Title: Fugue States
Chapter Title: 1 - In Medias Res
Character(s): Jeff Hardy, Matt Morgan, Rob Van Dam, Shannon Moore, Mr. Anderson
Rating: 15
Wordcount: 2,146
Disclaimer: The characters in this fiction are the property of TNA and the people who use them – certainly not mine. I'm only using them for fun.
Summary: Future AU regarding the current events at TNA (at time of writing). Jeff's the anti-christ of professional wrestling, RVD's kinda fucked up, and Shannon's never gonna stop caring about Jeff. But something is happening.
A/N: So, yeah! Here goes my first fic in this fandom. Kayfabe's pretty real (it's damn real).
...
"Lock the door. Lock the fucking door, right now."
Fading into feeling, Jeff was aware that he was upside down. His skull felt tense and bloodlocked, throbbing. His mouth was choked with blood. He tried to spit; blood bubbled wet on his lips and the effort in his diaphragm radiated agony through his chest. He whimpered. His ribs felt raw.
"Is it shut?"
"Yeah, it's locked."
"Keep a lookout."
Familiar voices. Rob. Shannon. Jeff sought for his own voice, but it was thready and lost somewhere in his hurting throat. The pressure of a shoulder in his midriff was a great nexus of pain. Arms were wrapped around his legs. He was moving. And, suddenly, an agony of motion: hauled backwards, landing hard on his back. A flare of pain; he cried out, despite himself.
"I hope it hurts, fucker." Loud, close. Hot breath in the shell of his ear.
There was light, and cool air on his skin. He tried to open his eyes. It stung, blood in his eyelashes.
"Jeff? Jeff, can you hear me?" A different voice, not a friend. Not an enemy. Jeff squinted, blinded by the light.
...
"Jeff, it's Nick, Nick Nowak. Physical therapy? Do you remember me? I'm just gonna have a little look at your injuries, okay?"
Rob leant, his back against the door, his head turned to the wall. Shannon had snatched Nick Nowak from the corridor, arms full of dressings and surgical tape. The trainer had the medic voice down: loud, authoritative, reassuring, your mom's voice when you fell and bloodied your knee as a kid. Rob wondered if Jeff could even hear it.
His hands, at his sides, clenched – relaxed – clenched, making fists. He'd wanted to be the one to beat Hardy to a bloody mash. Wanted it so much it itched in his brain, his knuckles.
"Pass me that, will you? No, that. Thank you. Okay, Jeff..." Nick Nowak, moving at the edge of Rob's vision.
Matt Morgan appeared at Rob's shoulder, looming over him (quiet for a big man) and casting a deep shadow. "Rob."
Rob craned to glare at him. "What?"
"Hardy's fucked up."
"No shit."
"No, I mean," Matt palmed the back of his skull, massaging. "He's not right. In the head."
Rob fixed him with a stare, folded his arms. "Are you for real?" He leaned into Matt, standing on his toes to snarl into his face. Matt recoiled, setting his jaw. "Don't ask me to give a crap about that little shit. The only reason I care if he lives or dies is so I can get a turn at killing him myself."
…
"Okay, Jeff. I'm just going to have a look at your head injuries now, assess how you are. I'm just gonna clean you up a bit."
Cold on his forehead, suddenly, running down his temples and into his hair, down into the wells of his eyes. Jeff blinked it away, trying to focus. Darkness moved above him, in a man-shape. Hands came down to his face, pulling at his wounds. He grimaced, cringing away. Felt rubber and padding against his skin. When he spoke, he didn't recognise his own voice. "Hey," he swallowed, dry, and tried again. "Hey. Hey. Stop."
The hands hesitated, hovering over his face.
"Who are you?" Jeff lifted his arm – an effort – and raised his hand tremblingly to his face. The man caught his wrist.
"Hey, now, don't do that. I'm disinfecting your cuts. Don't touch."
Jeff looked from the man's vague face to his hand in his grip. "No, wait. What – what happened? Where am I? Who are you?" Pressure that had nothing to do with hurt was rising in his chest, tripping his heart against his ribs.
