A/N: Thanks to everyone who read/reviewed that last one. Onward.

X. Freefall

Six months.

I can't wrestle.

Six months.

I can't wrestle.

Over and over again, a rhythm beating the inside of his brain in time to his heart trying to beat a hole in his goddamn chest. No amount of running carries him away from it.

He tries.

He runs - sprints, flies - until he's on fire inside, until his breath's snuffed down to wheezing gasps, until his side's a dull band of fire, until he wants to throw up again, and it's still. not. enough. No matter how fast he goes, those stupid fucking thoughts nip at his heels like the fucking hellhounds they are.

What am I gonna do?

It's not 'til he rounds a corner and nearly skids into a parked car that he even looks up to see where the fuck he is. He sags down on a patch of browning grass, and wheezes out a croak of a laugh: Sami's apartment building is a half-block up from here. No signs of Sami's rustbucket car in the lot, at least, which means Sami - and probably Chrissy - are at work.

They are.

Mox drags his sweaty, hung-over ass up into the apartment, huffing and puffing the whole way, and lets himself into the silent living room. "'Lo?" he calls out.

When nobody answers, he breathes out a quiet sigh of relief, and heads into the kitchen for a glass of water.

Glass in hand, he wanders out into the apartment again, back through the living room, and into the spare bedroom.

Which has stuff in it now that he's, like, a hundred percent positive wasn't in there yesterday: a made bed and a small chest of drawers, in addition to the computer desk. His little collection of boxes, which had been here yesterday, isn't here now. The suitcase and bags he finds in the closet aren't his.

Am I in the wrong apartment again?

He leaves the living room, and - no. No, this is Sami's place, all right. It's his mail on the table.

"Where the fuck is my shit?" he asks the lumpy brown couch.

Right about then, he spots a piece of paper on the dining table. He'd walked right past them both on his way to the kitchen.

That piece of paper has his name at the top in big, Sharpied letters.

"MOX,

Turn your phone on dickhead. Why was Danny calling me looking for you? What happened party? He was freaked out. Your shit is in hall closet. Chrissys friend needs a place to stay & has $$. You can have couch til you find somewhere else. Sorry about that man. No rush. Call me.

Sami"

'Til he finds somewhere else.

In other words: Get lost, asshole. Scam. Beat it. Tired of your ugly mug.

When Sami says something like "no rush," he almost always means the opposite.

Mox sets the letter down, lowers his head, and laughs. Laughs. Because why the fuck not. Why the fuck wouldn't Sami and Chrissy kick him out? Why wouldn't they? He doesn't have a fucking job. He's flat-ass fucking broke, so he can't contribute anything. All he does lately is get drunk and get into trouble. He doesn't even have a fucking wrestling career right now - and may never again. So why wouldn't he get kicked out of here? It's hilarious. The fucking joke of the universe.

You sunk my fucking battleship.

No, he doesn't blame Sami or Chrissy a bit. They've been generous. They didn't have to let him crash on their floor here. He's paid for what he could along the way, especially back when he was tending bar during the week, but they never bitched at him when he couldn't kick in much. He's basically been living here for free for the last couple months, since the job situation got tight and promoters weren't paying out a lot for shows. It's tough as shit all over. Sami and Chrissy are doing what they have to do to keep their heads above water.

He can't be mad about that.

Hell, he respects that.

They don't owe him shit.

Nobody owes him shit - not promoters, not his friends, not even his own fucking mother.

He has well and truly fucked himself here.

Sami and Chrissy would probably let him stay if he told them about the HIV thing, but he's not sure he can stomach living off their fucking pity. Because they would feel sorry for him. Sorry son-of-a-bitch. That's Jon fucking Moxley.

Still giggling - he's sure he sounds about out of his fucking mind right now - he sits down at the table, grabs his phone out of his pocket, and turns it on, dickhead. There's a whole flood of missed calls. Like eight from Danny, the guy who'd had the party last night. A couple from other CZW guys. Six from Sami. One from his mom. She'd left a voicemail, which he deletes without even opening.

