(Author Note- Sorry for falling behind- things've been pretty hectic on my end. To make up for it, please enjoy not one, but TWO chapters today- the Dec. 3 Impact, and Turning Point. (Nothing really interesting happened on the Dec. 8 one, so might's well skip to the good part. hee)))

Chapter 4: Crashing Angel

(about 15 minutes later)

"…ugh…"

The first conscious thought that weakly echoes through the mind of Christopher Daniels as he gradually stirs from his blackout is really a simple one. Two little words, softly but firmly resonating through his mind, that sum up the situation quite neatly.

…this sucks.

As he fully comes to, gingerly picking himself up off the white linoleum kitchen floor where he'd awoke amongst shards of his favorite mug and a large puddle of cold coffee, he looks up at the clock. Fifteen minutes. Fifteen minutes, completely lost. Cursing under his breath, he removes his coffee-soaked shirt and sets to picking up the pieces of shattered porcelain

Yes, indeed, he thinks bitterly, this certainly does suck. A perfectly good shirt and his favorite mug, ruined. A dull but throbbing headache, a few small cuts from where shattered porcelain hit his skin. Fifteen minutes spent unconscious…

…and this was the third time this had happened since he'd come home. The blackouts, indeed, were the worst of the recurring symptoms of the major concussion he'd sustained. They went quite nicely with the dizzy spells and the occasional handful of minutes that just vanished into thin air.

The meds had made it very plain to him. There was no way he was wrestling again as long as the aftereffects of the concussion lingered, and at this rate, that'd be a while.

If there's one thing Christopher Daniels isn't, it's a patient man.

Dumping the broken mug in the trash, he starts cleaning up the coffee puddle with a sigh. He wasn't a man of many true loves, but wrestling was one of them. Being forced away from it like this… sidelined, laid up, not even being allowed his own vengeance against the fucker who did this to him… it not only made him furious, it made him feel pretty damn useless. What good was he to anybody like this?

Sighing again, Daniels tosses the used paper towels in the trash on top of the broken porcelain, tosses his shirt in the laundry basket, and goes to run himself a hot bath. Might make him feel better, he thinks, and at this point he could do with a good deal of feeling better.

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(a week later- Impact, December 3rd)

It was supposed to be an uneventful night, AJ Styles thinks in retrospect.

He wasn't carded for anything. He'd come to watch his friends perform. To keep an eye on the Joe situation. That's all.

He'd just been minding his own business.

As the show wound to an end, he'd headed backstage to see about meeting some of the guys afterward for a late supper, maybe some drinks and a game, typical stuff.

And not a minute after he'd stepped back there, he found himself being punched, and then kneed and kicked in the face by about eight million pounds of perpetually ticked-off Samoan, which felt about the same to AJ as being repeatedly kicked by a mule. He just couldn't get in any offense- he was pinned between a footlocker and a neverending barrage of kicks.

Finally, Joe had grabbed him by the throat, AJ feeling the prickle of terry cloth made stiff by dried blood.

And then came the voice. Not yelling, but a growl of sharp disdain the likes of which AJ'd never heard before.

"I DON'T respect your code."

And with one more slam for good measure, Joe had stormed off, leaving AJ here laying on the cold concrete, battered and bruised.

He can hear the medics approaching, and he hopes they have some hefty painkillers on them. Coughing sharply, a trickle of blood dripping from the corner of his mouth, he hoarsely mumbles to himself.

"…this sucks."