Batista had deliberated for some time over what to wear, but in the end he'd opted for sleek black jeans and a long-sleeved black shirt, leaving the top two buttons open to reveal a glimpse of his tanned chest. He'd also applied a small amount of aftershave following his shower, eliminating any last traces of his workout with Triple H; it certainly wasn't sexy to show up for dinner reeking of sweaty towels and changing rooms. Suitably scented and psychologically armed, he set out for what he hoped would be an exhilarating evening.
The restaurant was nearly full by the time Batista arrived. Randy Orton, in an impressive moment of impulsive organisation, had booked a dinner date for the two of them to celebrate their one-week anniversary – and, since he'd offered to foot the bill for the two of them, his larger partner had seen no need to argue. It made a welcome change from burger joints and cheap cafes, at least.
"Can I help you, sir?" asked a well-groomed waitress as he approached the waiting area. "Table for one?"
"Actually, I'm here to meet someone. Is there a Mister Orton here yet?"
"Let me just check for you." She stepped aside for a moment and scanned down a list of diners, nodding as she found what she'd been looking for. "Yes, sir, table seventy-three. Please follow me."
With effortless grace, the waitresspicked up a menu with delicate fingersand swirled off into the main dining area, leading Batista through an alcove and past high windows bedecked with lavish drapes. They strolled through row after row of immaculately clean tables - each and every one of them was adorned with a single flower in a small white vase, and many of them had 'Reserved' tags. He had to admit, he was impressed. This looked like a pretty exclusive place.
As they rounded a large column, it was easy for Batista to spot Randy; the younger man was sitting alone on a small table, toying idly with the menu and self-consciously adjusting the collar of his blue shirt. Then – and this was when Batista had to stifle a laugh – Randy held up a spoon and carefully inspected his reflection in its polished surface. He frowned briefly and cocked his head to one side, just as the waitress led his partner over to the table and pulled aside a chair.
"Thank you, Ma'am," Batista nodded, dismissing her with a smile. He glanced at Randy, who had hurriedly returned the spoon to its place on the tablecloth and was now blushing a fetching scarlet.
"B-Batista!" Randy stammered, clearly feeling nervous. He obviously wasn't used to these kinds of eateries, but his older companion doubted that was the only reason for his nerves; so far, they had kept their romantic liaisons relatively quiet, but this was the first time they had met up privately in so public a setting. After all, what made more of a public statement than a romantic dinner for two? "Batista! You came!"
"Of course I came, runt! Why wouldn't I when you promised me such a good meal?" The bigger man grinned and reached over to pat his lover on the arm. "C'mon, relax. It's not like Triple H is watching us or anything. It's good to see you. Did you have trouble getting here?"
"Nah, no problems at all. I just took a taxi." Already, Randy was relaxing in his partner's company. Batista's voice always seemed to have a soothing effect on him. "How was your training session?"
"It was good. I didn't pull anything, and I reckon I'm getting a hang of some of those tricky kicks. Maybe we can run over some tomorrow?"
"Maybe we can run over some tonight?" Randy snickered conspiratorially.
"Oh, no. Tonight, I think we should definitely work on the tag moves."
"Damn! And I wanted to go over the choke holds with you later!"
"If you're lucky, rookie. If you're lucky."
Before long, their verbal exchange had devolved into a series of double entendres and dodgy in-jokes; they barely even noticed as the waitress returned and took their orders, and they giggled all the way through their entree salads and bread rolls. It didn't matter that they were in one of the most expensive restaurants in town - for all of their sniggering and laughter, they sounded like a pair of teenagers on a date in Starbuck's.
"Is this a private party or can anyone join in?" The conversation was suddenly interrupted by a smug growl; there was no mistaking that self-satisfied smirk, that grinning face framed by unkempt blonde hair. Edge. "Seriously, guys. Does Triple H know you're out on your own?"
"Go away, Edge," Batista growled in return, not wanting his meal to be spoiled by this rebellious upstart. He always reminded Batista of a frustrated puppy, or a wolf cub in heat. "We're trying to enjoy our dinner here, and I don't want to find hairs in my food."
"Oooh! Cutting! You could be disqualified for using such razor-sharp wit!" Edge was well aware that he wasn't welcome at the table, but he pulled up a chair regardless, and sat down beside Randy and Batista. They tried to ignore him for a few moments, hoping he'd go away, but his naturally confrontational attitude made it very difficult.
"Please, Edge. This doesn't concern you." Randy placed his fork to one side and wiped at his mouth with a napkin.