Probably just wants him to come home, which, "Fuck you," he mutters the screen.

Sweat runs freely down his face, stinging into the little cut Leakee had opened above that left eyebrow last night. Fucking shiner and a half right there. Big fucking fist left a big fucking bruise. Everything's still kind of fuzzy out of that eye. His hand hurts, too, so bad he can't close his fingers around his phone. Painful even turning his wrist over to hold the thing. Probably damaged it even more pummeling Greg's face to mush.

Speaking of.

Mox hits 'redial' on one of Danny's many calls and puts his phone to his ear. Havoc's another CZW guy. Not a close friend, but somebody Mox has wrestled quite a few times the last couple years. Decent wrestler. Okay guy. Fun to party with.

He picks up after the second ring with a groggy, "Yo."

"It's Mox, Danny. Heard you're looking for me."

"Mox? Yeah, man. Fuck. I was. Hang on." Danny clears his throat. Just woke up, probably. Sounds like there's a quarry of gravel in his voice. "Shit, dude. Thanks for stickin' me with a fucking mess."

"He dead?" Mox asks.

"Greg? No. He wasn't, anyway, when we dumped him off at the ER. We literally just kicked him out of my car and drove off. Haven't heard anything since. Man, you really fucked him up."

There's a clock on the wall above the TV. Black cat. The tail ticks and tocks back and forth every second. Mox watches it twitch and twitch. "Where is he?"

Danny's pause on the other end of the line feels uncomfortable. "We dumped him at St. Mary's. Why?"

"No reason."

"Look, dude," Danny says, slow and careful, "like. There's some rumors. I heard some shit. If it's true, like, I don't blame you for flipping out like you did. But you already did enough. And there's something else, anyway. You heard he's got HIV, right? Some people were saying that. That's why I'm looking for you. If - like, I don't wanna get into your business, dude, but if what I heard was true, you oughtta get tested. That shit ain't nothing to fuck around with. 'Cuz in the ring and shit, if you get cut-"

"Yeah, I know," Mox says. "I'm already on it. I get to not wrestle for six fucking months 'til they can tell me for sure I'm negative. Or I show up positive. That's how fucking on top of it I already am. So don't fucking worry about it. I ain't gonna go spreadin' shit around to you guys. Jesus. Fuck kinda monster do you think I am?"

"I wasn't saying-"

"The fuck you weren't. I'll do a lot of shitty things to people, but I'd never do something like that. Fuck off. I gotta go. Keep this shit to yourself."

Mox hangs up before Danny can answer, and massages his aching temples.

Six months.

I can't wrestle.

Six months.

I can't wrestle.

Fuck only knows what possesses him to go back to Leakee's.

Glutton for punishment, probably.

The smart thing to do, honestly, would have been to stay at Sami's, and just hash everything out with Sami and Chrissy. Pity or no, they'd be less apt to rush his ass out the door if they knew, and he'd have a chance to get his shit together and figure out his next move. He could start looking for some job or whatever to get him by, maybe, or something.

He's not feeling smart.

He's feeling the brand new bottle of Jack Daniels Sami'd hidden in the cupboard above the refrigerator, and a whole heaping helping of not thinking about anything.

He's feeling like sobriety is for suckers, and that Jon Moxley ain't a goddamn sucker.

Jon Moxley has a few days' clothes and his toiletries stuffed into a backpack that's being held together by duct tape and a prayer, plus the bottle of Jack and a bag of sunflower seeds. Other than that, he doesn't have a fucking clue what he's doing.

No money, no job, nothing on his horizons except a whole lot of hurry up and wait.

It's freefall.

It's stepping off the ledge without a safety net.

It's stupid, is what it is, and Mox isn't stupid - or deluded - enough to think it's not, but he's never done anything easy in his life, and why the fuck should he start now?

