Of all the things to happen to Randy, John had been absolutely floored when he had finally confessed that he had been raped by a man who had once been his team-mate, his friend. To say that he was shocked was an understatement. To say that he was angry didn't even begin to properly define what the word truly meant to how he was currently feeling. And to say he was saddened by what he had learned couldn't possibly describe the aching in his heart whenever he saw Randy's eyes fade into another world, a place that held such fear, such self-deprecation. Because he knew that that was exactly what he felt. He was big and he was strong, and John knew that Randy felt anything but. He didn't dare tell him that he couldn't have prevented it, because he knew that Randy would scorn him, would snap and snarl and hate himself all the more, because if there was one thing that Randy hated, it was being perceived as weak.

So he stayed close as the days passed on. While it seemed a weight had been lifted from his shoulders after his confession, there were some days that were incredibly difficult for the both of them to get through. On those days, Cody, Ted, Mike, JoMo, Jack, Evan, Justin, Daniel, Christian, Drew, Chris, Adam, they all had to keep their distance, give both him and Randy ample space to work through the sporadic moments between anger and twitchiness, sadness and self-deprecation. But John was infinitely grateful that they only stayed at an arm's length. Randy hadn't apologised or even tried to get back into their graces – not that he really had to –, but they stayed near, providing a barrier to all who tried to come near. John wasn't entirely sure Randy realised that or not, but he made no move to tell him. There was too much on Randy's plate as it was, too many emotions and feelings and thoughts spiralling around for him to add something else to the mix.

The hardest part for John was to remain calm. To remain on point at all times for Randy. Because while John had no room to even put his problems on the same level as Randy, he still fucking hurt. He was hurting, because of what Batista did to Randy. He was hurting that Randy had kept it so long from him. He was hurting that he was walking around, worried and confused as to why Randy had distanced himself from him. He was hurting, because fucking Batista had weaselled his way into his head, making him believe that Randy wanted no more to do with him, and why he would even think to believe that was over his head, but he had done it. Had believed Batista for that moment that Randy was through with him, was second-guessing his decision to marry him. And he was hurting, because of how he handled the situation after Randy had told him what happened.

Dave Batista had raped Randy.

Had raped him.

He had been shocked. Tears were running down Randy's eyes, causing those icy, pale blues to sparkle and shimmer, his body shaking and trembling, as though he was about to fall over from the force of it. He had stared at John with such intensity that he could do nothing but turn around and walk right back out of their hotel room door. He would never forgive himself for doing that. The one time Randy needed him more than anything, John had turned his back on him. He didn't even want to begin thinking about what Randy must have thought, what must have been running through his head. Because John would have given up right then and there, would have wanted nothing more than to die.

But that was the thing about Randy – he was so much stronger than he was. That was probably one of the things that had drawn John to him in the first place. His will and determination, his courage and his ambitions. He knew exactly what he wanted and he didn't stop until he got there. It was liberating and it had put so many things into perspective for him. Randy's will and strength gave him that same strength. And only then did John truly realise just how deeply Randy had embedded himself into John's soul, because when Randy hurt, he hurt. When he cried, John cried. Randy was his, was in him.

And God, was he going to make Dave Batista hurt for what he had done to Randy, because no-one – no-fucking-one – put their hands on Randy.

After he had told John what had happened, after he had calmed down enough to fall into a somewhat restful sleep, John had gently gotten off the bed and went into the bathroom. He didn't close the door all the way – no, he wanted to make sure he could see him from where he was at in the bathroom. But when he had cracked the door, whatever resolve, whatever tethers that had been keeping him strong, he broke. What else was he supposed to do? After something like that happening … No, there was nothing in the world that could keep him from mourning what had been taken away from Randy. He cried, because he wasn't there. He cried, because of the state that it left Randy in. He cried, because he had fucking doubted him in a moment where Randy didn't need doubting, didn't need his anger or frustration.

He had no idea how long he stayed in that bathroom, tears streaming down his face, his body shaking, his fists clenched tightly into balls. All he knew was that when he heard the bathroom door crack, he started, shocked. Because Randy was there and he was kneeling down beside him, wrapping his arms around his body. Like he was the one that needed the support, like he was the one that needed consoling. And it had the tears falling all the more, had his face flushing and sobs ripping from his throat, because that was Randy. Altruistic, selfless, generous, beautiful. After everything that had happened, after the trauma and scarring that he had endured, he was soothing and calming him.

It was somewhere in those moments that John realised that Randy hadn't been broken like he had repeated over and over and over into his chest. In those moments, John realised that Randy had been knocked down and beaten, but he wouldn't stay down. It would take a while to recover, would take a while for him to put back the pieces that had been shattered, but he would be okay.

It was somewhere in those moments that John realised that there weren't any words to describe what he felt for Randy, because it was more than love, more than infatuation, more than captivation and passion and desire and a thirst to be anywhere and everything with him. It was somewhere in those moments that John realised just how much he cherished Randy. It was more than that, he knew, but he cherished him and loved him and relied on him and wanted more than anything to protect him and take care of him.

