A/N: Okay, it's 2 AM and I'm feeling bold. This doc has been sitting, getting old. I've decided to try out something new, I guess. It's a work in progress, but I wanted to get the first chapter out. Expect slow updates, and a few twists on interactions between people that you probably wouldn't think much about.
This is a work of fiction, something I'm making up as I go along.
And trust me, I read it and shook my head at myself. No, it's nothing crazy. Just different for me.
Roman found himself standing in front of a vending machine, staring at the options as he stood there. He held his fist beneath his chin, spreading his index and middle fingers to cover his mouth as he contemplated getting plain M&M's or the peanut ones.
He smirked to himself, thinking that it was nice to just be able to stand there all by himself. If he were being honest, he was standing there just to see who'd approach him first — whether they wanted to talk about his new attitude change or simply wanted to be nosy. Either way, he was waiting to see how much longer he'd get away with being out in the open because someone was bound to cross a boundary.
And whoever the brave soul would be, would get a fist to the face because he wasn't in the mood for conversation. He was feeling annoyed by Dean — he'd thought he was over the irritation and hurt that accompanied Dean's past few promos but the rift had grown by just a seeing his friend. And he knew that Dean was probably still licking his wounds from Roadblock while his girlfriend Renee coddled him because she was too afraid to tell him off. He'd had time to think about it during his absence and he'd concluded that he'd seen enough of Dean's playful behavior to know that it was a front. His best friend was fun and goofy so he could believably get away with saying whatever he wanted and Renee — and anyone else who'd defend him —wouldn't think much of his inflammatory remarks.
You're glad Roman won over me, because you know I'd beat you.
Those words echoed over and over again — taunting the Samoan as he stared into the reflective glass of the vending machine. He pressed the heels of his palms over his eyes, sighing loudly as he turned his back to the machine. He dropped his hands and laughed bitterly, a slow, dark laugh that would worry his mother if she'd heard it.
The situation was hilariously unfunny to him — there he was, essentially a wanted man by the Authority because he'd come back and placed authentic backstage heat on himself, but instead of worrying about that, he was thinking about how much he hated Dean for getting away with so much — he couldn't help but laugh. He hadn't thought about it until he was at home, sitting on his couch, watching recorded episodes of RAW. He found himself thinking back to every time he'd tried to be himself — every time he'd tried to connect with the WWE Universe and all the times they'd just dug their heels in and booed him on principle alone. The idea that someone Vince McMahon liked was trash, holding him back. He thought back to every time the powers that be threw Dean or his cousins out in the ring to save him. Even in his Shield days, he was the one that was told to just shut up and look intimidating because the crowd needed to get used to the idea that he could be in a group with Dean and Seth.
Roman sneered as he turned back to the vending machine, holding back his urge to punch a hole through the glass.
He was just tired — tired of getting told no — exhausted by the idea that he couldn't be and do better than men he shouldn't have even been compared to. He was tired of working in the shadow of men that didn't work like they have something to prove. He was bitter — way angrier than he could admit. So he lashed out finally, but Hunter would be okay in the long run. So what if he tossed his boss around for a couple weeks? After all the hell Stephanie McMahon and her husband had been putting him through lately, Roman figured a few punches to Hunter's jaw were long overdue. The grudge ran back all the way to the beginning of his career.
He shook his head, closing his eyes to control the boiling rage that was coiling in his stomach, telling him to just punch something — he needed to calm down. He'd already broken one TV on Triple H's back, he didn't think his paycheck needed anymore unnecessary deductions. Even though it would be fun to see how many more things he could turn into abstract weapons. Maybe I'll take a bat to a commentary monitor, Roman mused, chuckling to himself as he stuck two dollars into the money slot of the vending machine. He looked at the number on the label for the peanut M&M's, saying it aloud as he pressed the buttons. He grabbed the yellow package, leaning back against the snack dispenser as he ripped the corner of the package.
He nearly ran into someone as he moved to walk down the hallway. it did no favors for his mood as he realized who it was. Stephanie McMahon — Miss glutton for attention herself —stood there in front of him. Her gold necklace reflected light from the overheads set up in the hallways, nearly blinding him.
"What do you think you're doing?" She asked, her anger evident in the same screechy rasp her voice ended up taking on when she addressed the universe.
"What's it look like?" Roman answered coolly, popping a red M&M in his mouth as he gave her a shit eating grin. If she knew he was in a bad mood, she didn't show it. She stood before him, completely oblivious to the murderous thoughts in his head.
