A/N: NEW CHAPTER! I tried to get this one out as soon as possible. It was another emotional drainer and it gave me a bit of a migraine, but it is done, and I really hope that you like it. I really want to thank everyone who's been putting up with my lazy procrastinating self so far; you really are awesome, and your feedback means so much to me.
Thank you to SandraSmit19, ThatGirl54, Esha Napoleon, Westfan, Nastygrl25, and Rawr-Chan for reviewing the last chapter! You all ROCK!
Chapter 8: What We Want
Elektra ducked her head, shielding her face beneath the brim of her cadet hat and limiting her vision to the small surface area of concrete floor directly in front of her. She knew that, from this vantage point, she risked running into someone, but at this moment, the silver-eyed Diva didn't particularly care. Right now, all she wanted to do was crawl into bed, pull the covers up over her, and sleep for about a thousand years.
And to think: when she'd arrived here for the show this afternoon, she'd actually been in a good mood. How foolish she'd been, to actually believe that whatever happiness she'd experienced over the past few days with Dave could remain once she returned to her own brand. Raw was hell for her; had been ever since the Animal had been traded to SmackDown. And since she was still here, it was time she got used to the inevitability of misery.
Elektra stopped, pressing her hand to her forehead and taking a deep breath. The combination of Bischoff's subtle threats and Triple H's mind games had left the gray-eyed Diva physically and emotionally drained. Her limbs felt heavy, as though someone had strapped weights to her body, and her brain seemed to have been swathed in a thick fog, dulling everything, reducing all sensation down to an unsettling numbness. It took a tremendous effort just to put one foot in front of the other, and even though her rental car was only a few yards away, the distance seemed to span miles.
It was hellish enough dealing with Bischoff; a man who had a stranglehold on not only her professional career, but her personal life as well. But now that Triple H had apparently entered the fray… Elektra couldn't suppress a shiver at the thought of the Cerebral Assassin.
The last time the silver-eyed Diva had battled the Game, she had barely survived. She had a limp to always remind her of that fact. And while she could stand here and try and tell herself that things were different now, the ugly truth was that—in many ways—they were still exactly the same.
This hatred, this constant power struggle between her and Triple H, wasn't about the World Heavyweight Championship or even her relationship with Batista. Simply put, the Cerebral Assassin would always be an amoral bastard obsessed with success—while Elektra would always be a living testament to his failure; a constant reminder of the one thing, the one person, he'd been unable to conquer. The Diva who had embarrassed him by sleeping with his enforcer behind his back. The woman who—even with blood pouring from her nose from his blows—had still summoned enough defiance to spit in his face.
A lost championship—that was one thing. But Elektra had wounded the Game's pride—and that was something that was neither easily forgiven nor forgotten.
The gray-eyed Diva closed her eyes, the outside world drowned out by the sound of her heart pounding in her ears. Stop it…she told herself sternly. You'll survive this…you always have… But somehow, her reassurances sounded empty. Why bother lying to herself? Why not just accept the terrifying truth: that she was no longer certain of anything, especially her own survival—and that not even Dave might be able to save her this time.
"Elektra! E, wait up!" The sound of someone calling her name cut across Elektra's internal despair, thankfully returning her to the present. The silver-eyed Diva turned to see Trish striding across the parking garage toward her. The Women's Champion wasn't alone; trailing just behind her were Ashley, Maria, and the new Diva, Mickie James.
Elektra had met Mickie briefly backstage during the show, but what she had seen of the other Diva's personality, she liked. Mickie seemed like a genuinely sweet, laid-back individual; a far cry from the psycho she seemed to be in the ring during her debut. Probably because there's only enough room for one crazy Diva on this roster…Elektra thought to herself. She was suddenly possessed by the insane urge to laugh, and bit it back with effort—only because she knew that her friends wouldn't find the notion as insanely funny as she did.
As Trish drew nearer, the gray-eyed Diva quickly forced a smile on her face. Just stretching her mouth into that position hurt like hell, but Elektra endured the discomfort. The Women's Champion was worried enough about her as it was; the last thing she needed to hear about was this latest drama in her best friend's life.
