A/N: Apologies for what some may deem a delay. Thank you again to everyone who's reading, following, and reviewing! Enjoy. :)

Chapter Nine

Nursing a beer, Dean kept his eyes on Elizabeth as she moved around his small kitchen. She'd surprised him with her burst of energy after their hours in bed. He would have preferred to just fall asleep, but she had mentioned skipping lunch and he'd felt guilty. The guilt had somehow segued into her offering to fix a late dinner. He still wasn't sure how that had happened, but he was enjoying the show.

Because she obviously didn't know her way around a kitchen.

He had no clue as to why that amused him. He stayed in the living room on the couch, watching her open drawers and cabinets, trying not to chuckle when she muttered curses. A pot clattered on the stove, she grumbled, and he quickly took a sip of his beer, looking to the TV to hide his mirth.

"Do you live on eggs, protein shakes, and beer?" she called.

"There's ribs from last night." At least, he was pretty sure some were left. He remembered putting the container back in the fridge. Maybe he'd eaten them all. "And water."

"No vegetables?"

"Maybe in the freezer? I know I've got an onion in the fridge" he offered. More muttered curses. "We can call out for something—"

"I'll just fix an omelet. There's a little bit of cheese."

"I've got bread, too."

"Omelets and toast, then."

He looked over just in time to catch her glancing around the kitchen, lost. "Toaster oven," he pointed out. It was right there next to the coffeemaker but he pointed to it just in case.

"No toaster?"

"The toaster oven toasts. And roasts and bakes. Why bother with both?" Pleased with his logic, he glanced out the window to see if the second round of storms had arrived yet.

"You have a point."

"I can be pretty fucking brilliant now and then. Do you want some help?"

She muttered under her breath as she pulled things out of the fridge. Unable to resist, he got to his feet and went to her, finishing his beer before slipping an arm around her waist.

"It'll kill you to admit you suck at this, won't it?" he asked with a chuckle.

"No, it won't kill me." She sighed, leaning against him, hand resting on his arm. "I really am a terrible cook, Dean."

"Then why fucking bother?" He pressed a kiss to her neck then guided her to one of the stools at the counter. "Sit. I'll throw something together."

Smiling, she sat, chin propped in one hand. "Are you a short order cook?"

With a shake of his head, he began gathering ingredients. "Just don't ask for eggs over-easy. I always bust the yolk."

He felt her eyes follow him as he moved around. It would have unnerved him, had he not been guilty of watching her earlier. Grabbing two beers from the fridge once he'd put the frozen vegetables on to steam, he carried one to her and leaned against the counter.

He lit two cigarettes, smirking when she took one for herself without waiting for it to be offered. "You still plunging into depravity?"

Lips that he knew – that had memorized his body – that he wanted on him again – pursed around the cigarette. The tip glowed, then she tilted her head, smoke streaming from those lips. "I have sex bruises, what do you think?"

"Ain't my fault you kept trying to get away." He refused to get turned on watching her smoke. He wasn't a fucking kid with his first girl. Then he remembered enjoying – a little too much – the way she'd wriggled into one of his t-shirts. His gaze dropped to her chest and he licked his lips. Okay, he was fine with behaving like a horny teenager again. Eyes returning to her lips, he pictured them wrapped around his—

"Maybe you should just tie me down next time."

It was an off-hand comment but it still caused him to swallow wrong. He covered up by turning to check on the food, clattering an empty pan to mask his coughing. Once he'd recovered, he returned to the counter. "Are you into that?"

"I honestly don't know." She lifted one shoulder in a shrug and finally picked up her beer, taking a tiny sip. "I've never… Well, he's really…"

"Plain," Dean finished. And, refusing to let her bastard of a husband ruin their time together, he tossed his cigarette into the ashtray. Bracing his hands against the counter, he leaned over and brushed his lips over hers. "I'd start with just tying your wrists together."

The bottle thumped down. "Dean…"

"Behind your back," he went on. Moving around so he was behind her, he gently caught her arms and held her wrists against the small of her back. He glanced down, saw her fingers clawing the air. Her head tilted as soon as his lips touched her neck. "Then I'd bend you over the side of the bed." His other hand reached around, cupping one bare knee. It took a little urging but her knees soon parted. Grasping fingers scratched at his wrist so he shifted, letting her clutch the front of his shorts. His hand trailed up her thigh then cupped her, a groan pulling from his throat when he felt her heat. "And I'd work that sweet little clit until you were just about to cum…"

She clutched him, wriggling on the stool. His name, barely a whisper, came out as he worked his hips against her hand.

"I'd fuck you so good," he promised, nudging her panties aside so he could feel how wet she was. One finger slipped inside. "Then I'd fuck you again. And again…"

"And?" she whined, fingers squeezing.

"And…" He nuzzled her neck briefly and pulled away. Sucking his finger, he stepped back. "And I need to finish the food."