"I can see you," she snapped, crossing her arms over her chest, looking him up and down as she took a step closer to him. "But what I don't get —what's not clicking for me — " she paused, poking her finger into his shoulder aggressively "what makes you think you have the right to show up to my arena after that stunt you pulled last week." He looked down where she'd just assaulted his shoulder, his mouth upturned in a disgusted sneer. She stared up at him, scowling at him as if he were to be intimidated. He rolled his eyes.
"A stunt, huh?" He smirked, giving her a dry chuckle. "You liked that didn't you? I mean, I did." He shrugged, leaning against the wall as she took a cautious step away from him. "Beating your husbands ass all over backstage was a good time. Where is poor Mr. Stephanie McMahon?"
"Hunter isn't here tonight." She answered him, affronted by his bold disregard—her jaw shifted side to side as she turned her head to watch him. "But it has nothing to do with that little tantrum you threw last Monday. He has business to attend to."
Roman snorted, tossing more candy into his mouth as he laughed. His neck and shoulders rolled to show just how unserious he was being with her. "Business? You mean some company chores you send him on so he can feel like he's actually a part of the family?"
Stephanie faltered, opening and closing her mouth a few times before she huffed. He'd never seen a woman over the age of twenty-five get as red in the face as she had. She actually looked like she'd explode at any second. "Are you trying to get fired?"
"Who's gonna fire me?" He asked, his chin tucked toward his chest as he watched her. He held the half eaten bag of M&M's, scratching his unshaven beard with the same hand as he pretended to think of a response to her question. She stood there, tapping her foot on the concrete floor, staring at him intently. He hated her — all the way from soles of her feet to the top of her head — he couldn't stand her or her self-righteous attitude. Just the idea that she wanted everyone to bend to her will made him want to tell her to go fuck herself. However, he still had a semblance of decorum because she was a woman and be was raised to never be that disrespectful. He took the top of his enclosed hand and swiped his nose before rolling his eyes at her. "We both know you can't fire me."
"The hell I can't!" Stephanie hollered, getting in his face again.
"Get the fuck outta here with all that yellin'." He laughed, not caring that she was technically his boss. He just didn't care anymore. "Look, you and me both know you ain't got the power to actually fire anybody." He chortled obnoxiously. There were no cameras around and they sure as hell weren't in front of a crowd following a script— she couldn't fire him more than he could get away with starting a random fight with someone, "I'm sure daddy dearest saw what happened last week — he saw the way I beat Triple H's ass. If you could fire me — if I wasn't best for business — i'd be fired already."
"Listen you ungrateful son of a bitch, the only reason you still have a job is because–"
"Because what, Stephanie?" Roman asked, cutting her off, holding his hand to her face, "Like I said, you can't and won't fire me. And whether you like it or not, I'm gonna beat him for the championship at 'mania. Sorry."
She stared at him, her jaw slackened and her eyes staring daggers at him — she'd look deadly to anyone else. "You bastard." She chuckled — she was impressed really, but also highly agitated. He remembered a time when his reaction would have been anything but an eye roll but he had a new attitude. He didn't care if he pissed everyone off. He was back to get what was his, what he earned. And the Billion Dollar Princess herself wasn't even a blip on his radar.
He walked away from her with a satisfied smirk. He was sure she'd tear into him on screen later that night but he took the victory. He'd revel in all the small victories.
No one said much when he walked throughout the backstage area, nothing above their breaths. He commanded silence with his quiet confidence and a level of swagger no one had the courage to discount. It would only take so much for him to turn around and punch someone straight in the nose — especially since Stephanie had already made his anger worse. Miz remembered the clean right he got hit with just for asking a simple question. He'd been back for a week, angrier, hungrier. He'd attacked Triple H on the night he came back — brutally and masterfully. And the champion had tried to fight back, but it was futile and only made his beating worse, getting hit with a TV ripped from a wall.
He took longer strides as he walked, no one stood around to see where he was headed — he caught curious glances as he continued eating his candy covered gobs of chocolate like no one had seen his confrontation with their 'boss'.
He'd taken over a locker room from someone — having neatly set their things outside the door. No one would mess with him in the state he was in. And no one could outright blame him either. Triple H and Stephanie were the biggest pains in the ass around in the last couple years. The roster was thankful for some sort of interference in their tyrannical reign.
As he attempted to shut his door, a foot shot out, blocking his attempt to close out any bothersome people. It was obviously someone with a death wish.
"And where the hell have you been?" Asked Dean Ambrose — the man who had been his only friend — as soon as he pushed his way into the room. When Roman didn't answer, Dean rolled his eyes as he was let in without a word. "Roman! Helloooo…" Dean continued annoyingly, waving his hand in Roman's face, not noticing the deep breath the newly returned man drew in. "As your bestfriend, I'm insulted."