He doesn't go directly to Leakee's place; he takes a couple trips around the old Monopoly board first, making a few phone calls to people he knows with stretches of carpet or a couch to spare. One doesn't answer his call, and neither one of the other two can spare the room right now, sorry man. Sorry 'bout that. So sorry.

So fucking sorry.

Fuckyou fuckers.

They don't owe him shit, either, honestly.

For a while, he sits under a tree in a near-empty park and wonders what it might be like to choose to sleep out here - and not just pass out somewhere like this at three a.m. in an alcohol stupor. He wonders how people without a pot to piss in even get by. How they eat. Where they go when it's raining. He wonders what it's like to have to beg for real, to sit out on some corner and get spit on and glared at, looked at like a fucking piece shit useless dog. To have to sell yourself not to get out of trouble, but to just afford a deck of smokes or some booze or a fucking cheeseburger or even a place to sleep for a night.

Wonders what it might be like to be that way and be sick on top of that.

H-motherfucking-I-V.

The bullet in the blood.

Dying by inches, just like his mother.

Horrified anger burns its way up his spine because I'm not her, I'm not her, fuck that.

"Fuck that," he mutters, shoving to his feet. He ain't that far down yet. He ain't fucking dead yet.

Pull yourself together, asshole.

Jon Moxley in the park with the melodramatic fuckin' meltdown.

"Fuckin' drama queen." He wants to slap himself. "Pull it together, asshole."

His feet carry him to Leakee's on their own. He doesn't tell them to go that way. They just do it, like they took him to Sami's place earlier, like they're walking in a familiar groove. Like they took him there last night after that bullshit with Greg, which-

Paying that fucker a visit in the hospital is probably a terrible fucking idea, but it's also tempting.

But.

Three hours after he leaves Sami's place, he's back over at Leakee's hardware store, staring up at the big blue and white sign overhead, declaring the place 34th Street Hardware. The boarded-over window. The hand-lettered CLOSED UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE sign screaming in read through the door. The stack of boxes peeking out from behind the counter.

Around the side of the building, there's the dumpsters that are overflowing with the trashbags Mox had dumped there this morning. More boxes on the back stoop, too. Just a couple this time, about the size of a couple shoeboxes.

He'd left the back door unlocked this morning, he remembers, and lets himself right in like he's got every right to be there. But, hell, looks like it might rain today, all these heavy gray clouds piled up against the sky, and he'd be an asshole if he left those boxes sitting outside to get soaked, now wouldn't he? Not that it's his problem, and not that he's not an asshole, but even assholes can do the right things sometimes. So he carries the two boxes into the store and sets them down behind the counter with the rest. Looks like some kind of weird Jenga stack going on there.

The door slams shut behind him, a flat, loud bang that echoes through the store and probably up the staircase to Leakee's apartment.

Mox takes a seat behind the counter, sets his backpack down, and pulls a trashcan closer. He doesn't have any cigarettes left. Sunflower seeds are a poor fucking substitute for that nicotine hit he wants, but they'll have to do in the meantime. He grabs the Jack, too. Booze is a good distraction.

After the way the door slams, he's not all that surprised to hear the stairs creaking and groaning under heavy footsteps.

Leakee appears around the corner, large and ghostly-silent, a baseball bat in hand.

Mox pops a handful of seeds into his mouth and pushes them into one cheek, relishing the salt-sting. He cracks one between his teeth, and looks around. "'S up, Babe Ruth? Gonna knock my head for a home run?"

Big man makes his way over to the counter, an angry brick wall of a guy in the same rumpled hoodie and shorts as he'd been wearing yesterday. It doesn't look like he'd showered yet today. There's actually a red mark on his face from a blanket or something, and his hair's all matted. He's still intimidating as hell, even when he lowers the bat and growls, "Why do you keep coming back here, Moxley?"