She cursed, drank more beer, and cursed again when he laughed.

They ate in the living room, a cheesy 80's comedy on TV. The second round of storms hit just as she carried their dishes into the kitchen. He turned off the movie then leaned to turn off the lights before stretching his sore leg out on the couch to the distant rumble of thunder. It occurred to him, as he listened to the sounds of her washing up, that everything felt normal.

Relaxing after dinner, his woman doing the dishes. Full and satisfied and getting sleepy. Knowing that soon he'd be getting into bed with her. Whether or not they had sex before going to sleep, he knew he'd go to sleep reasonably happy.

Only… She wasn't his woman. No matter how much he wanted her to be, she couldn't be his. The sense of happiness disappeared. He was still full, still getting sleepy, but the satisfaction was ebbing. An annoying, nagging feeling crept into the pit of his stomach. He closed his eyes, trying to tamp it down. A nitpicking, whiny voice in the back of his mind, one he hadn't heard in a long time, began to whisper.

Then Elizabeth there, leaning over him. Cool, damp fingers brushed down his arm as she joined him. There was no awkwardness as he made room for her, nor in the way she settled so her head rested on his chest. Arms going around her, he looked out the window to see the distant flickering of lightening.

"You ready for bed?" he asked softly.

"Mm-hmm." She scooted up, brushed her lips over his. In the glow of the light from the kitchen he could see her smile. "But can we watch the storm first?"

"Sure," he chuckled, helping her shift around so she could see out the window. Instead of watching the approaching storm he watched her hands slide over his arms. Kissing the top of her head, he closed his eyes and let himself enjoy the moment.

The nitpicking voice went silent.


On Monday, Elizabeth arrived at the arena alone. Sitting in the car for several minutes, she absently chewed on her thumbnail. Her drive from the airport had been lonely and even though it had been less than thirty minutes she'd regretted her decision to drive separately from Dean. At the time her reasoning had been that there was no reason to inspire gossip but the moment she'd merged onto the highway, the inside of the car eerily silent, she'd longed for his boisterous energy.

Oh well. She would see him soon enough. Even if it wouldn't be the same as their weekend in his apartment, it would be something. Dropping the keys in her purse, she leaned over to collect her jacket from the passenger side floor. A sudden bang on the roof of the car startled her. She lurched upwards, screaming at the sight of a face pressed to the window.

"You – Idiot," she muttered, opening the door to push him away. "Don't do that!"

Randy Orton laughed, catching the door before it could slam into him again. "You're always so fucking jumpy."

"Anyone would be with you banging on the car." She pulled on her jacket, grabbed her purse, and climbed out. "Why are you skulking around out here anyway?"

"Why are you driving in?" he asked. The levity in his tone was gone and she looked up to see his calculating expression. "John's been here for an hour already."

"Obviously we arrived separately." She opened the trunk and reached for her suitcase.

"What's going on with you two?" His hand covered hers, stilling her movements. "I asked where you were and he said he didn't know. So what's going on?"

"He's your best friend, ask him." She tried to pull her hand free but the man was stubborn.

"Did he…" His head jerked up at the sound of another car pulling in nearby. Turning back to her, he released her hand and lightly touched his cheek. "'Cause if he did—"

"No." Finally getting her suitcase out, she focused on closing the drunk and locking the car. She found it odd that the man, who knew about her past troubles with John, couldn't even say the words. "He didn't hit me. I almost wish he had."

"Then what hap—"

"I need to go find out what I'm doing tonight. See you later?" Without waiting for an answer, she hurried across the lot to the backstage entrance. She hoped she would be able to avoid more interactions like that. Surely everyone wasn't interested in the fact that she hadn't arrived with John?

Within ten minutes, she realized that everyone knew she hadn't arrived with John and everyone wanted to know why. It took twice as long as usual to make it to the female talent dressing room and even in there she couldn't find peace. Not that anyone came out and actually asked. They hinted, they suggested, the mentioned… They all annoyed her to the point of wanting to scream. She left as quickly as she could, pausing just outside the door to see how long it took before they all burst with their conclusions.

Two whole seconds.

Catering was empty, and she was able to grab a quick bite to eat without being bothered. For an entire ten minutes she was allowed peace.

She heard him before he came in. He was laughing, chatting happily. The food she'd swallowed turned to lead and, appetite gone, she rose to throw away her plate. Three steps from the table she looked to the door. He was standing there, levity gone. Alone.

"Elizabeth," he greeted.

"John," she returned, continuing on her way to the trashcan.

"When did you get here?"

He was still standing in the doorway. Blocking her exit. Trapped, she stepped over to get a bottle of water. "Just a few minutes ago."

"Have you seen Paul or Stephanie?"

