It was taking everything in Randy's power to keep his expression hard, stern, the scowl set in place as he was led down the hallways of the backstage area. Though, to be honest, it wasn't actually all that difficult. His fists were wrapped into tight balls, his muscles tense and rigid, especially where Ezekiel Jackson's hand was firmly locked around his bicep. He had no doubt that Wade Barrett was in a foul mood, and he couldn't help but wonder what that would spell out for him when he was able to get away from John long enough to slip away. His name alone had his jaw clenching tightly to the point where his teeth began to ache. That was a whole other set of problems that he'd have to figure out.

Glancing behind him, studiously ignoring the way the other Superstars and Divas were watching him, Randy pulled at his trapped arm. "I think we're far enough away that no-one's going to jump out at me now." Turning back to Ezekiel, any hope at all of the man releasing him tinkled away into nothing. The knowledge had him clenching his fists all the tighter until he was sure that there were crescent shapes marked into his skin from how his nails dug deeply into the palms of his hands. "Jackson –"

"My orders were to get you to the locker room."

"Yeah, but do you have to do this?" Randy demanded, jerking at his arm once more, though it didn't do any good. The more he struggled, the tighter Ezekiel held onto him. He was sure that bruises were forming along his skin.

Much to his frustration, he didn't get a reply. Ezekiel merely turned the corner and directed him down yet along long hallway, the sickly white walls enough to turn Randy's stomach. But no matter how deep into the backstage area they went, Randy could see hear – and feel – the pulsing, electric thrum of thousands of people's screams reverberating throughout the entire arena. It had his heart slamming into his chest all the more, because it meant the fight between John and Wade was still going on. And that … that was either a good thing or a bad thing. Good, because it meant that it was evenly matched, good that John wasn't getting the shit beat out of him, because if that was the case, Wade would have made an appearance. Bad, because it meant that they were evenly matched, which meant anything could happen. And he wasn't even there to prevent it from happening.

By the time they got to the locker room, Randy ripped his arm away from Ezekiel, who had loosened his grip to open the door. His and Wade's bags were propped up against the wall. He barely spared them a look before he was closing the distance between himself and the television, which was hooked up to the wall. Before he could even grab a hold of the remote, Ezekiel was there, snatching it out and away from Randy's outstretched hand. Scowling, Randy opened his mouth to say something, but before he could even utter a sound, Ezekiel shoved him down onto the couch.

"You don't want to watch what's about to happen." His words barely registered with Randy before Ezekiel Jackson was right back out the door, closing it behind him. And only when the door closed, only when he heard an ominous sound did everything click into place.

"No. No!" He was out of the cushions and throwing himself at the door before he could even think about what he was doing. His hands, shaking and trembling with the knowledge of what Ezekiel said, wrapped around the door handle, but no amount of twisting and turning and pounding and kicking and slamming his fists against it would open the door. "No! Jackson! Come back! Open the damn door!"

Randy had no idea how long he stood at the door, how long his fists slammed into the metal, but eventually, the adrenaline inside of him slowly leached out, leaving him feeling cold and empty, his stomach twisted into uncomfortable knots. He had no idea what was happening, no idea if Ezekiel and Wade were two-timing John, beating him down and breaking him. Because, given the chance, that would be exactly what Wade would do. After everything that happened … Randy swallowed thickly and closed his eyes, willing his heart to stop pounding so painfully against his rib-cage. Chris Jericho was there. He could remember him running down the ramp and sliding into the ring the second Wade and John locked up. But that didn't mean anything, because anything could happen. One little mistake, one measly little mistake and Wade would attack, would latch onto it, and inflict as much pain as he possibly could.

Wade was an animal and he would fight and brawl and destroy to keep what was his.

And Randy was his.