The stranger's face leaned down to him, zooming out of the ether, and suddenly was less strange. "Jeff, my name is Nick Nowak. I'm a trainer, do you remember? You're in Orlando."
Jeff nodded, hesitantly. His jaw was clamped shut against the pressure in his chest.
"I'm just gonna do a few tests, okay? I'm gonna shine a light in your eyes, get you to follow a pen, you know the drill." Nick's hand was still on Jeff's wrist, gentler and warm.
A touch to his ankle made him start, needling his ribs, his insides. Shannon's voice, from his feet: "You're gonna be just fine, Jeffro, man." He'd know it anywhere.
The penlight ambushed him, blinding one eye and stabbing pain into his skull. It danced from one eye to the other, back again, again. Then it was gone, and it was 'follow the pen with your eyes' and Jeff did know the drill, so he did. While he followed it, up, down and side-to-side, Nick probed his scalp with a thumb.
"Okay, Jeff, just answer a few questions for me, easy stuff. Can you tell me what year it is?"
Jeff wet his dry mouth. "It's two-thousand ten."
"And your brother's name?"
"Matthew."
"Good. And who is the President?"
"Dixie Carter."
Nick frowned. "No, I mean the President of the United States."
"Oh." Jeff smiled with one corner of his mouth, weakly. "Barack Obama."
The pen was removed from before his eyes, and Nick leaned forward again, sharp-eyed. "Jeff, can you tell me what day it is?"
"It's Tuesday."
Nick lifted his head, dimpled his lip in agreement.
"Yeah." Jeff nodded, scalp tight against the irritation. "It's Tuesday the fifth."
Nick's frown returned, darkening his eyes. "Not quite right. It's the sixteenth."
"No." Jeff stared at him. "No, it's the fifth. I have a calendar."
"Jeff," Nick said, articulating carefully, "what month is it?"
"It's October. October the fifth."
…
Shannon's hand slipped from Jeff's ankle. October 5th. It made no sense. October 5th? A month of darkness, a month of unreturned calls and middle-of-the-night worry, erased in Jeff Hardy's brain. Jeff Hardy, torn and beaten here on the physio table, lathered with blood, still, to Shannon, the scrappy, skinny kid from Cameron, North Carolina. (Always that same kid.)
"No," he blurted, standing to look down on him. "Jeff, no."
Jeff looked at him, eyes bright in a mask of blood and paint.
"Jeffro, it's not October anymore."
"What do you mean?" His voice was thick. It sounded like a mouthful of blood, swollen lips, bitten tongue.
"It's November. November the tenth."
Nick held out a gloved hand, palm out, to Shannon. "Just stop, now." Jeff shook his head, mouth opening and closing wordlessly. Nick put a hand to his shoulder. "Don't worry, Jeff, just be calm. You're among friends."
From the corner of the room, shadowed, Rob snorted. Shannon glanced over. Matt was leaning, his back to the wall, his arms crossed. He raised an eyebrow. Rob didn't look back.
Jeff was wriggling further up the bench, pushing Nick's hands away. "No, no! You're wrong, I swear to God..." He drew his knees up after him. "You're wrong. Shannon?" Pleading. "This is a joke, right?"
Shannon stumbled around the bench, grasping for Jeff's hand. "Jeff, Jeffro, it's okay, man." He squeezed Jeff's hand between his two. "Everything's gonna be fine, just take it easy."
Jeff looked from Shannon to Nick, back to Shannon. Then he settled on Rob and Matt, next to the door; Rob's jaw set, Matt sweat-sheened with tired shoulders. "You guys?"
…
Matt rolled his eyes toward Rob. Rob was staring at the floor, grinding his teeth, a picture of tension. Matt looked back at the cluster 'round the physio bench: Shannon, clutching at Jeff; Jeff, like a panicked animal in a trap; Nick, the trainer, making soothing noises and patting the air with his spread hands. "Are you for real, Hardy?"
"Matt," Shannon narrowed his eyes, "does this look like a stunt to you?"
Matt shrugged, stretching the aching muscles in his shoulders. "This is Jeff Hardy we're talking about. The antichrist of professional wrestling, remember?"
