Disclaimer: I own nothing.

TO HAVE NOT

It wasn't important, at all. Ethan had a lot on his mind – he had a championship to campaign for, he had Ken Anderson to put down hard. But still, he noticed Spud backstage, chatting to Borash and Andrews. Spud had quite a few little friends now, didn't he? And there was that idiot Anderson, sniping at Spud, teaming with him. They were going to implode as a team, of course they were.

Ethan was an important man, he was Ethan Carter III. Every day he showed the rest of the locker room what a true superstar was all about. He was unbeaten; he was going to be the TNA Heavyweight Champion. He had Tyrus, a monster on two legs who plowed through everyone that got in Ethan's way. He had more money and style than anyone else in the building.

So why did Ethan still notice Spud, why did he still look for the eye-sore suits and dorky bow-ties? Why did something untwist inside of him when he caught sight of his very former friend?

He'd beaten Spud to a bloody pulp. He'd shaved Borash's head; he'd made sure that Andrews received a crash-landing. He'd humiliated and pinned Spud, after Spud had kept coming at him, refusing to give up, even though the odds had always been overwhelmingly against him. Spud had refused to lie down; the fans had cheered him on, right into a brutal beating and pinfall.

Spud always shouted that he was a lion, a tiger, a gazelle. Ethan had often told him that, pumping him up for whatever they'd been about to face together. It turned out that Spud was none of those things, he was actually a pitbull, biting off more than he could chew, too stupid to let go. Until Ethan had made him.

Spud was laughing. Ethan knew that laugh; it still cut through his thoughts and conversation. He glanced over narrowly; Spud was laughing and talking to Brooke who was laughing too. Spud was wearing his Union Jack pants with a white t-shirt and Union Jack bow-tie; he was eating what looked like a bowl of pasta salad. He looked ridiculous, as always, but Brooke was stood close by and seemed completely happy. Spud seemed relaxed too.

Tyrus was sat opposite Ethan eating from a couple of very loaded plates. He didn't say a word about Ethan's behavior. He wasn't paid to comment, he just got with his job. Spud had never been that professional, especially toward the end.

Ethan dug into his medium steak and lightly-dressed salad. Spud was always letting himself get distracted by something – the crowd, his friends, a pretty girl. Real winners didn't get distracted. They never stopped winning, no matter what.

Brooke was leaving, kissing Spud on the cheek. Spud smiled and immediately began protesting when Borash went over to talk to him with a stupid knowing look on his face. A piece of steak dropped onto Ethan's very expensive pants.

Ethan had a really well-furnished locker room. There were couches, one of which turned into a pull-out bed, there was a fridge full of his favorite beverages and snacks, there was work-out equipment and a spa shower. It was Ethan's home away from home and where he was planning his campaign for the heavyweight championship. He was currently alone, having sent Tyrus out for more balloons and banners.

It was good, space to relax and actually think. Ethan answered a text message from his Aunt Dixie, gazing at the recent photo she'd sent of a couple of his nephews. He flicked through his gallery and paused on one particular photo – it was of Spud wearing a bright-pink jacket and matching bow-tie over a black shirt and pants with his hair wildly styled, standing next to Ethan who was of course impeccably dressed in a navy-blue suit. The picture had been taken backstage by one of the crew at Ethan's request; it'd been one of their very best nights, when Team Dixie had reigned supreme.

Ethan had deleted a lot of photos from that period but he hadn't deleted that one. He didn't delete it now either.

When Spud got hurt by the Beatdown Clan, his face contorted with agony, Ethan didn't perceptibly move. And of course later on he didn't intentionally walk past the medics' room nor did he listen in on their conversation.

"-take a full breath without pain, Spud. We're going to wrap your ribs; you'll need strapping if you want to wrestle on Sunday."

"I'm going to wrestle, Matt. So just do whatever you can, all right?"

"Okay, so we'll-."

Ethan didn't listen for the whistle that usually entered Spud's breathing when he'd cracked ribs; he didn't remind the staff that there were some medications that Spud reacted more sluggishly to than others, he didn't listen to check that one or any of Spud's friends were going to help him home afterward. Ethan moved on.

"Ethan."

Ethan stilled, halfway through a discussion of tactics with Tyrus. Spud stood a few feet away, wearing his ring-gear. Ethan signaled for Tyrus to wait for him around the next corner. Tyrus didn't look surprised though his eyebrows drew down, revealing what he thought of the situation. But he wasn't paid to think.

Once he'd gone, Ethan turned back to Spud, who didn't look scared or even all that nervous. His hair was starting to grow back now; the short gold stubble suited him. His throat bobbed, his gaze fixed on Ethan.

"You deserve to be heavyweight champion."

Ethan held his gaze for a long moment; the air between them felt like it might start striking sparks at any moment. But then Spud nodded like he'd accomplished something and began to walk away. Something pulled tight inside of Ethan; it pulled words out of him too.

"You're not supporting your running buddy?"

Spud didn't turn around, his feet didn't even pause. He just called back, "Ken doesn't represent this company."

Damn right.

Then Spud was gone, his back straight, his gait determined. The pitbull that still wouldn't take 'no' for an answer. Ethan absolutely did not smile.

-the end