He'd truly fucked up. He wasn't really surprised. Trouble had an uncanny ability of finding him, and no matter how hard Randy tried, he could never seem to protect those who were associated with him from getting tangled into it. Now John was sucked into it and he had no way of saving him, because he was locked in a fucking locker room. Hell, in the span of days, Wade had taken all choice from him. Not that he could put all of the blame on him. After all, he had agreed to his terms, had given himself willingly to protect John and Justin Gabriel and Heath Slater, to protect those who had volunteered to help him. Cody and Ted, his closest friends, Adam – God, Adam – and Chris Jericho. Seven people – four of which probably couldn't give a damn about him – that were putting everything on the line to save him, and he was locked in a locker room, unable to do anything.

Not really knowing what he was doing, Randy picked himself up from the floor and made his way toward his bags. He snorted without humour when he saw that his bag was placed in the middle, surrounded by Wade's and Ezekiel's. Hell, even his fucking bag was held captive. Gritting his teeth, he unzipped the flap and pulled out a change of clothes and sneakers, putting them into a chair before opening an inner pocket – and then freezing, every muscle in his body refusing to work as he stared inside.

Anger took hold of him, causing his entire face to redden, heat rising all around him. Running a hand through his buzz-cut hair, Randy forced himself to take a few deep breathes. Now wasn't the time to lose his control – or what little of it he still possessed. Mechanically, Randy picked himself up from his knees and changed his clothes, pulling on a pair of jeans and a blue-grey T-shirt before slipping on his sneakers. When that was done, when he had shoved his ring-attire back into his bag, he sank into an armchair, the one closest to the TV. He wasn't all that surprised to see that the cord had been cut, as though Wade and Ezekiel were doing everything in their power to keep him so completely out of the loop of what was going on. It had the anger inside of him intensifying to the point where he was seeing red, but it also had a trace of fear slicing through him, because he knew what Wade was capable of. Justin had made sure to drill it inside his skull. And while Wade hadn't done anything to him like that – yet, he couldn't help but supply –, Randy knew that his façade would crumble. Because Justin had been right all along: Wade got what he wanted and he didn't stop until he won.

He didn't know how long he sat there, his icy, pale blue eyes locked on his fingers, watching absently as they twitched at any noise he heard from outside the door. He could hear hushed whispers, and he couldn't help but wonder what it was they were talking about. Did it have something to do with what was happening in the ring? Was the fight over? Had someone won? He strained to hear their words, but the door was solid and thick, as were the walls, which prevented Randy from hearing anything other than their muffled voices. Thankfully, though, he didn't have to wait too long before he heard the sound of the door unlocking and twisting open. Before he was aware of it, Randy was on his feet, his mouth gaping open at the sight of Wade Barrett.

He looked positively livid as he stepped into the room, slamming the door shut. Randy couldn't help but gulp at the sight of him, all pretences of keeping up his appearance momentarily forgotten as he took Wade in. There was a large gash above his eye, a slow stream of blood trickling down the side of his face. There was a bruise forming along his jaw, the purple and black colour darkening as the second passed. But what had Randy freezing, what had his icy, pale blue eyes widening was the look on his face, the deranged, absent look in his gaze, which certainly wasn't there however long ago in the ring.

Swallowing thickly, Randy mentally pulled himself back into character. His momentary lapse could have been shock and surprise. Stepping forward, Randy forced himself to speak. "Are you okay?"

"Do I look okay, Orton?" The Englishman snarled, causing Randy to flinch minutely. He loved Wade. He loved him and he was angry. He had to look understanding, had to look as though he cared. That was the only way for him to get out of his unscathed.

"You don't. Which is why I was asking." He forced himself to take another step. Wade was standing right in front of the door, his chest heaving up and down, his hands balled into fists. Against everything he felt, Randy reached out a shaky hand and slowly trailed his fingers along Wade's jaw, hating himself for willingly touching him. But he had no choice. He had to do this, had to show Wade that he genuinely cared, otherwise, everything he was doing would be for nothing. "What happened out there?"

"What do you think?" Wade demanded, though the heat and hostility in his voice didn't seem as hard as before. He pushed passed Randy and moved deeper into the room, collapsing on the couch. Only then did Randy realise just how exhausted Wade looked. His shoulders – once proud and straight – sagged, his dark green eyes ringed with dark circles. Bruises were forming along his chest and abdomen, along his legs. "Get my pants."

