Colt chapter: 2nd person PoV Warnings: Slash, Profanity.

A clean break. You keep reminding yourself of this as you walk home, back to your apartment at least because you're not sure home is that place. Home is, perhaps, a state of mind rather than a physical location. Home is standing in its own place, wrapped around itself and you hope its okay because this was necessary, painful, brutally painful but necessary. You meant every word you said, this is you being selfish and selfless all at once, even if it doesn't seem that way, you are being selfless. There are stupid clichés you could insert here, if you love something let it go, we always hurt the ones we love, lots of trite phrases to describe your actions but the bottom line is you can't do long distance relationships. Past experience has proven this and so this is the only way to move forward. You have to adapt to survive, evolution is the only choice. You'll concede that perhaps you might have been able to work out something but sometimes what lies between you and him seems so very fundamentally destructive to both of you, that this might be for the best. It'll hurt for now but drawing a line in the sand, it's the best choice. You decided to not be comfortable and right now you're anything but comfortable.

You take his key from the chain on your pants, put it away in a drawer, leave it there and try to ignore it. However, when you have to leave your apartment to go to your next match, it comes with you, is added back to the key chain and you try to ignore the fact that when you're standing in queues over the next week, it's that one little key that you keep fussing with.

Two Champions? The fuck they playing at? - sent 23:15

You weren't sure why but you felt compelled to ask him, friends, you suppose, should ask these questions. It was your decision to go down this path, your decision and you have to make sure you follow through, you didn't want to lose him, didn't want to let him go but it was for the best.

Come on, who doesn't like an undisputed Champion feud? - Punk 23:36

I guess. Creative really need to live up to their name more though. - sent 23:39

Well, if it were changed to Fucking Incompetent, they would be. - Punk 23:44

Don't let them get to you. The marks were lapping it up, if nothing else. - sent 23:47

And the WWE ALWAYS listens to the marks, right? - Punk 23:56

It comes as a surprise that he replied, you'd expected him to ignore you again, retreading old ground but maybe he's come to the same conclusion, maybe he's realised that your thing was flawed from the word go too and has decided to try and be mature about it all. You're torn between being happy that he's at least texting you back and being slightly, very so slightly, upset that he is, when he ignored you, it hurt but it left you in no doubt that he was hurting too. Not that you want him to be in pain but if he was, there's that chance he'd try harder to fight you on your decision and you'd kind of like to be fought on this. Time heals all wounds though, it's only been a week, of course, it still hurts. You've the rest of your life for it to stop hurting, unless he decides in three years that he's done with the WWE and wants to try again, third time's a charm after all. It should be more depressing than it is, that you have already decided that you'll wait. You've waited so long for him already that waiting a little more doesn't seem strange, it seems comfortable, normal. You remember telling yourself that comfortable is something you should avoid, that you make so many decisions based on what is comfortable but you aren't very good at thinking so you ignore yourself and focus on work instead.

What the fuck, Punk? - sent 00:05

Creative. You know the under-sized internet darling can't be champion for long. - Punk 00:09

But Nash? What the actual fuck? - sent 00:13

Come on, you think the Kliq isn't alive and well? - Punk 00:22

FWD: OMG! KEVIN NASH?! WTF? Thought he was dead! LOL - Punk 00:23

Chaleen? - sent - 00:26

Who else? - Punk 00:28

Use it! - sent - 00:29

What? - Punk 00:31

Use it! In a promo, it'll be funny. - sent -00:33

I might, it might work. - Punk 00:40

I expect full credit and pizza as payment for the suggestion. When you home next, I'm going to collect! - sent -00:43

It surprises you that he doesn't reply to that comment, never mentions it again. You read this little conversation over and wondering if this is friendship or if it's some kind of cruel personal punishment because it feels like you're punishing yourself and that is beginning to feel normal too. You force yourself to follow his matches, his storylines and the more you watch, the more it annoys you, the more you hate what they're doing with him, they're wasting him, using him all wrong and the more you think , the more you realise this is less a personal punishment and more one from the Universe.