"Go away," Roman muttered, sounding exhausted by the thought that he would have to engage in friendly banter — it would have been fake — all he wanted to do was punch the man before him. But he took a calming inhale and sat down on a chair in front of a cubby in the wall. When Dean stood there, with his taped hands on his hips, Roman looked up at him, "For real. Make yourself scarce, my dude."
"Oh," Dean laughed, holding his hand to his chest, "Am I supposed to be intimidated?" Roman rolled his eyes at his brother's insistent behavior. Dean smiled, "I called you, Motherfucker. Like twice everyday." The rugged man reminded him, as if he somehow earned brownie points for attempting to reach out — when phone calls were nothing compared to what Roman had done for Dean in the past.
"Worried much?" Roman asked amusedly. Okay, so he'd bite — play along until he was beyond irritated. He didn't want to blame Dean or even be mad at him. They'd been friends for too long, been through too much together for him to completely write Dean off. But he could only tolerate so much before his brain shut off reason and his anger bubbled over. And no matter that he wanted to stay angry— no matter how much he wanted to hate everyone —Dean was so stubborn, he'd stay despite anything Roman would do or say. And knowing the man who he'd considered his best friend, Roman knew Dean would probably help him hide evidence in a murder case — even though that only seemed plausible if there were something in it for himself.
"Where'd you run off to?" Dean asked, crossing his arms as he leaned against a locker.
"'Bout my business." Roman answered tiredly, tossing the empty yellow M&M's wrapper into the black bin by the door —cockily smirking when the balled up plastic landed in the trash.
"Your business is my business." Dean retorted, not missing a beat. "In case you forgot." He smirked, scratching his surprisingly clean fingernails into his five o'clock shadow. When he let his hands fall back to his side, he smiled and prompted his friend. "So, try again."
Roman smiled, bowing his head — his first off guard smile in weeks — nodding. Running a hand through his long, dark hair, Roman sighed. "I just needed some time." There was a long, pregnant pause between the two friends. A shift in the atmosphere — new tension built up. Roman still wanted to be left alone and he could tell something was off with Dean. He had watched Dean on TV over the last few weeks —taking in everything and every sly remark Dean had made. What stuck out the most was the implication that Dean made when he said Triple H was glad that someone other than himself had won at Fastlane, because Triple H knew he could beat Roman. It hurt. It hurt that Dean, like everyone else, had written him off already.
"How's the nose?" Dean asked, referring to the injured part of his best friend's face. He knew Roman knew about the things he said —he couldn't bring himself to say something about it. He wanted to say he was just talking out of his ass for the support of the crowd, but was he? Didn't he mean what he said? He had at the time. And a small part of him still did believe he was better than Roman — that he deserved the shot at Wrestlemania more. But he'd lost at Roadblock. He just wanted a do-over.
He looked at Roman with baited breath, hoping the person closest to him for the last several years, didn't hate him like he hated himself at the moment — when he really looked at himself. He hoped that the last look they'd share wouldn't be one where Roman was taking back every moment he'd spent with him — hoping that he'd remember how special every, however insignificant the moment, was to him. Dean would hold on to them because in his heart, they probably did mean more to him than they did to Roman.
"There was nothing wrong with it in the first place." Roman shrugged, openly admitting that somewhere down the line, someone came up with that story to excuse why he'd been gone for three weeks. He didn't see the moment Dean exhaled a nervous breath. He needed the time to regroup and come up with some sort of game plan because Triple H was playing dirty. "Just did a lot of bleeding. Got hit a lot."
Dean laughed, shaking his head and point at him, "Dude, it looked like a bee on steroids stung you."
"Hardy fucking har." Roman sighed, sitting back in his chair. "Did you want something, or just want to bug me for the next few hours before the show?"
Dean fake gasped. "I haven't seen you in weeks and that's how you talk to me?"
"How else am I supposed to talk to you?" Roman answered gruffly, a renewed anger toward the man he called family.
"Don't be an ass." Dean rolled his eyes. He knew how Roman could be when he was feeling confrontational — he didn't take it to heart. He knew what he had said. He knew that by just challenging Triple H for the title he had tested Roman's chances. If he'd won, he would have been the one facing Roman — or worse, Roman would have to fight for a shot, again.
"Are you gonna leave?" Roman asked, his eyebrows raised as he looked up from his folded hands in his lap. "Cause I'm really tired of talking to you right now." Truth is, he was tired. Exhausted by the pleasant conversation and the constant repeating of the same sentiments. Dean was good at playing the same game every day when really, they'd grown apart a long time ago —they just kept getting thrown back together because the fade hadn't played out on screen.
Dean huffed, a short exhale of a chuckle through his nose, he shook his head. "Fine. I'll go. But under protest."