Notes/Warnings: This part deals with abuse and domestic violence. Please use appropriate caution in reading it. I am not nor have ever been in this situation, but I did my best to portray it as accurately as I knew how. If you or someone you know is in this type of situation, please, please please please talk to someone, get help, and get out of there.

The muted roar of the flushing toilet was what finally dragged him out of sleep. His dreams that night had been dark, more memory than anything else. He blinked up at the ceiling, his mind blank except for the last dirty fragments of his dreams that even now he was pushing away, reminding himself he had escaped, he was on the other side of the country, and his past was not going to eat him. He had overcome.

Until he heard the sounds of water splashing in the sink and he realized he was not alone in his condo this bright morning. For a moment his sleep-fuzzy mind couldn't remember who it was. Maryse? No, Maryse was visiting her family in Canada for the weekend. She had called him last night. Last night… when he… he was…

Oh, fuck.

Mike sat up quickly and threw the sheets back, sitting on the edge of the bed. His head was pounding, his temples throbbing as he leaned over and buried his head in his hands. Overcoming his past? Fuck that, his past had eaten him, digested him and shit him out whole. He ran a hand over his face as the previous night's events bloomed in his mind; John lying warm and willing beneath him on the bed… and then Maryse had called, John got some kind of bug up his ass about the whole thing – like now was the time to grow a conscience – and he had lost his temper. John had given him those goddamn puppy eyes, threatened to walk out for the third or fourth time, and he'd just… lost his temper.

The rest of the night was a murky reddish blur, only scattered bits and pieces standing out with any sort of clarity. John's big sad eyes, for one. His fist driving into the side of John's jaw, the impact jolting his arm nearly all the way to his shoulder. The taste of John's blood, heady and salty and sweet on his tongue, sparking something dark and primal within him.

John with his back pressed to the wall, staring at a cocked back fist, fear all over his face… and still having the courage to tell him he loved him.

A vision rose behind Mike's still closed eyes, a little boy crouched and cowering in the corner of the kitchen, staring up at a huge, monstrous figure with bright blue eyes just like his own. He shook his head to dispel the memory.

It wouldn't do to dwell, not when he still had to figure out how to deal with the man currently occupying his bathroom, and the best – and quickest – way to get him out. He took a deep breath and opened his eyes, drawing his indifferent, devil-may-care persona over him like a cloak, burying into "The Miz" like a child would hide under the blankets for protection from the boogeyman.

He strode to the bathroom to take care of his business – that involving John, and that which didn't – priding himself on maintaining his cool and indifferent exterior even in the presence of John's wounded eyes. His control slipped, just for a moment, when John turned his face into the light and Mike could see, with perfect undeniable clarity, exactly what his anger and his fist had inflicted.

(Dear god please I am not my father's son)

The pain and accusation on John's face was clear – you did this to me – and an apology that would never, ever be spoken rose to Mike's lips. John ducked his head and his hair fell mercifully over his face; the moment John's eyes were off of him, he sighed with relief. The pain and resignation in his eyes was entirely too much. It reminded him somehow of his mother.

He didn't need to think of that either. Focus, Mike. With a little internal shake, his clamped down on his emotions again and focused on the best course of action. Pain meds. It was clear how much pain John was in, and – physically, at least – that was easy enough to take care of. He had to press close to John to reach his medicine cabinet and he found himself oddly averse to touching him… as if the damage hadn't already been done.

John took the proffered Vicodin gratefully, if suspiciously, and as he watched John in the mirror, a question occurred to him.

"What are you going to tell Vince?" John looked surprised for a moment and then his expression faded into dismay. His own words from last night echoed in his head – Tell everybody you walked into a door – and he knew he had to take some of the blame. This was his fault, he did this, and he was going to man up and accept the responsibility. With an internal smirk, he wondered wryly if his father would be proud of him.

The shock on John's face was worth it though, even as Mike found it difficult to maintain eye contact, unable to stomach the look in John's eyes without the mirror between them. When he did look up again, however, there was confusion written all over John's face… but the pain and resignation that had been there previously was gone. He couldn't take his eyes off the purple-black bruise spreading over John's jaw, the swelling turning his pretty countenance into something grotesque and misshapen. He had done that.

Swallowing hard, he stepped forward, reaching out to properly inspect the damage he had inflicted. He gingerly pressed his fingers along John's jaw, watching his face closely and listening for any sounds of pain. It didn't take much pressure at all for John to close his eyes, and when Mike's fingers brushed over the brunt of the damage, he couldn't contain a hiss and wince of pain. Mike dropped his hand, knowing even that slight reaction was significant; John was one stoic motherfucker.