"Why the fuck are they booking you like this?" You're in Japan, the time difference might be thirteen hours but you've little doubt that he'd still be up, little doubt that he'll answer if you call. His booking is painful and nonsensical; you're not certain what they're doing with him. You let him go so he could have the career he wanted, the recognition he deserved and all they've done is make him feud with and lose to part timers.

"Fucked if I know." He sounds resigned, sad, tired, the last of those three is no surprise. He looks tired on TV; his messages to you feel tired, like he's painting on a brave face by hiding behind the written word.

"Do they not know you're supposed to strike whilst the iron is hot?" You get the feeling you're ranting but you're furious on his behalf, he seems too tired to be as annoyed as you think he should be.

"I guess Paul going over was more important than capitalising on all the money they could make off me?" He laughs softly and you can picture him, sitting on a hotel bed, rubbing at the back of his neck, looking exhausted, like he needs a good night's rest and not being able to get it for one reason or another.

"It's fucking stupid, Punk. You're the hottest thing they've got and all they're doing is pouring cold water on you! Seriously, what the fuck?" You're still ranting and the soft sigh he gives has you pausing, wishing you'd called him in a better mood with softer words.

"If I knew, I'd tell you. Look, uh, thanks for calling. I've an early start tomorrow, I should get some sleep." He's not sleeping any time soon, you can tell by the soft glimmer of guilt in his tone, something in your chest gives a little twinge and your fingers feel itchy, friends you force yourself to remember.

"Oh, uh, sorry, I just... I'm sorry. I'll let you sleep. G'night Pu-"

"Good night." He cuts you off and hangs up. You listen to the dead line for a few seconds, hoping he'll call you back, let you wish him good night but he doesn't so you hang the phone back in its spot, trying very hard not think of how much calling his cell from the hotel is going to cost you.

It's November twentieth before they let him have his title back, after forcing him through a futile feud and dumping as much cold water on him as they can. It struck you as pointless, to let him get himself so very over, only to cool him off so very much but there is a reason you're not with that company anymore and really, the motif of his time with them has been him working his ass off, getting himself over and them dumping on him.

HOLY SHIT PUNKERS! THE FINK! - sent 23:01

Perhaps not the most eloquent message you've ever written but it is honest, painfully honest, you're excited for him, a little jealous too, having Howard Finkel announce you is something you've always wanted but you're happy for him, so very happy.

I know! How awesome was that? - Punk 23:03

You think his message sounds happy, think it sounds like he might welcome a call for a change. You miss hearing his voice, his real voice, not the CM Punk promo voice but the slightly deeper timbre of Phil Brooks and his text fills you with the hope that he might actually sound happy, you can't remember the last time you heard him genuinely happy.

"Hello?" He answers, voice oddly timid.

"Hey! I had to say congratulations properly. They gonna let you have a proper title reign this time?" You hope they are, you hope this whole letting him go thing will serve the purpose it was intended to, you hope that this whole escapade will have the desired outcome for him.

"They have to." He sounds smug and chuckles slightly.

"Oh?"

"Put it in my fucking contract, a proper fucking run with the ball, whether they like it or not."

"Smart, Punkers-" You say without thought, Punkers is normal after all but his voice cuts through, sharp and biting, like the wind in winter.

"Punk!"

"I... I'm sorry. I just... Well done. You looked good out there, okay. Maybe when you're in Chicago next we can... celebrate?" You're back on the back foot, stumbling, trying to gather up something of the enthusiasm you had when you first called but it's hard.

"Celebrate? Yeah, sure, maybe." You can tell just from his tone you're not going to see him for a while, a long while.

Sorry, was a flying visit. Maybe next time? - Punk 07:33

You tell yourself it's not a surprise when you get the message, when the next time he's back in Chicago, he avoids you. It isn't a surprise but it hurts but then again, hurting is normal for you now.