Randy opened his mouth to say something – more like demand why the hell he thought he could direct him the way he was – but before the action came, Wade levelled him with a look that dared him to disobey. Against his volition, images of Justin bound and gagged with Wade staring over him soundless filled his mind. Justin had told him that that was what Wade used to do when he became too difficult to handle. The hard lesson of realising that all of his struggling and screaming would do nothing, because no-one could hear him, and no-one would help him. Despite what he was feeling, despite the immediate rage that filled him, a trickle of fear ebbed in there, as well. Because he had no doubt that Wade would do the same thing to him. Hell, he tried to cuff him just days ago. There probably wasn't much that deterred Wade, especially when it meant keeping what belonged to him in line.

So he moved toward Wade's bag, feeling bile rise when he saw the handcuffs lying at the very top, nestled in between socks. Shoving them out of the way, Randy grabbed a pair of pants and stood, turned around – and almost tripped over the bags when he discovered Wade standing right there, barely an inch between them. Blinking rapidly, Randy looked down before shoving the pants against Wade's chest, as though that would keep the distance between them. He smelt of cologne and sweat, with traces of John. They must have been all over each other for John's scent to remain on Barrett's skin.

"You took my phone." Randy had no idea why he made that statement, why that out of all the other questions and queries rolling around in his head took lead, but it was already out of his mouth. There was no way to take it back. He looked back up into Wade's dark green eyes, trying to decipher what it was exactly he was seeing. Because sometime during their meeting, Randy had lost all ability to read the Englishman. Or maybe he never had that ability, because Wade only allowed Randy to see what he wanted him to see.

"You don't need it."

Randy blanched at his reply, unsure exactly what he was supposed to say to something like that. He watched in shock as Wade shoved his legs into the pants, buttoning and zipping them into place. He watched as he reached over and grabbed a sweat-jacket that was strewn over the back of the couch, pulling it on and zipping it halfway up his chest.

"I don't need it?"

"No."

"Management could call. Or the McMahon's. My schedule could change or –"

"I'll take care of it." Wade replied, not at all worried. He was oblivious to how pale Randy became, how tense and strained his body grew.

"You'll take care of it?"

Putting his foot back down on the ground after slipping them into boots, Wade finally turned to look at Randy, a trace of impatience gracing his face. "Yes, Randy. I'll take care of it."

"I didn't realise I turned into a prisoner after dropping John for you. I didn't realise that you would be doing this." His words, while mostly a lie, were dripping in anger. Despite the fear that was welling inside of him, getting deeper and more intense, Randy couldn't help but stare up at Wade, taking in his appearance. What in the hell had happened to him to make him into such a – a monster? "I came here willingly. I came, because I –"

"Love me?" The sarcasm was enough to silence Randy. "Oh, please, Randy. Cut the façade, because we both know you're full of shit at this point. Do you really think I buy any of this? That you so willingly came to me, realised that you had made a mistake going after Cena?" Wade slowly shook his head, closing the distance between them. He raised a hand and trailed it down Randy's face in false affection. The act had Randy flinching violently. "You are beautiful, but you aren't nearly as smart as you think."

"How long have you known?" Randy asked, not even bothering to looked shocked or surprised by Wade's words. It would be foolish at this point. He had already been discovered. Despite how stressed he was to pretend, to act as though he enjoyed Wade's touches and kisses, he knew. He fucking knew the whole time.

Wade looked unimpressed. "You've been running from me ever since you tried breaking up with me." Randy couldn't help but narrow his eyes at that comment. "There's no way you could have changed your mind after that. And then there's the issue with my sweet Justin. He has always been so resilient. Even when he's broken, he's still trying to grab onto pieces he can never quite keep hold of. So when he told you … well. You've never looked at me the same."

