Author: Snarkcasm
Rating: Teen, there's a few swear words; Christian won't stop swearing, the potty mouth. Also pre-slash eventually turning into slash.
Summary: Jay's struggling with losing his belt and a Viper he cannot shake. Eventual Randy/Jay, Jay POV.
Disclaimer: I do not own any rights to the WWE or the wrestlers mentioned in the story. This is a story of fiction and I make no money from it.
Warnings: We are in the uber-macho world of wrestling. There's slight homophobia, but it's not that noticeable. Be wary of the fact that there will be homophobia, both external and internal, in this fic. I want to be real to the world I've been observing, and unfortunately the WWE doesn't seem as gay-friendly as it wants to be.
Author's Note: I'm seriously serious about punching school in the face. I want to thank all my reviewers, alert-ers, and fans (is that too forward a term?) for being awesome and waiting so long. I'm so sorry. I thought I could to the whole "shorter, more frequent update" thing, but that fell through quite spectacularly.
Room to Breathe, Chapter Nine
"Payback's a bitch."
Between the embarrassing Lou Thesz press and that particular quip, Jay was lucky he was battling back nausea because he did not want to be thrown in jail for murdering his fellow co-star. Then again, he remembered blunt fingers digging into pressure points in his jaw, and quickly revised his thought. In-ring Randy was a whole different animal than outside-Randy—everyone that faced him knew this, and Jay wasn't going to press his luck.
So, much like a coward, he played possum for the crowd.
Mike Chioda hovered over him like an annoying white-and-black bee as a fresh round of Orton's theme blared. 'Ugh, talk about adding insult to injury', Jay thought, slightly punch-drunk, as he responded to Chioda's concussion questions with increasingly sarcastic answers. Chioda glared, unimpressed, as he hauled the Superstar to his feet and helped him take a few tentative steps out of the ring. Jay managed to stumble up the ramp without any assistance, clutching the back of his neck in a reprieve from the headache brewing between his temples.
Perhaps it was idiotic, but he waved off treatment to the protest of the main doctor. He knew his body; all he needed was a couple of Tylenol, an IcyHot back patch, and a brain-killing movie, and he'd be fine come morning. This PPV wasn't even the worse he had faced, even with the six-foot neck-breaker he took like a man.
Where the hell did Orton find that move? He had thought, in the heat of battle, that Orton was trying to do Sheamus's High Cross and wasn't that a kick? The neck-breaker was inspired (and painful). He washed down his pills with coffee and hunkered down near his locker. Bones snapped, crackled, and popped into place as Jay stretched out his screaming muscles.
"Good match, mi amigo."
Jay's face split into a huge grin as he looked up to see the amused face of Óscar sans mask. "It was interesting. I liked the flailing at the end. Can't wait to see it."
Óscar chuckled and sat down on the bench, gingerly clutching his knee and moving it to a more comfortable position. Jay looked down to his own knee, bent towards his chest in an aborted stretch, and his gut churned. Everyone in the back knew that Óscar was wrestling on borrowed time. The luchador had so many knee surgeries that another one probably would do more harm than good. It was extremely selfish, he knew, but Jay couldn't help thinking of having to go through another friend's too-damn-soon retirement ceremony, barely keeping himself together as he had to say goodbye to other veteran.
"How's everything?" he began, politely ignoring the way Óscar shifted.
"Good," the other wrestler lied through his teeth with a guileless smile. "Good. Angie and the kids are great. Baby's still too young to travel, so I'm missing them like crazy, man. How's Denise?"
Shit. Jay fiddled with the laces of his ring boots. He was man enough to admit that looking at Óscar (and especially the rosary inked around his neck) would dreg up just enough Catholic guilt to choke him. "She wants a divorce." Óscar sucked in a breath, but Jay plowed through. "And I'm going to sign the papers as soon as I know why."
A warm hand settled on his shoulder. "Are you sure about this, Jay? You made an oath in front of God—"
"I know," Jay snapped. Perhaps he came off as a little too harsh, but he didn't need a morality speech right now. "But it's her decision, and I respect it."
"Are you respecting her decision…or are you not putting up a fight?"
That left a mark. Jay breathed in slowly, wishing he never opened his big, fat mouth in the first place. "You weren't there when we started falling apart, Óscar, so don't judge me."