Yeah, sure, next time. - sent 07:53

You were supposed to be getting back tomorrow but you changed your mind and decided you wanted to spend an extra day getting ready, before heading down for WrestleCon. Once you've flicked on the lights, you stare, you know the jacket hanging up in your hall, you know the sneakers under it. You toe your own shoes off and move quietly through your apartment, the lounge is empty, which leaves the bedroom. The door's half-open, the streetlights offer enough visibility. You creep into the room and pause by the bed, carefully moving his hair from his brow, watching the little crease between his brows ease up some. You brush a soft kiss over his cheek and stand. You're torn between getting into bed behind him and leaving him to sleep; he looks a little more relaxed, a little more at peace now that you've kissed him.

"G'night Punkers." You whisper softly in his ear and leave him in peace, you weren't supposed to be back until tomorrow, so you'll sleep somewhere, you know there's an empty bed a few blocks over.

You see him only sporadically during Mania weekend, a few random encounters always with other people, always playing at being friends, this game of kayfabe, it's comfortable, normal and again you find yourself reminding yourself that being comfortable is something you should stop doing.

Episode one hundred is a landmark, you know this. Way back when you started this podcast, you'd agonised over asking him to be on it and now you're back to doing the same thing. Friends, he plays your friend so well and it's still horrible. You don't want to be his fucking friend, you want to wrap your arms around him and kiss him like you were in an airport bathroom. You've not laid a single finger on him, not really, since you held him in his apartment, just over eleven months ago, almost a fucking year ago you let him go and now he's your friend, your fucking friend, in your fucking apartment, sitting on the other end of your fucking couch, looking fucking beautiful and relaxed and you're the fucking idiot who let him go.

"Will you do me a favour?" He looks over at you, eyes as carefully blank as always; you're in no way used to this blank, slightly sorrowful gaze being turned on you. You've seen a thousand emotions in those eyes, seeing them blank like this pains you.

"Will I what?" He sounds confused, tucks his legs up, chin resting on his knees, half looking at you, half watching your TV. You're grateful for the divided attention, that blank gaze it gets too much so quickly and your mind summons up images to replace it with, images of him looking up at you, love burning in his eyes or the look in them from the day you ended your relationship in friendship, that soul-deep, wounded look brimming with sorrow.

"Do the show?" It's a rather pitiful mutter of a question, really, something you wish you'd said with more conviction, more strength, it's a friendly request made by one friend to another, not something that needs to murmured about.

"I already did your padcast." He shakes his head and turns from you.

"Well, yeah." Episode two, you remember. It's one of those horrible little moments that are burnt into your mind with diamond precision, him sitting wrapped up in the ugly blanket telling you he fucked another man, you asking him to repeal rule four and at the same time repealing rule one, the arrangement still heavy and unavoidable between you but lessened slightly. Stupid decisions are the cornerstone of your relationship with this man. "But, will you? Look episode one hundred is coming up and I, well, I thought maybe, I mean." He's the one with all the words, always has been and all you have is stumbling. His eyes turn back to you, something almost recognisable in them, something soft and fond.

"What?" His tone is flat though, devoid of anything and you feel any courage, his look might have given you evaporate.

"I, uh, never mind, it's stupid, it's nothing, forget it, okay?" You turn back to the TV, it was stupid to even consider asking him really, friends you might be but there is no way you're ready to fake that for the general public, it's hard enough faking it for him.

"What is it?" He sighs, shifts slightly, his feet resting on the floor once more, his body twisting to face you.

"I, look if you don't want to it's fine, it's just we're back to being just friends and I thought it might be fun and I, look never mind, forget it, really." Words tumble out of your mouth and his eyes are definitely softer, fondness for you simmers in them.

"I can't forget what I've never been told, Cabana." He laughs, sits cross-legged on the couch, a half smile on his lips and your brain stops working. He looks so fucking relaxed, so fucking comfortable, so normal.

