He doesn't show it, but Roman worries about Seth in the ring sometimes. He worries over both of his brothers-Dean being the reckless hardhead and Seth, the risk-taking dumbass who would probably fling himself off the roof of the arena if he thought it made him look cool-but the wings have become a part of the trio too, and as a part of this lopsided family, Roman freaked out about their well-being too. He winces noticeably at the dull thump of Seth hitting the corner of the ring poles with the back of his head and frowns as he drops to the floor like a brick. Batista doesn't know that Seth has…issues? with his shoulders-two very important and fragile issues-but still, it would be nice if he didn't throw Seth around the ring like a broken toy.
Seth can take a beating, he knows that. Everyone knows that. But could the wings? Not so much. This isn't a tag team match. Dean and Roman are just there for moral support; Seth is on his own.
There's a lump the size of a goose egg forming on the back of his skull-for a moment, after impact, he swore he could see stars-and his back, down the spine, is killing him. Definitely going to be an ice pack night. Seth has thrown himself from the top rope, hit and missed an equal number of times, been tossed around the and into the announcement table, turnbuckles and the barricades, smacked across the floor after a suicide dive that sent both himself and Batista sprawling, and the match isn't even over yet.
His back is sore, not the pleasant kind of sore that comes after a vigorous workout or a job well done; this is the wrong kind of sore, hot, heavy and fucking aching.
He's pretty sure he's become a breathing rainbow tonight. The match was scheduled for at least a fifteen minute-long slot, and already ten minutes in, Seth has been grey and pale and is willing to bet black and blue and purple along his back. He only has to hold out for five more minutes, he tells himself, and he staggers to his feet.
In the time he's been gathering his bearings on the ground, he's lost sight of Batista.
Instead of looking around wildly for him, he catches the sound of fabric rustling and metal clanking, and spins around, only narrowly missing the image of Batista lunging from under the ring, and the cold glint of a metal folding chair before it comes down against his chest and shoulder. It's crazy, he thinks, how he used to think the older generation of wrestlers-Batista included- were just very good at playing up pain. They hadn't actually been trying to mortally wound each other out there when they beat each other with bamboo sticks and steel chairs and sledgehammers, right? Fuck that, he thinks now, they were really trying to kill each other, as Batista brings the chair down again across his back. This was hell.
Seth knows he has to do something to save himself, roll over, stupid-roll over! But it's kind of hard to move when your entire body is a bruise and the chair whacking against you isn't showing any signs of bending or breaking yet. It barks across his shoulders just once more, the moment Seth knows he can't physically take anymore, before Seth's breath catches in his throat and panic overtakes him.
Something has cracked.
He clamps his lips tight together on a screech and rolls, yelping as his back turns across the floor, and scoots away from the offending object and its wielder. Okay, okay, okay this is bad, so, so bad. He knows something cracked-he's had plenty of broken bones as a kid to know when something has cracked like a fucking china vase inside of him. Pain creeps its fingers up his back, weaving through his wings like the currents in a creek. Oh fuck oh fuck, now what?
The smartest thing to do would be to call it quits right then and there and get medical attention. It would be okay if the fans booed and got all uppity and disappointed; Seth didn't give the slightest damn about it at the second, his wings were about to be broken for fuck's sake.
The pain has spread, keeping him anchored to the floor; the only way he's getting up is with Batista's help, which he so kindly offers by grabbing Seth by his hair and tossing him into the ring. Each time his wings make impact with the mat, Seth can feel the fracture giving way and each time, his stomach churns and flips like he's going to be sick. He doesn't remember a broken bone ever making him feel this awful.
He makes it to his knees, finding Batista in his peripheral vision, and then to his feet, a feat in itself as the pain from his shoulders runs through his stomach like a railroad spike. Then Batista has him by the throat and Seth feels himself moving backwards.
Something shatters.
