers and over his palm, and he's licking it off like that's just a thing that people do, a thing that happens.

"Thanks," Ambrose says as he undoes the fastening of his jeans with no shame. Even though it's not like Seth's never seen Ambrose's dick before, he averts his eyes, dropping his bag over into the passenger's seat.

He's never sure what to say after they do this. He's never been the type of person to have casual sex with anybody. He's had girlfriends, all relationships that lasted over a year – one boyfriend when he was seventeen that lasted almost nine months. But Ambrose isn't his boyfriend, and he's definitely not his girlfriend. He's not anything.

"You're overthinking again," Ambrose says in a sing-song voice. "Don't make it a thing. It's not a thing."

"I know it's not a thing," Seth snaps, grabbing his jacket and shoving it on top of his bag. He's still too warm. "I'm not thinking anything. You don't know me as well as you think you do."

Ambrose smiles. It's infuriating. "I think I know you better than you think I do," he says. Calm. Assured.

"Oh, really." It's not a question. "What am I thinking right now, then?"

Ambrose drops the towel onto the floor of his car. Seth makes a note in his head to pick that up and wash it later. "You're about to kick me out of your car," he sings, zipping his pants. "Because you're worried I do actually know you that well and it scares you. And it should."

"Get out of my car." Seth rolls his eyes. He knows already that Ambrose is fucking out of his mind, but there are only so many times you can see a guy's O-face before he just stops being as intimidating as he wants to be. "And not because that's what I was thinking. Because you're annoying and you cost me my title and I don't like you."

"How will I ever go on?" Ambrose comments, droll, like he wasn't shouting at Seth half an hour ago to pay attention to him.

"Out," Seth says firmly. He reaches behind him to open the door and back himself out of the car, and Ambrose, to his credit, doesn't dawdle. He rolls to his feet and stretches his arms above his head, his limbs loose and relaxed. His shirt's still bunched up like a crop-top, but as Seth watches, he shimmies it back down.

Ambrose sketches out a mocking bow. "Always a pleasure," he murmurs. His jaw moves in an odd way and then Seth realizes that somehow he's chewing gum. Seth has no idea where it came from.

"I'm sure I'll see you next week." Seth's exhausted. He's exhausted and he wants to go back to his hotel room and sleep long enough that he forgets he's not FCW 15 champion anymore.

The smile Ambrose gives him in return is weird. "You're gonna have to wait your turn if you want a revenge match," he comments, tucking his hands into his pockets.

"And why's that?" asks Seth. "Did you piss somebody else off?"

"I'm hurt," Ambrose says, and his voice lilts in a way that makes Seth shiver. He could blame it on the cold, but he knows that's not it. Ambrose might not intimidate him much anymore, but sometimes, sometimes, he talks in this way that makes it clear he's got a few stones loose in his head. "By your lack of faith in me. It just so happens that William Regal might want a match against me."

"Why might he want that?"

Ambrose shrugs yet again. "I might've jumped him earlier. Might've punched him in the head a couple times."

"I thought what we had was special," Seth quips, palming his car keys. "You're flirting with Regal now?"

He feels oddly vindicated when Ambrose laughs, an ordinary laugh and not one of his disturbing cackly chuckles. It's kind of nice, actually, quiet and throaty. "Oh, darling, you know you're the only one for me."

He sketches out a salute and then, hands back in his pockets, ambles away, no doubt to wreak more havoc and frighten small children.

Seth shakes his head and gets into the driver's seat. He's due a hot shower and a nice long mope. Ambrose-free.

Seth really has no need to watch the main event. He's not going to face William Regal at any point in the future, and he's faced Ambrose enough that he doesn't really need to scout him anymore. Still, it never hurts to keep tabs on someone who's your opponent as often as Ambrose is, or that's what Seth tells himself as he settles in to watch the match.

Ambrose looks like he doesn't have a care in the world, twirling for the cameras, a smile on his face, that glint in his eyes that scares so many people, but Seth knows he's not taking this lightly. You can't underestimate an opponent like Regal. The man's a master of a lot of things and he's good at hurting people. Then again, so is Ambrose.

To be honest, there's more back-and-forth than Seth might've expected. Regal has a size advantage, sure, and an experience advantage, but they have similar builds, similar skillsets. That's one of the reasons Regal's been so intrigued by Ambrose, he knows. He never shuts up about it on commentary.

Sure, Regal's good, but Ambrose is a spectacular wrestler; there's never been any doubt about that. It's one of the reasons Seth gets angry when Ambrose cheats to win a match or gets himself disqualified – he's good, amazing, one of the best wrestlers Seth's ever been across from in the ring. He doesn't need to cheat to win.

It's the little things, though. Ambrose makes tiny mistakes that an ordinary wrestler wouldn't pick up on, but William Regal's been wrestling for the better part of thirty years and he has an eye for weakness, however miniscule.

Seth doesn't realize what he's doing until Ambrose's arm is trapped between the ring post and the steel steps and he's muttering under his breath, "Come on, come on." Apparently his mind's decided he's rooting for Ambrose without his permission.

Even then, when Ambrose's arm is dangling limply from his shoulder, Seth still thinks he'll be able to pull it out. People have pinned Ambrose, of course, but it's happened rarely enough, Ambrose is good enough that Seth thinks he'll be able to do it, up until Regal bursts out of the corner and his knee cracks against Ambrose's temple.

He winces. Ambrose probably has a concussion from that, unless he's real lucky. That's a brutal move and Regal meant it to be. It gets him the pin, and Seth guesses that's what matters at the end of the day. He got the pin.

After the match, Ambrose doesn't slink away like others might. Seth's pretty sure Ambrose hasn't backed off when he should've ever, in his life. Pushing farther than he should is just part of the guy's DNA.

He can't hear what he and Regal are saying to each other, but that creepy grin is back on Ambrose's face, so Seth's kind of glad that the speakers aren't picking it up.

Gathering his towel (freshly cleaned and stuffed back into his bag), he heads off to get a shower before he heads back to his hotel room. The water pressure there isn't the greatest and he's already here, anyway.

He ties his hair back and shoulders his bag once he's done and dressed, vaguely surprised that there's nobody waiting for him in his locker room. It's kind of his and Ambrose's thing as of late, meetings in his locker room, but the room's as empty as it was when he left it.

Maybe Ambrose is in Regal's locker room. Maybe it's something he tries on with all his opponents.

Seth slams the door on that thought before it can develop any further. He doesn't want to know, and even if he did know, he wouldn't care.

It turns out that Ambrose isn't in Regal's locker room, propositioning him or otherwise. That becomes abundantly clear the closer Seth gets to his car, and by the time he unlocks it and sits down, he's positive of it.

"You look like shit," Seth mutters as he shoves his bag into the backseat. "I locked my car before I went inside," he says pointedly.

From the passenger's seat, Ambrose shrugs, a tightly wound ball of tension and anger – barely-suppressed if the look on his face is any indication.

He's clutching his arm to his chest, fingers tapping out the rhythm to a song that's in his head. Seth nods toward it as he turns the key in his ignition. He doesn't know what Ambrose is doing here, but it's November and at night it's cold enough that he'd rather have the heat on.

"You put ice on that yet?" he asks.

Ambrose doesn't reply for a long moment, and then he shrugs again. "Didn't want to stick around long enough," he mutters. He's not smiling now, putting on the crazy face like he was in front of everyone earlier.

Seth sighs. He shouldn't have watched the match. He wouldn't have given a shit if he hadn't seen the way Ambrose's face had contorted as his arm had been shoved between the pole and the steps.

"Which hotel are you staying at?" he asks, reluctant. Ambrose's bag is on top of his feet in the footwell when Seth glances down. Good. "Same one as the rest of the roster?"

"Yeah." Ambrose draws it out like a question, and when Seth looks at him, he seems confused. "Why?"

Seth backs out of his parking space. "You need to put ice on your arm," he says to avoid the question. "It's gotta kill by now."

"You worrying about little ol' me?" There's a smirk on Ambrose's face now; a ghost of his usual one, but Seth still likes it better than despair. He doesn't know what to do with despair. He knows how to act when Ambrose is an asshole.

"In your dreams," Seth snaps. "I haven't gotten back at you for costing me my title yet. Can't wrestle if your arm's fucked."

"You care what happens to me," Ambrose taunts. "You wanna kiss it better?"

"You want me to punch you in the face again?" Seth replies. Good, this is good, he knows this.

Ambrose is smiling to himself, but he doesn't reply until Seth's pulling into the parking lot of the hotel. Even then, it seems like a non sequitur.

"I thought I could beat him, you know?" Ambrose says. "I was sure I could beat him."

"Well, he's been doing this a long time," Seth mutters, looking around for a parking spot. It's always crowded around this time. "Nothing against you if you couldn't pull it off this time."

"But it is," Ambrose insists. "It is. Because I know I can beat him. And he made me look like a – like a punk kid trying to prove a point. I'm just as good as he is. I can beat him."

"So why didn't you?" There's a million answers, all valid: It was an off night; he made a few stupid mistakes; he underestimated his opponent. Any of them would work and any could be true.

Ambrose shakes his head. "Don't know," he murmurs. But he looks contemplative now instead of upset. "I think he almost broke my arm." Another comment that seems out of nowhere but probably isn't.

"Ice," Seth says firmly. He nods to himself, finally parking the car. "You should probably get checked out by somebody."

"You offering?" Ambrose slides him a smile, but still seems preoccupied. "You're pretty good at checking me out, Seth."

"Shut up." Seth rolls his eyes and grabs his bag from the back before he gets out of the car. Ambrose gets out on the other side, his own bag dangling from his good hand as his arm remains curled against his chest. He makes it look, somehow, like that's just the way he carries himself. If Seth didn't know better, and wasn't paying attention, he might not even be able to tell Ambrose was injured at all.

Part of him wants to ask how he does it, but the other part doesn't want to give Ambrose any kind of compliment.

"You're gonna be able to get to your room okay, right?" Seth asks, shouldering his gear. "You haven't screwed up either of your legs?"

"Nah." Ambrose laughs to himself at a joke Seth's not privy to. "Nah, I'm good." He pauses and then, almost hesitantly, says, "Thanks."

"Let's not ever do it again," Seth replies, unsure of how to leave this conversation. 'Bye' seems too casual, 'see you later' not really suiting either. In the end, he just gestures in a wave with his keys that Ambrose seems to find infinitely amusing and heads toward his room at a quick walk.

He's nearly to the door of his room, since they're laid out in a strip down directly next to the parking lot rather than in vertical floors, when he hears the slap of shoes on asphalt. He's prepared for an attack and is bracing to fight back, cursing himself for turning his back on Ambrose, when the hand touches his shoulder with less force than he's expecting.

"Hey," says Ambrose, a little breathless. "Almost forgot."

He kisses Seth right there in the parking lot, hard and fast, his good hand curled behind Seth's neck while the other one is pressed between them. Seth's still so braced for impact that he barely has a chance to kiss back before Ambrose is moving away, and then he just has a second to wonder, flummoxed, why his first reaction was to kiss back rather than to push Ambrose away before Ambrose is grinning at him.

"Tradition," he says to explain himself. "Thanks again for the ride."

And then he's sashaying off toward the alcove where Seth knows the ice machine is, a renewed pep in his step.

Seth stands there, off his game for a second. He shakes his head a little and shoves a hand through his hair. Fucking Dean Ambrose. Every time Seth thinks he might've figured him out a little more, he's proven wrong.

When he turns to actually go in his room, his stomach flips as he notices he's not the only person standing outside their room. Johnny Curtis has an ice bucket in his hand and he's looking from Seth to the alcove and back again.

Seth opens his mouth and Johnny holds his hands up to halt his words.

"I don't care, I don't wanna know, I saw nothing," he says quickly before he steps back into his room and closes the door.

Sighing, Seth finally unlocks his door and steps into it. Home sweet home or whatever. God, he needs a nap. And maybe a beer.