And he would. He had to. It was his obligation, his duty, his genuine pleasure to bend the world and re-arrange the stars and create galaxies and universes if that was what Randy desired, because John loved him and would do anything to make him happy.

He owed him that much. To make up for his failures.

"What time is your match?" Randy asked as they slowly made their way down the hallway of the backstage area. John held tightly to his hand, though not tight enough that Randy couldn't pull his away if he felt too overwhelmed. It was all in calculation, as John soon discovered. But it was one that he was more than willing to implement if it meant the comfort of Randy.

Glancing down at his watch, John pressed his lips together. "I have to do the mic around nine-thirty, but my match doesn't start until about ten-twenty." Saying those words left a bitter taste in his mouth, had him wanting to say fuck it, and remain beside Randy for the rest of the evening, but they both knew that that wasn't the case. "Do you – do you still have a match with him?"

Hesitation, then Randy answered: "Yes."

He didn't like it. He didn't like it one fucking bit, but they both knew that the show had to go on. As disgusting and as revolting as it made them feel. Instead of commenting on it, instead of arguing that instead of Randy competing in the ring, they should go straight to Vince McMahon and tell him everything, get Dave Batista fired and arrested. But now wasn't the time and Randy certainly hadn't made mention of it. Perhaps John was being a coward at the moment, but he didn't want to bring it up, didn't want to upset Randy or make him twitchy or distant or angry. For the first time in almost a week, he was acting normally. There was no sign of a limp, no moments where his breath suddenly hitched, and no sudden desires to take hour-long showers. He was … well, he was Randy. And John was more than happy to simply be a strong presence, a beacon to his cloudy skies.

"I think my match starts after your mic time." Randy continued. The only indication that he was worried was in the waviness of his voice. But it was barely recognisable. If John wasn't so attuned to him, he probably wouldn't have even noticed.

"What do you want me to do?" He asked, voice gentle, supportive. Because that was exactly what he would be for Randy. Anything to take the pain and fear and humiliation and disgust out of what he did – or didn't do -, out of what happened to him, John was more than willing to harbour that load. "I can interrupt the match, force them to change story-lines, I can stand in the gorilla. Whatever you want."

Instead of smiling and nudging John like Randy would have once done, instead of leaning into him and pressing their lips together for a tender kiss, Randy slowed to a stop, his hand slipping from John's. When he turned around, his heart already in this throat, fearful that he had done something wrong, that he had overstepped his bounds and made Randy feel uncomfortable, the sight before him had his breath hitching, his eyes turning sad. Because Randy moved to stand against the wall, those pale, icy blue eyes dulling to the point where there was no life in them, no fire that made Randy, well – Randy.

"You have options, you know. It's okay to –"

"I don't have any options right now." Randy interrupted. There wasn't any bite to his words, no snarl or hostile tone to his voice when he spoke, but it was enough to have John's mouth snapping closed all the same. Because he realised in that moment that he had made a mistake.

He couldn't continue to be selfish. Not any longer. Couldn't allow Randy to go on the way he was, because it was going to kill him, the silence of what happened, the burden that was already starting to wear down on him. It had been a few weeks since Randy had finally told him. And, since that time, Randy had started to lose weight, had started to have dark circles colouring the skin under his eyes. He lacked energy, lacked drive. And, before he knew it, he would soon lose strength to continue doing the thing he loved most. And like hell would John allow someone like Dave Batista to take from Randy the thing he worked hard and cherished the most. It wasn't right and it sure as hell wouldn't be fair, and things had been hard on Randy. The last thing he needed was yet another blow, yet another thing to knock him down on his ass and keep him there. John knew he wouldn't have the heart to watch that, wouldn't have the strength Randy would need of him to pick up the pieces.

Biting down on his bottom lip, mentally preparing himself for a fight, John slowly walked over to where Randy was now leaning against the wall, an arm wrapped around his middle, the tip of his finger in his mouth, gnawing on the nail. "Randy … have you thought of possibly –"

"No."

No …?"

"No."

Playing dumb obviously wasn't going to work. Sighing, John leaned against the wall beside him. "You can't keep this to yourself for much longer. It's going to eat you alive."

"I haven't kept it to myself." Randy looked at John, a blank expression in his eyes. It sent a jolt going straight through him. "I told you."

"You know what I mean. Vince has the power to make him go away. For good. Away from you."

"No."

"Randy –"

"What do you want me to say?" Randy suddenly demanded, pushing himself away from the wall, almost ripping himself away from where John was standing, as though he had shoved him. Before he could say anything, Randy whirled on him, his dull eyes suddenly alight with a passion he hadn't seen in such a long time. "Huh? That one of his top dogs got jumped in the laundry room of a fucking hotel and wasn't strong enough to push a fucking guy off of him while he was fucking into him?"