"You had some boxes on your back porch," Mox says, indicating the Jenga stack. "I brought 'em in 'cuz might rain today. Didn't know where you wanted 'em though, and I didn't open 'em 'cuz I figured you'd wanna do that yourself."

He's gotten good, Mox has, at sliding under people's skin by saying the least-expected things and the most unexpected times. Now's no different. He manages to derail Leakee's anger and sending it shooting off toward confusion. It's great. "...okay?"

"So I figure since I did that, I could come back and hang out again." He frees the Jack Daniels from his backpack and holds it up. "I even brought some good shit 'cuz I'm a good guest. Never show up empty-handed."

"You need to leave, Moxley. I'm serious. You can't..." Leakee paws his face with a thick hand, closes his eyes. "You can't be here. I don't want you here."

"So how's your day been?" Mox asks, spitting out a few empty shells into the trash. "Good? Done much? You look like you've been busy. Wanna know how my day's been?"

"Not really."

Ignoring that, Mox pulls the stack of HIV pamphlets out of his hoodie's pocket and drops them on the counter. "So I go to this clinic to get tested this morning, right? They say they can't, 'cuz it hasn't been long enough since I was exposed. Then they tell me not only do I gotta wait a couple weeks, but it's gonna be six months 'til I'll really know if I'm negative or not. Can't wrestle, either. Can't risk exposing people to it. That's a felony. Wish somebody woulda told the fuck who exposed me. But you wanna know the biggest kick in the balls? I kinda just got booted from the place I'm staying. If you ask me, the last few weeks have been pretty bullshit."

"And what?" Leakee demands, leaning on the baseball bat like it's a cane. It looks like a toothpick next to his leg. "You expect me to feel sorry for you?"

"Fuck no," Mox says. "I don't need pity. That's why I like you. You don't feel sorry for me."

"You like me?" Leakee doesn't look impressed. "You don't even know me." Something shifts in his expression, like a lightbulb going off. "You need a place to crash, don't you. No. Hell no."

"I brought booze," Mox says. He's in it now. Might as well jump in with both feet. "It's not like I showed up empty-handed. We could have fun."

Leakee points the bat at the back door. "Leave."

"Oh, come on, it's about to rain." It's dusk-dark outside and a breeze has begun to stir the air. Definitely a storm coming. "I carried in your boxes. You didn't even ask me to. I think that entitles me to, like, at least another night."

It's a totally bullshit, totally outrageous claim, and he knows it. There's a part of him that can't even believe he's trying this - again. The rest is laughing with weird, childish glee. He can see the outrage in Leakee's eyes, in the way Leakee opens and closes his mouth a few times. "You have got to be kidding me."

"What? That was a lot of boxes to move, man. They'd, like, overrun your porch. I stacked 'em all pretty and everything. Broke a real sweat and everything."

"It - what...? Moxley."

"Please?" Mox tries. It's not a word he says often, and it tastes weird. Chalky. "I could - I mean, I guess I could help you out with stuff, if you want. Like. I'm fucking useless at cleaning up messes, but I can move shit around. Like those boxes? I could put 'em somewhere else. Or whatever. I dunno. I really just wanna get drunk. Being sober is fucking stupid. You know?"

"Yeah." Leakee shakes his head, leans against the counter. "Would you actually work? Or would you just ignore me and do whatever you wanted?"

"What do you want me to do?"

"What I asked you to two damn weeks ago: help me get the store cleaned up and back open. Plus, I got a whole other back room full of stuff that needs organized. There's a lot needs done around here." A muscle bunches in Leakee's jaw. "It's more than one person can do. But I know you and I know your stubborn ass is just gonna not do anything I ask, so just go. Get out of here, Moxley. I don't want you here, anyway."

Mox dumps another handful of seeds into his mouth. "I'm still not hearing what you want me to do. Want me to move these boxes, or what?"

He's done worse in his life for less.