By the time the next show rolls around, Seth's ready for his rematch. He knows he can take out Sandow under normal conditions, when some crazy guy isn't swooping in to screw him over. He doesn't even know if Ambrose is here tonight. He hasn't seen him yet, and if he hasn't been cleared to compete, he might not be there at all. No point.

Good. Seth hopes he's not there. One less person to screw him over.

Except, of course, there are endless numbers of people ready to screw him over. He'd thought that he was pretty well liked by the rest of the locker room, but he's on his way to the ring to get his title back when he's blindsided from behind, the hissed words in a language he doesn't understand letting him know it's Antonio Cesaro lifting him up and slamming him down on the ring steps.

He knows it's bad the second it happens. Pain sears up his leg, caught between the ring pole and the steel steps. Just like Ambrose's arm, last week, only that had been during a match, not right before he was meant to compete in one.

The referees usher Cesaro away after that, but the damage is done. Seth can't even stand, though he tries, using the same ring steps that caused the damage to try and heft himself up until some of the guys from the back (so he does still have people who like him; that's nice) crowd around him. They try and help him to the back, but Seth has a match, and he can't stand.

Sandow's voice is grating as ever when he gets a microphone in his hand to announce with glee that Seth signed a contract to compete in this match and so he has to compete. Johnny's squawking in outrage where Seth's arm is slung over his shoulder.

A low voice from next to him mutters, "Bullshit," with obvious annoyance. Seth doesn't recognize it, but he agrees with the sentiment. "Likes to hear himself talk."

Seth looks over to see who it is. Leakee. Been around about a year, long enough that Seth recognizes his face but not his voice. He hasn't done much talking, preferring to let his in-ring work speak for him. He's good. Seth has no doubt they'll have a string of pretty good matches down the road.

"You can't do it, man," Johnny says in his ear.

"I forfeit the match if I don't," Seth mumbles back, clutching his leg and glaring toward the ring.

"You forfeit the match if you do," insists Leakee. That can't be his real name. Seth'll find out what it is some other time. "You can barely stand. Live to fight another day."

"I'm not gonna forfeit the match," Seth says, and he pushes the others away as he hobbles toward the ring, Sandow smirking inside. Maybe he can barely stand, but he doesn't need to stand to kick Sandow in the back of the head. Johnny shouts at him the whole way, but he'll make it up to him later.

A fifteen minute match on one leg to get his title back. He'll do his best. The four guys who came out to help him stay around ringside: CJ, Donny, Johnny, and Leakee. He appreciates it. Even if they can't do anything in the ring, at least there won't be any surprise interferences this week.

He scores a fall within the first two minutes. Sandow was working his leg the whole time, and the pain is nearly unbearable, but he manages to score a pin. He can build on that.

Except now he's just pissed Sandow off. Sandow refocuses on Seth's leg, all manner of submissions and hits that send his knee into agony, until he gets him in a half Boston crab that nearly makes Seth black out. Actually, he might've blacked out, because the next thing he knows, the announcer's voice is saying the score's tied.

He hates tapping out. He hates submitting. It's somehow worse than getting pinned. You choose to tap out. You give up. Seth hates giving up. Did he? Did he tap out? He can't remember. It's hard to remember anything but how much his knee hurts.

It feels like his leg's going to fall off. If it did, they'd probably give Sandow another fall.

He tries. He tries so fucking hard. By the time they announce that there's one minute remaining, he's started to understand why Ambrose was determined to do whatever it took to win their matches, because the score's tied, and if it's a draw, the champion wins. It's not so nice being on the other side of that.

And then it happens: Sandow makes a mistake. Just one, overconfident as he goes for the half Boston crab again, Seth manages to reverse it into a pin. His second fall to Sandow's one, and half a second after the referee's hand hits the match for the three-count, the timer runs out. He won his title back.

There's a blur of back pats and cheering and his music playing and someone ruffles his hair and someone else puts the medal around his neck and it all comes tumbling down.

The referee is saying the time expired before the ref's hand hit the mat for the three. The ring announcer confirms it: Sandow's still the champion.

Sandow grabs the medal and leaves the ring before Seth can do anything about it. He's numb and angry and his leg still really fucking hurts, and he doesn't have a single thing to show for it. He grabs the referee's shirt before Johnny pulls him back, muttering that he needs to calm down. He sounds just as angry as Seth is, but he's right. Last week they banned Husky and Richie from FCW for putting their hands on the officials.

Cesaro comes out after, to say some shit about how he hates everybody, Americans and people who use Twitter and Seth especially. Probably because he's both. He doesn't know. He does know that he wants Cesaro, now, he wants his head on a fucking spike, and it's only the guys holding him back that keeps him from diving at Cesaro, bad leg or no.

So Cesaro's gone once he's finished with Seth. Good riddance. He won't be missed, especially not by him.

He hobbles his way to the back with a little help, Johnny muttering obscenities the whole way, Leakee a welcome silence among the constant chatter of Donny and CJ.

"I kinda wanna be alone," Seth mutters, once they arrive outside his locker room. "Please," he adds when Johnny looks likely to protest.

Reluctantly, Johnny stands down, letting Seth stand on his own. "I'll bring you ice later," he insists before he takes off at a jog, looking back over his shoulder before he turns the corner. CJ and Donny have already dispersed, which means it's just Leakee and him. Weird, considering they don't actually know each other.

"Hey," Seth says. Leakee looks surprised to be addressed. Seth's surprised to have addressed him. "What's your name? Like, your actual name."

Leakee remains silent for a moment, then dips his head. "Roman," he says, his voice as low and smooth as it had been when they were out by the ring. "Roman Reigns."

"Thanks for the backup," Seth says, offering his hand. Leakee – Roman – looks at it for a moment before he shakes it. "I appreciate it."

Roman gives him a smile, though his brow is still furrowed like he's not sure why Seth's thanking him. "He attacked you from behind," he says. "There's no honor in that."

"Not a lot of honor in him." Seth shakes his head and tries to put some weight on his leg. Nope, not happening right now.

"As far as I can tell, you're right about that," Roman says. He nods at Seth again. "I'm sure we'll cross paths again. Take care of that leg."

To the point, dismissing himself because he knows Seth would rather not have anybody else around right now. Seth likes that. "Do my best," he murmurs as Roman heads down the hallway. He's an odd duck. Seth'll have to keep an eye on him.

Seth shoves open the door to his locker room, planning on maybe stretching his leg out as best as he can, maybe drowning himself in the shower, but he's not going to get to do either of those things, because Dean Ambrose is in his locker room.

"Bad time?" Ambrose comments lightly, legs propped on a folding chair as he eyes Seth from head to toe. He looks perfectly normal, as normal as Ambrose ever looks. "How's the leg?"

"Guess." Seth packs as much vitriol as he can into the one word, putting as little weight onto his foot as he can while he makes his way to one of the other chairs in the room. He has no idea why there are so many chairs, considering it's his room and the only other person who's ever in it is Johnny, sometimes, and apparently Ambrose.

There's a long enough pause that Seth looks up to gauge Ambrose's reaction. He's frowning, watching Seth. "That bad?"

"I lost," Seth grunts. "It'd probably hurt less if I hadn't lost."

"Technically, you just didn't win," Ambrose points out. He holds his hands up in placation when Seth growls at him. "Tryin' to look on the bright side of things. At least it wasn't my fault this time?"

"Why are you here, anyway?" asks Seth, propping his leg up on another chair and working to get his kickpad and boot off. He already knows it's bad, but he's hoping that with ice and wrapping it, he'll still be medically cleared to compete. Sandow was relentless in the match, and the sharp, stinging pain is only made worse once he gets his gear off.

"I don't have a match tonight," Ambrose mutters. Seth had forgotten he'd even asked a question. "You're the only person I can halfway stand in this place. Thought I'd come keep you company."

Carefully, Seth bends his knee toward him and then fully extends it, wincing. "I really don't like Antonio Cesaro," he mumbles.

"Does anybody?" Ambrose leans forward and Seth doesn't bother to move as he touches Seth's now-bare knee. "Looks nasty. Can you even walk?"

"I got here, didn't I?" Seth asks waspishly, batting Ambrose's hand away. "It's fine. And if it wasn't, I wouldn't tell you."

Even as he says it, he knows it's not quite true. Like any wrestler, Ambrose knows to focus on the weakest part of his opponent, as he had in their Super Eight qualifying match. But this isn't quite a match, and – and even if Seth doesn't feel like Ambrose owes him anything, they're both aware that Seth didn't have to give him a ride last week. He'd known Ambrose's arm was fucked and he hadn't done anything to injure it farther.

Something Roman had said resonates in Seth's head: There's no honor in attacking from behind. Maybe, even after everything, there's some part of Ambrose that knows the meaning of honor.

"Fair," Ambrose says after a moment. He's still touching Seth's knee.

Seth squints at him, wondering if his arm might actually be the reason Ambrose isn't competing tonight. He wouldn't mention it, at least not outright, Seth doesn't think, but he'd seen the match. There's no way he can be at 100% after that.

"You were limping when you came in," Ambrose says. His thumb is rubbing in small circles on the side of Seth's leg and it doesn't feel… bad. Seth should tell him to stop, but he doesn't. "You gonna be able to drive?"

"I'll do what I have to," Seth murmurs. He's driven a hundred miles with broken ribs before. He can handle the three miles back to the hotel.

Ambrose smiles at him and then pats his thigh. "Nah," he says.

Seth frowns. "Excuse me?" He hopes he's managing more menace than flat confusion, but he's never really been good at menacing.

"I said 'Nah,'" Ambrose repeats a little louder, speaking slowly. God, Seth would punch him if he wasn't already down a wheel. "You're here, I'm here. I don't have anything else to do. We're going to the same place anyway. I'll drive you back to the hotel."

"Uh, no," says Seth. "Definitely not. I do not trust you behind the wheel of a car."

"My driving record is impeccable, prettyboy. I don't got all that hair to get in my face and obscure my vision." Ambrose grins at him. "Besides. I owe you."

"You really, really don't," Seth says, deciding to ignore everything else Ambrose said, for his own health. "I'll let you off free."

"Nope," Ambrose replies, cheerful. He squeezes Seth's thigh and then stands, holding up a hand. It takes a moment for Seth to realize what he's holding. Those are Seth's keys.

"Hey!" he says, outraged. Ambrose cuts him off before he can say anything else.

"I figured you'd be a little stubborn about this," he says in placation. "So I took the liberty of taking a few necessary precautions, just in case."

"Give me my keys back," Seth demands, hand outstretched. Ambrose doesn't, of course. He just tucks his thumbs into the pockets of his jeans.

"I'll be waiting by the car," he says in that annoying singsong voice, practically skipping to the door. Seth, on his bum leg, can only watch, furious. "I'll let you get dressed, sweetie. Unless," he says with a leer, "you think you'll need any help?"

He darts out the door before Seth can respond, and Seth can hear his laughter as he moves down the hallway.

By the time he manages to get dressed, he's kind of expecting Ambrose to have just stolen his car. Of course, they're staying in the same place, so it'd be pretty stupid of him, and Ambrose is one of the least stupid people Seth has ever met; he'll give him credit for that.

Ambrose is still there, though. Leaning against the driver's side door, his (formerly? Currently?) bad arm tucked up against his chest as he nibbles on the end of his thumb. He looks as casual as can be. If Seth didn't know any better, he'd think that was Ambrose's car and he was just waiting to give someone else a ride.

Seth keeps his limp as subtle as he can as he heads in that direction. "Give me my keys," he demands again.

"Good, you're here!" Ambrose replies, nodding his head toward the other side of the car. "Get in."

"Give me my keys," Seth counters.

Ambrose smiles at him, his hand curling around the curve of Seth's neck. Seth shivers a little, and not just from the chill in the air. "I think you should get in the car," he suggests. "Please."

Seth narrows his eyes. Something about that sounds like a threat, even though the words are all pretty innocuous on their own. It's a talent of Ambrose's.