Especially since Elektra couldn't even tell her the entire truth.
Trish stopped in front of her, the other Divas fanning out around her. She grinned at her best friend. "Hey, where've you been, hon? We've been looking everywhere for you. You bolted out right after the show."
Elektra kept smiling, even though it was starting to feel like a grimace by now. "Sorry…had a lot on my mind. It's been a long day."
"Yeah, I hear ya," Trish replied. "Anyway—we were looking for you because the three of us are taking Mickie here out tonight—" She slung her arm around the new Diva's shoulders, before turning her attention back to Elektra. "—to officially welcome her to the Raw roster…and we wanted to know if you wanted to come along."
After the evening she had had, the last thing Elektra wanted was to go somewhere where she was surrounded by light and noise and people. All that physical sensation, pressing down on her, smothering her—her head would probably explode. Right now, the absence of feeling blanketing her body was comforting, soothing, and she wanted to cling to it for as long as she could.
Because accepting this numbness was easier than allowing herself to feel.
The silver-eyed Diva slowly shook her head, her smile fading a little bit. "Sorry, guys," she answered, her tone apologetic. "Maybe some other time; I have an early flight tomorrow—"
"Um, E, this isn't a request," Ashley interjected. The Dirty Diva grinned devilishly. "See, we're not asking you; we're telling you. You're coming along tonight."
"The way we see it," Maria added, her smile just as bright and mischievous. "There's four of us—and one of you."
"And don't even think about making a run for it," Trish cut in. "You're the one with the bum leg, and Maria has bungee cables in the car. We will strap you to the roof if we have to." She took a step toward Elektra, her expression sobering a touch. "C'mon, E," the Women's Champion urged, her tone wheedling. "It's been forever since we've had a real girls' night out, and besides—it's just not the same without you."
The gray-eyed Diva didn't answer at first; merely let her gaze drift over the four eager faces staring back at her. Her expression didn't change, but inside, she could feel herself relenting. Her opinion about the invitation still hadn't changed; she really didn't feel like going out. But these were her friends—and as much as she might want to shut herself off from the world, she might as well accept the fact that it was not going to happen. Not tonight, at least.
And especially not with these four standing in front of her.
Elektra glanced down for a few seconds, then back up at the other Divas. "All right," she said reluctantly. She looked over at Trish, holding up her index finger. "But I want it on the record right now—I'm not getting drunk!"
Trish laughed, clapping her hands together. "Fair enough," she agreed. The Women's Champion moved over to the silver-eyed Diva's side, slipping her arm around her waist affectionately. "Besides—the game plan tonight to find someplace with karaoke…and then give Maria a lot of tequila—"
The backstage reporter let out an indignant squawk. "Hey, that was one time! One time!" she protested.
"But, oh, what a time!" Trish interrupted, still giggling. "I'm surprised that cell phone footage hasn't ended up on YouTube!"
"Probably because 'Ria said that she'd kill us if it did." Ashley added. At this, all five Divas broke down laughing, even Elektra.
"What's this I hear about murder and tequila?" a male voice interrupted. John Cena approached the group, slinging his muscular arms around Maria and Ashley's shoulders. He eyed the quintet with mock astonishment. "What kind of shenanigans are you five getting up to?" His gaze locked onto Elektra's. "E? You look like the voice of reason here. What's going on?"
The gray-eyed Diva shrugged, unable at this point to keep the smile off her face. "No more than usual." she replied.
"We're having a girls' night out!" Maria chirped. She tilted her head up toward John, her green eyes filled with that puppy-love that the Champ's presence always seemed to evoke. "But we can always make an exception…if you want to come along too." Her voice took on a coaxing tone. "Please, John?"
"I'll think about it," John answered, albeit a trifle absently. His eyes were still fixed on Elektra. "But right now…could I steal E for a second?"
