John Cena stood in the elevator, his stomach twisting with worry.
His eyes were still red with sleep, but he couldn't have felt more wide awake. Randy Orton had called him—something he'd never expected. When he'd given Randy his number, it'd been more as a courtesy then anything. He never really thought Randy would actually use it…not that he was upset that he did. John had been barely awake when he answered his phone, but as soon as he heard Randy's voice he perked up, sitting up in his bed. The Viper hurriedly told him something about McGillicutty attacking him, and then he had actually asked Cena if he would come and help him out. John had leapt out of bed at that, quickly throwing on a white t-shirt, some jeans, and a pair of white Nikes as he told Randy he'd be right up. That was a solid ten minutes ago, and now John was practically pacing in the elevator, willing it to move faster. Thankfully it was a little past midnight, and there weren't any people roaming around. At least, not that John had seen so far.
Bouncing on the balls of his feet, John glared at the buttons in the elevator, wishing the damn thing would hurry up and get to the fifth floor. Randy had sounded strange on the phone; his words had strung together, making him a little difficult to understand, and he seemed to jump from one thought to the next without much of a transition. Most of all, though, he sounded—and John couldn't believe he was saying this—he sounded…afraid. Ok, maybe not afraid, Randy Orton wasn't really afraid of anything, but he certainly sounded…tense. That alone made John willing to get up and go to him, even though he had been dead asleep when Randy called. He knew Randy wouldn't sound tense without good reason… The thought of Michael McGillicutty attacking Randy made John want to punch something, preferably McGillicutty's teeth. He had hoped he'd pass the bastard on his way to Randy's room, then at least he could've gotten some revenge for Orton. But the little rat had managed to slip away, fortunately for him.
After what seemed like an eternity, the elevator finally rested on the fifth floor, the doors sliding open. John stepped out in a hurry, almost jogging down the hall to Randy's room. He didn't know why he was so anxious…if Randy had been well enough to call him, he couldn't have possibly been hurt too bad, right? He made it to Randy's door easily enough, and—just as Randy said he would—he'd left the door cracked open, allowing John to simply push the door in and step into the room.
The first thing that he noticed was that it was dark. He could feel the carpet beneath his feet, and he could barely make out the dark shape of the bed in the center of the room, but other then that he couldn't really see anything. The second thing that he noticed was that the AC seemed to be on full blast; goosebumps trailed across his skin as soon as he stepped forward. The loud hum of the vents told him that the air was definitely on as far as it would go. Reaching over to his side, John placed his hand on the drywall, blindly feeling around for a light switch that he knew was there. Flicking his thumb across the switch, he hurriedly turned the light on. Painfully bright yellow light filled the room, piercing John's vision so abruptly that he had to squint his eyes shut before slowly easing his eyelids back open.
Randy was sitting on the bed, his hands in his lap. He was hunched over slightly, his pale eyes staring at the floor, a small, sad frown crossing his face. For a brief moment, John stared at the so-called Viper, frozen in place. He couldn't help but feel like he was being allowed to see something very private, something he knew Randy wouldn't want him to see. The younger man looked so…hopeless, exhausted, even depressed. For a moment, John suddenly realized how much stress, how much shit Randy had been put through the past few days. And now this…another attack. After maybe two or three seconds, Randy looked up, his eyes locking on John's. As soon as he made eye contact, Cena couldn't help but wince. Randy's purple bruise on his jaw line was still there, but now there was another bruise, a bright red mark over his cheekbone that was quickly turning darker with each passing second. There was a small cut on his lip, a dried drop of blood staining his mouth. On top of all that, his eyes were a watery, tired pink, with gray shadows beneath them. It was then that John realized that Randy was dressed up: he was wearing a tight black shirt, his arm muscles straining against the sleeves, as well as a dark pair of expensive denim jeans. Had he gone out? John mulled this over for a second, wondering who Randy would go out with…as far as he knew, the Legend Killer didn't have many friends. Everyone knew about his relationship with Hunter…but Hunter had been back home with Stephanie and Shawn for months now…
"Cena." Randy smirked up at him, his face turning into a mask of arrogance and false confidence. John saw right through it, but he decided to play along. Randy had been through enough, he didn't need John psychoanalyzing him too.
"What the hell happened?" John demanded, his voice almost painful as he looked down at the seated man.
"Fucking McGillicutty." Randy snarled, his hands clenching into fists, "He surprised me, fucking little shit."
"I don't get it," John frowned, tugging on the hem of his white shirt, "Why would he attack you?"
"Isn't it obvious?" Orton snapped, narrowing his eyes dangerously, "That fucker Barrett obviously put him up to it. And, like the rest of you, McGillicutty decided to be a little bitch and listen to him."
There was quite a bit of anger in Randy's voice, and John had to take a deep breath to calm himself down, to tell himself that Randy had every right to be angry. He had a feeling Orton was trying to get a rise out of him, trying to channel his anger into someone else. John wasn't going to play that game though, he'd remain collected. He'd show Randy that he wasn't like the rest of the Nexus.