"If you crash my fucking car I will beat the shit out of you, bad leg or not," he says.

"I'm not gonna crash your stupid car, princess," Ambrose mutters, rolling his eyes. "Scout's honor."

"You were never a boy scout," Seth scoffs as he makes his way to the other side of the car.

"Course I wasn't," replies Ambrose, jovial again as he opens the car door. "They don't like cocksuckers."

It's crude, but Seth's come to expect crude from Ambrose. He just shakes his head and stretches his leg out as much as he can once he closes the door.

Ambrose is merrily adjusting the seat, sliding it back a few inches and humming to himself. At least he's wearing a seatbelt. Seth cinches his own, still feeling vague dread in the pit of his stomach.

"You've looked less scared while I've been punching you in the face," Ambrose tells him. "I got my license just like anybody else. I'll whip it out right now if you wanna see it."

"Just drive, asshole," Seth mutters, folding his arms across his chest. His leg is throbbing and Ambrose's voice makes his head hurt.

Ambrose just drives. Seth was kind of expecting him to make another smart comment or six, but he falls silent and starts the car, checking behind him before he backs out.

Seth rubs his temples, leaning his head back against the head rest. So he's coming out of this week with an injured leg and still no title. Somehow, he's had an even worse week than he did last week, which he hadn't known was possible.

The rest of the way back to the hotel is silent, and Seth's grateful for that. Ambrose doesn't even turn the radio on.

"There y'go," Ambrose announces once the car stops moving. Seth blinks his eyes open, surprised. That didn't take as long as he was expecting it to. "See? Was that so hard, letting somebody else do something for you?" Ambrose tosses the keys into Seth's lap.

"You're one to talk!" Seth snorts. He grabs the keys and shoves them into the bag at his feet.

Ambrose pushes open his door once he's gotten his own bag from the back, nudging it closed with his hip.

"Hey," he says before Seth can take more than two steps away from the car. He sighs and turns back, but Ambrose isn't even looking at him, instead rummaging in his bag.

"What?" asks Seth, trying to stand so that less weight is on his leg, while at the same time trying not to be obvious that that's what he's doing.

Ambrose clears his throat, then grasps Seth's hand, pressing what feels like a small bottle into it and closing Seth's hand around it. "Take two of those," he instructs. "You look like you could use 'em more than me."

The smirk he levels at Seth isn't at full power, and he jogs off without another word (or another kiss, as the case may be.)

Seth looks down at his hand and reads the label on the bottle. It's pretty straightforward; some kind of pain medication, probably for Ambrose's arm. Seth guesses he must have seen someone about it after all.

"Ambrose," he calls. He's not expecting Ambrose to turn around, but he does, raising his eyebrows at Seth. He looks kind of embarrassed, kind of challenging. Seth hobbles the four steps to him and before Ambrose can ask him what he's doing, Seth kisses him.

It wasn't expected, obviously, because Ambrose makes a noise, surprised and questioning, before he settles into it. It feels good being on the other end of the equation, throwing Ambrose off-kilter for a change. Seth hopes Ambrose is wondering what game Seth is playing. Turnaround is fair play.

Ambrose blinks when Seth steps back on his good leg, caught between a smile and a frown.

"See you next week," Seth says. With that, he turns toward his room and walks away. He doesn't look back, but he's pretty sure Ambrose watches him go.

Even though he said he'd see Ambrose the next week, Seth's not really expecting to be waylaid two seconds after he gets to the arena. It's a good thing his leg's feeling better because he stumbles as his arm is grabbed and he's yanked into what looks like a closet.

"We need to talk," Ambrose informs him without further ado. On Seth's second look, it's probably a janitor's closet. There are mops piled in the corner.

"About what?" Seth asks, already annoyed. "You gonna steal my car again?"

"A little dramatic, but okay." Seth notices then that Ambrose looks frazzled, biting on the edge of his thumb.

"What's going on?" Seth asks, leaning back against the wall.

"We're in a match tonight," says Ambrose. Immediately, Seth's on guard. There's no reason an opponent in a match you're in needs to talk before the match.

"Okay," he says suspiciously. "Why does that mean we need to talk?"

"I'm not gonna attack you before the match," Ambrose grumbles. "I don't need to. I already know I can beat you." Seth bristles, but allows Ambrose to continue. "It's a tag match."

Oh. That's a little different, then. "You? Tagging with people? You don't seem the type."

"It wasn't exactly my decision." Ambrose's eyebrows are pulled together as he looks at Seth underneath his hair. "Six-man tag. My partners are Damien Sandow and Antonio Cesaro."

"Oh, great. Really excellent." Seth pushes himself off the wall, debating with himself whether or not he wants to just leave now. "It's like the trifecta of people who have screwed me over. Awesome."

"I didn't get to pick my partners," Ambrose snaps. He's bouncing on the balls of his feet. "That's not the point. Your team is you and Curtis and a partner of your choosing."

"Is that so?" Seth asks flatly. It's obvious, really, who the logical choice of partner would be. Who he should ask to be in the match.

"I don't have a problem being in the ring with you. I know you're not going to back down, or go easy on me, and I'm not gonna go easy on you. I don't expect any of that," Ambrose says, his thumb still at his mouth. "I'll fight you and whoever you want a thousand fucking times over. Just – just don't pick Regal."

And there it is, out there. Seth should've known that's why Ambrose would want to talk to him.

"He's the logical choice," Seth says carefully, with as much neutrality as he can. "Why shouldn't I?"

"I don't know!" It's like the words are ripped from Ambrose's throat. "You don't owe me anything, and we're not – friends, and I know that, but I'm asking you to. Don't team with William Regal tonight."

"What if I do?" Seth fold his arms across his chest. "Hypothetically speaking."

"Shit, I don't know, I guess I'll deal with it, won't I?" Ambrose's eyes look from Seth's eyes to the wall to his eyes to the door and then back to him again. "Obviously you owe me fuck-all. But I'm asking you not to. And I don't ask people for shit."

Seth knows that. Ambrose isn't the type. He wonders how many people have ever done anything for Dean Ambrose out of the goodness of their heart. He imagines not many.

"I'll think about it," he finally says. "I'm not promising anything. But I'll think about it, I guess."

Immediately, Ambrose releases a whoosh of air, his shoulders relaxing, his body language less defensive. Seth hadn't realize how tightly he was wound until he wasn't anymore.

"You're really fucked up over him, aren't you?" he asks, trying to make it sound like a casual inquiry.

"No." Ambrose scowls, then makes an obvious effort to clear his expression. "No," he repeats. "It's complicated. I can beat him, it's not because I think I can't beat him," he insists suddenly, like he thinks that's the conclusion Seth's come to.

"Oh, I know you can beat him," Seth says. Ambrose was clearly not expecting that, because he stops in the middle of gearing up for a defensive strike, taken aback. "I have no doubt that you could beat William Regal."

It's really fun to catch Ambrose off guard. Seth should do it way more often.

"I can," Ambrose says. It sounds like he's caught between a question and a statement.

Seth shrugs. "You're just as good as he is. Weren't you the one who told me that one match didn't make me better than you when I beat you?"

Ambrose is looking at him like he's just said something mindblowing. "Yeah," he says slowly. "That's right."

"Well, there you go. You'll beat him next time." Seth pats Ambrose's shoulder. "See you out there."

He's turning to leave when Ambrose presses him to the door instead and kisses him. Maybe this is just their thing now, trading insults and making out. It seems to be all they do these days. Seth remembers when his dislike of Ambrose was straightforward, without this bizarre mix of attraction and sympathy. He wishes he could just hate Ambrose, like he did when the guy got to FCW.

Seth kisses back, giving as good as he's getting. Ambrose might have him pressed against the door, but Seth's not just going to lie back and think of England. He gets one hand in Ambrose's hair and the other at his hip. The contrast of the rough denim of Ambrose's jeans and the smooth skin of his side is jarring and dizzyingly hot. Seth's head is spinning a little.

Ambrose keeps his forehead pressed against Seth's even when the kiss ends, his eyes closed, breathing heavily in and out. Seth wishes he could see into Ambrose's head to figure out what he's thinking.

He can hear the sound Ambrose's throat makes when he swallows, then clears his throat, stepping back.

"For luck." The corner of Ambrose's mouth hitches up in a smile. "You're gonna need it. Whatever you throw at me, I'll be ready for it."

"Luck is for losers," Seth replies, reaching behind him to twist the door knob. "And I'm not a loser."

He closes the door behind him when he leaves. Silently, somehow, they've decided to stagger their departures. It wouldn't do for them to be seen coming out of a closet together, after all.

It's a good thing Ambrose found him when he did, because Johnny's waiting for Seth at his locker room.

"How's the leg?" is his first question after they exchange hellos. He follows Seth into his locker room. Probably their locker room, actually, considering they're teaming tonight. "Have you seen the match listings?"

"Yeah," Seth lies. He hasn't, but that's irrelevant. "You got anybody in mind for our third?"

"Even better." Johnny looks gleeful. "I've got an offer. Call just came in. William Regal's begging to be in the match."

Shit. Seth does his best to look interested instead of annoyed. "Is he? What do you think about that?"

"What do you mean, what do I think? It's great!" Johnny grins, obviously excited. "Did you see what he did to Ambrose two weeks ago? It'll be amazing. I thought you'd jump at the chance."

And the thing is, Seth should be jumping at the chance. He and Johnny are good enough that even if it was just the two of them, they could probably give the other team a good fight, but if they had Regal on their side, it'd be a much more even match. They'd almost definitely win if they had Regal.

"I don't know," Seth finally says. "They call the guy a true villain for a reason, you know? I just don't know if we can trust him. I've never teamed with him before."

Johnny at least seems to be thinking about that. "I guess so," he says, dubious. "But I think he hates – or whatevers, I don't know what to call their weird obsession with each other – Ambrose more than he cares about us."

"But if we're gonna be teaming with him, it's gotta be a team," Seth says. God damn it. Apparently this is what he's doing. "What about uh, Leakee? He got a match tonight?"

"Yeah, against Corey Graves, I think. I asked him already," Johnny admits. "Thought it was cool of him to come out there last week."

"It was," Seth mutters, thinking. He snaps his fingers. "Bateman."

"Derrick?" Johnny raises his eyebrows. "He'd be up for that, probably."

"And you two were tag champs together, so he's obviously good at working on a team," Seth reasons. "See if he's even here, would you? D'you have his number?"

"I can do you one better; I saw him in the locker room when I got here." Johnny grins at him. "It'll be nice to team up with him again. I'll go see if he's interested."

He shoots Seth a double thumbs up and rushes off, leaving the smile to fall off Seth's face as he sighs. What did he just do? And why the fuck did he just do it?

When he and Johnny are announced for their match, he makes sure to keep an eye on Ambrose, in the ring. Maybe it's Seth's imagination, or he's being stupidly optimistic, but Ambrose doesn't seem very buddy-buddy with his partners. Mostly, he looks ready to compete. Seth wonders how the look on his face would change if William Regal was announced as their partner.

It doesn't. This whole time, Seth's been second-guessing himself, wondering if he should find out how to get a hold of Regal, but Derrick's music plays instead of the frou-frou pomp and circumstance of Regal's, and it's like Seth can see the tension drain from Ambrose that he wouldn't have even known was there if he wasn't looking for it.

Well, Seth hopes he's happy about it, because Derrick's good, but he's not a master technician like Regal is, and he does his best, but he's not a match for Ambrose. With everyone else taken out, outside the ring, Ambrose manages to get the pin on Derrick.

Part of Seth knew it was kind of doomed from the beginning, especially since the other team wasn't going to play fair in any way. Ambrose was telling the truth; he didn't let up at all, fighting Seth just as well as he always does when they're in the ring together.

Even when Seth hated Ambrose completely, he liked being in the ring with him. They work well together. There's a chemistry there that Seth hasn't had with many people. It's rare, and he has it with Ambrose. Whenever they're in the ring together, everything just works.