The backstage reporter's sunny smile faltered for a moment. "Sure," she replied, her tone holding only the faintest note of disappointment. "As long as you promise to bring her back."
The Doctor of Thuganomics turned toward Maria, shooting her a wink. The former Diva Search contestant ducked her head, blushing. "Don't worry," the Champ assured her. "I have no doubt the four of you will come after me if I don't. E?" This last question was directed at the gray-eyed Diva. Elektra glanced around at her friends, then stepped away from the group, following John to a spot several cars away.
The Women's Champion watched them go. As she did so, she noticed that Maria was doing the same thing. The backstage reporter's eyes were fixed on Cena, her pretty features wearing an expression of wistful longing.
Ashley must have noticed it as well, because the Diva Search winner's mouth curved upward in another sly grin. "Someone's got a cru-ush…" the Dirty Diva sang quietly. The song ended in a yelp as Trish swiftly elbowed her in the side. "Ow!" Ashley looked over at the Canadian beauty accusingly. "What was that for?"
"For being immature," Trish replied, shooting her protégée a pointed glance. She moved her hands in a shushing motion, urging the other Divas forward. "Come on; let's go wait in the car until they're finished."
As the Women's Champion herded the group towards their rental car—much like a mother hen herding her chicks—she found herself thinking about the real reason she had silenced Ashley's friendly teasing…one which had nothing to do with immaturity.
Because John Cena's got a crush, too…but not on Maria…
"So you seem to doing better," John remarked, crossing his arms over his broad chest and smiling at the silver-eyed Diva.
Elektra returned his grin. "Yeah, well, getting strong-armed by your friends into going out tends to do that."
The Champ leaned forward, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "Hey, if they give you any trouble tonight, just let me know."
"Are you kidding?" the gray-eyed Diva exclaimed. "If a fight breaks out between you and them—no offense, John, but I'm putting my money on those four!" Her comment was enough to make Cena burst out laughing, and Elektra soon joined him.
For a while, the two of them stood there, giggling like little kids, before John was the one to fall silent. He glanced away for a moment, and Elektra saw his expression become serious. The silver-eyed Diva felt her mirth dissipate, replaced by a faint flicker of sick dread.
The Doctor of Thuganomics looked back at her, his blue eyes boring into hers. He abruptly cleared his throat, and Elektra felt her stomach lurch. "Listen, E," John began. "About earlier—"
Elektra quickly opened her mouth, excuses ready on her lips, but before she could utter one syllable, the Champ waved his hand, silencing her. "I'm not asking you to tell me what happened. I can tell just by looking at you that you don't want to tell me what happened. If you don't want to tell me what's going on, that's your decision and I respect that. But, E—"
John broke off, looking away and pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. Elektra could feel the concern and worry emanating from him in almost palpable waves, and felt guilt knife through her insides. This distress she sensed in the Champ right now—this must be how Dave felt all the time.
The Doctor of Thuganomics looked back at her. His voice, when he spoke again, had fallen to just above a whisper; his words shocking her to the core: "The last thing I want to see is you being wheeled out of your hotel room covered in blood again. So I have to ask…" He reached out to gently grasp her shoulder. "How are you?"
The gray-eyed Diva felt her heart flutter to a stop. Her chest grew tight, almost painfully so. She could feel her throat closing up, trying to render speech, even breathing, impossible. Elektra tried to keep her expression neutral, but it was a struggle; she was on the verge of bursting into tears.
If I could tell anybody, it would be you…the silver-eyed Diva thought sadly. Not Trish, not even Dave…but YOU…because maybe you, out of everyone else, would understand…
But I can't…because if I tell you anything, I lose everything…
Elektra drew in a long shuttering breath. Tears were climbing up her throat, and she swallowed hard, trying to force them back down. After what felt like an eternity, she lifted her gaze from the floor, meeting John's eyes with an extraordinary effort. "I'm fine," she whispered, unable to raise her voice any louder. Any louder, and it would break. "I just…I just hit a bad patch…that's all." She searched Cena's face for any doubt, any indication that he knew that she was lying. The Doctor of Thuganomics' countenance was inscrutable, but somehow, she could sense that he didn't believe her claim any more than she did.
