Phillip. Who the hell calls him Phillip?

A feverish, concussed former coworker, apparently. Head trauma and what seems to be the most interesting case of lemming disease ever have culminated in the hot mess lying sprawled on his bed. He dabs at Jeff's head with a cold washcloth as he hits send on yet another text to Amy reassuring her that, yes, Jeff is very ill, but no, he doesn't need her here.

It's been awhile since he needed her here, or that she offered, but it's nice to hear sometimes. Not really welcome right now, part of his brain niggles, but that's more out of general annoyance at losing out on so much sleep.

He was out at a club, minding his own business, as much as someone with a pro wrestling career can. But, still, minding his own business and enjoying the music, relishing the dancing, having a nice cold drink after what had turned out to be a very stereotypical, if not disappointing, Monday night match.

The club wasn't helping.

There was a raised platform in the center of the floor obviously intended for a gogo dancer of some sort. With it being a Monday night and a podunk little town and all, the stage had largely been vacant, save for some reticent if not well-lubricated women clutching half-empty drinks hopping half-heartedly onto the dais before falling off to the raucous laughter of their own devising, chorused by various voices and some friendly clamoring.

And then fucking Austin Aries showed his face.

Swinging like a monkey and making enough of a mess of himself to incite a veritable troupe of locals, it's all he could do not to put the guy down on his own. Sure, there was no provocation there, and yes he had no personal beef with Daniel to speak of, but fuck him if TNA was suddenly going to break his flow. Not when he was just starting to mellow, just starting to find his center, just starting to cool down after what he hoped would not turn into another absolutely maniacal week of fuck-yeah-Cena tweets.

He didn't have anything personal against Dan at all. In fact, he really respected the guy. He did good work, and though they'd never interacted on a personal level, it was the likelihood of the company he kept that made something cold and angry and sick and tired, so tired and wasted and sad, well up suddenly to throat-check Phil in a way that made his ears ring.

That hair. It glowed iridescent in the black lights, that streak of blond like an obnoxious torch shining in the bleak pit of mediocrity he'd found himself in tonight, just letting himself drop like a stone into the depths of facelessness this venue had to offer. In classic style, while he'd done everything he could within reason to turn down his appearance, Hardy never seemed to differentiate between work and the world. It was shit like this that worked him up so much. It was the reason Vince had pinned them together in the first place, and that was a wound that wound even deeper, knowing the kind of vindictive people he dealt with every day. And people just /bought it/...

Their eyes met, not in one of those cheesy across-the-dance-floor, Lifetime-Movie-Network kind of ways. It was like that dull throb in his throat and his head was suddenly getting jacked up to 9,000 and the room was getting muted and bright and space seemed to shift and he's moving-

No, Hardy was coming right at him. Like a deer caught in the headlights, he just stands there as Hardy's closing on him with the look of a hungry jackal on his face, the thumping of the bass coming to him almost as if he's underwater, punctuating the approach. He's leaning against an exposed beam wrapped in cheap overstock carpeting, probably as some pretense between comfort and fire codes, and he assumes that uncomfortable twinge running up and down the length of his spine is just the rough fibers grinding against his shirt. But he doesn't move, no more than to shift his shoulders so slightly and square his collarbone against the oncoming altercation, ignoring Austin's newly-amassed yelping, yapping passel of bitches for the moment.

"You having fun?" Hardy said over the music, leaning one-armed, cocky against the textured beam behind him. He could just smash him in the inside of the elbow, a jab to the armpit, get a kick on any of his ribs-

"What the fuck do you think?"

He had a brief moment to chastise himself - was that really the best he had right now? But he looked up and saw Hardy wasn't actually looking at him at all. In fact, he was fairly fixated on the dance floor, his face somewhere between unreasonably placid and exceptionally homicidal, as if he'd been goaded into a trap. He turned and followed the gaze, but in his estimation, it's only a group of poorly-restrained drunkards, a few underage girls in push-up bras, an older guy with a fanny pack, maybe the guy in the far corner with the over-long trench coat, some groupies and random personalities from one or both shows... Nothing unusual. Nobody he recognizes, at least, as being particularly inciting or obtuse.

"You wanna get outta here?"

It took him a second to realize, as he turned back, that Jeff was directing this question at him. He's somewhat taken aback; where did this sudden familiarity come from? And why the sudden swap in social guises? A moment ago he looked ready to tear out someone's throat with a slightly-sharpened plastic spoon, and now he s broken into a cocked smile, almost a leer in Punk s estimation. He shook his head in disbelief as he pushed off the wall and started aimlessly into the bar section of the club, trying to put some distance between himself and...whatever Hardy was doing.

"Punk," Jeff started to say, but he knew Jeff was behind him, and he twisted as he felt a hand come down on his shoulder, grabbing the wrist, turning the arm sideways, applying pressure to the back of the elbow and pushing downward. He crouched on one knee, driving Jeff down to the floor, and for a blissful moment he feels that anger subside as that all-too-familiar sensation of winning finally finds its way back into his skin. He was flushed with it-

Actually, he realized, he was breathing hard. He actually /was/ flushed. And Jeff was very calmly, almost understandingly, kneeling with his arm twisted awkwardly to the side and his body turned away, but in a way that said Punk really was not hurting him. He turned his head to throw Punk a cock-sure smile over his shoulder.

"You better break that or get the fuck off me," Jeff said, but there's a warning in that smile, something gangrenous and over-sweet. Punk snapped his hands back, almost throwing Hardy's arm away from him as he sat back on his heels, palms open like he's got on a gun on him, and popped to his feet.

He was still like that when Jeff stood uncertainly, a non-confrontational look on his face to match the unsettling sneer Hardy's wearing.

"You can put your hands down," Hardy chided, but even as he said it, his face began to fall, his eyes moving past Punk's face and over his shoulder, back toward the dance floor.

And that's when everything started to turn.