As he met John's eyes, a sense of despair washed over him. All the things he had done, and tried to do, to escape his past. He ran away to Brooklyn, and when that wasn't far enough, he went to LA. He tried to become someone else; a loud, obnoxious, arrogant, selfish man, upholding it as best he could even when he wasn't in the ring. Most people didn't – or couldn't – see past it, which was all the better. He had the absolute epitome of a California gorgeous woman in Maryse, with her big tits and bottle-blonde hair and long legs, although in truth he could barely bring himself to touch her most of the time. He was rarely ever alone; he had tons of acquaintances, red carpet events and Hollywood parties and WWE appearances to occupy what little free time he might have had otherwise.

And yet, despite everything he had done, everything he had changed and everything he thought he had left behind, his past had caught up to him. Staring at him out of John's eyes, from the cut on his lip, the bruise overwhelming his jaw, the dried blood still clinging to one corner of his mouth. Proof undoubtedly positive that no matter what you did, where you went or who you became, you could not escape your past… or what you were fated to become.

For a moment, an apology trembled again on Mike's lips; surely the first spoken apology he had uttered to anyone since he was sixteen and had slapped his girlfriend in the middle of a heated argument. He opened his mouth and then shut it just as quickly. The fact of the matter was that apologies were useless. And meaningless. How many times had his father apologized? How many vases of hastily picked wildflowers or store bought hothouse roses had his mother tittered over? How many Indians games and WWF shows had his father taken him to? How many times had his father looked at him with wide-eyed surprise and chagrin, somehow always taken aback to find Mike injured, the look that said Oh jeez, Mikey. I did it again, didn't I? It'll never happen again, I promise, the look that made Mike want to simultaneously hug his father and punch him in the face, see how he liked having to explain a black eye or a broken nose for once.

Thousands of memories shuffled through Mike's head as he left the bathroom, pausing at the dresser to snag a pair of boxers and making his way to the kitchen. He looked around at his condo as he walked through it, barely recognizing it anymore. The lavish decorations, the expensive toys, the wall full of his accomplishments meant absolutely nothing. He thought he had come so far, but now it seemed like his past was about to come spilling through the walls and take him over, as if his newly redecorated kitchen was nothing more than a poorly painted canvas stage dressing.

He pulled up one of the stools and sat down at the island, propping his arms against the cool granite countertop, his head once again in his hands.

I told you, Mikey. You got a temper on you, same as your old man. Can't fight genetics, boy.

"Shut up, dad," he muttered into the palms of his hands.

Just the facts, son. You know I never liked telling you harsh truth of the world, but ya gotta hear it. I been tellin' you your whole life, Mikey. You ready to listen now?

"I'm not you, I am nothing like you."

That twink in your bathroom may beg to differ. Though I don't know what the hell you're doing shacking up with another guy, didn't I raise you better than to be some kind of prancing limpwrist faggot?

"Why don't you shut the fuck up and leave me alone? It's none of your fucking business."

Don't you give me no lip, boy, I'm making it my business. Sooner or later you're going to have to see what's right in front of your face. You're my son, you will always be my son, and you've grown up to be just like your old man. Just like I always said you would.

"No, no, NO! Shut up, I'm not you, I'm not anything like you, I'm not. I'm not…."

With two final words, the voice of his father faded out and Mike came back to himself, realizing he was sitting bolt upright at his kitchen counter with his hands clamped over his ears. He slowly dropped his hands back down to the countertop, staring around his kitchen with wide eyes, wondering if he had yelled loud enough to attract John's attention. Very faintly, the sound of running water in the bathroom reached his ears; when the sound continued unabated, he assumed his outburst had not been heard. He closed his eyes and exhaled slowly, his breath shuddering in his chest.

Sunshine angled through the window over the sink; the light glinted off the stainless steel appliances, sparkled off the granite countertops. Mike looked around, struggling to reassert his place in this life. His father was 2500 miles away, on the other side of the country, probably mouldering in some dingy stale-beer scented kitchen that bore absolutely no resemblance to the open, sunny, pleasant room Mike was currently sitting in. He hadn't seen the man in almost fifteen years, had spoken to him maybe three times since then and he shouldn't have to listen to him anymore. He had overcome, god damn it.

As Mike continued to look around the kitchen, grounding himself in the reality of his life and all he had achieved, his gaze fixed on the freezer and he considered his father's words. He pushed back the stool, grabbed a towel hanging out of the drawer from John's quick rummage the night before and crossed the room. As he opened the freezer door and reached for a handful of ice, his father's voice whispered far back in his mind.

Prove it.