Author: Snarkcasm
Rating: Teen, there's a few swear words and a tinge of self-harm in the form of over-exercising. Christian won't stop swearing, the potty mouth. Also pre-slash eventually turning into slash.
Summary: Jay's struggling with losing his belt and a Viper he cannot shake. Eventual Randy/Jay, Jay POV.
Warnings: This is a blend of kayfabe and (totally make-believe) real life. I use the wrestlers' real names and the character names when appropriate, like during ring segments. This is about Christian and Randy's current dance-around. Honestly, with all the eyesex they do, they should just fuck. Trufax
Disclaimer: I do not own any rights to the WWE or the wrestlers mentioned in the story. This is a story of fiction and I make no money from it.
Author's Note: The title comes from "So Amazing" by Cure Gravity. I've been listening to this song on repeat ever since I watched "Dark Rising" (if you love Christian, watch it! He's totally a goofball/horndog in it). To me, "So Amazing" is a Christian/Randy song in Randy's POV. Christian's so amazing, but he doesn't know it! This is unbeta'd and might be a oneshot (I'm still on the fence about that). Without further ado, my first wrestling fanfic!
Room to Breathe, Chapter One
White-hot rage boiled underneath his skin like an itch he could not scratch, a scab he could not pick; a nuisance he could not alleviate. He had paid his dues time and time again; for seventeen long, arduous, painful years, he kept working up that ladder and collecting his belts. And, after seventeen years, he finally had it. The World Heavyweight Championship was his.
Five days later, he lost it. He fucking lost it to Randy "I'm The Viper, Respect My Insanity" Orton, Mr. My-Finishing-Move-Takes-Five-Hours-With-My-Theatrics. He cranked the cold water tap and rubbed the freezing water over his haggard face. He wasn't being fair, he knew it. Creative's decision screwed him over royally. He lost his belt, he had to go out there a show later to swallow his pride, tag-teamed with Mr. Showboat himself, and by the way things were heading, he was turning Heel as well.
Bullshit. He was better than this. He would not go out like that. He twisted off the water and blindly groped for a towel. His cell phone chirped "I Feel Pretty" and he rolled his eyes. Adam. Probably the last person he wanted to talk to right now, next to Vince, anyone from Creative, and Randy "Show-Stealer" Orton.
He powered down his mobile and crawled into bed.
He was jerked out of his tenuous slumber by thunderous pounds. He stumbled towards the door, almost falling on his ass as the door was thrown open and a frantic Adam burst onto the scene, hair flying every which way. "Jay…Jay, are you all right?" He grasped the former Heavyweight champion by the elbows and stared at his face, searching for something. "You haven't been drinkin', have you?"
"No," Jay remarked moodily, "but, hey, that's a fantastic idea! I think there's some Jack in the mini-bar." He jerked out of Adam's hold and headed for the fridge in question before he was tugged right back into his best friend's one-armed hug. Reluctantly, Jay allowed himself to seek comfort in the embrace and hugged back furiously.
"Vince is a dick," Adam muttered in Jay's ear and he laughed, nails digging into the flesh of Adam's back. "I'm serious. This is Major League Douchebaggery."
"I know." Did he always sound this miserable? This pitiable? "But what can you do?" Jay stepped back and accessed his friend. Adam's shirt was a wrinkled mess and his eyes were red. "Why are you even here, Copeland?"
"I'm here to kick ass and chew bubblegum, and I'm all out of bubblegum," the freshly retired wrestler joked weakly, toothy smile diminishing at the glare Jay sent him. "Another wrestler called me. We're all worried about you, Jay. This…this is devastatingly cruel…even crueler than me pretending to be in love with Vickie." They shared a grimace at that ridiculous storyline.
But even Jay could tell when the Rated R Superstar was holding back information and he put enough distance in-between them to cross his arms. "Who sent you?"
"Look man, I know you. You're the brother I never had, y'know? I would never do anything to hurt you."
Adam's little spiel got old fast. "Adam Joseph Copeland, tell me who called you."
"Randy."
Jay's face fell. "Get out."
"Jay, he's not that bad of a guy, honestly." Oh, of course, how could Jay forget that fucker tag-teamed with his best friend? 'Rated RKO': his best friend and the man that stole his title. He gritted his teeth. He'd be damned if Orton stole his best friend too.
"The last thing, the very last thing, I want to do tonight is talk about him. I would rather take Sheamus' Celtic cross right up the ass with no lube than listen to you try and defend him of all people. Him, of all people, Adam. Seriously?" He faced the mini-bar, feeling a little petulant. "Go away, I wanna see how many tiny bottles it takes me to get rip-roaring drunk."
"No."