"Well, come on, let's clean you up." John offered his arm out.
At first Randy stared at him, remaining defiantly still. Eventually, though, he reached out, placing a single hand on John's arm. Grunting with effort, Randy raised himself up, clenching his teeth tightly together to keep from crying out in pain. He effort to hide his agony was not lost on John, though, and the Champ could feel rage pulsing though his body as he watched Randy Orton struggle just to stand up. Fuck, what he wanted to do to Wade Barrett right now…if the leader of the Nexus thought he could go behind John's back like this, well, he had another thing coming. Barrett was definitely going to be hearing from John about this bullshit…
Randy was leaning hard against John, and as they began to move forward, he started hunching over on his left side, where the bruises from before were. It seemed McGillicutty had hit him there as well. Taking slow, unsteady steps, Cena carefully steered the younger man towards the bathroom. They were standing close together, Randy leaning into Cena's touch, John wrapping his arm around Randy's shoulders…and that was when Cena smelled the liquor.
"Randy," John huffed, his eyes widening incredulously as he looked to the side, "Have you been drinking?"
"No." Randy said quickly. But his eyes didn't meet John's…
"You absolutely reek of alcohol." Cena rolled his eyes, still marching—or rather, stumbling—forward.
"I don't know what you're talking about." Randy growled in response, but he had reddened slightly in the cheeks.
"You're drunk, aren't you?" John shook his head. Well, that would explain the weird mood swings…and why Randy hadn't been making much sense. Great, not only was he going to have to deal with a hurt Randy, he was going to have to deal with a drunk hurt Randy.
They walked into the bathroom slowly, feet sliding across the beige tile floor. John reached in front of Randy and quickly turned on the light in there as well. It was a simple enough bathroom: there was a sizable walk in shower to one side, and a toilet and good sized counter to the other. There seemed to be a beige and blue theme going on, with the bathroom countertop being a dark blue marble that matched the rest of the decorations in the room. The emptiness of the bathroom clearly proved that it was a hotel, though.
"Here, sit on the counter." John released Randy and straightened up, "Can you get up there on your own?"
"I'm not crippled." Randy muttered. Placing his hands on the countertop, he cringed noticeably as he hoisted himself up. To John's surprise, the counter was high enough for Randy's feet to dangle over the sides. Sitting down, he suddenly seemed much smaller, much less threatening.
"Take your shirt off." John commanded nonchalantly, standing in front of the seated Viper.
Randy was surprisingly compliant: he gripped the edges of the black fabric and tugged his shirt off effortlessly, casting it to the tile floor when he was done. John couldn't stop his eyes from sliding away from Randy's and down to his abdomen, taking in the sculpted muscles. Randy had tan skin that was pulled tight across impressive muscles; and anyone—even John—had to admit that he had a very attractive stomach. Randy's dark jeans clung to is hips, sliding just low enough to show off jutting hip bones. To his side, just over the ribcage, John could see the bruises. They had been purple before, but now they were almost black, with thin cuts streaking across the middle. There was a small amount of blood seeping from the wounds, but not all that much. Certainly not enough to be concerned about. The cuts seemed to be pretty superficial…
"Like what you see?" Randy taunted, his lips curling into an arrogant grin.
"Randy, I see you half naked every time we're in the ring together. This isn't anything new." John shrugged, even though he knew that somehow this was different. Maybe it was the jeans, yeah, it had to be the way they were wrapped around Randy's hips, revealing the V cut of his lower abdomen. Or maybe it was the way they were alone, not in front of millions of viewers…somehow, that made this experience entirely different from all the times John wrestled against Randy.
"Yeah, sure, keep telling yourself that." Orton shrugged back, "Whatever makes it easier for you to do this."
"Fine. Let's start with your face." John turned to the side, opening one of the drawers beneath the counter. He immediately found what he was looking for: a white washcloth, fresh and clean. Pulling it out, he reached over and turned on the sink, moving the knobs so that warm water was flowing out. Holding the washcloth under the faucet, John quickly wet the fabric and then brought it up to Randy's face. He stepped forward then, almost standing between Randy's legs. John didn't know why, but he was suddenly struck by the image of Randy walking down the ramp, his thighs bared for all to see…he did have nice legs, didn't he?
"This is probably going to hurt." John said quietly in warning. Not waiting for a response, he pressed the white cloth against Randy's cheek bone, his fingers holding the wet washcloth against the bruise. Randy let out a hiss of pain, but, to his credit, he managed to remain still.
"Fuck, that hurts!" Randy groaned, his hands gripping the edge of the counter.
"I can't believe Barrett would fucking do this…" John muttered quietly, shaking his head, still holding the cloth over Randy's face.
"I don't…get why you think it's so surprising." Randy hissed, speaking past clenched teeth.
John hesitated, then spoke, still quiet, "He told that he wouldn't hurt you. That he wouldn't let the others hurt you." But even as he said that, John realized it wasn't true. Wade had only agreed not to let Randy get hurt at Bragging Rights…
"Yeah, and you actually believed him?" Randy rolled his eyes, fidgeting under John's touch, "Do you like seeing me get hurt Cena? Or are you really that stupid?"
