Note: This is in character and is set post MITB and before Raw, which I haven't seen all of yet. I typed it on my iPhone, so if there are any typos I haven't caught, I apologize. For anyone who's interested, I am going to try to update The Winding Road very soon.
CM Punk has never felt more like hiding in his life. He lies on the bed in the dark, the bus moving under him in a rhythmic sway. He hurts all over, his ankle, his knees, his back, his elbow, his neck, the stapled gash in his head, but the physical pain is only the beginning.
He longs for sleep so he doesn't have to think about it, but sleep hovers even farther away than usual. He'd settle for oblivion, but that's not about to happen, either, so he just lies there and hurts and lets the night, the week, the year, replay over and over again in his head.
By the time the door to the bedroom opens and the light flicks on, he's half crazy with it and he's actually forgotten that his hiding place is on John's bus, not his own. He sits up a little too quickly and groans in pain. John, who looks only about half as surprised as Punk feels, is suddenly easing him back down to the mattress, shushing him soothingly.
"Shit," Punk mutters as John sits on the edge of the bed, leaving one hand on Punk's arm. He feels sick to his stomach with the influx of pain. He closes his eyes and tries to breathe through it while John waits patiently by his side.
When he thinks that it has passed and cautiously opens his eyes, John is looking down at him, his eyes full of sympathy. "You know, people kept asking me where you were," he says.
"I guess it's a good thing you didn't know the answer, then," Punk answers as he gingerly turns himself over onto his side, pulling his arm out from under John's hand in the process.
John reaches out, lets his hand hover over Punk's shoulder for agonizing seconds, then withdraws it with a sigh. "I wouldn't do that to you. You can trust me."
"Can I?" Punk asks. The naked pain that rears up inside him and leaks into his voice clearly takes John aback. He closes his eyes again and hopes John will go.
John does touch his shoulder now, fingers skimming over his skin gently, wary of any injury. "I've never given you a reason not to."
He squeezes his eyes shut tighter, tries to resist the urge to shrug John's hand off his shoulder. It's light, but it burns, and he can hardly stand it. John, his erstwhile enemy, some time friend, is the last person he'd be inclined to distrust, even in the worst of times, but now he's not so sure he needs a reason. He came here for refuge, but he's waiting for another betrayal.
"I'll go," he says in a small voice. He can feel a tremor starting in his hand and worries his whole body will start shaking soon.
John sighs again. He pulls back and stands up. "Stay," he says. "I'll sleep in one of the bunks."
He opens his eyes in time to see John leave. His eyes meet John's as he's closing the door behind him. He wants to call out in that instant, tell John to stay, and... what, sleep with him? He's not sure, but now, layered over the pain, over the heartache, is guilt. Despite the problems he's had with the company over the years, John has never been anything but honest with him.
He rolls to the edge of the bed and heaves himself up. Without adrenaline burning through his veins, he feels weak and incredibly fragile. It's hard for him to understand how he's this banged up already.
He takes the couple steps to the door slowly and leans against the wall as he pushes it back open. John is standing just on the other side of the short hallway, in the kitchen area. He looks up immediately, seeming almost more surprised than when he'd found Punk on his bus to begin with.
"I'm sorry," Punk says. "This is yours, I'll just..." He pinches the bridge of his nose. He doesn't offer another option, because he doesn't have one.
John sets down the bottle of water he's holding and crosses the distance between them. Before Punk can say anything, John's arm is looped around his waist and John is leading him back to the bed. He doesn't have the strength to resist. He lies back down, already drained of any energy he may have had.
"It's not a problem," John says, his eyes soft and his voice soft, and now Punk does want to ask him to stay, consequences be damned.
When the show was over, when his wounds had been treated, he stood in the parking garage next to his bus, wanting to be anywhere else. The person who left that bus hours ago was a completely different guy and he couldn't inhabit that space anymore, so he went to John's bus instead, used the back up key John had once given him but probably didn't remember, and he lay in his bed and felt safe.
"John," he says, looking up at the ceiling. "I don't take up a lot of space."
He sees John tilt his head questioningly in his peripheral vision, but he pretends he doesn't. He contemplates the odds of John ignoring what he just said. They're no better than that of his being able to get off the bus without John stopping him.
"I wouldn't want to hurt you," John says finally.
Punk nearly sprains his neck, looking back at John. He's overwhelmed by the implication, fear and panic and desire running through his veins in an instant, before he realizes that's not what John means at all. John is just worried about aggravating his injuries by maybe jostling him.
The uncomfortable feeling he gets in his gut, the one that only adds to the list of things he doesn't want to contemplate, doesn't make him change his mind. All his life, he's only had himself to depend on, and now he knows he can't trust himself, either. He has literally nothing and he can't stand to be alone with that.
"It's not that bad," he says, lying through his teeth. "It's mostly..." he gestures to his head, then shrugs.
"I saw the pictures. That's a pretty intense cut you got."
Punk nods, but he has to wonder if John is just being obtuse, or if he actually thinks he meant his bleeding head wound and not the shitstorm going on in his brain. But he doesn't want to talk about it, he really doesn't want to talk about it.
He turns away from John and cringes at the spasm in his shoulder. After a few minutes, he hears John retreating again, and he feels suddenly, inexplicably, more alone than ever. His hand starts shaking again as he rubs his neck and he clamps his fingers down on his shoulder, hard.
He's so busy trying to remember to breathe that he doesn't hear John come back into the room. He doesn't notice he's there until the bed dips with John's weight and John is lying in front of him. He just can't handle the look in John's eyes. He goes to turn back onto his other side, but John grabs his hand. The tremors pass from his body into John's, but John is rock and immovable. He squeezes John's hand until his knuckles turn white and John doesn't utter a single protest.
"Can you sleep?" John asks after the tremors have mostly calmed down.
Punk lets out a shaky laugh. "Probably not," he says. He's amazed that John is so calm about all of this. But John isn't the one it's happening to, and John probably doesn't even know the half of it.
"Turn over," John says, letting go of Punk's hand.
Punk blinks, confused. "What?"
"Turn over," John repeats insistently, so he does it, levers himself over so he's facing the opposite wall.
When he feels John's arm start to wrap around his waist, he squirms, tries to pull away. "I'm not going to hurt you," John says, but that's so not what his issue is. It's been so long since he's been with anyone, and that is not the type of thought he wants to have when he's this close to John.
"Close your eyes," John says, his voice practically in Punk's ear. Punk lets out another nervous laugh, but he does as John says.
For half the night, he's felt like he was falling apart, but in John's arms, he feels contained. John holds him not like a lover, but firmly, as though he can keep him together with the force of his body.
He doesn't sleep for a long time, but as they lie there together in the dark, the bus swaying beneath them, he can relax. He feels safe.