When they're out of the ring together, it's a different story. But when it comes to wrestling people, Ambrose is one of the best opponents he's had.

He's expecting Ambrose to pay him a visit after the match. He's not expecting him to knock, which is why he's hesitant to answer the door, toweling off his shower-damp hair and cracking the door before he opens it completely. Ambrose is leaning against the opposite wall, chewing gum and keeping a watchful eye down either side of the hallway. He stands up straight when he sees Seth.

"You alone?" he asks, immediately following it up with, "Got a minute?"

"Yeah." Seth answers both questions at once, stepping back to let Ambrose through the door. He enters quickly, which Seth appreciates. He doesn't know what he'd do if Johnny happened by and saw Seth letting Ambrose into his locker room.

He's thrown off, a little, because Ambrose doesn't knock. He's not the knocking type. He'd knocked that first week, after their second match against each other, but ever since then he's either waltzed into Seth's life or dragged Seth into his. He doesn't tend to care whether Seth has a minute or not.

Ambrose's hands are shoved into his back pockets. He's clad again in his usual apparel when he's outside the ring: jeans, t-shirt, jacket. Shifting from foot to foot, he actually looks nervous, too. Seth's on guard.

"Good match," Ambrose says out of nowhere. He's looking at Seth, at least, though he's a good two feet away. "I mean, we were both in it, so of course it was."

"Probably feels better when you're on the winning team," Seth says pointedly, folding his arms across his chest. It's hanging there in the air between them: if Regal had been on Seth's team, there's no way Ambrose would've won as easily as he did. There's a good chance he wouldn't have won at all.

Ambrose nods, then breathes out heavily through his nose. "I wanted to say, uh." He clears his throat, then coughs. "Uh, thanks. You know, or whatever."

"Sorry?" asks Seth, leaning closer. "Didn't catch that."

"You fuckin' did," Ambrose grumbles. He looks to the ceiling and repeats, "Thanks."

"Bet that hurt," Seth replies. The look on Ambrose's face could almost be called a wince. He wonders what it's like, to be forced to be sincere when you've never been before in your life. "But anyway, don't think you owe me. I didn't do you any favors – I didn't do it because you asked me to."

That's got Ambrose's attention. He stops shifting around so much and looks at Seth, his head tilted just so in a silent question.

"A good team beats three individuals," says Seth, shrugging. "William Regal isn't a nice guy. I would've been off my game the whole match, wondering if I could trust him."

"You can't." Ambrose's voice is quiet. "He just doesn't work that way. Lone wolf through and through."

"Something you can relate to?" Seth asks. He busies himself getting his stuff back in his bag, needing something to do with his hands. He's jittery. He's on a kind of losing streak as of late, it seems, and he can't help but notice it coincides pretty well with when he started not-hating Ambrose. Well, he still kind of hates him sometimes, it's just, damn it. Even now, he's off his game. He needs to get his mind back on winning and off of this asshole he sometimes has fairly good orgasms with.

"I used to think so," Ambrose answers from behind him. "Recently I'm not so sure. Guess I've never really been a team player."

"That doesn't surprise me." Seth laughs under his breath, searching for his left boot. It's nudged into his space by the toe of Ambrose's shoe, and he mutters his gratitude without even thinking about it. Ambrose makes a noncommittal sound in return.

"I'd guess someone like you really wouldn't understand," Ambrose says to continue the conversation. "I bet you're the kind of guy who's always had a shitload of friends for any occasion."

Seth shrugs. "I've never really been lonely, if that's what you mean. I've got people who mean a lot to me. People I know I can count on."

"Yeah." Ambrose laughs and coughs at the same time, and it's left unspoken that he's never really experienced that. "Anyway, I just wanted to tell you, you know. What I told you."

"Is it really that hard for you to say?" Seth asks curiously, zipping up his back and turning back around to face Ambrose. "Is it that hard for you to just be grateful to someone?" The face Ambrose makes at that has Seth hazarding another guess, "Or are you just that unused to people doing nice things for you?"

Ambrose cringes. He schools his face remarkably quickly, but Seth saw. "I'm not used to… meaning it," he says after a second. "It's a weakness. Makes you vulnerable. Now you've done me a favor, even if you say you didn't. And I'm gonna be waiting for you to call in what I owe you."

"I already told you, I don't want you to owe me anything," Seth says, frowning. "Even if I had done it because you wanted me to, which I still didn't. You don't owe me shit, Ambrose. Actually, I'm not sure I want to know what your method of paying someone back would be."

Ambrose huffs a laughing little sound. "I mean, I could suck your dick again." He still looks cautious, but less resigned. "You seemed to like that all right."

"I don't think that'll be necessary." Seth swings his bag onto his shoulder. "Seriously, Ambrose. You don't owe me anything. Though I think I probably still owe you a kick in the head or two from our last singles match."

He gets a tiny smile at the corners of Ambrose's lips. "Hey, man, you bandage a body part, I'm gonna target it. Wrestling Underhanded Tactics 101."

"Yeah, yeah," Seth grumbles. "Next time I get you in the ring, we'll see if you've got the same smart mouth."

"You wouldn't like me without my smart mouth," Ambrose says, chewing his gum obnoxiously.

Seth's half a second from saying that he doesn't like Ambrose with his smart mouth either, but at the last moment he just shakes his head, muttering, "Whatever."

"I'll get out of your way," Ambrose says once there's silence between them, taking a step back toward the door. "Said what I needed to."

"Oh, you're not gonna con your way into a ride back to the hotel this week?" Seth asks, unsure of why he's asking. It's not an offer, of course, because that'd be stupid, and insane, and it's not like they're friends who can just bum rides off each other.

Ambrose pauses at the door. "I'll make it back one way or another," he says slowly. "I got sources. Methods."

Seth takes a deep breath and then lets it out. Ambrose is still standing there, something in his cocked eyebrow like a challenge, like he's daring Seth to actually say the words. Seth's not going to play his game.

"Okay," he says, and the weird tension between them dissipates. "Maybe I'll see you next week, then."

"Maybe you will, maybe you won't," says Ambrose. He actually shoots finger guns at Seth, and while Seth's staring at him, flabbergasted, he slips out the door.

Seth shoves a hand through his hair. He has no idea what he's gotten himself into, but he really needs to figure himself out before his next match. He didn't come to FCW to get turned inside out by people when he's not even wrestling them.

Seth has quite a bit of time to figure himself out, as it happens. Two weeks with no matches makes for a pretty dull show, for him, but it does give him an opportunity to keep an eye on the competition. Just because he's not wrestling anybody doesn't mean he can't watch the matches, and there are a few people who could probably give him a run for his money if ever they ended up in a match together.

Oddly, though, Ambrose gets a week off as well, and not that Seth's looking, but he can't find the guy for the life of him. He guesses that if Ambrose doesn't want to be found, he won't be.

He has more luck his second week without a match. About halfway through the show, somebody makes the decision to give Ambrose a microphone, which is a mistake if Seth's ever seen one. There are other, more famous wrestlers who have been called visionaries, or wordsmiths for the things they say on that thing, but Seth's never seen anybody hold an audience like Ambrose does when he has a microphone in his hand.

For a minute while he's talking, Seth finds himself falling into the trap. He's just so goddamn believable, an arrogant little shit but so confident of the things he's saying that it's hard to not just believe what he's saying.

He thinks he's misheard, at first. But no, Ambrose really is calling out Damien Sandow, saying he wants a shot at the FCW 15 title that he said a few weeks ago Seth was too good for. Apparently Ambrose isn't too good for it, though, challenging Sandow now that Seth's out of the picture.

Seth should've known better. He should've known Ambrose was a snake; couldn't beat Seth without cheating to do it so he gets the title off Seth so he can face Sandow instead. Of course Ambrose can beat Sandow. Ambrose can beat just about anybody, but when it mattered, he didn't beat Seth. He couldn't get the title off him legitimately so he's done some kind of roundabout scheme to get what he wants.

And of course he did. He's Dean Ambrose. Seth doesn't know how he could've expected anything else.

He feels like throwing something, or punching something, but he doesn't have anything to throw or anyone to punch, so instead he runs through his stretches because that's mindless and he can do it without really focusing.

The show's not quite over when he decides he's not going to wait around for Ambrose to come to him and try to butter him up. He doesn't know where Ambrose is, but he's going to find him and if he's lucky he'll be able to get a swing or two in.

There's a pounding pressure behind his eyes as he makes his way down the hall. He passes at least three people who call greetings to him but he ignores them until someone grabs his elbow. It's not hard, but it yanks Seth to a stop, and he's about to bite the person's head off when he sees who it is. Not somebody he wants to piss off.

"In a hurry?" Roman asks him, all cool calmness as usual. He let Seth's arm go as soon as he got his attention, but still, something tells Seth that he'd be better off answering the question rather than just going on his way.

"Kind of," Seth hedges. "I need to find somebody and kill them. It could probably wait a minute if you need something."

Roman looks at him silently, his eyes narrowed. The guy is fucking big. Seth works with big guys all the time, so he's hardly impressed by a good physique, but something about Roman is that bit larger than life that makes Seth think he's probably going to be a pretty big star once he polishes up.

"I won't keep you," he says, finally. "Just thought I'd let you know I have a match against Antonio Cesaro next week."

That is… actually something Seth should probably pay attention to. Cesaro's after him for some reason, and he has no doubt that being friends of a sort with Roman won't stop them from having matches against each other when the time comes. He'll have to watch that one.

"Hope you kick his ass," he says. "If you get a chance to fuck up his knee for a week or two, take it."

Roman laughs, quiet and amused. "I'll do my best," he says before nodding and stepping back. "Hope your murder goes well."

Seth's mood darkens again. "Right," he says. "I'll talk to you later, man."

"Try not to get arrested," Roman advises, tipping his water bottle at Seth before he continues on his way down the hall. Seth should probably keep that in mind.

Ambrose's locker room isn't so hard to find. Seth was only there once before but it hasn't moved and neither has Ambrose. Seth knocks on the door so hard it shudders. He wouldn't even have that respect for Ambrose, considering all the times he's just waltzed into Seth's locker room, but he's not an animal. He knocks on closed doors.

He hears footsteps approaching and narrows his eyes when the door doesn't open even though he knows Ambrose is in there.

"You gonna hit me?" comes the fucker's voice. Points for foresight; he obviously knew Seth would be looking for him.

Or maybe he just figures anybody who's looking for him is someone who wants to punch him. Seth would understand that, too.

"Open the fucking door," he growls.

"Not until you promise not to hit me," Ambrose replies, like a child, like a toddler bargaining with their mother so they don't get yelled at. Seth hammers on the door again.

"Open the door," he demands.

"How about I open the door and then we talk," Ambrose offers. "You're overreacting. I got a good reason for this, promise."

"You've got a good reason for fucking me over?" Seth wants to know, crossing his arms over his chest. "You'll forgive me if I don't believe you."

"When have I ever lied to you?" Ambrose asks. Seth doesn't want that to change his mind about anything, but god damn it, it still does. It did the first time Ambrose said it and it does again now. He's got a point, after all. Ambrose has been nothing if not straightforward, at least with Seth. As far as he knows.

"Two minutes," he says decisively. "Then I get to decide if I still wanna hit you."

"I can work with two minutes," says Ambrose, his voice clearer now as he opens the door and steps back so Seth can come in.

"Minute-fifty," Seth mutters. He doesn't turn his back on Ambrose for a second. "I'm listening."

"You gotta know by now that Sandow was the one who told Cesaro to come after you before your match." Ambrose launches right in. "Cesaro's getting called up soon so he didn't have anything to lose and they wanted to keep the title on Sandow because none of them can beat you without attacking you from behind."

"I know they can't," Seth says coolly. "Doesn't explain why you decided to get a title shot for yourself out of the goodness of your heart."

