No day of rest but there was sun, thin lines of it covered over with thick curtains.
This near noon hour they slept, unaware of who gazed down over them.
Derrick held the stake, counting, bag at his feet, torn shopping tote, filled with many fun toys.
He brushed his hand over his husband's perfect face, kept the other gripped around wood, sometimes his own.
Left the weapon behind long enough to use both hands, firm grip, soft feathers of fingers.
Both hands, yes. His beloved was more than merely tall in his large size.
Derrick ran his lips over this beautiful skin, flicked his eyelashes against it.
Sighed heavily, prepared for war once more.
Wooden, gripped, a splinter in his palm.
Stood over the Enemy.
Considered in one swift second to cut off all the brat's hair.
THAT would make his beloved have second thoughts about this sham of a relationship.
Up the stake went.
And down.
Also himself, blinking, bewildered.
Two wolves, one white with eyes like the sky, brilliant blue, the other night black, both growling.
How had they...?
How HAD...?
Great, he was going insane.
He never won.
Kept losing.
THEIR fault, those wolves and that thief, but never never ever his love's fault, no, not someone who was a God.
In prison now, padded walls, barred up door, uncomfortable itchy strait jacket.
The Enemy's fault he was here and not with his dear wonderful husband.
Brat had ran his mouth along with his little groupie buddies, ran to Hunter and ratted him out.
They'd took Derrick away from his 'special toys', worse yet from his husband, and locked him in this terrible place.
S, another.
S-cape.
His eyelid twitched.
Blood streaming into his hands.
S.
Salvation.
Savior.
Punk breaking him out, setting him free.
Derrick crept through the shadows, three around him, in a group, one leader.
Punk there, Shield there, even Heyman, even Brock.
There to help him return into his beloved's big warm loving arms, where he belonged.
And to destroy that Enemy who'd robbed him of Real Love.
Saved.