"You know," Cena moved closer, his hand still resting on her shoulder. "You can always come to me, if you need anything." Without thinking, he reached up to tuck a lock of dark hair back behind her ear, his fingertips grazing her cheek. "I worry about you, baby doll," the Champ murmured softly.
Elektra's pale irises met his again, and the Doctor of Thuganomics felt his breath catch in his throat. This strange sensation, like a boot to the gut—was this how the Animal felt every time he looked into her eyes? And if so, how could he stand it, being apart from her? How could he have left—knowing what he was leaving behind?
If it had been me, I wouldn't have left…John thought to himself. I would have dug in my heels and told them to go to hell…even if it meant losing my title, even if it meant losing my SPOT…I would have done it…because it would have killed me to walk away from her…
The two of them stared at each other for a moment, before Elektra's cell phone suddenly went off, shattering the mood. The gray-eyed Diva quickly dug in her pocket, pulling it out, and Cena immediately recognized the ringtone as that of Batista's entrance music. "It's Dave," Elektra remarked, as though to verify this fact. She glanced back up at the Champ. "I have to—"
Cena waved her statement away before she could finish. "I understand, E." He hoped that the irritation he felt wasn't registering on his face.
Still, the silver-eyed Diva hesitated for another second or two, staring at him, the electronic device in her hand still emitting music. "You should come along tonight," she added. "Maria would be thrilled." Before John could reply, she flipped the phone open and held it to her ear, walking rapidly away from the Doctor of Thuganomics.
But what about YOU?...the Champ asked silently. How would you feel?...
Did it cross your mind, just now?...Has it EVER crossed your mind, like it's crossed mine, what would have happened if you had come to SmackDown instead of Raw…if you had met ME first, instead of Dave—
John instantly broke the thought off before it could continue. That kind of thinking was dangerous. He had a great friendship going with Elektra; why should he screw it up by trying to transition it into something it could never be? If he told her, if he even so much as hinted at how he really felt—it would only hurt her. And he couldn't do that, especially not to her.
One look in her eyes had told him that she had suffered enough.
The Champ glanced over at Elektra's slim figure. He was too far away to make out what she was saying, but he could hear the love and warmth in her voice even at this distance. In spite of his mental reproaches, John couldn't stop a sharp thorn of jealousy from stabbing his insides, his mind traveling back to a night he couldn't allow himself to forget…
John walked slowly but steadily up the stairs. Since Maria and Elektra's hotel room was on the fifth floor, it would have been easier to take the elevator, but the Champ preferred the exercise. Besides, he needed the time to think, and the elevator was simply too swift for that.
Tonight's Raw broadcast had taken place in the wake of the chaotic draft lottery. Even though he had been fortunate enough to be the first draftee, and thus had a better opportunity for acclimation than some of his coworkers, Cena still hadn't gotten used to his new role as Raw's champion. After four weeks, he was still putting up with the same posturing for dominance within the locker room, the same snide remarks, the same bullshit that he had faced ever since being transplanted from SmackDown. It was weird, and a little annoying, because even though he was the WWE Champion, he was starting to feel like a rookie all over again.
But John's mind wasn't on locker room politics; it was on one person. One Diva, to be precise. Of all the individuals he had met since coming to Raw, Elektra was one of the few he considered a friend, and right now, he was worried about her. Over the past few days, the silver-eyed Diva had been walking around in an obvious state of depression—one so deep it seemed like she might never emerge from it whole.
If she emerged from it at all.
The Champ couldn't deny that his feelings for the former First Lady of Evolution were complicated. He had been attracted to Elektra ever since they first met; an attraction that had only intensified when he had been traded to Raw. But every time he looked at the gray-eyed Diva, there was always a six-foot-five, three-hundred pound Animal blocking his path. Sure, Dave was a nice guy, and it was clear that he adored Elektra. But that logical chain of reasoning couldn't stop John's throat from swelling shut with envy every time he had to shake hands with the man.