"This may surprise you to hear," says Ambrose, "but you're a good person. You're a nice guy. You're good in the ring, amazing in the ring, I mean, you can beat me. But revenge? Not your thing. I just can't see it."

"Are you really trying to convince me," Seth says, making an effort to keep his voice as slow and calm as he can make it, "that you got a title shot in order to defend my honor?"

Ambrose values his life, clearly, because he looks disgusted. "Come on, no, course not. I'm just saying that when it comes down to it, I don't think you've got it in you to be a really sick guy."

"You don't get to make that decision for me." Seth's anger flares again. "Let's get one thing straight – just because you've had my dick in your mouth doesn't mean you know me, and it doesn't mean you decide what I can and can't do."

"Look at yourself." Ambrose waves a hand in Seth's general direction, and Seth momentarily considers ripping it off and beating him to death with it. "Look at the way you act in front of the people who come to see you. You love it, it's obvious. You love that they love you. You care about what they think."

"They're the reason I get paid every week, so, yeah." Seth frowns. What's Ambrose's angle?

"No." It's so sharp out of Ambrose's mouth that Seth almost flinches back. "You are the reason you get paid every week. Most of the guys here, they're a dime a dozen. They do their flippy shit and the idiots out there lap it up. You're better than that. You're better than them. And once you stop caring so much what they think, you'll be unbeatable."

"Good speech," Seth says, unimpressed. "So, what, you think I should be more like you? Not give a shit about anybody but myself, talking about how good I am all the time? I already know how good I am at what I do. I've worked hard to get where I am and I'm not gonna change because Dean Ambrose thinks I should."

"Exactly!" Ambrose exclaims. "Exactly, you're not going to be anything but you, right? And you're not the type of person who can get the right message across to a guy like Damien Sandow. He's so far up his own ass that you've got to shout to get his attention. And you aren't the shouting type."

"I can shout plenty when I need to." They're not talking about shouting, not with your words, at least, and Seth's voice is like ice. Ambrose just smiles at him, kind of curious before he shakes his head.

"I think you could, probably. Someday. Maybe even someday soon. Just not soon enough, and I don't like waiting around for people to learn their lessons."

"What makes you think I need somebody else fighting my battles for me?" Seth asks. His fist clenches and unclenches. He doubts Ambrose fails to notice. "What makes you think I need you to fight my battles for me? What about cheating me out of my title and then arranging to win it yourself is going to make him learn his lesson?"

Ambrose smiles at him, hands clasped behind his back like a little girl in her favorite party dress. "You're misunderstanding a very vital part of this plan," he says. For the first time, Seth notices that he's gotten closer, so close that he can settle a hand on Seth's shoulder. "I'm gonna let you in on a secret."

He leans in so that his mouth is pressed close to Seth's ear, voice lowering in a parody of a whisper. Seth doesn't move even though he can feel the thud of the anger in his veins.

"Who said I planned on winning the match?" Ambrose asks him, his hand tightening in a squeeze where it's resting. He gives Seth's shoulder a pat, and nods jauntily as he reaches past him to open the door. "I'll see you next week, sweetheart."

And then he's gone, leaving Seth with more questions than answers and with a bit of a boner. Typical Ambrose, really.

Seth finally has a match the next week, but Ambrose's is before his in the show. He's not sure if he prefers it that way or not. Ambrose's is first on the card while his is the main event, so there'd be time between for him to find Ambrose if he was talking out his ass about not intending to win the title. But then again, if his match was right after Ambrose's, he'd at least be able to channel his anger into something useful against Richie.

He gets his gear on while he's waiting for the show to start, going through the motions even though he's mind's on the match about to happen. The frou-frou music that starts playing from the monitor startles him. Sandow's frou-frou, though; not Regal's frou-frou. As far as Seth knows, nobody's heard from Regal since the match he and Ambrose had.

While he's been deliberately keeping his mind off the match that's starting off the show, Ambrose has already made his way to the ring. He looks just like he always does in the ring: a little off balance but all ready to go.

It only takes about a minute out of the fifteen minute time limit for Seth to see that something's different. Ambrose is off his game, failing to attack where he should, letting Sandow use bullshit tactics to run the time down. He's better than that. Ambrose knows when to let it look like he's getting distracted and then pounce, but in this case, he's really just… different. Something is off.

It's not enough that Seth thinks anybody else would notice. Ambrose is good at what he does, even when what he's doing is trying to be worse than he is. He's crazy, fucking loony, and everyone knows that. But Ambrose knows that everybody knows that. And he's using it to his advantage – upping the weird behavior, pretending he's an airplane, laughing when Sandow hits him, dancing around the ring.

In some ways, it's exactly like Ambrose. In others, it's too much like Ambrose. Like a caricature.

The first fall goes to Sandow, off a modified neckbreaker. A neckbreaker, really? Granted, they've been out there wrestling for a while, but knowing what he knows, Seth just doesn't buy that Ambrose couldn't have kicked out of that pin.

And then the end of the match happens. Sandow unties the turnbuckle cover and suckers Ambrose into getting himself disqualified, going down two falls to one. The look on Ambrose's face is something to see, a mix of a smile and something darker. He holds two fingers up to the referee in question, and then, a weird glint in his eye, he slams Sandow's head into the exposed steel again.

And again.

And again.

He does it so many times that Seth's pretty sure Sandow's knocked out for real, and Ambrose has lost the match and the title but Sandow's eyes are rolling back in his head. Ambrose rolls out of the ring to grab the medal and shove it over Sandow's lolling head before he puts him in – an STF? No, it's the Regal Stretch. He's got Sandow in William Regal's finishing move.

The announcers are talking about how Ambrose was trying to send a message to the rest of the locker room, but they're wrong. The message was meant to be sent to two people, and Seth knows he was one of them.

Maybe three people, if Sandow's even capable of receiving any messages right now.

There are referees in the ring trying to get Ambrose off him, but Ambrose keeps the submission on until he damn well feels like letting it go. Then he saunters away like he's the one who won the match, and from where Seth's sitting, he looks much more like the victor even though it's not his music playing.

Seth's expecting a visit fairly soon, now, and he waits, leaning back in his chair and thinking. Ambrose kept his word as far as Seth can tell, and that counts for something. He's just not positive what, yet.

Sure enough, there's not even a knock as Ambrose opens his door, half waltzing into the room and closing the door behind him. He's sweaty and flushed, eyes bright with his success, or at least what Ambrose would view as success.

"Happy with yourself?" Seth asks. It's hard not to smile, actually, with Ambrose still doing his weird floaty dance around the room.

"You should try just beating the shit out of someone sometime," Ambrose tells him, finally flopping into a chair opposite Seth. He's still grinning, exhilarated. "Were you watching? How'd I do? Do I get a gold star?"

"You get something," Seth murmurs, shaking his head. "He probably has a concussion now, you know. Might not even be able to wrestle next week."

"What a shame," says Ambrose without a hint of sincerity. "I was hoping he'd start bleeding but I guess his head's harder than I thought it'd be."

"Too bad," Seth says without thinking. The smile Ambrose levels at him is near delighted. Seth clears his throat. "You planning on causing any other havoc tonight?"

"I think I sent the message I wanted to the people I wanted," Ambrose says. He raises his eyebrows. "You have something in mind?"

"I've got a match on last," says Seth. He's finding himself regretting that, because right here and now they're on a line between laughter and something else. They're always teetering on that line between something and something else, whether it's laughter or anger or anything. It's like Seth's only ever a step or two away from wanting in Ambrose's pants. He swears he used to have more self-control over this kind of thing.

Ambrose is looking at him like he's tempted to tell Seth to skip it. He's still breathing pretty hard, though Seth's no longer sure if it's from the match he just had or from something else.

How did this happen? How did they flip a switch so quickly, from talking about beating Damien Sandow bloody to not-talking about what they're always not-talking about?

"You gonna be busy after you beat him?" Ambrose asks. Seth doesn't want that to be a nice feeling, but it goes straight to his ego, and his lips twitch before he can stop them.

"Dunno," he says. "Might be. Might not be. You gonna hang around or go back into hiding?"

Ambrose hums thoughtfully. "I could probably be convinced to stick around a while."

Seth shakes his head and laughs to himself. "This is stupid," he mutters. "I can't believe this is what I'm thinking about doing. I don't like you."

"Come on," Ambrose coaxes. "You like me a little."

"You're okay, sometimes." Seth shrugs. "Mostly when you keep your mouth shut and you're wrestling people I like less than you."

Ambrose leans forward with his elbows on his knees chin cupped in his hands. "Sure you want me keeping my mouth shut?" he asks, licking his lips in a deliberate motion that shouldn't turn Seth on. Doesn't turn Seth on.

"Yes," he says firmly, looking away. "I need to get ready for my match."

He's all but ready, actually, just needs to loosen up his limbs a little, make sure his muscles don't cool down between now and then. FCW's only an hour long, so there's really not that much time between the beginning and the end of the show. He does want to catch Roman's match, if he can. It's right before his as far as he knows.

"You look pretty ready to me," says Ambrose. He does lean back in his seat, though, and nods at the monitor. "That one'll be good."

When Seth looks, he has to do his best not to react. Is Ambrose a fucking mind reader or is Seth just that obvious? It was most likely happy coincidence that he just remembered the match he wants to watch as it started, both Cesaro and Roman already in the ring.

Should Seth call him by his first name? He hadn't even thought about it, and everybody else he's talked to still calls him Leakee. He might be being unintentionally rude. He'll ask about it next time they run into each other.

"Who're you pulling for?" Ambrose asks him.

"Uh, Leakee," Seth mutters. "He's never tried to break my fucking knee and screw me out of my title rematch."

"Oh, right. Forgot about that." Ambrose rubs the back of his neck, and Seth snorts, turning his gaze back to the match.

"Lucky you," he replies.

It really is a great match. Ambrose stays mostly silent except for an occasional appreciative hum at a decent counter, and Seth sighs, disappointed when Cesaro's the one who gets his hand raised.

"He gave him a pretty good fight," Ambrose says. "I guess the experience factored in. Thought the big guy had him a few times there."

"He's been getting better and better," replies Seth. "He's a natural in the ring. Guess he'd have to be, family like his." He sighs again. "My match is up next."

"I think I'll just wait here, if you don't mind." Ambrose shrugs and shifts in his seat, making a show of getting comfortable. "I think we're not done talking."

"I'm not your keeper, I got no control over you." Seth shrugs right back at him. "Just don't steal my car keys again."

"I gave them back. I don't think it counts as stealing if I give them back!" Ambrose's voice raises until he's shouting as Seth leaves, closing the door behind him. He clears his thoughts of everything to do with Ambrose. He's got a match to win, and hopefully break him out of this losing slump.

He should've known it'd be too much to hope that Husky could just fucking leave Steamboat alone for ten goddamn minutes so Seth can get a win over somebody. And Seth gets it, he gets being so angry at somebody, so pissed off that you just want to hit them and it doesn't matter what they're doing, you hate them and you want them to suffer. But he's so angry that Husky couldn't just leave well enough alone.

"Shut up," he says shortly when he gets back to his locker room after the huge fight that erupts. He got disqualified for Husky's interference, which means another loss on the books, again.

Ambrose is still there, but he listens for once and doesn't say a thing. Seth is only in there long enough to notice that at some point Ambrose apparently went back to his locker room because he's dressed, now, before he slams his way into the shower.

He goes through the motions, though he's pretty sure he yanks some of his hair out while he's washing it. Why can't he just get a clean win in a match? At this point, he'd take just about any win. He'd take a win by countout, a win by DQ, a win because the other guy tripped over his bootlace and knocked himself out.

Once he's done cleaning up, he sets the water to as cold as it goes and just stands there for a minute, letting it pelt down on him. It helps, if only a little, to make his anger less burning, to keep him grounded.

