Disclaimer: I own nothing and no one. WWE is property of Vince McMahon.
A/N (honest opinion):
This is no way intended to be well-written and poetic, it's 2:31 in the morning and I'm up watching wrestling. It's just something I couldn't resist to write, my slash urges have gone a level beyond.
It's in John Cena's POV, don't like Cena-keep it to yourself. I'm not the biggest fan of his either, but I'm not up on reading 20 comments of "Cena's a faggot" or "Cena sucks" type. Please, keep it as respectful as you can.
Takes part in 2006, Saturday Night's Main Event, when it was supposed to be John Cena and Shawn Michaels vs. HHH and Shane McMahon (or, if you prefer, call it segment of 3/20/2006). Written in kayfabe (or is it? You decide) for the sake of making sense.
Turn the other cheek
"….If you even think about interfering in my activities later tonight, there will be Hell to pay…"
I wasn't really listening to my beloved boss run his mouth, even if the words he spewed at me were less then friendly. I kept gazing from one side of the arena to the other, trying hard not to stare at the silhouette at my left side.
It would be impolite to stare, like you would at a cripple or a mute, even when you didn't want to, even when all you felt was pity and pain for the sight that crossed your eyes; it wouldn't make it right, it wouldn't make it fair to treat that being as something less than human, less than a man, less than a creation of God.
But there he was.
My eyes had to be deceiving me.
Was that him, Shawn Michaels? The Legend, The Showstopper, The Icon? The Heartbreak Kid, Mr. Wrestlemania? Where? Where was the cocky grin, the amused, mischievous sparkle in his eyes, the pride in his walk? Where was his little strip-tease, his victory dance, his spark? The one that melts all the women's hearts and provoked the hatred of most men who knew him, the mere flavor of him, his own…swagger?
Was he behind the short, crumbled man, that was held down by security not that far away from me, the one twitching his knee and bending his back, barely moving his chest and fists in sad attempts to find air, almost comically trying to replace the desperation in his eyes with rage?
Bend down, little man, I wanna see HBK!
What did you do to him, Vince? Is this your idea of loyalty, has this man not earned your respect? Having him held down like a rabbid dog with the tell tale of rabies running down its chin, taunting him not with your physical abuse, but with the scary image of his former self, trapped inside his aged body, pleading and screaming to come out, just once more, just this one time…to live and breathe again, to be that legend once more?
I could hardly suppress my disgust as I looked down on the World Wrestling Entertainment chairman with implied calmness, while all I wanted to do was spit in his face. Shifting my hands to my side in a mocking peace offering, I started walking away, politely escorted by security, who felt the need to put their hands on me, just in case I felt a sudden "change of heart".
One final glance at The Icon, before finally swallowing my pride and admitting defeat, for both of us. I had to face it, at that moment; I acted like a coward, putting my own well-being over a better man's fate. Yeah, in his worst state, Shawn Michaels was and always will be the better man, the one who'd risk it all for the sake of justice and pride, not letting his selfish thirst for a title of a company that did nothing but promote the sad, pathetic story of "stronger beats weaker", "you can't fight the numbers game" and the good ole' "smile pretty, act cute for the boss and get your damn paycheck" rid his mind of seeing right from wrong.
As I stood backstage just looking at the match from the safe distance of a TV monitor, I couldn't help but let out a bittersweet snicker at the irony of all this. Oh, John, you stupid fuck…here you are every day on world wide television talking trash about not backing down, pushing thoughts of fighting for the right reasons down everyone's throats and minds, waving your arm around like you were Goddamn Superman himself, yet in the first sight of authority, on the verge of tasting danger's sweet blood, you back away and clutch that shitty piece of metal like it was your will?
Maybe…but not when it was about that man right there.
Just one look in his eyes, which dwelled beneath beauty and blood, was enough to force that gimmick into me.
One look and one line….
"Pedigree him!"
The WWE title hit the ground as I ran down the hall, ignoring the strange looks I received from both co-workers and backstage employees; at that point, I hadn't a clue what I was doing, why I was doing it or how it would all turn out, I just knew one thing…
It was HBK.