"I'm not judging you, Jay," the luchador said, patiently. "Life on the road is hard. I shouldn't even have to tell you that, man, you know it. You're living it. What I mean is…me and Angie had a few rough times here and there—sometimes really rough—but we always managed to make it because we love each other."
Jay didn't like what Óscar was implying, and it showed in the stubborn line of his jaw. "I love Denise, too, Óscar. That's why I don't want to keep beating this dead horse. If she wants out, I'm signing the papers. I don't care if it's against your religion or mine—her happiness is worth it."
Óscar blinked, doe eyes impossibly soft. "Vaya con Dios, mi amigo." With one last squeeze of his caramel-colored hand, he hitched up his knee brace and hobbled away.
"'Baya corn Deeyos'? What does that mean? Óscar, what does that mean?"
/
Power to the People was always interesting. It wasn't a huge secret that most wrestlers tended to be adrenaline junkies, so the unpredictability was right up most of their alleys. Anticipation buzzed through the air.
Jay had found himself hording the coffee carafe like it was going out of style. After so long in the biz, he was better at ignoring the obvious signs of constant traveling, like jet lag, but even someone used to extended travel had their off moments and his mind was screaming for caffeine. Already halfway through cup number three, the blond was now fighting the urge to go to the bathroom. He'd never abandon his precious coffee to these hooligans, especially since last time he did, some bastard spiked his poor, defenseless coffee with fake sugars, rendering it nigh undrinkable, but he seriously had to piss.
It was with a heavy heart that he tossed his cup in the garbage.
/
Dearest Shithead Brother of Mine,
As your older sister, I demand you call me (at least!) or I'm going to indoctrinate your future niece to hate you on site. And/or projectile puke on you. I can do that; I'm a psychiatrist. Don't test me.
I'm not even joking. You better not erase this email, William Jason Reso, or I will destroy your entire being with my pregnant rage.
Elizabeth Reso-Campbell, MD
Clinical Psychiatrist
Toronto General Hospital
/
Jay pinched the bridge of his nose as he deleted his sister's email. She knew how busy he was. He did write down a note to call her after his match tonight; he didn't want his future niece to hate him and he didn't put it past Liz to indoctrinate her. He went through his voicemails: Creative, Adam, Dad—he listened to each one with half an ear, idly surfing Wikipedia on his laptop. He found himself on Randy Orton's wiki, totally not changing anything if anyone asked, when he got to Denise's voicemail.
"Jay," he had gripped the phone at the brief inhalation of his name, heart in his throat, "I…I'm sorry for not, not contacting you, avoiding you…for being a coward, I guess is the better word—" He shook his head, wishing they were talking face-to-face. "It's—this is a tough decision for the both of us. But," she sighed explosively and he could almost see her chewing on her thumb nail, "we both knew it was just a matter of time. God, Jay, I love you, I do. And I'll keep on loving you—"
The message went on from there, but it said nothing Jay wanted to hear, needed to hear. She gave no reasons and stuck to excuses and played-out platitudes. Jay forced himself from throwing the phone or deleting the message. He didn't want to hear her RomCom "it's not you, it's me" bullshit. After all the weeks of false starts and one-sided, increasingly desperate communication, she just left him a voicemail with that?
He wasn't the most patient of men, but for his wife, he had tried. Much more than she, it seemed. The daunting feeling of repeatedly bashing headlong into a brick wall with his relationship with Denise roiled in his gut.
He needed to pace. He needed to smoke. He needed to go a few rounds with a punching bag. He needed…
With an explosive sigh, he flopped back on the bench and forced himself to surf through the movie rentals on his Netflix. He couldn't do anything tonight, not without repercussions.
And he had a match to focus on.
/
Closer to show time saw Jay working with Mike and Ron on their Stooges-esque roundabout, trying to keep from laughing when Mike couldn't stop staying "really". As depressing as it sounded, it felt good to laugh and be a total screwball again.
"Really?"
"Really?"
Jay got an idea. An awful, terrible, wonderful idea. "Riley!"
"Riley?" Mike shrieked, affronted like a Victorian maiden. "Randy!"
"Randy?" Oh no he didn't. Jay bristled and got into Mike's face. "Riley!" There was a challenge in Mike's ice-blue eyes as the 'Awesome One' geared up for another round.
All of a sudden, the both of them were assaulted by Ron who flung himself between them. "JIMMY!"