-8-
Dave Batista has always been the type of guy to push himself and his opponents in the way of fighting. He and the other Attitude generation guys have always been drawing blood and leaving bruises and scratches on each other, because, hell why not? They came out here to have fun, right? A good bruise usually meant a damn good time, and blood was only if they got a little crazy. It was good to be a little crazy sometimes.
But these kids. They didn't do any of that, and old habits die hard. Sometimes Batista forgets where he is, he's playing with, and sometimes they draw a little blood, make a few bruises, paint a few black eyes. It's just fun. So he knows pain when he sees it, hears it.
This kid was in some deep shit.
He hasn't heard a scream like that in quite a while.
For a moment, he wonders, actually considers, that something has gone wrong. But by the time the scream dies off into choked wails and then moans, he's already recalled the way he and a few of the others moaned and groaned in the ring after an end-all-be-all match and forgets to give it much more thought. He'd still ask around afterwards, see if the kid wasn't in too bad shape because really, he wasn't that bad a wrestler, but for the time being, he was all but skipping down memory lane, trying to place names and faces to the different screams he's caused over the years.
-8-
Seth is blind.
He can see white, but nothing else really. His ears are still ringing from someone's screaming, and only when he feels weight across his chest does he recognize his own voice in his ears, crying out again. Every vibration from each slap of the referee's hand across the mat sends tremors of pain through his body. He can hear the crowd cheering, some booing, it's a mix of both. Barely recognizes Evolution's theme hitting the speakers.
Someone is patting his face, asking him if he's alright. Does he look fucking alright? He blinks, realizes vaguely that he's had his eyes screwed shut tight the whole time and that he isn't actually blind. Roman and Dean's faces swim into view and it's really a wonder that he recognizes them at all, his head is churning so. He can see them looking back and forth from him to each other, talking, and the only thing he can really catch between them is, "…play it cool. I've got an idea."
Roman is addressing Seth now, looking oddly calm despite the obvious worry in his grey eyes. He knows what has happened. Seth is really fucking glad that he told the two of them about his wings now, or else this whole ordeal would've been really confusing.
"We're going to help you sit up. It's gonna hurt, so just…"
Two arms work their way under Seth's shoulders and he nearly bites off his bottom lip trying not to scream. His vision crinkles white at the edges and for a moment he fears a black out. No such luck.
"Okay, alright," Dean tells him. He nods in the direction of the ramp. "If this is going to work, we need you to get out of the ring on your own. Roman's going first, so he'll help you out if it's too much, and then we'll help you up the ramp."
Seth can't really see him, but he recognizes the brewing of a plan when he hears one. He nods, just a twitch of the head, and tries to use as little of his upper body to move across the mat to the ropes as possible. He moves on his knees, forgoing any crawling or scooting for fear of pain shooting through his back again, and it seems as though he'll never get to the ropes. It takes a ridiculous amount of effort to raise his arm and move the bottom rope for him to slide under, but Roman is waiting for him and helps pull him out by his upper shoulder, trying to avoid the wings. Dean drops down on the other side of Seth and takes his upper arm to steady him. He has a hell of a vice grip and is hurting Seth, but whatever. Seth is focused on getting out of here. It's almost hilarious how quickly things went from bad to worse in approximately five minutes. Kind of like a summer storm he never even saw coming.
The ramp is an adventure, like climbing a mountain. Seth has never hated it this much. He's barely even walking by the time the trio reaches the gorilla position.
"Hang in there," Dean grunts, pulling him through the hallway. "Just a little longer."
They get past the curious glances of stagehands, narrowly avoid the medic crew by taking a detour behind some equipment crates, and when Seth finally feels like bashing his head against the wall so he can finally be unconscious and free of this (uncharacteristically) awful pain, he's leveraged into the air and is upside down for a few incomprehensible minutes when it finally dawns on him that he has been reduced to potato sack status and has been flung over Roman's shoulder.
He imagines they all look pretty weird, what with two dudes in S.W.A.T. gear jogging through the hall with a guy flung over one of their backs.
Then he remembers, the ringside medical assistance has set up camp in an area they've already passed.
Where are they going?