"Oh? Doesn't it? It concerns me when I find little boys out past their bedtime." Edge snarkily patted Randy on the head and flashed him a patronising smile. "Is Batista having fun babysitting you or are you too much of a cry-baby?"
"That's enough, Edge." Batista's cutlery clattered down onto the side of his plate. "If you just came over here to insult us, you can go right back to wherever you came from. Maybe it makes you laugh inside your pathetic little mind, but I don't think it's very funny. Now, either you can go away and leave us alone, or I can call the management over and ask you to leave. Which is it going to be?"
"Okay, okay, I get the idea! Geez!" The long-haired wrestler held out his palms in a gesture of resignation. "I can't help it if you're both so sensitive!" This comment was met with glares from both Randy and Batista. "Alright, look. I came over here to find out what you guys are all about tonight. I don't normally see you without Old Man Ric and Triple Cake…"
"Triple what?"
"Triple Cake. Never mind, it's some joke I had with Christian once because the big guy eats so much junk. Anyway, I only ever see you when you're with the rest of Evolution, so what's the deal? Are you planning something?"
"Even if we were, why should we tell you, dog-breath?" Randy set his jaw firmly and stared at the other wrestler. "See? You're not the only one who can come out with names."
"I weep for your creativity, jock-boy. God, you're such a fucking n00b."
Batista was exuding an outer aura of calm, but inside, he was seething. Edge had no right to come over and act like such a childish moron, no matter what he thought of the rest of Evolution. Admittedly, his nicknames for Triple H and Ric had been vaguely entertaining, but that still didn't excuse his attitude towards him and Randy Orton. Not only that, but Batista couldn't help but feel protective towards his younger lover, and it riled him to have someone like Edge badmouthing him to his face.
"There's nothing going on here, Edge." He was having trouble keeping his voice level now; anger was causing him to physically shake. Not only that, the awful realisation had just hit him that if Triple H found out who he was with tonight, there would be a lot of awkward questions to ask. "We're just taking a break, that's all. It gets pretty intense when you have four people training together all the time. We all need to unwind separately."
"With a romantic dinner for two?"
Batista almost winced. Trust Edge to have things worked out so easily, just like that. Triple H was so sure of himself, so certain of his ego, that he rarely saw past the end of his own nose. Edge, however, seemed to make a career out of poking his canine snout wherever it didn't belong, and this time he was sniffing a little too close to the mark.
"You can call it that if you want." It was Randy who piped up next, causing Batista's eyes to widen in alarm. "In fact, sure, why not? Me and Dave here have already polished off a plate of oysters to get the libido going, if you know what I mean. Then we're gonna have some chocolate for dessert, it's supposed to be another aphrodisiac – you do know what an aphrodisiac is, don't you? Or have you never got laid?"
"Shut it, you little prick!"
"Okay, I'll take that as a 'not recently'. Anyway, after we're done with the dessert, we're gonna head on back to Dave's hotel room, and strip totally naked, and have hot, passionate monkey sex all night until…"
"That's enough!" Edge snarled, pushing his chair back with so much force that the whole thing toppled over. "You guys are sick! Just totally sick! Whatever it is you've got going on, you can do it in private!" Pouting, his lips twitching, Edge stalked back across the restaurant to rejoin whoever it was he'd been sitting with.
"When you see me walking like John Wayne tomorrow, you'll know why!" Randy called after him. Then he sat back and giggled quietly, evidently pleased with himself.
"How the hell…?" Batista stammered, his jaw dropping.
"How did I figure put to put him off? Easy. Sometimes, you can shove the truth right in front of people, but they still don't want to believe it. I wouldn't be surprised if even now, Edge is trying to listen in on our supposed secret plot against Ric and Triple H."
"But supposing he had believed us, Randy? We should be more careful." Batista was smiling, though. He'd been just as amused by Randy's tale-telling as the younger man had been. He'd thought the younger man incapable of such subtle thinking, but Randy could still surprise him. "He may still go to Triple H and tell him that anyway."
"If he does… we'll think of something." The younger man shrugged his broad shoulders and resumed eating. "Besides, the others are bound to find out sooner or later. Maybe it won't be pretty, but they're going to know eventually… so we'd better be prepared for when they do."
Batista had to admit that Randy was right. He'd been putting off telling Triple H because he feared how Hunter would react, but Randy had a point; if they were the ones to tell The Game what was going on between them, it would save the potential awkwardness of him finding out from someone else. And if Batista wanted the relationship to last – which, without a doubt, he knew he did – they'd have to go public sometime. He just wished that 'public' didn't have to include a sullen, bulky teammate with an ego the size of Australia.