Jay's shoulders heaved in sarcastic, wheezing laughter. "'No'? How are you going to stop me—spear me?" His sardonic smirk slipped off his face as Adam's eyes widened in betrayal. The news of Adam's imminent paralysis was still fresh in the WWE roster gossip; Jay admitted that reminding him of his early retirement was a dick move. "I'm…I'm sorry," he apologized, reaching for Adam's sleeve.
Adam rebuffed the reach by putting on his leather jacket. "No. No. You're right. You had a shitty hand dealt, I get that. Go get stupid drunk; go whine to management. Fuck, strip down and flash the entire city—I could care less. But give me a call when you do grow up, William. Fight for your title back. You won't be able to do that when you have your head stuck up your ass. I'm in room 305." He placed a room key on the table. "Visit me before you head out. Charissa will want to see you, most likely to bitch about Denise." Jay winced; he and Denise were legally separated as of a few months ago. She couldn't deal with him being away all the time and during his six-month recuperation from a torn pectoral, she couldn't stand him being home either. Good to know that Adam was still good at digging claws into tender areas. "And, talk to Randy. He's just as pissed about this as you."
With one last hug and a choked back 'good bye', Jay watched Adam walk out of the room. He was right (of course he was); this wasn't Randy's fault. Truth be told, Christian wasn't the 'right' person to be the face of WWE as their champion. His struggle made for an interesting story, but he wasn't a huge splash. The franchise wanted to push another fan favorite up to Champ level, what with the huge feud between John Cena and R-Truth right now.
It was still sickening how he came out to a lukewarm reception while the true 'Heel' of the story came out to thunderous applause. His hands curled into a fists and he slammed them down on the dresser drawer. The little lecture he got from Adam did nothing for his rage but inflame it. He needed exercise. He couldn't run; he was afraid of actually running away for good with all the breath left in his body.
Gym it was.
He grabbed his duffle bag and his key card and left, flipping up the hood of his worn, gray hoodie up and putting his iPod buds in his ear. The hotel wasn't that big; he didn't want to run into another wrestler and hear false condolences right now.
He ran as if Hell itself was nipping at his heels. The whirl of the treadmill and thud of his footsteps, the burn of muscles being pushed to the limit over and over again, accompanied the loud Rock in his ears and he felt a semblance of peace. He was easy-going to a fault; the sickly feeling of resentment and anger disgusted him. He needed to sweat that out. Maybe he'd feel normal then.
It was an old joke to ask a runner if he was running towards or from something; right now, Jay couldn't even answer that question. He ran until his legs screamed and cramped and further beyond. Sweat and tears fell down his face in equal turn, but he needed to run or else he was going to float away.
One misstep had him stumbling off the machine, bowlegged like a drunk. His muscles, weak from pain, could no longer support him and he crumpled to the ground, accidentally bashing his head against the rail. Dizzy, he was so fucking dizzy; he fumbled into his pockets for his cell phone. Shit, he left it upstairs. He sucked in breath after heated, sweat-soaked breath, planning out his next move. In any circumstance, he needed to get to help and the only way to do it was crawl his pathetic ass out the door and hope for one of those courtesy phones nearby.
The lights, the fucking lights were so fucking bright. Curled up in a ball, Jay screwed his eyes shut against the onslaught of artificial light and cradled his head with his arms, praying that tonight would be over already.
"Shit. Someone call the trainers!" Fuck, could they—whoever they were—shut up for a minute? Jay just wanted some peace and quiet; he earned it. He was moved in a sitting position and he embarrassingly threw up bile before slumping into whoever was kind enough to be there.
"Jay, if you can hear me, open your eyes." A quiet, authoritative voice had Jay squinting. Only trainers used that voice; did he just lose a match or get hit by a semi? A pen light shone in his eyes and he would have jerked back if the trainer didn't have the forethought to grip his chin. "Slower than normal pupil response time." Gloved hands then groped his skull looking for bumps or contusions. "Minor cut on forehead. Listen to me, this is important: what is your full name, birthday, today's date, and the current president?"
Jay rattled off all the answers with a roll of his eyes. He had concussions before and this wasn't one; he wasn't stupid. All he needed was supervision and maybe something greasy to eat. He hissed when the trainer's hands fluttered down his legs. He overdid the treadmill and his body was staging a full rebellion.
"No rips, tears, or pulls, not for the lack of trying." Jay sneered. He had his brother-in-law for passive-aggressiveness; he didn't need any more lip. Just as a precaution, his knees and ankles were wrapped up in cold packs to alleviate swelling. The trainer sat back on his haunches and pulled off his gloves with a snap. "Jason has only minor swelling in his knee and ankle joints. From a preliminary glance, he has all the classic symptoms of a simple concussion. He needs to be monitored throughout the night."