"Fuck," he mutters, turning it off. He didn't grab his bag before he stormed in here, but when he turns to go grab it, it's already sitting just inside the door, like it's always been there, even though Seth knows for a fact he didn't put it there. "Fuck," he sighs again. He must look pathetic lately if Dean fucking Ambrose is doing him favors.

By the time he gets dressed, he's feeling a little calmer. This isn't the first streak of losses he's had, and it won't be the last. He's just having a bit of a dry spell right now. He has to step up his game.

Ambrose is still there when he comes out, not that Seth was expecting him to leave. Ambrose has a knack for hanging around even when it would probably be best for him to make himself scarce.

"You want someone to hit?" Ambrose offers. "I'll let you hit me, if you want. Might make you feel better."

Seth honestly considers it. He narrows his eyes at Ambrose and imagines the satisfying feeling of knuckles splitting against skin, and then he shakes his head.

"I'm not gonna hit you," he mutters. "Wouldn't be the same. You actually haven't done anything recently to piss me off."

"Since when would that stop you?" Ambrose tilts his head to present the side of his face. "Sure you don't wanna get a swing or two in? I mean, I'll hit you back, but you can have the first one free."

"I said I'm not gonna hit you." Seth puts some warning in his voice. "It wouldn't help anything. I'm just… frustrated."

"I got ways of helping out with that, too." Ambrose is still chewing gum. Seth wonders if he ever stops. Has he ever seen Ambrose without gum in his mouth? "If you're still interested."

Seth crosses his arms and looks at Ambrose. The anger is still seething in the back of his mind, but he's remembering, now, before his match, that kind of simmering heat that had him nearly ready to skip it. He wants that. He wants to pin someone, and it might feel as good even if it's outside the ring.

"Okay," he says, finally, digging his keys out of his bag. Ambrose hasn't touched them this time. "Let's go."

Ambrose seems taken aback. "Let's go?" he repeats, as Seth reaches past him to open the door.

"Yep," Seth replies, walking past Ambrose. He's pretty sure that Ambrose will follow.

He's right, and Ambrose's footsteps follow him all the way out to his car. He's still not sure how Ambrose gets to and from the arena when he's not bumming a ride with Seth. Then again, he's not sure what Ambrose does with his time at all when he's not at the arena.

"You seem surprised," Seth says once they're both in the car, Ambrose's bewildered eyebrows prompting him to comment.

Ambrose takes a second to answer, fiddling around with his seatbelt. "I was more expecting you to take up the offer to hit me," he says, slowly. "I'm liking this decision better, though."

"I can still hit you, if that's what you want," Seth says, making a sharper turn than he probably should. "Just thought we might both like this more."

"Oh, don't get me wrong, I'm always happy to lend a hand if you're in need of gettin' your rocks off," Ambrose assures him. Seth coughs to hide a smile. "I just thought maybe we were gonna keep dancing around it until we both dropped dead of blue balls."

"I'm not dancing around anything," Seth says, finally veering into a parking spot at the hotel. He's pretty sure he broke the speed limit at least three times, getting here.

Ambrose makes a skeptical noise, but says, "If you say so."

Seth's blood is pounding in his ears. Maybe he hasn't intentionally been dancing around, but that doesn't mean he's anticipating this any less. Ambrose's mouth on his dick was one of the better sensations he's experienced in his entire life, and if he can manage that again, the last few shitty weeks might actually seem a little better.

Ambrose looks odd, standing in his hotel room. When Seth closes the door behind him, it strikes him all at once that he's just invited Ambrose into his space, into a place that's just his. They're not friends. They're still, in a lot of ways, what technically could be called enemies. But Seth's thinking with his dick again, and now Dean Ambrose is in his hotel room.

"You're thinking again," Ambrose sings, hands in his pockets. He's not even looking around, instead looking right at Seth, shifting his weight back and forth. "Thought we talked about how you shouldn't do that anymore."

"This is probably one of the stupidest things I've done in a while," Seth mutters, dropping his bag to sit on his bed. "And I did a lot of stupid things when I was just starting out in this business."

"Hey, me too," says Ambrose. "Let's swap stories sometime."

He shrugs off his jacket and hangs it on a chair, then, smooth as anything, drops to straddle Seth's lap.

"I told you this doesn't have to mean anything you don't want it to," he says. "Haven't you ever had no-strings-attached sex before?"

"Not with somebody I knew I'd probably be in the ring with again." He's never fucked an opponent before. Sure, sometimes, when you and your tag partner, maybe, had a really good match, and you're still high off the adrenaline, you trade quick handjobs in a bathroom and it doesn't mean anything. But he's never been in bed with someone he knew he'd end up facing anytime soon.

His hands settle on Ambrose's hips without his permission. Ambrose isn't even looking at Seth head-on, instead casually reaching to shove his shoes off. He's not wearing socks. Seth's not sure why he noticed.

"Answer a question for me," Ambrose says. "You gonna go easy on me in our next match if I suck your dick real good?"

"No!" Seth says, aghast until Ambrose squeezes his shoulders and cuts him off.

"Neither am I. So it doesn't matter," he reasons. "Stop thinking about it so hard. I swear, every time I forget what a princess you can be about this."

"I'm not – shut up," Seth says, when he sees the grin on Ambrose's face.

"Make me." There's a definite challenge there, a hint of something more than what Ambrose is saying. He's right, is the thing. There's no way that Seth would ever go easy on Ambrose in a match, no matter if the guy gave him thirty great blowjobs in a row.

So it doesn't matter. They're just blowing off steam and nothing will change, and Seth should really stop thinking and start doing.

He yanks Ambrose down by the collar of his shirt and kisses him, momentarily dissuaded by the clack of their teeth, until the angle is righted and it's just lips and tongue. Ambrose is still a fucking good kisser, only breaking the kiss to pull back and tug his shirt off before he's back, warm skin under Seth's fingers and a hot mouth against Seth's lips.

"Princess," Ambrose says into his mouth, goading, his hips a rhythmic pressure against Seth's. He bites Seth's lower lip. "Prettyboy princess."

Seth growls and flips them, getting his own shirt off in the process and then using his weight to pin Ambrose down. He was right, it is pretty satisfying.

Ambrose's hands are on either side of Seth's neck, and he pulls him down into another kiss, his thumbs points of pressure on Seth's jaw. This one's harder, rougher, more intense, like they're done playing around and Ambrose is telling him without words.

"You wanna fuck me?" Ambrose mumbles against his mouth. He's fond of that, talking while kissing. Seth would point it out, but he's busy trying to keep his dick from fucking tearing through his pants. "Bet you do," Ambrose continues, pressing up against him. "I bet you've thought about it since last time. You want to, don't you?"

Seth digs his nails into Ambrose's ribs to get him to shut up, but he just moans, and slides his fingertips down the indentation of Seth's spine.

"I'll let you," Ambrose says. Hisses, because Seth's bitten down on his collarbone. "I want you to. Bet you'll be so fucking good, you're really fucking good at everything else, y'know, so why wouldn't you be – fuck," he grunts, Seth's hand rubbing over the bulge of his cock. He's rambling, saying words apparently as his brain comes up with them, and something about it makes Seth want… makes him want.

Seth undoes the button of Ambrose's jeans, a feat considering how much he's squirming, trying to re-initiate contact, only stopping when Seth grinds the heel of his hand down. He looks good like this, mouth open in a pant, his eyes half-lidded and hazy. Seth kind of wants Ambrose to look at him like that all the time.

"I want to," he says. It sounds more like a confession than he's expecting. Everything, all this, and it's fairly obvious he wants to fuck Ambrose, but he's never said it out loud. He's barely even said it to himself, because it feels like failure, like he's unable to resist something that he should be able to resist.

Ambrose licks his neck. It's not even a sexy lick, slow and seductive. It's a dog-like lick, wet and quick, a stripe of damp against Seth's throat. He laughs against Seth's pulse. "I know," he says into his ear. "You don't hide it very well."

It sounds mocking to Seth's ears and probably is, because it's Ambrose, so he pins Ambrose's wrists to the bed on impulse. His instincts are right, because even though Ambrose could definitely get his hands free if he wanted, he doesn't. He just lets out a tremulous sigh and tries to grind up against Seth.

"I have stuff," Ambrose says, legs spreading a little wider to accommodate Seth's weight, "in my bag, if you want."

Seth doesn't know if everything Ambrose says when he's turned on has that hint of challenge to it or if Seth's just hearing it that way, but it makes him want to pin the other man down even harder.

"Stay there," Seth says firmly, his thumbs digging into the softest parts of Ambrose's wrists. When he slips off the bed, Ambrose stays, even keeping his hands right where they are. His hips move a little, but Seth can't blame him for that.

He toes off his own shoes as he goes, leaving them where they fall instead of propping them by the door. He'll never be able to find them later but it doesn't matter right now. He does have socks on, because he's not a barbarian, so he gets those off too, while he's at it. There's not much less sexy than fucking with socks on.

Seth makes a guess and unzips the side pocket of Ambrose's bag, coming up with the essentials for what they're about to do: lube and a condom. He looks over his shoulder to raise an eyebrow at Ambrose.

"You always this prepared?" he asks.

"Call it wishful thinking," Ambrose replies. He still hasn't moved. Seth's kind of impressed by his self-control. He doesn't think he'd be able to stay that stationary, if he was in Ambrose's position. He's learning, though, that for all Ambrose hates to be told what to do outside the bedroom, he's practically got a fetish for it inside.

"Yeah?" Seth asks, returning to the bed, hands-and-knees as he makes to get back into his previous position. Before he does, though, he thinks better of it, hooking his fingers into the waist of Ambrose's already undone jeans and pulling them off along with his underwear. Ambrose seems somehow much larger, naked. Seth's never seen him like this and he has… a lot of skin. Which is a stupid thought to have; he's a human being, of course he has a lot of skin. But somehow Seth wasn't expecting it, even though he sees most of it every time the man wrestles.

Ambrose shrugs as well as he can without moving his arms, so, not very. "Or a hunch. Does it matter?"

"Guess not." Seth slides his hand up Ambrose's thigh because it's there and he can. He's done this before, a few times, but not since he came to Florida. Always been on this end of it. Ambrose had guessed, a long time ago, and he was right. Seth's never been fucked, he's always done the fucking. He doesn't know if that's why Ambrose wants it that way this time.

He's thinking too much. Always thinking too much.

Seth's a little out of practice, but he's nothing if not innovative. He can pretend to be a connoisseur of cock. He thinks either way, Ambrose isn't going to complain. Or maybe he will anyway. It's kind of his thing.

"Like what you see?" Ambrose asks him, watching the way Seth's fingers are walking underneath his navel. He seems altogether composed, except his erection is bumping the underside of Seth's wrist.

"I see most of it on a weekly basis," Seth points out, twisting his hand to give Ambrose's cock an experimental tug. He feels like this is the first time he's really initiating the touch, even though they've gotten off together before. It's kind of nice, and Ambrose clearly likes it, from the noise he makes and the way his body shudders a little.

Ambrose still has his hands held up next to the pillow, like he's just waiting for Seth to take hold of his wrists again. "Yeah, but it's different," Ambrose says simply. He's right, it is different. Even though Seth does see most of it on a weekly basis, when he's wrestling Ambrose, in those situations he's not usually also giving him a handjob.

"It's different," Seth agrees. He lets go of Ambrose's dick to get his own pants off, dropping them off the edge of the bed. They're both naked now, and even with everything, Seth's still in disbelief that this is how he's ended up with Ambrose. He's in disbelief that any of this is even happening, actually.

"Come here," says Ambrose, but it's not a demand, or a whine. It's more of a request than anything, and Seth acquiesces, carefully lowering himself to kiss Ambrose again.

Wrestling is a contact sport. Seth's used to large amounts of his skin touching large amounts of another guy's skin, but usually their dicks aren't involved at all, and Seth's cock isn't slipping up against the groove of a hipbone, and there's no making out. It's a weird balance to strike, between something he's really used to and something he's so very not used to.