"It's nothing really, Punk." You shake your head and stare at the TV, looking at him hurts too much. He looks like he's working so hard at being your friend or maybe it's not work at all, maybe that's all you are to him now.

"You want me to interview you?" You turn to stare at him once more, your mouth open slightly and he laughs.

"Would you?" You ask him, trying to sound normal, fearing you fail horribly though.

"Sure." He nods easily and you hope that this interview is easier than the one you gave him.

It was on a flight back to Chicago, when you ended up reading the magazine of the woman sitting beside you. You read an entire article on the subject of being friends with your ex, read an entire article that has you convinced that the last thing you can be to Punk is his friend. If you follow Cosmo's advice you should cut Punk from your life entirely, your relationship with him has been off and on more times than a whore's thong. Yet, it's clear that neither of you are able to manage without each other, you're too emotionally entangled. You can already hear what the advice columnist would have to say to you. You end up reading another magazine the woman has, reading more articles on broken relationships; one thing sticks with you, if you can be friends with an ex, then you were never truly in love. It's quite clear to you that you can't be his friend, you can play at it, that's comfortable by now but actually being his friend, that is impossible. It's a grimly long flight but it gives you plenty of time to think, plenty of time to come to conclusions.

"Hello?" You weren't expecting anyone to call at this time of night, you've no doubt you sound pissed off, mostly because you are. There are three ringtones that are permitted to wake you up; this was not one of them.

"Is being a cranky bastard a Chicago thing?" You recognise that voice and you've no fucking idea as to why John Cena would be phoning you in the middle of the night.

"Uh, what the fuck?" He's the one phoning you, you decide that you've the right to be pissed with him.

"Sorry, I just. Look, it's Punk." You sigh, of course, it's Punk, it's always Punk. When anyone employed by the WWE gets in contact with you, your friend's name is attached to it. A lot of the time when anyone gets in contact with you it's somehow related to Punk.

"What's he done now?" You sigh, sitting up and scrubbing at your eyes, a list of a thousand infractions he could've caused running through your mind.

"It's more what he hasn't done, that's the problem." At this Cena laughs nervously, you can almost picture the man rubbing the back of his neck and looking uncomfortable.

"How long?" You ask, you know what the problem is; you've no doubt in your mind what's the matter with Punk.

"Well, uh, probably since Europe, probably, I think. It's getting bad, he's, uh, he talks to walls." Europe, that was back in April, way back before you even asked him to do the podcast a few weeks ago. He's not been sleeping properly in months, it must be getting bad if he's hallucinating, talking to walls is a new development in Punk's chronic insomnia. "I, uh, I kinda, sorta, maybe, kind of helped him sleep a little but-"

"What did you do?" You've no right to the ice-cold fury in your voice. You let Punk go, he's your friend, you should be happy he's moved on but you're not, you're livid because he's not your friend, you're in love with him, grimly, desperately, stupidly in love with him. No one else is allowed to touch him; no one else is allowed to be in the position to guard his sleep, that's your job, even if you gave it up, it's still yours. The image of him curled up in your bed flits through your mind at that moment and you can't help but wonder if that was the only or even the first time he's done that. If perhaps, he's been crashing at your place whilst you're away. It's at once a depressing and hopeful thought. Hypocrisy is a strange thing you think, scrubbing at your face with one hand again. It's not like you don't, more often than not, at least visit his place whilst he's way, don't steal his lemon scented shower gel, don't curl up on his sofa watching his over-sized TV wrapped up in his duvet, silently wishing he'd forget the ugly blanket just once. It's oddly like being in a relationship with a ghost, visiting his home, seeing the little new things he's acquired, the little changes, accidently making your own, you suppose. There are times when you get back from being on the road and there are things moved, things added in your place. It's an odd moment to realise that you've both been clinging to the half-life of your shattered relationship. You scrub at your eyes once more and force yourself to pay attention to Cena.

"I, uh, he passed out and he seems to sleep some if you sit with him." Cena sounds hesitant and nervous, there's more to this than what he's saying.