They stared at each other for a moment before dissolving into totally manly giggles.
/
Jay stared down at the prone man, Christian's shock mirroring his own. He did it; he pinned Orton. He gloried in the moment, even though he knew that he had to job to Cena, slapping his chest and taunting, smug and elated.
He did it. He proved to the world that he was more than an upper mid-card. More than all the PPVs and all the main events he had with Randy, this was the moment he felt finally over.
He never took Cena's Five Moves of Doom more gracefully than he did that night.
/
He got the papers first thing in the morning. He stared at the manila folder in his hands, feeling rather anti-climatic. After all the chasing and the wishing and the hoping, it all came down to his scrawling signature on a dotted line. Jay resisted the urge to call Denise and called Liz instead.
If this was real, then he had to tell his family.
She picked up on the third ring, her voice a bit strained. Alarmed, he asked her what was wrong, and she waved it off, citing baby yoga for her breathless state. "What's up, baby bro? And why aren't you here?"
Jay ignored her second question and her nickname, taking in a deep, calming breath. "I'm divorcing Denise."
"You're what?"
Thank God he decided on practicing on Liz before telling their parents, he thought with a wince as her shriek rattled his eardrums. "We've been legally separated for a year, and I got the papers today."
"You what?"
Jeez. He made a face at his phone. "It's what she wanted."
"Mom is going to kill you. I'm going to kill you. How could you keep this from us? Can't you work it out?"
"It's not like I woke up last night and decided 'Hey, I want a divorce', Liz. We tried—"
"Try harder!"
Jay gritted his teeth. "We did everything recommended by our marriage counselor." Everything except Jay going back to TNA because Jay refused to feel like a too-big fish in a too-little pond ever again. "But Denise wants this, and I'm not going to drag it out any longer."
"You're not going to fight for her?" Liz sounded accusatory, dismissive, and it was all Jay had to not hang up on his sister. Just like Óscar. He explained his position, feeling like his back was against the wall, and quickly ended the phone call before either of them said something they would regret. He texted Adam quick before shutting off his phone. No doubt Lizzy was already telling their mother, and if there was something he didn't need, it was his parents trying to worm themselves into his love life (or lack thereof).
Without his phone, he felt like he was missing a limb. The alternative was having his phone blow up with angry texts, emails, voicemails, and he didn't need that pressure on him going into a match.
Naturally, he spent all of his free minutes dreading the moment he powered on his phone. When it was closer to show time, he had to find an empty hallway to mindlessly pace. Pacing was comfortable for him. It was a time just to not think. Breathe in. Breathe out. Turn. Rinse and repeat.
Today, Denise's voicemail and his call with Liz kept replaying over and over and over again until Jay was a tense ball of anxiety and rarely-tapped anger. He glanced at the clock, swallowed down his snarl, and got his ass to the ring. He had a mystery fight tonight; Booking was suspiciously quiet, which meant that Jay was going to hate it. Whoever the wrestler was, Jay was sure that he would make it out alive and on top. He was scrappy that way.
His anger carried him to the ring, but as soon as he ducked under the rope, he had a hard time accessing Christian's righteous anger at losing Capitol Punishment. He sniped back and forth with Teddy Long, not feeling it.
He asked when he would get another title shot. "It depends on if you earn a World Championship match," was the scripted answer and he felt his blood boiling unexpectedly.
"If I earn it. If I earn it. If I earn it? Why do I have to earn it? Why do I have to prove myself?" Why did he have to prove himself to anyone? To his sister, to his parents, to Denise; to the Universe? Theodore, to his credit, didn't flinch in the face of the wrestler's unmitigated anger.
"You lost playah." Jay froze, lips thinning as Teddy continued. "Now, if you want another chance at the World title, then you're going to have to win your match tonight…against Kane."
Kane? That was his mystery opponent? The gloves flew off as Jay got into Teddy's face, all traces of Christian gone.
"Why are you doing this to me?" He heard himself scream right in the shorter man's face. "I don't deserve this. I don't deserve this." And when Teddy wanted to leave, Jay couldn't leave it at that. He rushed to block the man, hand latching onto the blue rope and caging him in.
"Christian needs to watch himself right there—" Booker T's tiny, tinny voice nearly stopped Jay cold. He let Teddy go, eyes wide at the shitstorm that nearly happened. He quickly wrapped himself up in Christian's persona, taking solace in the dependable alter ego.