("Trespassing again, eh? Tell you what, Moxley. I'll let you off if you get down on your knees and suck my dick real good. How about that, eh? Get down on your knees like a pretty little bitch and suck my dick. Then you're free to go.")

Moving a few boxes or whatever, that ain't shit.

At least Leakee doesn't look like he feels sorry for him.

But Leakee doesn't look convinced, the stony motherfucker. "They go in the back room. "

Twisting around in the stool, Mox looks at a pair of closed doors. "Straight or to the right?"

"Straight," Leakee says, wary. "The bathroom's the door on the right. There's a table to the left. That's where all the new stuff goes until it's checked in."

"'Kay." Mox slides down off the stool and hefts a couple of the smaller boxes up into his arms, carries them down a narrow hall, and pauses to paw at the handle to the door.

Which opens into a big, dusty storage-type room. Concrete floor with lots of shelves built around the edges. In the open area in the middle, there are several small mountains of boxes, mostly unopened like the ones Mox has in his hands. They're grouped by size or something. It's not total chaos. But the boxes on the shelves look pretty dusty. Everything has this general air of not having been used for a while.

To his left, Mox spots a battered table that's as overrun with boxes as the back porch had been.

"Just set them on the floor," Leakee says from behind Mox. He's got a couple boxes in hand, too. "I haven't had a chance to go through all this stuff yet. Are you-? Moxley, I told you I just want you to leave."

Mox sets the boxes down next to the table's leg and turns to look at Leakee, who suddenly seems about as hangover-tired as Mox feels. "Look, dude, I don't know what your damage is, but, like, 's pretty clear you got somethin' up. You need a hand around here. I need a place to crash for a while. I mean, I ain't gonna promise you I won't be an asshole - that's kinda my thing - and I won't promise I'll do everything you want, but we could help each other out here."

The big man drops his own boxes on the floor, folds his arms over his chest. Stony motherfucker. Mox thought he was stubborn, but Leakee might just have him beat in the dig your heels in sweepstakes. "You didn't want to help me out when you made the mess and it was the right thing to do, but when you need something, now you want to help me out. That's rich. You are unbelievable, Moxley."

"Yeah." Mox locates another trash can - this one overflowing with bags and cardboard - and spits out all the empty shells. He needs a smoke. "I'm somethin', all right. 'S that a yes, then?"

"I don't want you in my space, man."

"I can stay down here." Mox indicates the room. "I've stayed in worse. I think I woke up buck-ass naked next to a dumpster last week. So, hey, at least there's a roof and walls. Probably have to borrow some blankets and shit, but I could make this work."

He bites the inside of his cheek at the way Leakee literally throws his hands up. "I'm gonna go take a damn shower. Move all the boxes back here and I guess come upstairs when you're done. We'll figure something out."

"Can that something involve getting drunk?" Mox asks hopefully. "Today, I mean. Today's already complete bullshit, anyway. It's - fuck today, y'know?"

"Got that right," Leakee mutters. "Just put the boxes away and come upstairs."

This time, Mox has to bite his lip to keep from busting up. How the fuck he keeps getting away with this shit, he has no idea. "Hey, Leakee?"

Leakee pauses in the door. "What?"

"Thanks."

He swears he sees a ghost of a smile tug up Leakee's mouth. It might be a shadow, but maybe not. It's nice, either way. "Shut the hell up, Moxley."

"Never," Mox says, grinning.

He watches Leakee lumber away down the hall, and manages to hold off laughing until he hears the stairs creaking again. He collapses against the side of the table, practically howling with it, out of his fucking mind with it, because working once was bad enough, but working twice two days in a row? What the fuck. Honestly.

It probably isn't even gonna work out. Probably. He's sure Leakee'll probably change his mind or something after his shower, but even so.

What the fuck.

A/N: So maybe Mox lands himself a temporary place to stay. This is gonna go well... Heh.