"What did you do?" Cena gives a nervous laugh and you wonder if you can kill someone solely with the power of your mind.

"Nothing, he shot me down hard." Another laugh. "Whoever he's hung up on, he has it bad. Any idea on my competition?" You snort dismissively and Cena gives more nervous laughter and then an awkward pause. "Oh! Oh, shit! I swear I had no idea, he never said anything, just that he wasn't interested, would never be interested, that he was someone else's." Cena's words cause your brain to stumble, pausing in its plans to kill Cena and hide the body. He said he was someone else's, he implicated to Cena that he was yours, that he still was yours despite your letting him go, that he doesn't want anyone else, that he belongs to you, he's yours.

"Which hotel are you in? He forgot to tell me." You manage to force a laugh, Cena sighs with relief.

"I won't say a word." He says and you find that you believe him, Cena's voice is firm, he won't betray this secret. There's no doubt you're going to go to Punk, you always do, he's yours after all.

"Scout's honour?" You joke and Cena laughs, then rattles off the hotel's address, close enough that the cab fare won't be too painful, so you assure him you'll meet him in twenty minutes.

When you get to the hotel, Cena is sitting in the foyer, rubbing his eyes and yawning.

"Hi." You stand in front of him, you left your bags in your hotel, you're in town for a show tomorrow night, staying another day after that, it made more sense to leave them where they were.

"Hi, uh, how are you?" Cena is, you discover horrible at small talk and you have the incredible urge to punch him. This man has been fulfilling your role, he's been trying to put Punk to sleep, granted by the sounds of things he's terrible at it but it annoys you that he's even trying.

"Which room, do you have a key?" He blinks up at you and you fold your arms over your chest before you do punch him, the blank boy scout face he's pulling is incredibly irritating.

"Uh, here." He holds out a key and stands, walking to the elevators and pressing the call button. "I'm in the room next door." The ride up is silent until you're almost at the right floor, Cena clears his throat and you look over at him. "You know, he's a very bad mountain goat." Cena gives a nervous laugh and you stare at him. You didn't know John Cena was insane until this moment. "I was drunk, my marriage was over and he looked miserable." He says, rubbing the back of his neck and looking anywhere but at you. The door opens and you move to leave the elevator, Cena's hand grabs your arm. "He knocked me back, I learned my lesson." You almost laugh, if he learnt his lesson he really should let go of your arm, without thought your throw a punch at him and leave him clutching at his face. That was possibly not a measured or reasonable thing to do but at this moment, your interest in the man you just assaulted is negligible, your mind is caught on another man, the one behind the door in front of you.

Once you're in the room, you stare at him, curled on his side, curled up around the ugly blanket, looking small and vulnerable. You toe off your shoes and slip under the covers behind him, your arms wrap around him and you move closer to him, pressing yourself along his back. The sleep Cena roused you from creeping over you once more.

"Hmm, Colt?" His voice is soft and sleepy, his body snuggles back against you and you squeeze him tightly.

"Mmm-hmm, it's me." You pitch your voice low, trying to keep him asleep; he squirms slightly in your hold, his hands resting on your arms.

"Why?" He sounds desperately confused and you resist the urge to laugh, you're here because he needs you to be, does he really need to question this, he needs you, you're there, that's how the universe works, that's how you work.

"Why does Cold as Ice have my number?" You change the subject, you'll talk in the morning, you'll sort something out later, right now, you're tired and he's warm and comfortable.

"Uh, I gave it to him?" For emergencies is all you can imagine, there's no other reason to give your number to Cena but you can't say you mind him having it, not right now.

"Turn over, I hate holding you like this." You do, you hate being pressed against his back, it reminds you too much of holding him after you fucked him to sleep, you're not having sex with him tonight, you're not having it for a long time. You've a plan forming in your mind but it's something for the morning.