Nor would it change the fact that, when he had heard that the Animal was being traded to SmackDown, the very first emotion to surge through his body had been pure unadulterated elation—
Guilt slammed into the WWE Champion, with such force that it almost made him lose his footing. Not this way—he had never wanted it this way. He wanted Elektra, yes…but not at the expense of her own happiness. This depression that she was in—he would do anything to bring her out of it. Even if it meant going back to SmackDown, even if it meant relinquishing his title; he would do it—if it made her happy again.
That's why he was headed up to her room at this hour; to cheer her up. Maybe between him and Maria, they would be able to coax a smile out from behind Elektra's sad countenance. One smile; that was all he wanted. Just…one…smile.
As he neared the door to the fifth floor, John felt a prickle of unease ripple over him, making the hairs on the back of his neck stand straight up. The sensation was nothing new; every successful Champion developed a heightened sense of danger awareness. But it was a feeling better suited to the back corridors of an arena; not here, where there was nothing to fear.
Right?
The Champ tried to shake off his disquiet, attributing it to the eerie atmosphere of the hotel stairway. But as he opened the door and stepped out onto the fifth floor, the feeling only intensified. Unnerved, John walked cautiously down the hallway, following the brass-plated signs toward the Divas' room, stealing occasional glances over his shoulder to see if anyone was following him. As he expected, there was no one, but still he couldn't dispel this lingering feeling of apprehension, this sense that something was terribly, horribly WRONG.
Cena turned the corner into the central corridor. About halfway down the hallway were the elevators; just opposite them was a middle-aged man clothed in the unmistakable garb of some kind of emergency personnel. He was standing outside the open door of one of the rooms, talking to someone. John couldn't see who it was, but from the tone of his voice, the EMT was attempting to calm them down.
The Champ knew that whatever was happening up ahead was none of his business, but yet he kept moving forward, propelled by an uncontrollable sense of morbid curiosity. Besides, a thought was beginning to form at the back of his mind…a dreadful notion crystallizing in his subconscious, ready to burst forth into full awareness.
Just then, the medical technician moved aside, revealing the other person, and Cena's heart almost stopped when he saw who it was. Maria's pretty face was pale and composed, but from the way her whole body was trembling, she was teetering on the brink of hysteria. The knees of her pajama pants were soaked with blood, as though she had recently been kneecapped, and her slender hands (which she kept wringing together in front of her) were stained red as well.
John wasn't even aware that he was running; all he knew was that he reached Maria's side in what felt like no time at all. He edged past the surprised technician, taking hold of the backstage reporter's shoulders and pulling her to him. "Maria?" The Raw Diva stared up at him dully, as though she didn't know him. Cena shook her a little bit, urgency creeping into his voice. "Maria!"
Gradually, recognition appeared in Maria's green irises. "John?" she whispered. Then, as the Champ watched, the backstage reporter did something he had never seen her do in the month that he had known her: she burst into tears. "Oh God!" she sobbed, collapsing against him. "Oh my GOD!" Her voice rose in volume as she spoke, her last words practically a scream.
Cena pulled her back, not because he didn't want to comfort him, but because he wanted to gauge the extent of her injuries. "Are you hurt?" he asked frantically, turning over her hands to search for any cuts. He glanced back up at her, pushing back her dark blond hair to examine her face. "Maria, what happened—"
"It's not mine!" the backstage reporter blurted out. Her voice was shrill, panicked. "It's not mine! It's not mine!" John was so stunned that for a moment, he literally didn't know what to think. He stared at Maria in shock, as though those three words had been uttered in a foreign tongue. Then, as his mental process kicked back into gear, as the unimaginable truth began to form in front of his eyes…the Champ felt a cold clawed hand clamp around his insides.
He held Maria at arm's length, praying that this was a dream, praying that he was hallucinating all this—praying that it was anything except the truth. "What do you mean…" he whispered slowly. His tongue somehow seemed too large for his mouth, making speech almost impossible. "What do you mean—it's not yours?"