"And you blame me? You've lost your fucking mind –"

He should have seen it coming, but he couldn't help but let out a shocked gasp when Wade's hand came out, slapping him hard enough across the face to see his vision spotting. Before he could even react, Randy felt thick fingers gripping his jaw, forcing him to turn back and face Wade. His hands came up, wrapping around his wrist, as though that would somehow pry Wade away. Even if he could, there was nowhere he could go. Not with Ezekiel Jackson standing outside, guarding the door. Not with a shiny pair of handcuffs at the top of the pile in Wade's bag. The sensation of being trapped and cornered had Randy's heart slamming painfully against his rib-cage, had his muscles jumping and his body fidgeting in Wade's grip, because there was absolutely nothing he could do. Wade had met all of his tricks and deceits, had countered all of his lies and had thrown them right back in his face.

"This isn't my first rodeo, Orton. You are not my first conquest. But you are my favourite." Barrett's lips curled into a sickening smirk, one that had Randy's skin prickling on end, because that look, that expression … it was nothing good. Wade leaned in, pressing his lips against his neck, and Randy couldn't help but grunt in exertion as he tried to move away, as he tried to put distance between himself and Barrett, but there was nothing he could do, not when Wade's fingers gripped his chin all the more, preventing him from even moving his head. "I can feel your pulse. Your fear." When Wade pulled away, just enough to look into Randy's eyes, his expression turned hard, serious. "It will be in your best interest to remember this fear. I allowed your denials, but make no mistake about it: You. Are. Mine. And there is nothing you or Cena or any of your little friends can do to change that. You have no idea what I'll do to ensure you stay right where you are."

–

People scurried out of the way and cleared a path as John stormed through the hallways of the backstage area, his chest and arms glistening with sweat, moisture trailing down his neck and along the groves of his back. Chris was a few steps behind him, but John couldn't really find it in himself to pay much attention. His eyes trailed over every person he came across, gaze searching all around for that fucking prick and his lackey, but most importantly, he couldn't help but search for Randy. It didn't surprise him that he was nowhere to be found. Barrett would do well to make sure his prise was well out of John's reach, dangling him, but keeping him out of sight. It was an endless torture, but John suspected that Barrett was well-acquainted with that form of art.

His jaw was locked tightly together as he moved toward the locker room, his feet pounding into the concrete floors. The fight had ended not too long ago, but the adrenaline was still racing through him, pumping blood through his veins, his heart to thrum frantically in his chest. He knew without a doubt that he would feel every bump and knock when the adrenaline finally did ease from his body. He had been tossed around, knocked around, kicked all over the ring, but no matter what Barrett did to him, John had done twice as much. In the end, it had taken Chris and a total of seven referees to pry him away from Barrett – and that had only been long enough for the weasel to scurry away.

To say he was pissed was an understatement.

"John?" Chris' voice filtered in, snapping John's attention away from his hunt. It was useless, a stupid attempt, but he couldn't help it. Randy had fucking … he'd given himself to Wade to protect him, and guilt crawled at his skin. To give himself to someone who had wicked intentions … John had no idea how Randy could do such a thing. Or, well, he could. Because if the tables were reversed, John was sure that he would have done the exact same thing. Perhaps that was one of the many reasons why he was so hell-bent on finding him and bringing him home. "John?"

Slowing to a stop, John turned back to Jericho, realising that he had stopped halfway down the hallway. To his left stood Cody Rhodes and Ted DiBiase Jr. The sight of them had John rolling his eyes, because the last thing he wanted to do right now was deal with them. Rhodes especially. How Randy did it, he didn't have a clue. But one warning look from Chris was all it took for him to half-heartedly raise his hands in mock surrender. He just hoped they would take that and no take advantage, because while he was momentarily willing to play nice, he wasn't in the mood to deal with snarky attitudes. Not after what he had just gone through.

When John approached, Ted shifted on his feet, immediately gaining his attention. "There's no sign of him."

"Goddammit." John cursed, feeling his anger spiking.

"No sign of him yet." Cody replied, giving both John and Ted a hard look, as though willing them to keep focussed and not lose sight of their mission. "They are somewhere in this building. We just have to keep looking."