Fuck. He needed to schedule an appointment with his therapist after tonight. He couldn't afford to let his anger overtake him again. He was the consummate professional.
And as the consummate professional, he had someone to apologize to.
"It's okay, Jay. Not my first time in the face of an angry wrestler; not gonna be my last." Still, Jay felt so horrible about his lack of decorum that he offered to buy Theodore dinner. The man declined not unkindly.
Jay hunted down his hallway, stomach churning, only to be dismayed that someone was already there. He muttered a greeting to DiBiase in passing, feeling a little lost in the Hershey stadium. His fingers twitched as if longing to send a text to Adam or Matt or Terry or Chris.
His feet brought him back to his locker room just as a cameraman was shuffling out. He excused himself, moving back to give him and his bulky equipment room. Why was there shooting in his locker room? He shrugged it off as he waited for the room to empty.
"Oh, goddammit," he swore under his breath as Randy Orton himself was the last to leave. If the Viper was surprised at Jay's presence, the man didn't show it. Not like Jay was expecting him to react or anything. Jay frowned, mostly at himself. He moved forward but something gripped the back of his shirt, and he looked up into Randy's eyes.
"Is…everything all right?" Jay hated to admit it, but he had missed Orton's concern…back when they were friends. Now, the concern rankled, but Jay already had one strike against him. If he blew up at the main star, Management was going to dock him.
"Yeah. Everything is fine."
"You're lying."
"Awesome. Not that it's any of your concern, but I'm having a rough night." Cordial, cordial, he had to be cordial.
"Is it about Denise?" The question, even as hesitantly worded as it was, set Jay's teeth on edge. Randy could be like a dog with a bone sometimes; it would just be easier to be honest and firmly tell Randy up which orifice he could shove his head.
"Yes. I signed the divorce papers today. They should reach her in less than a week. Happy now?" With that, he brushed past the other Superstar and shut the door behind him. He stared at his duffle bag, wondering why the hell he just lied.
/
Going toe-to-toe with Kane was not unlike wrestling a grizzly bear. Glenn was a very gentle man and an awesome friend—a complete softie—outside of the ring, but inside? His gigantic hands could do damage even pulling his punches, and he certainly had the height and weight to really hurt someone. Killswitch and Spear were useless moves against the Big Red Monster, but Jay was happy to see that even Glenn could fall victim to the Tornado DDT.
The crowd roared, and Christian knew Kane was gearing up for his Chokeslam. Jay wondered if he could fight out of the man's finishing hold. The crowd surged to a fevered pitch, and Jay turned around to see Mark Henry stomping on Kane. Christian's stupefied look mirrored Jay's confusion.
The bell dinged as Charles the referee tried to get Mark Henry out of the ring. As if the 400-pound-man could be moved if he didn't want to.
"The winner of this match as a result of a disqualification—Kane." Bullshit! Christian pitched forward in renewed anger, David confronting Goliath, as he touched Mark Henry's shoulder and got in his face.
Mark's eyes were pitch-black as he used his two inches in height to his advantage, glowering at Christian. Christian demurred, backing down from the heavyset man. He gestured wildly to the felled Kane and as one they pounced on him like lions on a wounded gazelle.
The big man pitched Kane through the ropes, and Christian stood back, hands up in an innocent gesture.
"Wait. Hold up. Hold up a minute." Teddy Long came in, microphone in hand. "Well, Christian…you lost again."
Christian's mouth hung open. The crowd booed emphatically. "What?" It wasn't his fault that Mark Henry stomped his way into the ring. Jay pointed at the man, trying to prove his point through an impressive use of mime.
"…It wasn't your fault this that Mark Henry got involved. So tell ya what. I'm going to give you a chance to redeem yourself." Good. Jay nearly collapsed on himself, Christian's joy at another chance palpable. "Now you can win a World title opportunity if you can win this tag team match I'm about to make right now."
Jay had a bad feeling about this. In a way he wasn't surprised when the stadium turned red with Randy's signature color, but he did feel wearily upset. He clutched his hair. Something must have passed across his face because Mark looked apologetically out of character. But Jay wasn't focused on Mark's apologies; he was focused purely on Randy and his infuriating smirk.