Maria's lower lip quivered. Tears pooled in her eyes, spilling over and down her cheeks in fresh streams. When she spoke, her voice was just as low and barely contained as his. "It's E, John." she began. "She—"
"Sir! Out of the way!" From a great distance, Cena heard the clatter of wheels on carpet, and out of pure reflex, he pulled Maria to him and out of the way, just as two more EMTs burst through the open door, wheeling a stretcher between them. John followed their movements with his eyes, his gaze traveling from them to the prone figure on the stretcher.
It took him only an instant to recognize who it was.
In that moment, the Champ forgot about everyone and everything else: the EMTs, the other guests, even Maria. He shoved the backstage reporter aside distractedly, lunging toward the stretcher. "E!" he bellowed. "ELEKTRA!" The silver-eyed Diva gave no indication that she had heard him, or anything else, for that matter. Her complexion was ashen; the only color on her body was the blood splattering her clothes. Her head lolled to the side, her dark hair falling across her face.
Someone was at his side, grabbing onto his arm, holding him back. Someone was talking, the words coming as though from far away: "Sir! Sir, stay back! I can't let you—" But Cena was past listening. With an impatient roar, he tore his arm free, running after the EMTs and the precious cargo between them. Everything around him was a meaningless blur; all he could see was Elektra lying on that stretcher.
And the blood…
The blood…
The blood…
With a snap, John returned to the present, blinking a few times as he struggled to take in his surroundings. Even after three months, the memory was still so clear, so vivid, that it drowned out reality every time he replayed it. The Doctor of Thuganomics glanced over at Elektra once more. The gray-eyed Diva had her cell phone pressed to her ear, balancing on one foot as she trailed the toe of the other across the floor in front of her.
John found himself thinking of earlier, of Elektra huddled against the wall, sobbing. For a few seconds, he had seen the misery contained within her, had caught a glimpse of just how deeply rooted that misery was. Looking into her eyes…it was hard to imagine that she'd ever truly been happy. Even now—she was smiling, yes, but it was a smile tinged with sadness; the same sadness that seemed to coat her every word, every look, every movement nowadays. Nothing had changed…and yet everything had changed.
Cena grimaced briefly, his handsome features twisting with anger. His lips moved, spitting out a muttered accusation, aimed not at Elektra, but at the man who had her heart. The man who had found her first. The man who either couldn't or wouldn't acknowledge the hell that his fiancée was clearly going through.
"You weren't there when she needed you…"
A couple hundred miles away, in a similar parking garage in Huntsville, Texas, Batista leaned back against the trunk of his rental car, a warm smile spreading across his face as he listened to his fiancée. Hearing her voice wasn't the same as holding her in his arms, but it was better than nothing at all. Listening to her, he could almost feel her standing next to him, whispering in his ear.
Almost.
In two days, he would be with her again, feeling her slender body pressed against his, inhaling her scent, tasting her lips—but until then, he would have to settle for the digitized sound of her voice.
He heard Elektra let out a soft sigh, and a jolt of concern shot through him. Distance and digital technology couldn't mask the exhaustion lurking at the edges of her words. "What's wrong, baby?" the Animal asked gently, steeling himself mentally for the inevitable Nothing…
As much as he hating admitting it, even if only to himself, Batista was growing more and more accustomed to receiving less than a straight answer from his fiancée. Whether she was lying or merely omitting the truth—either way, she was hiding something from him.
And it's killing her…the Animal thought to himself. Every day I see another piece of her disappear—but she won't tell me why…and every time I get too close to the truth, she pulls away…she retreats back within herself and she won't let me inside…
What are you hiding, baby?...What are you protecting me from?...
On the other end of the line, Elektra took a deep breath. When she spoke, her tone was matter-of-fact…but her nonchalance couldn't cover up the strain in her voice. "I ran into an old friend tonight."
The clipped, bitter way in which she spat out the word "friend" turned the World Heavyweight Champion's blood into ice water, and he felt his heart momentarily miss a beat. "Who?" he asked, trying with difficulty to keep the anger out of his voice.