Actions speak louder than words and by all means, I pretty much told Vince what I thought of him a second later, when I pushed his son down the ramp and threw him out of the ring like a piece of used tissue. That seemed to pretty much snap some life back in Shawn, who quickly got back on his feet and shifted away from Hunter, all the while managing to throw me a confused look. We didn't have time for a tender moment, for security came rushing towards us; hey, I don't blame them for doing their jobs and they shouldn't blame me for having their teeth in my feet or their blood on my fist. Risks of the profession, players!
Needless to say, the McMahon duo was not very pleased with my appearance.
They backed away, along with some of the security, who actually wanted to make it back home that night, to their wives and families.
Shawn and I stood at the side of the ropes, breath escaping our bodies, beaming at each other for different reasons; while I, somehow, was trying to master a self-conscious, cocky and mocking attitude for the loving McMahon family, the long-haired Showstopper was battling emotions of his own-the relief and gratitude he felt for having someone on the roster lending him a hand, offering some well-deserved praise and tribute to the shadow he left over all of us throughout his career and on the other side…being saved by John "Supermark" Cena, the little gangsta wanna be, who dwelled in the dreams of 12-year old girls and company merchandise sellers. I could clearly sense the question in his mind, "Should I superkick him now, or just turn the other cheek?".
I summoned all of my will to keep my gaze at the McMahons and at least pretend to acknowledge attention to their words and efforts.
"Next week, it will be John Cena, versus…." Vince seemed almost pathetic, glancing from Hunter, to his son, then back to the all hailed King of Kings "….me!"
It was somewhat surprising that the old man would risk his body for money; he was either at a very delicate raging state or just didn't give me that much credit. Whatever the reason, it amused me deeply, but I had to keep my cool, if I wanted any part of this match to actually sell.
Satisfied with just mouthing a "Bring it on." and a simple tempting hand-gesture, I kept my eyes on Mr. Kiss my ass, stretching the smile as wide as it could go over my face without having to be surgically removed. It was when McMahons & Company walked away that I felt a hand grasp my chin tightly and was reminded that, sooner or later, I had to drift back to reality.
My head was shifted violently to the side as I was face to face with Shawn, The Icon, my childhood hero…the person who inspired many men, myself included, to choose the road of wrestling and devote our lives to the public. He said something to me, but in that moment all thought and senses in my being were strangely muted, silenced, for the sake of keeping my own sanity. There was just the pair of stunning green eyes and my own heartbeat, slowly giving me away…
The fans were cheering; the cameras were slowly being turned off, while I awaited some well-deserved Chin Music.
And then it just happened, it hit me…
No, not his foot, as the fans so openly hoped.
The pair of soft, yet firm lips brushing against my own and a steady hand pulling me closer, grasping the strains of my hair as if they were tiny masses of sand, about to slip away in the mere gaps of his fingers…dumbfounded, I granted access to his tongue to slowly stroke its way past the barrier that were my lips and teeth and deep inside the depths of my mouth, carefully teasing my tongue in an almost playful, sarcastic way.
When he finally moved away, all I could do was take a jump backwards with my palms flowing open, jaw dropped low and eyes as up as my sockets would allow, not even managing to gulp. Somehow, I stumbled out a:
"What the fuck was that???"
"Turning the other cheek." He noted with an unbothered, un-impressed expression on his features, before turning his back on me and slipping out of the ring, apparently not giving the occurred action a second thought, not acknowledging it as anything more than a mind-fuck a "rookie" like me deserved.
At that point, the huge grin I had earlier on, turned sincere.
From this moment on, nothing in the world would ever scare me again.
….I just hoped it wasn't my own drool that was dripping down my bottom lip.
A/N: I hope you like it Posting it for the sake of it being Cena/Shawn. I think it's cute.
Shawn Michaels IS my favorite wrestler of all time, so I was in no way trying to offend him or portray him badly. Blame my writing, if you're offended.
I do know wrestling is not real, just…accept this as part of the script. It wouldn't be the same if you didn't; Shawn's married and has children, I can bet a dollar to anyone he wouldn't leave them for a piece of Cena (even if he does have a nice ass).
Hope you all had a nice Easter.