It would take a stronger man than him to admit that the Viper didn't look good as he sauntered confidently down the ramp with the gold slung around his shoulder. Jay ripped his eyes away and started to argue with Mark. He couldn't look at Randy anymore—he couldn't. It was bad enough that they'd be wrestling each other in a bit.
He glanced downwards right into Randy's stare and tamped down on the swear threatening to burst forth. Jay hemmed and hawed in his corner, debating with himself on whether or not he wanted to open. Mark made his decision for him as the lumbering man ducked under the ropes and took the tag line within his huge, dustpan hands.
Jay shook himself and took his place in the center, circling, never keeping his eyes off the Viper. His thoughts collided as their bodies did, rolling and tumbling and giving Jay a massive headache. Randy body-slammed him off the ropes, and Christian went down like a sack of potatoes. Opportunistic, Randy went for the cover, wrapping his body around Jay's head.
"I know you lied." Jay could feel the other man's breath of hot air against his ear and quickly kicked out to get more space. He backed himself into a corner, chest heaving. He was surprised that the referee allowed him time to recover, and Randy set himself up for a classic grappling grip.
Jay kicked him. Randy deserved it, the fucker. Christian followed up by a few heavy slaps, but the Viper got the upper hand with another body-slam and his favorite ground-and-pound. Shoulder and head twitching in pain, Jay rammed Randy into his corner and held on to the man for dear life as Mark tapped in.
He leaned against the ropes as Mark threw Randy around like a ragdoll. His chest burned with every breath. If only he was going up against Randy fresh! Mark slammed the Viper down on the canvas and walked over him, extending his hand.
Jay tagged in, oddly touched at the opportunity to take Randy down again. He kicked Randy in the back of the head and tried not to show his back to Kane. When he loomed over Orton, the Viper shot up and tugged him down in an inside cradle for the pin. Jay squawked in surprise.
"You're such an ass!"
"Too late for sweet-talking, Reso," Randy murmured into his ribs. Jay kicked out in anger.
Jay laid low for most of the match, coming in to take advantage and give Mark time to wreak havoc on the two other Superstars. He went after a barely dangling Kane, thinking that he'd be able to weaken him, but was laid out for his troubles, his kidneys hitting the sharp edge of the apron.
As he recuperated, all he could think was that hopefully he wouldn't find blood in his urine the next day.
It wasn't until Mark was downed that Christian stomped back into the ring. Distraction was key as a tag-team partner; lord knows that Jay knew that by rote. Whammied by a few clotheslines and a power-slam, Jay hung in the ropes and turned to be, once again, face-to-groin with Randy's crotch.
'I'm going to kill him for real this time,' he thought in a daze, recovering from the RKO he was literally pushed into, as the referee pounded the canvas for the one-two-three count.
Somebody's gonna get their ass kicked started playing, and Christian grinned.
/
It was a different atmosphere that greeted Jay in the back. Superstars were actually touching him again—a slap on the shoulder here, a high five there—and people weren't conveniently remembering that they had something to do when he stepped into a room. He made small talk with a few stragglers as he grabbed his towel and body wash, slipped into his sandals, and pottered around the bathroom until a shower was free.
Pulling rank to get the next stall, Jay let the hot water and steam do their magic and dig deep into muscles stiff with lactic acid. If he could, he would have stayed under the spray until the water ran cold, but he had personal life damage to fix.
His relaxed muscles clenched, ruining the hot water's spell. With a little huff, Jay shut down the water, toweled down roughly, and knotted the damp piece of cloth around his waist. Little beads of water cooled and evaporated leaving gooseflesh skittering across his skin. He hurried and put on his sweatshirt, zipping it up halfway.
In retrospect, Jay was glad that he had his pants on when someone knocked on the door. "Come in," he called, voice muffled by the fact that he was shoving his shirt over his head.
"You're always the last one left, you realize that right?"
Jay finished getting dressed—there was no use confronting people with only one arm in a sleeve—before facing off with Randy Orton. "And yet, here you are." Not his greatest comeback, but the Canadian couldn't be arsed.
"Busy tonight?"
"As a matter of fact, I am."
"Too busy for a bite to eat?"
Jay closed his eyes and kept his cool. He wouldn't put it past the other man to tail him back to his hotel. Plus, Jay really wasn't looking forward to turning on his phone and fielding all the messages he knew he received. He weighed the pros and cons and reluctantly said: "Not really."
Orton's answering grin was too sharp to be considered anything but smug.