There was a long pause before Elektra answered, uttering one word, one name—the last name Batista had been wanting to hear from her lips: "Hunter."
The ice in the Animal's veins turned to fire, and without thinking, he clenched his hand into a fist, slamming it down on the trunk of the car. Elektra must have heard him, because she quickly added, "Please, Dave, don't—"
"What did he do to you?" Batista interrupted, his voice a low growl. His dark eyes narrowed, his vision tinged with red. In that moment, he didn't care that he was no longer on Raw. If Triple H had put so much as a hand on Elektra, pesky little things like brand divisions weren't going to save him.
"Nothing!" Elektra's voice was shrill. Was she worried that he was going to do something stupid on her account—or was it something else? Something she would never tell him? "Nothing," the gray-eyed Diva repeated, her tone calmer this time around. "It was just his usual empty threats. It's just—" She hesitated. "I thought this shit was over."
The Animal gritted his teeth, swearing under his breath. Goddamn the draft lottery—not only had it taken him away from the person he loved the most, but it had also left her at the mercy of sociopaths like the Cerebral Assassin. And the worst part was…there was nothing he could do about it. If he showed up on Raw next week and beat the Game senseless, it would only get him kicked out of the building. And Eric Bischoff, asshole that he was, would make Elektra the scapegoat, for no other reason than because he could. If Batista tried to step in, he would inevitably only make things even worse for his fiancée.
"I know, baby," he finally said after a while. "I know. Just…be careful, okay?" As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he wanted to smack himself. That directive went without saying; it was practically a necessity of life. Eat. Breathe. Steer clear of Triple H.
He could almost see Elektra's head bobbing up and down in a nod. "I will," she whispered. For several long seconds, neither one of them spoke, the silence stretching out. In the midst of that void, Batista could hear the unspoken question hanging in the air between them, the query that had become as automatic and customary for him as "I love you".
Before this, we didn't need to speak, because the silence said everything for us…the Animal mused. Now we talk to fill that silence…because it says things that we don't want to hear…
After what felt like an eternity, the World Heavyweight Champion cleared his throat. "Listen, baby—"
"Dave, could I call you back?" Elektra abruptly interrupted. Her outburst was enough to shock the World Heavyweight Champion into silence. The silver-eyed Diva went on. "Trish and some of the others—they're waiting for me. We're going to go out for a little bit. You know, to a bar or someplace."
"Oh…well, that's great, baby," Batista replied slowly. To anyone else, Elektra's voice would have sounded normal—only he could tell that it was just a little too bright, a little too forced. Trish and the other Divas might be waiting for her, or maybe they weren't—either way, Elektra was using their invitation as an excuse to dodge The Question. "Real great—it's good that you're going out again."
What could he possibly say, what could he do, to contradict her? Even if he called her out on it—it wasn't like she was going to tell him the truth. Better to accept it, then. Better to pretend that he didn't know what was really going on.
There was another long pause, then: "I love you."
"I love you, too, E." the Animal whispered.
"'Bye."
"'Bye, baby."
The World Heavyweight Champion let his arm fall back down to his side, snapping the phone closed as he did so. He pressed his free hand to his forehead, sighing. What had his relationship with Elektra become such a minefield of buried secrets?
Batista felt a tingle sweep over his body; his subconscious's way of telling him that it sensed a presence. He looked up, starting a little when he saw the petite form of Melina standing right at his elbow. He hadn't even heard her approach.
MNM's manager was still in her ring attire, playing nervously with the slender gold chain of her necklace. Her expression was pensive, hesitant—a far cry from the haughty disdain he was used to seeing out in the ring. The Animal regarded her without speaking, his countenance impassive. Pensive or not, past experience had taught him to be wary around Melina.
The SmackDown Diva cast her brown eyes down toward the ground. After a few heartbeats, she cleared her throat, swinging her gaze back up to meet his. "Was that…Elektra…on the phone?" she asked. Her voice was soft, and every bit as apprehensive as her expression.