Jay blinked and looked down at the bed. He was back in his own room. Huh. Tired, he lolled his head towards the trainer and started at the two figures behind him: Rhodes and DiBiase. He did not see that coming at all except in a universe that loved to fuck with him. "'M fine," he slurred, thus refuting that statement in its entirety. The trainer just glared at him. "Okay, so 'mnot, but I don't need a babysitter." He flapped a hand at Tweedle-Dee and Tweedle-Dum in the corner and from their identical frowns he realized he just called them that out loud. "Whoops," he hiccupped and curled in on himself.
"He needs basic supervision until a morning check-up, which another trainer will stay behind and do. I have to head to RAW's taping and the flight leaves in," the trainer checked his watch as he doled out some acetaminophen tablets, "about three hours. Concussion standard procedure is simple, I have a pamphlet in my bag. Now, who's going to watch over him?"
DiBiase raised his hand and nudged a pouting Rhodes square in the ribs. "We will, sir." The trainer nodded gratefully and scribbled something, a number Jay could make out, on the top-right corner of the 'Concussion and You!' leaflet. With a terse goodbye and a stern warning for Jay to take the pills, the trainer packed up his things and fled.
Rhodes plopped into a chair with an explosion of air and a tangle of limbs. "Great, Ted, you and your Nightingale syndrome," he lisped with a roll of his eyes.
Ted didn't even look up from where he was studying the pamphlet and elected to give the man the finger. Jay struggled into a sitting position and dry-swallowed the pills. "Okay, boys. Thanks for the whole being here thing, but I'm going to ask ya to leave." If he weren't so tired, he would have flapped his hands to shoo them or flip on the Killswitch—whichever one was easier.
Ted looked scandalized while Cody scrunched up his face unattractively. For someone whose whole gimmick lingered on his looks, he should be more aware of wrinkles. Cody squeaked and touched his face; damn, he said that out loud again, didn't he?
"You did." Ted sounded suspiciously vindicated. He took the empty twin bed and sprawled out. "Just settle down and get some rest. We'll take turns waking you up every hour or so."
"We will?"
Ted glared. "Yes we will, Cody. You found him."
"And he's fine. The trainer even said so!"
"Will you guys shut up?" Jay grounded out through a clenched jaw. "If you two clowns can't be quiet and let me sleep, then get the hell out! Better yet, leave now or I'm calling hotel security." He punched a pillow into submission and threw blankets over his head, hoping the idiots got the point. He was in no mood to deal with two-thirds of the defunct Legacy. Ever.
He didn't completely relax until the lights were flipped off and the door shut with a final click.
A light shake some time later had him flailing his arms about, hoping to connect with flesh. He succeeded if the hissed, pained noise was any indication. Jay smirked, knowing full well his slaps hurt like a bitch.
He complained loudly when his cocoon was tugged down and his face exposed to the chilly air in response. "What's your full name?"
"William Jason Reso, stage name Christian, Christian Cage, Captain Charisma, blah, blah, blah. Is that good enough, Sexton Hardcastle?" he grumbled and tugged up his covers. "Leave me alone, Adam, tryin' to sleep."
"Okay, smartass, any dizziness, nausea, uh…" Adam looked to the pamphlet, "Photo sensitivity?"
"No. Still breathing."
"That was a stupid thing to do yesterday." Jay groaned loudly, tugging his pillow over his head to see what would happen first: his suffocation or Adam leaving him the hell alone.
He was betting on suffocation.
"I agree." Jay's muscles locked at the new voice. Fuck, fuck, fuckity, fuck. He gripped his leg muscles and glared up at the new voice.
"Go away, Orton. 'S none of your business."
"None of my business? Jay—"
The last thing he wanted to hear was Randy's weak excuse of a consoling tone. He sat up quickly, pinched the bridge of his nose to stave off the headache, and stared down both Adam and Randy. Adam had the grace to look sheepish. Randy squared up for an argument, bearded jaw jutting out mulishly and brows furrowed over arctic blues.
A thousand words and countless unspoken arguments passed between the former and current Heavyweight Champions. Jay finally relented with a shoulder slump and settled back in his pillows. He held out his hands pleadingly. "I appreciate the concern, guys, I do. But this isn't my first head bump and it isn't going to be my last. I'll be fine and back to normal soon, I give you my word. Just…just let me mope for a bit, okay? It's not easy being a five-day champion."
Now it was Randy's turn to look away. Everybody and their mother knew of Randy's first title betrayal, but he had at least fourteen days of being Champion to Christian's five. There were no more words as the current Champion turned and left.
Adam squeezed one of Jay's hands. "Man, I know you know deep down that it's not his fault. He didn't want to go out there."
Jay had a hard time believing that drivel and it showed on his face. "I'm serious. When he found out what Creative had in store, he went up to them and imploded. I mean seriously, Mark Henry and Khali? You deserved better…and Creative agreed, adding Orton and Stephen in the mix."