"Even if we do find him, John, we have to keep in mind that he might not come willingly." Chris said, his voice soft and almost apologetic. But despite that, John couldn't help but raise his brows at him, a look of frustrated disbelief clouding his expression, because what? "Don't get me wrong here. For your sake, I hope we do find him, but come on. We can't forget that he gave himself to that scumbag. And if he did, he obviously did it for a reason."

"He's coming with me." John snapped, unable and unwilling to hear the words that were coming out of his friend's mouth. The very idea of finding Randy – again – and losing him – again – left a sour taste in his mouth, and it was something that John wasn't going to go through again. No, he would throw Randy over his fucking shoulder and carry him away while the others formed a barrier between them and Barrett if that was what it took. "He's doing this to protect me. He thinks he's doing this out of good intentions, but he's only hurting himself. And I'm not going to stand around and let this go on. No, we're finding him."

Chris never looked away from John. His scrutiny felt intrusive and it had John almost shifting uncomfortably, but the look didn't last long. Pursing his lips together, as though he wasn't sure he really believed what John was saying, Chris nodded his head and heaved in a deep breath, as though preparing himself for a war. Because that was exactly what this was. A war. A war that Randy didn't want. A war that John put him in. Randy could blame himself and say he was the one who had feelings for both him and John, but in the end, it was John who sought Randy out, John who goaded and prodded until Randy fell for him. It was John who started this war. And he was the sole reason for putting Randy in jeopardy.

"All right, so I guess we should keep searching then. Stay in pairs, so if on group finds them, at least it'll be an even match." Jericho posed, looking between John, Ted, and Cody.

"Where are the other two?" Cody demanded, raising a brow.

And there was that annoying, grating voice of the little shit. John gritted his teeth, doing his best to not sound like he was seconds away from wrapping his meaty fingers around Rhodes' neck and squeezing. "They have names. And you know damn well who they are."

"Fucking save it, Cena." Cody growled, rounding on John. His muscles stood tense and, despite the fact that he hated every little thing about him, John couldn't help but see just how livid and worried he was. His crystal coloured eyes stood wide and alert and, after a glance at DiBiase, he could see dark circles under his eyes. Despite how out of his mind John was, he couldn't say that he was the only one worried about Randy. "You are the reason he's in this mess. You are the fucking whore who couldn't stay away from him. And now he's – he's –"

"Hey! If I didn't intervene, who the hell knows what Barrett would have done to him! You heard what Gabriel and Slater said! You heard every fucking twisted thing they said that Barrett did to them! If I didn't intervene, he would have been just like them!"

"Go." Chris ordered, putting a hand on Cody's chest and pushing him away, putting distance between him and John. John appreciated the act. Because he was so ready to hurt. "DiBiase, get him out of here. Keep looking. I'll call Adam and see how he's doing with Jason and Drew."

That certainly got John's attention. "What?"

His reply was an unimpressed look from Chris. "You can back the fuck off. You're pissed at him, yeah, but he's your friend and you know he was only doing what he thought was right for you." John opened his mouth to speak – or scream, more like it –, but Chris continued, raising his voice just slightly, as though daring John to keep it up. "Besides, he feels like shit. He doesn't regret what he did, but he regrets hurting you. And he wants to help."

"I think it's a little late for that."

"You don't have a choice in the matter. I'm staying with you and Adam will be with them. He can't fight anyway, so it'll still be even."

"Fine." John grumbled, throwing his hands up in the air. Honestly, he just wanted to stop talking and start looking. Because every second Randy was with Barrett meant another second of hell for him. "Can we go now?"

Chris nodded at Rhodes and DiBiase and, after Cody through a cruel look in John's direction, they turned around and made their way back through the hallway, disappearing around a corner. After waving him onward, John turned around and started moving, his pace quickening. Of course, he wasn't long before he was pulled to a stop once more. And this time, the two people that materialised from the shadows had John confused, taken completely off guard.

Justin Gabriel and Heath Slater stood there, one standing rigid, while the other looked guilty and ashamed. John opened his mouth to speak, but Gabriel beat him to it.

"Room 318." All of the air was sucked out of John's lungs. "That's where you'll find them."