Jeff's eyebrows knit. "What?"
"Stop being so fucking hostile and get over here. This is serious," Shannon growled.
There was silence for a moment, thick and palpable. Matt unfolded his arms, took a step away from the wall, toward Shannon and Jeff. Squaring up. "I don't wanna have to kick your ass, pipsqueak. And I'm not the type for sitting by bedsides. I'm out. I need to shower that little rat's blood off me."
Shannon dropped Jeff's hand, clenching his own into white-knuckled fists. He quivered. Matt turned his back on him.
"Rob," Matt said. Rob looked up at him, eyes dark and turbulent. "Dude, you comin'?"
"Yeah." Rob pushed away from the door, unlocked it.
"We're supposed to be in this together!" Shannon called, behind them. "We can't do this if we split up. That's what they want!"
"We're not splitting up," Matt spat back, over his shoulder. "I just can't don't think it's healthy for me and Rob to be in the same room as him for much longer. Got it?"
"Rob?" Jeff's voice, half-hoarse and tremulous.
Rob's shoulders tensed. He didn't turn back. Five seconds of wire-taut silence. Then, Rob shook his head, as if to clear it. "Come on, Matt." He swung the door open, and disappeared through it.
Shannon held out a hand. "Matt." Matt glanced back, raising his eyebrows. "Just be careful."
Matt snorted. "Abyss doesn't scare me. Fortune don't. We'll be fine." With that, he turned and left, closing the door behind him.
…
Jeff's head hit the bench, eyes sliding closed. He wanted the dark, and the silence. He wanted to sleep again. But he felt Shannon's cool hands on his hot skin, fluttering, nervous, like birds. "Jeff? Jeffro?" Voice so quiet, uncertain.
Nick's voice, too, rubber-gloves at his wrist, his neck, his forehead. "Jeff, can you hear me? Are you awake?"
Jeff nodded, barely, without opening his eyes. His head was too full of thoughts like broken glass, his body full of hurt. Rob's dark eyes that wouldn't look at him; Matt's shoulder smeared with his blood. He felt, suddenly, exhausted. Every cell ached.
Nick's voice blurred into nonsense, babbling at his ear. Shannon's hands, gripping his again, so far away as to be intangible. The pain in his body, his head, his fucking face, was a whole world. With a spark of strength, he turned his head to where he thought Shannon was sitting. "Shan."
"Jeffro?"
Jeff tried to wet his dry lips, tasted clotting blood. "Call Matt. Please. Call my brother." He didn't hear Shannon reply. Having given up the last of his energy, he sank back and slept again.
…
Over one thousand miles north of Orlando, it was below freezing and deep dark in Green Bay, Wisconsin. The world outside sparkled and cracked with ice. Ken Anderson was sprawled on sagging couch in a golden-lit living room, woolly-hatted and layed in thermals, boots covered in ice and mud. He had a laptop on his lap.
He wasn't supposed to be exerting himself. He was supposed to be paying attention to his headaches. And maybe he would, in a minute. But this was just too sweet to postpone.
The video he had been sent was from the most recent TNA taping: Jeff Hardy, painted and suited, a dark nebula in the ring, still and dreamy, like he always was these days – until something seemed to break. Moments later, there was Abyss, lumbering to the ring, with Janice the horrified focus of everyone's attention but Hardy's.
Ken had already watched the video twice. Hardy, curled into himself, hands over his head, taking it, taking. From a wide shot: a little bloody comma all alone in the ring, towered over by a monster. In between beatings, Jeff had reached out to the ropes, just once, with a trembling hand, as if there should be someone there to tag him out and save him.
There was no one there, only a void of what should have been, and Jeff Hardy had withdrawn back into himself under the blows of Janice, of nails and wood. He left a smear of blood on the canvas.
There was no one there, until there was. Matt, and Rob, and of course Shannon. Ken didn't know why. He didn't care. It was simply delicious to watch Jeff Hardy get beaten into 215 pounds of hamburger reaching out for where he, Ken Anderson, used to be, but was no longer.