"Why?" He twists away from you, turns to face you, his hair loose and hanging in his eyes slightly. You smile and move it out of the way, meeting his sleepy gaze, your hand lingering over his brow, trailing down to his cheek.

"The arrangement." You hiss, his eyes widen, something like shock in them and he presses you onto your back, his head resting on your chest, his leg thrown over your own, his hands tucked under his chin. You press a kiss to his hair and wrap your arms about him. "That's better." And it is, it's so much better, you feel at home for the first time in over a year. You can't help but think that you two should have some kind of medal, the Leonardo Da Vinci award for services to wasting time.

"What did Cena say?"

"That you weren't a very good mountain goat." You laugh slightly and kiss his hair again as he makes an odd little noise that sounds at once amused and exasperated. "And you were talking to walls." That is something you'd like to discuss with him further, you can't help but wonder if it's happened before, if this is some by-product of being away from you or something more serious.

"He's weird." He laughs again and snuggles against you some more, squirming to make himself more comfortable, one hand moving to stroke your chest. "I don't sleep well in Europe, the time difference, it fucks with me, you know that." His voice is almost sullen, he sounds rather sardonic.

"Really? Time differences? That was in April, Punk. Why were you talking to walls?" You don't quite believe that the time differences screwed with him that much, sure being in different time zones always did mess with his already terrible sleeping pattern but to the extent that he's seeing things, that has you more than a little worried.

"I don't sleep great." His definitely sounds embarrassed, he shifts again, trying to be pressed even closer to you somehow.

"Punk." You try to sound stern but you think you mostly fail and the gentle stroke you give his back, probably undoes the little you managed.

"Or at all, I might have had a few tiny moments of seeing things." Well, at least he's being something like honest with you, not trying to lie or fob you off with excuses, admitting a watered down version of the truth is a great step forward really.

"Call me, next time you can't sleep, next time it goes for more than three nights, call me. I'll bore you to sleep, Punk." Your idea, it's something that might work but it's a conversation for the morning, not for now, not for when he's lying in your arms and you're able to enjoy holding him once more.

"I will." He murmurs softly, drifting away to sleep, his breathing evening out quietly. You fall asleep to the sound of his breath and the feeling of his weight pressing against you, you fall asleep perfectly content for the first time in far too long.

You wake first and take advantage of it to watch him sleeping, how relaxed he looks in your arms, how different he looks here to when he sleeps alone, how it's clear that you make him feel safe, protected so he sleeps more deeply, secure in the knowledge that you're there.

"Morning." You say softly, he blinks awake and sits up.

"I'm sorry." He scoots away from you, wraps his arms around his shins as he rests his chin against his knees.

"Don't." You catch one of his ankles and pull his leg straight. "I wanna talk to you. I've a proposition." He sighs and shakes his head, his eyes filled with that horrible pain from when you let him go in his apartment and your heart clenches.

"Colt." His voice is painful to listen to, so small, so quietly broken, alls you can do is try to counter it so you smile at him, reaching your hand out and cupping his cheek.

"I wanna date you." You say, a rather stupid smile on your face.

"I'm sorry, what?" He raises his eyebrow and starts scrubbing at his eyes.

"The one thing we haven't tried." You tell him earnestly and he laughs, shaking his head and yawning.

"If you're gonna confuse me, feed me first." He shakes his head and rubs his eyes again, looking at you with something between mistrust, confusion and hope. You order pancakes from room service and sit on the bed, watching him carefully as you wait for them to arrive. He stares at you, different emotions swirling through his eyes and as much as you want to reach out to him, you'll feed him first.

"So, sufficiently fed?" You ask him once he puts his empty plate on the nightstand.

"One thing we haven't tried?" He asks and you smile slightly, you've thought long and hard on that list and this is the one. "We've tried that, in case you forgot, we were fucking for quite some time." You nod and he frowns, you were fucking for quite some time and that might very well have been the problem.