"Not yet." She approached him, eyes moving beyond him. She was surprised to see that Melissa wasn't hovering nearby. She'd thought he kept her under his thumb when at the arena. "Why?"

"New storyline. For us."

That made her stop. "Us?" she repeated.

"They're continuing my thing with Wyatt. Tonight they want you to try to interview them after a match. They're going to have him get you on his side." He rubbed the back of his head. "Right now it's leaning towards you sabotaging me at Extreme Rules, then me fighting to win you back at SummerSlam."

"Why me?" she asked in confusion. In all the time she'd been, technically, on the roster, she'd never been used as anything more than an interviewer and occasional commentator. Twice she'd done in-ring introductions at house shows.

"Because you're my wife and, kayfabe wise, the Wyatts want to destroy everything I hold dear." He cupped her upper arm, pulling her close. "I missed you."

"I'm going to go see Stephanie." Shaking off his hand, she slipped past him.

"Elizabeth—"

But she was already gone. And she wasn't going to turn back for further confrontation. She refused to give him time to gather more ammunition against her. Rushing down the corridor, she wondered again why she was going to be used on-air. Wouldn't it have made more sense to start an angle between John and a Diva? They'd done it before…

Rounding a corner, she lurched to a stop at the sight of Melissa. All questions about the upcoming storyline moved to the back burner of her mind.

"Elizabeth, hi." The pretty brunette smiled, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear. "Did John find you?"

"He did." As her gaze swept over the polished young woman, she was painfully aware of her travel-rumpled clothing. And the fact she hadn't had a full eight hours of sleep the night before. She had to hand it to John. Melissa was cute, with her stupid little flats and her stupid little dress and her stupid little glasses. And her stupid little smile.

"Good. I hope you had a restful weekend—"

"Cut the crap," Elizabeth interrupted. "And stop acting like I don't know you're fucking my husband."

Her eyes widened behind her stupid little glasses. "What—"

"He admitted it to me, Melissa. So do me a favor and fuck off."

Melissa had the decency to blush. "I wanted to tell you. I wanted it all out in the open. Now that you know, I can just wait for him to divorce you." She positively beamed. "And then he can be mine."

The slap echoed in the hallway, followed by the clatter of the glasses hitting the wall. Elizabeth bit down hard on the inside of her cheek to keep from reacting to the sharp stinging sensation in her palm. Shoving the girl aside, she began to walk away. Then, remembering John's words when they'd been at home, she turned, lips curving into a smile. Advancing, she took satisfaction in stomping on the glasses.

"Good luck with that, sweetheart," she crooned. "Because guess what? He won't divorce me. No matter how good you fuck him, no matter how much you scream his name, he's still mine."

Melissa's eyes nearly glowed with fury. Hand over her red cheek, mouth moving but no words coming out, she finally turned and ran.

"That felt good," Elizabeth whispered, curling her stinging palm around the cool bottle of water. Even if John did bitch at her about it later, it would be worth it. Let him deal with the little idiot. Let him explain why he wasn't getting a divorce.

After meeting with Stephanie and getting her script – she was too annoyed to argue against her being used – she took the longest route possible to the dressing room. Later she would find Bray to work on her reaction to his speech. For now she hoped to get in a quick shower and then get ready for the photos Stephanie wanted taken for the official website.

A hand closed over her arm. In the split second before she could react she recognized the grip and swallowed her cry as she was pulled into a room the size of a broom closet. The door opened, the light came on, and Dean's lips were over hers in an instant.

The script dropped from her hand. Throwing her arms around him she returned his bruising kiss. So she wasn't strong enough to push him away when so many could have seen him pull her into the room. So she wasn't strong enough to conceal her need for him. Part of it could have been a need for revenge. John did it, why couldn't she? Mostly, she realized as she clung to him, was the fact that she just need him. Just his scent calmed her frayed nerves; his kiss soothed her weary heart.

In a short amount of time he'd become a drug to her. And it scared her more than anything.

"I refuse to fuck you in a closet," he muttered, pressing his face to her neck.

She tried to muffle her laugh. "Good, because I refuse to be fucked in a closet."

"I just needed… Wanted to see you for a minute."

She caught the change in words but didn't comment. Closing her eyes, she tightened her grip on him. "I know the feeling."

"You okay?"

No, she wasn't. But she nodded, grateful for his next kiss.

A rush of air. The body she held onto stiffened. The arms around her turned to steel. Dean's head lifted. When he muttered a curse, Elizabeth turned to look.

A muscle in John's jaw twitched. Hands braced on either side of the doorframe, he blocked her sight of the hallway beyond. His shoulders rose and fell with each breath and an eternity passed before he finally spoke.

"Elizabeth." His eyes remained on Dean. "Can I talk to you? On the bus."

On the bus. Away from prying eyes and ears that heard every word.

"Your little toy can come too if you want. I need to talk to him, too."