Batista's mouth twitched, curling into a faint half-smile, and he nodded curtly. "Yeah…that was E."
A ghost of a smile played around Melina's lips, but disappeared as she quickly ducked her head again, her blond and brown tresses falling over her face. Gradually, she finger-combed her hair back, meeting his eyes once more. "And how's she—"
"Look, Melina, what do you want?" the Animal interjected, his tone brusque. The paparazzi princess flinched, the slim fingers of one hand stealing up to fidget with her necklace chain again. For a moment, Batista wondered if he had possibly scared her into silence.
This notion was quickly proved false, however, because in the next instant, Melina opened her mouth, her words pouring out in a rush: "Look, last week, I said some…things…to Elektra. I was kind of a bitch and I just wanted to—"
The World Heavyweight Champion knew immediately what she was referring to; Elektra had related the incident to him the previous week. It didn't surprise him; if anything, it tallied with everything else he had heard or observed about MNM's manager since coming to SmackDown. What he didn't understand was why Melina was telling him about it—or why she suddenly felt compelled to apologize.
Batista waved his hand, cutting the Diva off in mid-sentence. "If you're trying to say you're sorry, don't even bother," he replied. "It's a little late—and besides, I'm not the one you should be apologizing to."
"But I feel bad!" Melina cried, her voice taking on the faintest hint of a whine. She took a step toward the Animal, reaching out to lay her hand on his arm. "You have to understand: I have this image—"
The World Heavyweight Champion shook her hand off, a harsh laugh escaping his throat. "You know what? I really don't care." The paparazzi princess flinched again, as though he had slapped her, letting out a soft sound that might have been a gasp. Her brown eyes filled with tears, and her full lips trembled.
Looking at her, on the verge of tears—in spite of himself, Batista felt something inside him relent. The Animal sighed, reaching up to massage his temples with one hand. "Sorry," he said after a while. "It's…it's been a long couple days." He glanced back up at MNM's manager. "I'll tell you what: if you feel that bad about it…apologize to E and I'll forget the whole thing."
Melina nodded, her face brightening a little bit. "Of course!" she exclaimed. "Absolutely! Thank you so much!"
Batista nodded along with her, although by now, he was starting to find the whole situation a little bit strange. "Okay," he remarked after several seconds. He jerked his head toward the car behind him. "Now, if you'll excuse me…"
The SmackDown Diva glanced from him to the car, and then back again. "Oh, right!" she answered. Stepping courteously back, she gave him a little wave. "See you tomorrow!"
"Yeah, same here," the World Heavyweight Champion replied cautiously. Without adding anything further, he pushed his huge frame off the trunk, moving around the vehicle, opening up the door and sliding into the driver's seat. As he slammed the door shut, the Animal shook his head quickly, allowing one thought to silently pass his lips before he turned the key in the ignition.
That was WEIRD…
Melina watched the taillights of Batista's car as he drove across the parking garage and out into the night. As soon as the automobile was out of her sight, the tears in the paparazzi princess's eyes evaporated. Her apologetic countenance vanished, replaced by one of calculating cruelty.
Melina cocked her head to one side, steepling her hands together under her chin, her manicured fingernails clicking together like claws. She had no doubt that Dave didn't trust her, didn't even like her—but yet, in spite of all his defenses, she had still managed to sway him. It had been the tiniest concession, one which unfortunately hinged on a show of contriteness toward that whore he was engaged to—but it was a concession nonetheless.
She was slightly disappointed that his eyes hadn't strayed any lower than her face, but then again, maybe he really did love that bitch fiancée more than she'd anticipated. And if that was the case, it might take longer than she had anticipated for her scheme to come to fruition.
Well, no matter. She would fake a smile and spit out an apology to that cunt Elektra, if that's what it took. Because things were going to change. And because if there was one thing the paparazzi princess could count on, it was that, eventually, she always got what she wanted.
And right now, what Melina wanted…was Dave Batista.