Ambrose inhales heavily when Seth's hands close back around his wrists for a second, his kiss faltering, his mouth slipping to kiss beneath Seth's chin instead. Okay, so he likes that. Seth probably won't be able to do it the whole time, but he can do his best.

"How d'you want me?" Ambrose asks in a mumble against Seth's neck. "Like this?" Another kiss, this one with a hint of bite to it, at the place where Seth's neck curves into his shoulder. "Hands and knees?"

Seth entertains the thought for a moment, being able to do this without having to look at Ambrose directly, but something about it just strikes him as not… not what he wants.

"Just like this," he mutters, letting go of one of Ambrose's wrists to experimentally push one of his thighs up and back as far as it'll go. Ambrose is more flexible than Seth thought, which isn't something he needed to know, but he does now.

Lube, right. He needs lube, and that condom, right now, because Ambrose is looking at him like he honestly can't wait for Seth to fuck him, and Seth's feeling a little too similar for his comfort.

He finagles the condom on with little to no finesse, distracted by Ambrose, which is stupid because Ambrose isn't doing anything other than lying there watching him with a little smile, his stupid wrists still by his head and his stupid legs spread, just waiting for Seth to be between them. He doesn't even say anything. Just watches, and waits.

Seth isn't so far gone that he's forgotten that there's prep involved here. Asses aren't self-lubricating and no matter how much Ambrose seems to be kind of getting off on the little stings of pain from pinches and scratches, Seth's not just going to go in guns blazing and actually, like, hurt him. No matter how confused his own feelings about Ambrose are, no matter how much he wants to hurt the guy sometimes, it's different when they're not in the arena. This is different.

He grabs the lube from where he'd dropped it on the bed earlier, popping the cap and squirting it liberally onto his fingers. You can never have too much, he's learned, but you can definitely have too little. He nudges Ambrose's legs apart even more with one of his thighs, and still, Ambrose is just watching him.

Seth licks his lips. "You good?" he checks. He's not sure why. For some kind of noise.

"Wondering if I've ever been better," Ambrose replies, helpfully rolling his hips to balance more of his weight on his lower back rather than his tailbone. "Any day now, if you wanna put those to good use."

"Shut up," says Seth, but he's smiling as he lowers his hand, and Ambrose shuts up at the first touch of Seth's slippery fingers to skin. He opens right up for Seth after a moment, one finger pressing into him where he's hot and tight, and the thought of his cock fitting is, as it always is, daunting. It seems impossible that such a tight space could accommodate even multiple fingers, much less something bigger.

It will, though. The human body is amazing like that.

Ambrose is making it so easy, his head tipped back against the pillow when Seth slides a second finger in along with the first, and Ambrose just rocks his hips into the pressure, his body letting Seth's fingers in like it was made to, and Seth is going to fuck him, he's going to get his cock in the same space his fingers are in right now and Ambrose is going to just take him so well and Seth, Seth needs to stop thinking about this before he has a problem.

"That's fine, that's enough." Seth almost doesn't hear Ambrose over the rushing of blood in his ears. He actually feels a bit dizzy from how hard he's gotten so fast. "Just do it."

"You sure?" But Seth's already removing his fingers, smearing more lube over himself.

"Yeah. I kinda like it when it burns a little." Ambrose's head is still dropped back but he's looking right at Seth as his lip catches between his teeth, and Seth suppresses a shiver. He'll take his word for it.

Ambrose rolls with him when he gets his hands underneath his knees letting Seth push them back again until they're nearly to his chest. Seth's eyes keep darting to his hands, which haven't moved, and then back to his face.

He slides the head of his dick along Ambrose's hole, and Ambrose makes a strangled choking sound which becomes a strangled moan when Seth pushes inside, and holy fucking hell Seth will never get used to that first few seconds of tight warm hot pressure squeezing his dick. He could fuck a million people and it'd still take his breath away every time, just steal the air right from his lungs. Ambrose's stomach muscles are twitching against Seth's palm, where his hand is pressed just above Ambrose's hip to balance himself as the other hand moved almost automatically to grab Ambrose's wrist and squeeze, holding it to the bed.

Ambrose is muttering something under his breath, and Seth has to calm his breathing before he manages to hear it, the way Ambrose is saying yes, yes, yes, yes, yes over and over again. It just makes his breathing pick up again, and he moves his other hand to retake his grip on Ambrose's other wrist.

They're very close, like this, the slow, easy catch and pull of their hips and the way that this hold means Seth's face is so close to Ambrose's that he could count his eyelashes if he were so inclined. Seth kisses him because he has to, more or less, because he can't be this close to Ambrose's face looking into his eyes with Ambrose looking back. It's too much. It's not enough.

Seth manages to settle into a rhythm even though his hands are occupied and his mouth is occupied and his dick is occupied, his head pounding. This isn't happening how it expected it would. He thought that Ambrose would be more of a dick, more mouthing off but so far that hasn't been the case.

All the other times have been faster, messy, meaningless screwing. This is something else but Seth doesn't know what to call it. He just knows Ambrose feels good underneath him, and the sounds he makes are incredible, and nothing really makes sense anymore.

"Thinking," Ambrose mutters against his mouth. He knows Seth too well for somebody who doesn't know him at all, and Seth's still not sure whether he should be more creeped out or what. "Stop thinking, it makes my dick soft."

Seth has to laugh at that, though it's choked. He lets go of one of Ambrose's wrists to snake a hand down between them and grip his cock, just as hard as it's been this whole time, rubbing slick pre-come against Seth's belly between them. "Does it?"

Ambrose snaps his teeth together close to Seth's face, and he jerks backward, but Ambrose isn't going rabid. He also finally moves his hands, sliding them up Seth's sides and back down, then up into his hair where he uses them to drag his face closer again. Not for a kiss, apparently; just to breathe into his mouth, Seth's hair a curtain around their faces. He waits for Ambrose to bite his lip, or kiss him again, but he doesn't. He just holds Seth's face close and breathes against him.

The breathing is the only noise, and for a moment the silence feels like the loudest thing Seth has ever heard, like he's just heard a noise so loud that it burst his eardrums and that's the only reason there's no sound. The air is heavy. They're sweaty and breathing and silent, just for a second, and that second sticks with Seth for a long time.

That's how Ambrose comes, with Seth's hand still around his dick and his mouth pressed to Seth's in something that's not a kiss but Seth's not sure what else to call it. His breath hitches twice and then there's warm wet between them, rubbing off on Seth's skin where they're pressed together. It's sudden and unexpected, and startlingly hot, so much so that Seth finds himself adjusting his angle and fucking into Ambrose just a few more times before he spills into the condom.

He does his best not to drop his entire weight onto Ambrose, but only manages halfway, sliding out of him and off to the side in one motion. His ribs are still pressed against Ambrose's, and one of his legs is between his, but Ambrose doesn't make a noise of discomfort, so Seth considers that a success. Which is good because he's not actually sure if he can move.

It does actually take him a moment to work up the energy to get rid of the condom, tying it off and dropping it into the trash can next to the bed. His arms are tingling like he's had an electric shock or something, and his breathing's still labored.

For a minute, there's just silence, and just before it'd edge into awkward, post-coitus or not, Ambrose stretches, his body a long line as he makes a satisfied noise.

"Not bad," he declares.

Seth sputters. "Not bad?" he repeats before he notices that stupid grin on Ambrose's face. He's not sure if it makes him want to hit him more or less, but at least he's positive it was a joke, now. "Oh, shut up," he mutters. It seems like he's always saying that to Ambrose.

"Mm," Ambrose replies, sliding a hand down his chest and wrinkling his nose when he runs across the come smudged on his stomach. "Mind if I…?" he asks, gesturing to the mess. He takes Seth's shrug as a positive answer, rolling off the bed and scratching his shoulder before he makes his way into the bathroom without any further ado.

Seth blinks at the door. Well, if he's not going to make a big deal about it, Seth guesses he shouldn't, either. It wasn't a big deal, for one thing, and for another, he's not quite sure what he'd do about it if it was.

They switch places when Ambrose is done, and Seth goes into the bathroom to give himself a general wipe down. By the time he leaves, Ambrose is dressed again, sat on the messed up bed with his legs stretched out in front of him, crossed at the ankle.

"You work fast," Seth notes, suddenly wishing he'd had the foresight to grab some shorts or something before he went into the bathroom. His bag is close enough, so he bends to grab a pair from it, but he feels off, like something just isn't fitting into place.

"Figured I'd get out of your hair." Ambrose shrugs and stands, his bag in his hand. "No use in staying longer than you're wanted, right?"

"I guess," Seth says slowly. He thinks of saying that he wouldn't mind if Ambrose stayed a while, maybe for round two at some point in the night. But he clearly wants to leave, and Seth's not going to be the one to stop him.

"This was good." There's something, something Seth's missing, something in Ambrose's voice that he feels like he should be hearing but that he's not saying. Ambrose is looking around the hotel room, and it's only because Seth moves back to the bed that it clicks – Ambrose is doing everything he can to avoid looking at Seth.

He frowns, opens his mouth, then closes it again. "Yeah," he says. "Yeah, it was really good. Thanks for, uh, helping me work out my. Frustration." The words coming out of his mouth are all wrong. What's changed in the last three minutes to make this all make even less sense than it did?

Ambrose grins at him, all teeth and suggestion. It's normal, in the midst of everything else. "Anytime," he says. "Always happy to help, you know that."

Seth snorts. "You know, I hadn't heard that about you."

"Not listening hard enough." Ambrose worries his lower lip for a second, then says, "I'll see you around, Seth."

"Yeah," Seth says, watching as Ambrose twists the door knob to let himself out. "See you around, Ambrose."

Seth gets a call on Wednesday telling him that he's getting an FCW title shot.

In disbelief, he asks Maxine if she's sure. His win-loss record for the past month leaves something to be desired, to be honest, and he's not going to say no to a title shot – but part of him can't help but wonder if she's been watching the same shows he has.

Maxine laughs, a tinkly, insincere sound. "Of course I'm sure. It's my job to be sure, Seth. You've been steadily improving in the ring since you got here and I think a title match could really give you an opportunity to shine. I know how honored you were to defend the Jack Briscoe championship, but to be honest, you're main event material."

"Thank you," Seth says, his mouth dry. "I, uh, I won't let you down."

"I know you won't. I'll see you at the show, Seth." The conversation ends as abruptly as it started, and Seth's left staring at the phone in his hand.

It still hasn't sunk in by the time Seth gets to the arena for the show. He's ready, he's prepared, because he always is, but it still hasn't hit him that if he can get the drop on Kruger tonight, he'll be the FCW champion. He loved being Jack Brisco champion, and he was good at it, but if you're not trying to be the top tier champion of your promotion, you're not doing wrestling right.

He locks the door to his locker room before he settles in to watch the show. He doesn't know if it's been generally announced that he's getting a title shot, but he doesn't want anybody else interrupting his headspace before the match. He can't be distracted when he gets into that ring.

The show passes in a blur. Seth notices some things; tag match, Xavier Woods singing, then winning. The camera cuts to Ambrose, and Seth starts paying attention. He doesn't know what he's looking for. Ambrose looks just the same as always, and why shouldn't he? Nothing's changed.

He talks about how he hasn't slept in a week, how he'll face anyone, anytime, whether it's Sandow or Cesaro or Seth – Seth smiles a little at that – or William Regal, who still hasn't shown up. Nobody's seen him since the match. Ambrose calls himself a monster, and his half-crazed wide eyes lead Seth to believe it's truer than false.

He'd thought that maybe Ambrose would've given up on the Regal thing by now, but he should've known he wouldn't. Seth probably wouldn't either, if he was in his place. He knows Ambrose can beat Regal and Ambrose know, too, but a loss like that rankles, pushes you to be better. He just hopes Ambrose isn't getting in over his head.

Not that he cares. He's got other things to be concerned about, like beating Leo Kruger and becoming FCW champion.