"We were friends, then fuck-buddies, then kind of lovers, then kind of fuck-buddies and kind of friends again." Never once, not really at least, was it a relationship without sex as the key component. You need to learn how to be in a relationship with each other, without it turning physical every time something goes wrong. He nods slightly and rubs at his temples, still looking horribly confused.

"What's your point?" He frowns at you and you smile back, catching his hand, holding it gently.

"My point is we've never dated." He takes his hand from you with a shake of his head, eyes hard and miserable.

"We've already fucked. It's a little late for candle-light dinners and walks on the beach." A bitter lilt to his voice and soul-deep pain in his eyes.

"Is it?" You laugh softly and he stares at you like you've gone mad. It's refreshing to be on the receiving end of those looks for a change.

"There's no point in us dating." He makes finger quotes as he says dating and you laugh at him again, catching his hands, tugging him closer to you.

"It's always been sex between us, Punkers." You stroke his wrists. "First thing we did after the whole lemon thing?" You ask him studying the differences in your hands, his thin, long, but strong, like the roots of a tree, your own big, strong, thick like the trunk.

"Fucked." He sounds confused but doesn't try to take his hands back.

"The arrangement?" You ask him, entwining your fingers with his, you don't think you've ever just held his hand like this, despite having made love to him countless times, this feels gloriously intimate.

"Repeated fucking." He sounds distant, you meet his eyes and he's thinking through what you've said, realising that sex at some stage became the cornerstone of your relationship, back when it was okay, sex was something so rare, something so occasional, what was more important was intimacy, it was your embrace he sought out first, not your cock. "Huh, I never noticed." He mutters and you smile.

"So, will you go on a date with me?" You ask him, letting go of his hands and staring at him.

"I, uh, yes?" It sounds like a question and you can't help but laugh, he looks mildly offended but smiles slightly at you. "Yes, I'll go on a date with you." He says more firmly. "But not right now, I gotta get ready to go." You nod and get off the bed, pulling your shoes back on. "You wanna borrow a clean shirt?" He asks, getting off the bed himself, pulling his pants from yesterday back on, swapping shirts and sitting to pull his socks back on his feet, no matter what his salary, he still is that dirty kid from the wrong side of town.

"Nah, I'm good." You pick up your jacket from the chair and he walks over to you, stops just out of arms reach. "What?"

"I've a few days off this week, will be heading back to Chicago." He says vaguely and you smile at him.

"There somewhere you wanna go on our first date?" You ask him, a grin on your face. He shakes his head and laughs.

"You asked me out, you gotta pick. I'm just letting you know." He steps closer and brushes a kiss over your cheek. "Now fuck off, I've got shit to do."

You spend the next few days working and considering carefully where to take him. You can't remember your last date clearly but you think an over-priced restaurant and flowers will not be received well by him. You're nervous, you're excited, this is so far from comfortable, so far from normal and it feels like the best thing to happen to you in a long time.

littleone1389: Not so much of an emotional roller coaster, I don't think... Talking to each other, it's something that would be good for them but they are bad at. ;)

bitteralisa: I think this chapter is a little more cheerful. (I did love the Star Wars mention. :D) We're getting there, this is literally the middle chapter now, the end is nigh.

adg888: It would have but they are kind of back together, stumbling back into a semblance of a relationship.

BadgerLynne: Not quite deathbeds but another year wasted... I feel perhaps there should be some manner of reward for their procrastinating abilities. I am so glad you agree with me on Creative. :D

alizabethianrose: Colt was kind of of the opinion that they were normal and that was the problem, so this was the solution.

Start of the second era, the second stage in the evolution of their mildly ridiculous relationship and I hope you enjoyed it! As ever, comments, criticisms, thoughts, random observations and reviews are all welcomed and encouraged!

As such: Please leave a review, even if it's just "Hey, that didn't suck", I'd be so far and beyond grateful. Heck even if you thought it did suck, tell me too, something is better than nothing after all. :D First time reviewer? Don't be shy! I'm nice, honest(!), no matter what you think, your thoughts are important to me. :3