A/N: Here it is: my first attempt at a one-shot. Not sure how I feel about it yet, but the idea kept bugging and bugging me, so I decided, what the heck, I'll write it down.

This OS is based on the conversation between Mickie James and John Cena during this past week's edition of RAW. So, for good, bad or mediocre, here it is. Enjoy!

DISCLAIMER: I do not own any of the people in this story.

I Can Do Wild

Mickie James woke up to a pounding headache and the sound of the shower running.

The headache was nothing new. Mickie had been out drinking with her friends enough times to recognize a hangover when it occurred. Her forehead was throbbing, each pulse of pain seeming to sync up with her heartbeat. Her mouth was filled with a disgusting sour taste, and her teeth felt gritty. Yeah, just your typical hung-over WWE Diva. Wouldn't those horny guys in the audience just love to see her now?

The shower was another matter altogether. Mickie couldn't even remember how she'd gotten back to her hotel room last night, let alone who she might be sharing it with. She could vaguely recall the bar, the light glinting off of shot glasses, her brother's laughter as she matched him shot for shot…and then everything after that was a blur, an unfocused jumble of images and sounds that seemed more like the surreal fare of dreams.

The brown-haired Diva opened her eyelids a tiny crack, immediately squeezing them shut as bright sunlight assaulted her eyes. She rolled over onto her side, trying to seek refuge from the persistent rays, which had managed to ratchet the pain in her temples up to a nearly intolerable level. She could still feel its warmth, which was far more soothing than its harsh glow.

It was at that moment that Mickie realized her clothes were missing.

The Women's Champion sat up with a gasp, yanking the bedsheet up to cover herself. Her eyes flew open, the pain temporarily pushed aside as she took in her surroundings.

She was in her hotel room, that much she was able to ascertain. Her suitcase was propped up by the television set. But as for the clothes strewn across the floor…Mickie was a neat person by nature, and another quick glance told her that not all of the garments were hers.

The brunette Diva blushed. So that explained the nudity…but who was the other person embroiled in this predicament? She tried yet again to remember the events of last night, but it was as though they had been excised from her mind completely, leaving only traces of sensation behind. Her dark brown eyes swept over the room yet again, looking for some clue, some hint to the identity of her one-night-stand. Surely, her brother wouldn't have let her walk off with a complete strange while she was trashed…would he?

Then her gaze settled on the nightstand, on the baseball cap half-covering the red numbers of the alarm clock. Silently, her mind read off the three words stitched on its front:

Hustle…Loyalty…Respect…

And with an almost-audible click, the events leading up to last night came flooding back to her.

William Regal trying to throw out her brother and his girlfriend…Mickie begging him not to…The Raw General Manager staring at her coldly and threatening to strip her of the Women's Championship…The sound of trumpets blaring, and Mickie turning around to see John Cena walking down the ramp like some modern day white knight…Mickie thanking him backstage and inviting him to hang out with her and her brother…

John flashing that cocky grin of his…

"I have to warn you, though; I can get pretty wild."

Mickie offering a smile of her own...

"I can do wild."

As though on cue, the sound of running water ceased.

The Women's Champion froze, unsure of what to do. If she scrambled for her clothes now, there was no way she would be fully dressed by the time he came out of the bathroom. If she waited, the first thing he would see when he stepped out would be her, a sheet pulled up over her chest, staring back at him awkwardly. Unfortunately, Mickie didn't get any further time to contemplate, because the bathroom door opened and a muscular figure stepped out, a towel wrapped around his waist. The brunette Diva forced a weak smile onto her face, her heart pounding in her chest.

"Heyyyy…John."

John Cena returned her smile, his own just as uncertain as hers. "Heyyyy…Mick."

When John stepped out of the bathroom, fully dressed this time, he saw Mickie sitting on the edge of the bed, pushing her golden brown hair back from her face with both hands. She had dressed, too, and had made the bed as well, throwing the floral print coverlet over the tangled sheets.

She glanced up as he approached, offering that same weak smile. Her face was a few shades paler than normal, though whether it was from the hangover or her own nervousness, he couldn't tell. The Women's Champion said nothing as John took a seat on the bed as well, a foot or so away from her.

For several long uncomfortable moments, neither one of them said anything. The tension in the room was palpable, an unseen entity wedged between them on the bed. The former WWE Champion glanced over at Mickie. He would have given anything to know what she was thinking right about now.

"So…" he ventured.

"So…" Mickie echoed, her voice soft. Another long silence stretched out between them. This time, Mickie was the one to break. "You, uh…you need a ride?"

"No." John almost winced at how abrupt he sounded. "What I mean is…I'll just…catch a cab."

"Ah," Mickie replied, then fell silent again.

John glanced down at his hands, at the pattern of the carpet beneath his sneakered feet. "So…guess it got pretty wild last night." This time, he did wince. Smooth, John, real smooth…

"I told you I could do wild," Mickie joked, the uncertainty in her voice making the humor fall flat.

"Yeah, remind me never to doubt you again." John answered, his attempt at humor just as unsuccessful. After several more moments of silence, he put both hands on his knees and rose to his feet. "Well…I guess I should get going." He headed for the door, and had just put his hand on the knob when Mickie's voice cut into his thoughts.

"John…do you...remember…anything…from last night?"

The former WWE Champion stood dead still, lost momentarily in a fragment of precious memory…

…Mickie climbed onto his lap, deftly holding her glass in one hand and the back of his neck with the other. Her face was flushed, either from the alcohol or the warmth of the bar. Even drunk, she was still gorgeous.

"John," she'd managed to say, her voice slurred. "How come...you've never…asked me out before? Whatsamatta? Don't you…like me?"

John had smiled and then he'd whispered something to her, something he'd never told her, but had always wanted to say—

John closed his eyes, pushing the memory aside. "No," he heard his voice as if from far away. "Last night's pretty much a blur." He wanted to turn around, but didn't. If he did, if he looked into those big brown eyes of hers, he might start saying things he would regret. "See you around, Mick." Without waiting for her response, he opened the door and headed out into the hall.

Mickie sat there on the bed like a statue, as the door clicked shut. What she had wanted to say, what she had been unable to say, was that sitting there, next to him, had jarred a small fragment of memory loose. Five words, five little words that she had been dying to hear from John Cena--now her only memory of a drunken one-night-stand:

"John, how come…you've never asked me out before? Whatsamatta? Don't you…like me?"

John leaned forward, his mouth practically against her ear, his breath warm on her skin. His voice was as slurred as hers, but yet, it sounded completely sober.

"Mickie…I've always loved you."