Speaking of which, his match is after the Divas match that's on now, so he should probably start heading that way. He shakes out his hands and bounces on the balls of his feet a few times to limber up. Part of him expects Ambrose to be lingering outside his door, like he has been lately, but he's not. Seth doesn't have time to figure out whether he's grateful or disappointed.

He's ready. He's ready for this, ready to become the champion. He can't get sidetracked by Dean's weird obsession with William Regal.

… Ambrose's weird obsession with William Regal. Fuck, Seth needs to focus.

Once he gets into the ring, it's all business. He doesn't have to tell himself to focus because he is focus when he's wrestling. He's focus and stamina and precision, and he can beat Kruger. He can do this.

The match starts off slow, which is how Seth likes it. He knows his cardio tends to be better than the guy he's across from in the ring on a given night, and a slow start means a longer match means he'll still be going strong when the other guy's flagging.

Kruger's no joke. He stays on Seth, barely letting him breathe, getting him into submissions as often as he can to slow down the pace even more. But Seth's holding his own, until, until, until. He makes a mistake.

He should know better, but Cesaro is on the apron, and Seth knows if this match ends in a disqualification, he won't win the title, so he attacks first. Brings Cesaro into the ring, and Kruger tries to hit him with the belt while the ref's back is turned. He misses, and Seth rolls him up, but only gets a two count. When he's pushed off, Cesaro nails him, one of those goddamn European uppercuts he's so fond of, and Kruger gets him into the sleeper.

Seth tries to get free, tries to reach the ropes, but it's too much, his vision going black and fuzzy around the edges, and he has to. He taps out. He loses.

Just another day, really.

Once he can see straight, and breathe, and has all the feeling back in his limbs, he rolls out of the ring, and keeps his head down the whole way to the back. Thankfully, nobody tries to talk to him, because he's not in the mood to be pitied.

It's just that he's better than this, and he knows that. Everybody knows that. He's a good wrestler. He's a great wrestler. He has what it takes to be champion, and these days he just can't pick up a fucking win.

Ambrose is outside his locker room. Of course. Seth ignores him, pushing open his door and remembering to grab his bag this time before he storms into the shower. He thinks Ambrose followed him into the locker room, but he's not sure. He shouldn't have; Seth is much more likely this time to accept the offer to punch him in the face.

He scrubs himself pink, but he can't wash away the sting a loss means, no matter how much soap he uses. He washes everything twice just in case. He still has pins and needles in his fingers and toes from the sleeper when he steps back out into the room, dressed and clean and still not FCW champion.

Ambrose is still there. Still doesn't know when to back off.

"That was bullshit," Ambrose says quietly. The look on his face is hard to read, and Seth can't be bothered right now to try and figure it out. "You should've had that one."

"I know I should've," Seth snaps, dropping down into a chair. His was the last match, so he could just leave, but he should probably wait until he's less angry, at himself, at everything. "It was stupid to attack first. I know."

"I know you know." Ambrose sounds thoughtful but Seth can't imagine what there is to think about right now.

"That's like my seventh loss in the past two months," Seth mumbles, folding his arms and leaning back in the chair. "I've been distracted. Out of focus."

"Yeah." Seth still can't get a read on Ambrose, and it's actually starting to bother him. "Yeah, distracted. You just need, like, a push to get you back on track, right? Remembering what's important?"

"I know what's important, I just can't – seem to pull through when I need to." Seth rubs a hand over his face. He's exhausted. "But yeah, I guess. Maybe I do just need a push." He shakes his head and looks at Ambrose. "What's with you, anyway? What's so important about William Regal?"

Something sparks in Ambrose's eyes. "I need to beat him. I know I can, I just have to do it, and I can't until he shows his fucking face here, which he won't, because he knows I can beat him. He's scared." A smile curves his lips. It's a little frightening.

"The one that got away?" Seth can relate to that. That's what it feels like, anyway, when you get beat by someone you know you're better than.

"Something like that," says Ambrose vaguely. "I guess I've been distracted, too. But that's over, now. I'm back on track."

"I'm very happy for you," Seth says. He hadn't been aware that Ambrose was off his game at all. Sure, he lost the match against Regal, but he's got victories over, well, Seth. Recently, even.

Ambrose pushes himself off the wall. "I, uh, I hope you get the push you're looking for. Who knows, right? Who knows what'll happen?"

"You're being really weird," Seth says flat out. Granted, Ambrose is strange on his best days, but right now he's being downright cryptic, and Seth doesn't like it.

That gets him a grin. "My middle name," he says. "I'm out, I think. I'll see you next week."

Seth thinks of offering him a ride again, even though he's being bizarre, but Ambrose is out the door before he can do more than consider it. He doesn't know why he was even going to bother, anyway.

Seth finds out the second he sees the match listing for the next week why Ambrose was being so weird. He stares at it, blinking just in case he's misreading. No, he's really in a tag match against Dean Ambrose and Antonio Cesaro. He's teaming with Abraham Washington, which is also not really something he's looking forward to, but Ambrose is teaming up with a guy who cost him his rematch for the FCW 15 title.

Of course, Ambrose is the person who cost him the title in the first place. Maybe it makes more sense than Seth wishes it did.

Maybe he's the idiot who thought he and Ambrose were okay now. He knows he is, actually, because he and Ambrose have never been friends, have never been anything but enemies who sometimes fuck, and Seth's the one who should've known that.

He and Ambrose are opponents. They always have been. To think they could've been anything else was just another lapse in judgment on his part.

For a moment, he thinks about going to Ambrose's locker room and asking him what the fuck this is all about, but the message has been sent loud and clear. If Ambrose was going to tell Seth why he's teaming with Cesaro, he would've been here to tell him already. He's not. Seth hasn't seen hide nor hair of Ambrose since he got here.

Idiot. He's such an idiot.

"Merry Christmas to me," he mutters at the match listing.

Seth doesn't bother to pay attention to the show. The match he's in is the main event, so he just sits in his locker room and mopes, until it comes to be time to head down to the curtain.

Ambrose is there.

Dressed to compete, leaning against the wall, he doesn't look any different from how he normally looks, except he's looking at Seth, and there's no hint there that Seth knows what Ambrose looks like when he comes, there's no inkling of the vague camaraderie Seth had thought they'd had. There's coldness, and the corner of his mouth is pulled up in a smile that's more like a smirk.

He's not anything to Seth other than an opponent. Definitely not a distraction.

"Yeah," he mutters, watching the way Ambrose's eyes flick down to read his lips. "Yeah. I get it."

Ambrose doesn't come up to him and Seth isn't expecting him to. Instead, he turns his attention to the monitor, watching the end of the penultimate match. His blood boils when Cesaro comes onscreen, a microphone in his hand.

He starts talking, but Seth doesn't care what he's saying. He just wants to fucking hit someone. He barely lets Cesaro get two sentences into his 'declaration' before he's sprinting out and swinging wildly, and Cesaro's hitting him back and it's great, it's fantastic to be able to just fucking fight with someone. He can turn off his thoughts and just land some hits.

He's not surprised when he turns away from Cesaro and Ambrose is climbing the ring steps, and he's not going to think about Ambrose's weird sex quirks, he's not going to think about how Ambrose has stupid nicknames for him, he just lands a punch before one can be landed on him.

But there are two of them and one of him (Abraham is conveniently missing) and when Cesaro snags his legs it frees Ambrose to take him down. Even though he'd known it was going to happen, it still kind of hurts in a different way from the punches that are being landed.

Cesaro does most of the real hitting, but Ambrose keeps shouting at him, insults from what he can hear over the crowd, until Abraham finally deigns to make his way into the ring.

Weirdly enough, when it's an actual match, it's easier for Seth to fight Ambrose. Or, perhaps, not weirdly at all – he's used to having to occasionally wrestle people he doesn't hate, used to turning his brain off and just wrestle. With a referee in there it doesn't feel as strange. He's focused. He knows what he's doing.

It's a good match. They're good wrestlers, all of them, so it was going to be, but part of Seth was worried that even knowing what he knows, he and Ambrose would have off chemistry somehow. They don't. They're just like they always are in the ring: good with each other. He doesn't think he's ever had a bad match with Ambrose on the other side of the ring from him. He's lost, but he hasn't had a bad match.

Seth sees his opening and takes it when Cesaro stumbles toward the ropes and he's on the outside, aiming a kick at his head, which connects enough that Abraham can roll him into a pin. A three-count. Seth finally fucking won a match.

It doesn't feel as good as it should. God damn it.

He plays around with Abraham and his valet – someone new, who introduces herself as Danielle – after the match, but his thoughts are already running away from him again. Somehow, he doesn't think Ambrose is going to be waiting at his locker room for him this time. He thinks that maybe Ambrose won't be waiting at his locker room for him ever, and that's fine. He doesn't care.

He's surprised, therefore, to see Ambrose lounging in a chair in his locker room when he opens the door. It takes him a second to close it, narrowed eyes and gritted teeth.

"Don't you have somewhere else to be?" he asks pointedly.

Ambrose still looks like he had before the match, chewing gum without a care as he levels a cool gaze at Seth. He's smiling just a little.

"You look upset," he notes. Mocking. "You finally won a match, Seth, it's like a Christmas miracle."

"You're an asshole," Seth says, hands on his hips because he doesn't know where to put them. "Look, I get it, okay? Whatever. Now get out of my locker room."

It's like a throwback to months ago, when Seth had said something very similar.

"I just wanted to congratulate you on your win," says Ambrose, a hand to his chest like he's hurt that Seth would be so cruel. Dick. "Hard-fought victory."

"It was," Seth says in challenge. "A lot harder when one of your opponents attacks you from behind and you get double-teamed before the match starts."

"That's why I'm so impressed," Ambrose replies. He stands, favoring his side. "I would've thought you'd crumble under the pressure."

"What is this about?" Seth asks, finished with dancing around it. "What the fuck happened? Did you hit your head? Am I a terrible lay? Or are you just incapable of not being an asshole for more than twenty minutes at a time?"

Ambrose laughs, a harsh, gritty sound. "You're really self-centered, has anybody ever told you that?" He saunters closer to Seth, his steps weaving and unbalanced. "Believe it or not, not everything has to be about Seth Rollins. Sometimes," he pokes Seth in the chest, "sometimes peoples' lives revolve around things other than making you happy."

Seth slaps Ambrose's hand away. "You attacked me while my back was turned," he grinds out. "Clearly it was about me. There's no honor in that."

"What about me has given you the impression that I'm honorable?" Ambrose asks. "I've got news for you, Seth: I am exactly who you've always thought I was."

"A pain in my ass?" Seth shoots back. It's what he'd thought Ambrose was, and he hadn't noticed until tonight that who he'd thought Ambrose was had been changing. Stupid. Ambrose is right, he's never pretended to be anything other than a villain. Seth had just been grasping at straws.

"If the shoe fits." Ambrose dips in a facsimile of a curtsey. "What?" he says, and Seth braces himself because the tone of Ambrose's voice makes him think whatever he's about to say is going to hurt. "Did you think you could change me? Did you think you, of all people, could make me better?"

"Crazy, right?" Seth hears himself say. "Almost like I thought maybe it was possible for you to have feelings. Should've known better. Won't happen again."

Something in Ambrose's expression flickers. Seth hopes he hurt him, but that'd be impossible, wouldn't it? You've got to have feelings first for somebody to hurt them.

"Good," is what Ambrose says. "Because you're not going to change me. You're not that good a fuck," he bites out, "and I'm not going to be like you, on a losing streak for months at a time because you just couldn't stop thinking about me."

Seth swings, but he's choreographed it and Ambrose ducks out of the way, under Seth's arm and then past him, between Seth and the door.

"Touchy," Ambrose says, opening the door. "Not like it meant anything, right?"

And then he's gone. Seth couldn't read the look on his face but he's pretty sure not that one way or another, it fucking meant something. He doesn't know what, but it meant something. And it meant something to Ambrose, too.