The longer he spoke, the lower his voice became, but there was no hiding the anger, the way his voice hissed with each word being spoken. There was a heat to his voice, but there was also a warning. An underlying tone that had John's next words choking in his mouth, dying on this tongue, because Randy had had enough, wouldn't listen to him, would completely ignore whatever else he wanted to say. Because he would do anything to deter Randy's current thought process. Would do anything to get him to see reason, but there was no reason with him. Not yet. Not when the damage was still raw and open for him, still too real for him to completely understand, to accept.

"You know Vince wouldn't see you like that." He said quietly, voice barely above a whisper, barely audible, even to his own ears.

Randy only scoffed. "I see it. Every time I close my eyes. And it's not a pretty picture." John could only watch with a bitter taste in his mouth as Randy turned and walked away.

Pressing his back against the wall, John stared hard at the screen in front of him, watching intently as Randy strolled out onto the stage, his arms swinging back and forth at his sides, looking so completely different from the broken man that had ripped himself away from him just over an hour and a half ago. It was insane to look at, to witness, if John was being honest with himself. Randy had avoided him since that moment, had ignored his calls and texts, his pleas to talk to him. And despite what he had told himself he would do, John found it impossible not to search through the building in hopes of finding him.

And to ensure that Dave Batista hadn't gotten to him. Just thinking about that had his jaw clenching. The fact that he had to consider that made him want to scream, made him want to put his fist through a wall – or through the son-of-a-bitch's skull.

"Hey." John barely acknowledged Justin as he came closer. John had to hand it to the kid – he either didn't care that he was seconds away from trashing the locker room, or was brazen enough to come anywhere near him. "How is he?"

"How do you think he is?" John snarled before reeling himself in. It was hard to stay calm when Randy was smirking on the outside, his body gleaming in oil, that arrogance and righteousness radiating off of him in waves, when on the inside, he was tattered, in pieces. Closing his eyes for half a second – because he couldn't miss anything, couldn't keep his eyes shut while Randy was getting ready to confront him –, John inhaled deeply before opening them once more. He didn't feel any better, but he could pretend that he felt more in control. "Not good, Justin. He's not doing any good."

"If it makes you feel any better, Batista didn't have anything to do with Randy before the match. We followed him and made sure that he stayed away."

Wariness bore down on him, causing his muscles to weigh him down. How did this happen? How in the hell did this happen? "It doesn't, but I appreciate the gesture."

Whatever Justin said – or didn't say? It was hard to pay much attention. – was drowned out by the sound of Dave Batista's theme song blaring throughout the entire arena. The entire building was shaking due to the vibrations that came with the crowd roaring and screaming. The huge icons facing off in the ring, and all John could think about as Batista sauntered down the ramp was that this piece of shit had forced Randy down and – and touched him against his will, had done things to him, regardless of what Randy wanted. His fists curled tightly into balls, nails digging into the soft skin on his palms. God, he wanted nothing more than to tear that bastard up, but he couldn't, because that wasn't what Randy wanted, wasn't what Randy needed, would only make things more complicated.

It was only when Batista slid into the ring did something change. John noticed it almost immediately, perking up from where he was leaning against the wall, brows furrowing in confusion, and then incredulity. Because Randy … his entire body just … relaxed. His shoulders slackened, his hands outstretched at his sides. And the grimace on his face, the blankness in his eyes just vanished. Perhaps he should have realised then that things were about to go down, because despite Randy's control, he was too expressive. He felt too much, which made it easier for John to pick up on things.

So, when Randy launched himself at Batista with no warning whatsoever, John had half a mind to say he wasn't all that surprised. Of course, when blood appeared not a moment later, that had him moving, had him throwing himself against the door in order to get the hell out of there, because this wasn't supposed to happen. This was only going to complicate things even more, because Randy didn't want to talk about it yet, but he was throwing himself at Batista, his fists were making full control with the bastard, and he was already bleeding –

He could hear shouting coming from some of the officials in the back, confusion and frustration lacing their words, but John didn't pause to hear what they were going to say, didn't pause to try to calm the situation, because … what the hell was he supposed to say? Between protecting Randy and protecting his career, between keeping Randy's secret and respecting his wishes, all of the lines were staring to blur. He could do the only thing he had set himself out to do from the very beginning.

John barely gave the backstage crew notice to start his theme song. And, by the time he was halfway there, the music blasted through the arena, causing even more screams of applause to rip through the entire building. Batista had somehow landed on top, his body in between Randy's legs, pinning one of his arms down, but before he could punch him, Randy lurched forward and – with his free hand – nailed him right in the collarbone. Batista lurched to his feet, holding a hand up to his shoulder. He was glaring hard at Randy, his gaze promising so much pain, so much hurt, but before he could do anything, John jumped into the ring and grabbed a hold of him, throwing him out. He only took a moment of satisfaction at the sound of his back connecting to the ramp before he turned and faced Randy's outrage head-on.

"What the hell are you doing?" Randy screamed, his voice barely heard over the audience's excitement.

Taking a deep breath, John did the only thing he could think of, the only thing that would sell his presence out there. Ignoring the angry snarl from Randy, John hefted him over his shoulder and slammed him right back down to the mat.