John pulled the cloth away from Randy's cheeks, scowling deeply, "I'm trying to help you here. You don't need to be an ass to me."
"Whatever…I don't know why I fucking called you anyway." Orton snarled, leaning back, away from Cena.
"I don't know why you called me either, you don't seem to like me at all, you're not nice, and you're drunk as all hell." John retorted angrily, turning to the side to once again hold the washcloth under the running water.
"I didn't have anyone else to call." Randy mumbled. As soon as he spoke he went very quiet, his face reddening as if he said something he hadn't meant to. Randy's eyes fell to the floor then as he refused to meet Cena's probing stare.
"Here, let me do your stomach now." John replied slowly. He held the cloth up and Randy leaned back slightly, stretching out his torso so that the bruises were on full display.
"Is this going to hur—ah!" Randy cried out in mid sentence as John pushed the warm cloth against the cuts, directly on top of the blackened bruises, "Fuck! God damn it!"
"Sorry." John apologized, knowing that Randy was probably going through some intense pain.
"I'm—fuck!—I'm in a lot of trouble for…for Bragging Rights, aren't I?" Randy stuttered, leaning forward so that he and John were eye to eye, maybe a foot away from each other.
"What do you mean?" John asked, meeting Randy's angry glare.
"You're not going to let me win, are…are you?" Orton grumbled, looking hard at John. He shifted slightly, the muscles in his stomach tightening and pulling.
John remained silent for a few moments, holding Randy's gaze, and then he spoke slowly and carefully, "I'm…I'm going to do what I have to."
"What the fuck has he got on you, Cena?" Randy asked, his voice dipped in rage and disgust, "You're really going to help that punk take away my championship…just for your fucking career?"
"What the hell would you do Randy? This is my life, everything I've ever—" John began.
"Save it, Cena." Randy spat in response, "I've heard you say it all already. I just can't believe you'd stoop that fucking low for a guy like Wade Barrett."
"You don't understand." John snarled, feeling the anger and frustration build up inside of him. Fuck, he didn't know why Randy's words were getting to him so badly…
"Does he fucking suck you off, Cena?" Randy leaned forward even more, his face mere inches away from John's, his eyes filled with blue fire, "Is that it? Well? That why you're his little fucking errand boy? Is that what I got to do to get you not to screw me over on Sunday? You want me to fucking suck your cock, John?"
He didn't know whether it was because Randy was insinuating that he was involved with Wade Barrett or because Randy had offered to go down on him, but John lost all self control at that point. He was so god damn angry at everything, so fucking tired of all the shit the Nexus was putting him through. And here was Randy, throwing it all out in the open…
John slammed both fists down on the counter on either side of Randy's legs. Leaning forward, he scowled deeply, he eyes flashing with pure rage.
"You don't fucking know anything, Randy!" John roared in anger, "Don't sit here and pretend like you understand what I'm going through, because you don't!"
"All I fucking know is you're going to screw me over this Sunday! We both fucking know it, but for some reason you're here helping me! You're here helping undo what your fucking teammates just did! Whose side are you on John? You can't have fucking both!" Randy snarled in response, his own hands clenching into fists.
"Why the fuck did you call me, Randy?" John spat, glaring hard into Randy's eyes.
"Why the fuck did you answer? Why the fuck did you come? You keep asking why I called, well, you didn't fucking have to come help me! So why the hell did you?"
John didn't know why he did it. Maybe it was all the adrenaline flowing through his veins, maybe it was because Randy was sitting there with no shirt on, looking particularly delicious. Cena reached forward and roughly grabbed Randy by the waistline of his pants, yanking the younger man forward. Randy didn't have time to react before he suddenly felt John's lips on his own, and then John Cena was kissing him for all he was worth. John's hand was tightly gripping Randy's jeans, and he was holding him still as his lips worked against Randy's, pressing roughly against Randy's own mouth. Randy gasped at the sudden assault, and it was then that John pushed his tongue forward, forcing it into Randy's mouth. He wasn't sure how the Legend Killer was going to react, but he didn't care, the feeling of Randy's soft lips against his own, Randy's hot tongue against his own, was incredible. Eventually, Randy seemed to melt into the kiss, and he pushed his own tongue forward, and then their mouths were battling for dominance. John eventually won out, leaning forward, his grip tightening on Randy's hip to the point where his fingers were kneading into Randy's upper thigh. Randy moaned slightly at that, a high pitched whine that made heat rush between John's legs. He continued the attack, his lips moving across Randy's mouth, his fingers itching to touch Randy's tight stomach…
And then John let go suddenly, stumbling backwards. Randy looked up at him, his icy eyes wide with uncertainty.
"I…I should go." Cena muttered.
He turned and hurried out, leaving Randy sitting on the bathroom counter, alone.
Thanks to everyone who reviewed! The majority of you said you saw Randy as the bottom, and I have to say that I agree with you. Anyway, thanks so much to everyone who reviewed the last chapter, I really appreciate it! Reviews motivate me to write!