"So…this is because Orton couldn't un-bunch his spankies for one minute? Creative wouldn't have let me lose against Khali and Henry. Those guys aren't that high on the pop scale. But, add in Randy Orton? I was destined to lose."
"Hey now, quit talking about destiny. You're starting to sound like Del Rio." Their eyes connected and simultaneously, they reenacted Rodriguez's stupid intro, complete with the rolling 'r's (which Jay frankly sucked at) and super elongated 'o's. Jay slung an arm around his aching midsection and wiped his face free of tears.
They reminisced about the old days before Adam squeezed him about the changes in the Company. Jay rolled his eyes; for as much as Adam portrayed himself as above backroom gossip in interviews, he was very much a gossip slut. So, like any good friend, Jay gave him what he wanted. Bryan and Luis were kindasortamaybe dating—yes, even with the language barrier; apparently, Danielson knew Spanish well enough to communicate with 'Sin Cara'. Ted and Cody were still disgustingly attached to the hip, but rumor had it that Rhodes was looking somewhere else. Michelle and Layla were on the outs because Michelle wanted to focus more on her relationship with Mark. Andrew was still working out the kinks in his divorce settlement with Tiffany and John Hennigan was as prickly as a cactus without his boyfriend, or so he's been told. And Trish came back and made out with Barbara in the backroom after saving her from LayCool. Now that was entertainment.
All and all, it made for a very entertaining rom-com. Not so much a good working environment, but Jay never got into another's business; that was Adam's job.
Around six in the morning, Adam's phone rang. It was Charissa demanding where the hell he was. While Adam was calming down his woman, Jay gingerly stretched sore muscles, popping things into place and massaging away charley horses. He made a mental note to contact the Company's chiropractor for a deep tissue massage. Debbie liked him enough that a few puppy dog eyes tossed her way could buy him enough table time to work out his fucked up back.
If he had any chance in regaining his title, he needed to be at one hundred percent. Make no mistake; he was getting his belt back even if it killed him. Adam ended his phone call with Charissa, a hangdog expression on his face. "I have to head back. D'ya have the number of that trainer?" Jay pointed to the pamphlet Ted graciously left, rubbing his eyes. Damn, he was bone tired and his stomach was trying to eat its lining out of sheer desperation.
The trainer, a female and decidedly gentler over the last one, gave a quick, efficient examination. They went to a doctor and had his head x-rayed just in case. Luckily, it wasn't a concussion—he was just dazed, overly stressed, fatigued, and starving. After a fifteen-minute lecture in taking care of his body, he slinked away from the office—tail tucked between his legs—and darted into a nearby McDonald's. Greasy food was definitely a gift from above, he thought, mouth watering at the hash browns and Egg McMuffins. He inhaled his food as only a pro Wrestler could and sucked down the piping hot, cavity-inducing weak coffee.
"I knew I'd find you here." Jay pursed his lips as Randy sat down in front of him. A booth full of girls started pointing and tittering amongst themselves.
Jay smiled with too many teeth and gestured grandly with his remaining hash brown. There wasn't much he could do in the presence of fans. As much as he would love to give Randy the reaming of a lifetime, he didn't need a lecture on professionalism from Management.
Randy's nose wrinkled. "How can you eat this garbage?" Jay looked up from where he was smearing grape jelly on his hash brown and smirked at the green tinge to the other man's face. That image made the grape-slathered, overly processed potatoes go down smoother.
He wiped the corners of his mouth primly, enjoying the moment while it lasted. "We all can't exist on protein bars and shakes, Orton."
"'Orton'," the other man repeated contemplatively, rubbing the patchy overgrowth on his beard. "You know, there was a time when I was just Randy."
Jay's hands clenched into fists underneath the table. He knew exactly as to what Randy was referring. The gall of the man to bring that up in public! "That was a long time ago, buried in the past."
Randy got up in one smooth movement and leaned into Jay's personal space. A chill ran down Jay's spine at the coldly accessing stare of The Viper up close and personal, outside of the ring. Randy tilted his head in a decidingly serpentine way and his nostrils flared as if scenting the air, scenting Jay. Jay met Randy stare for stare with a stubborn jaw until the arctic chill became too much for him and he broke eye contact. Randy eased up with an amused curl of his lip. "Perhaps not as buried as you'd like to think, Jay."
Jay gritted his teeth, refusing to meet the other's eyes. "Don't call me that." He knew Randy was staring at him. His existence was undeniable, as unfathomable as the fucking ocean and twice as murky. Even as the pressure of the man's presence eased up, Jay had a hard time finishing the rest of his food and the food he did manage to get down settled heavily in his churning gut.
He was so fucked.