(Disclaimer: All WWE names and characters are owned by the WWE, and have absolutely nothing at all to do with this slushy slashy piece of fun.)

(Authoress' Note: This story is intended to be a spin-off sequel of the as-yet unfinished Ortista fic, 'Falls Count Anywhere'. It follows Triple H (and Edge!) after Batista's departure from RAW, and thus refers to things which haven't yet happened in 'Falls Count Anywhere'. Ideally, I would have liked to finish off the whole Ortista fic first before starting to post this, but I wanted towrite a storywhich I could post weekly after each RAW show, and if I waited to finish the other fic first this wouldn't get posted until, say, August, by which point much of the current fun would have been lost.

Anyway, you get the idea. On with the show!)

As far as Triple H was concerned, RAW just wasn't the same anymore. Ric Flair had abandoned him, Batista had dumped him and eloped to SmackDown! to be with his fancy piece Randy Orton, and if that wasn't bad enough, he'd taken the World Heavyweight Championship title with him. On top of that, he had toothache from drinking too much Kool-Aid, his car had broken down twice in the past two months, and a large groundhog had drowned in his swimming pool.

All in all, it had been a pretty shit year.

Still, at least it was the Royal Rumble tonight; a chance to prove himself, a chance to make the world see that he was just as good as he'd always been. He was Triple H. He was the Game. Of course he was that damn good! He would go out there tonight, and he would win; he'd make Batista's success last year seem like little more than a high-school wrestling competition. Maybe that would make the Animal take some notice of him again.

Smoothing down his shirt, he stepped out of the locker room and headed for Vince McMahon's office, already sure that he'd be entering the Royal Rumble at number thirty.

"Rey Mysterio? Rey fucking Mysterio?" Some of the smaller superstars scurried out of Triple H's way as he stormed through the corridors towards his dressing room, the floor practically shaking with every step of his boots. Several hours had passed since he'd drawn his Royal Rumble entry number – at first, he'd been furious that he'd picked number one, but as the match had progressed it had seemed that he'd claw back the win after all. In an extraordinary turn of events, he'd even been able to put aside past differences and team up with Randy Orton to try and eliminate Rey, but that had proved sadly futile in the end. "Rey Mysterio! I'll fucking kill him if I ever get my hands on him, that crazy little piece of Latino meat!"

He trudged on through the concrete corridors, sending backstage staff and interviewers alike diving for cover; it was only when he heard a series of furious screams that he paused to pay any attention to what was going on around him, and out of the corner of his eye glimpsed several pieces of furniture go flying past. Now curious, he followed the sound to discover the source of the destruction - only to round a corner and find Edge, the recent WWE Champion, hurling a plastic chair against a pile of crates.

"Having a bad night too, huh?" Triple H found his fury dwindling as he watched Edge taking out his rage on the poor defenceless chair. In fact, after his humiliating loss, it made the whole night seem rather comical. "For what it's worth, Edge, I reckon you should have kept that title belt. It gave you something that your crotch could be proud of."

"Fuck you! Of course I should have won the damn match!" Edge snarled, tangling his fingers in his ragged hair. "I won that belt at New Year's Revolution fair and square! It's mine! I bided my time, I cashed in my title shot, I worked my butt off to win the damn thing and then that ass-wipe Cena had to be a whiny little bitch and go and challenge me for it again! I've got every fucking right to be pissed off! Now why don't you just go away and let me have some time to myself!"

"Hey, there's no need for that kind of attitude." Triple H gave the feral wrestler a moment to calm down a little, then moved closer and clamped a hand down firmly on Edge's shoulder, his voice taking on a more fatherly tone. "You think I don't know how angry you're feeling right now? I lost the World Heavyweight title two years in a row to a couple of guys who've done nothing but fuck me around ever since – of course you're angry! I'm just saying there's no need to take it all out on me."

"And what the hell is that supposed to mean?" Edge sprang on the defensive, his nostrils flaring, his teeth bared. "You're a fucking queer, Triple H! Stop touching me, you ass-licking fudge-packer!"

"Ass-licking fudge-packer?" Triple H chuckled to himself. "That's a new one, Edge. Real nice. But I'm guessing there's more to your mood than a simple belt. Lita not giving you any?"

"You shut up about Lita!"

"Close to the mark, huh?"

"I thought I told you to shut up!"

"That's your problem, Edge; sometimes, you just need to chill out."

"You're telling me to chill out?"

"Why, yes. Yes, I am."

"You would tell me to chill out, Trips! You're a good-for-nothing, arrogant fucking son-of-a-bitch! If you tell me to calm down or chill out one more fucking time, I swear I'm gonna…"

But Edge never got to finish his sentence. Before he knew what was happening, he was being pulled closer towards Triple H, the larger wrestler's lips pressing hard against his own; their tongues met, their fingers sliding instinctively over each others' necks to entwine themselves in tousled hair, touching, grabbing, pulling…

"Get the fuck off of me!" Edge spluttered, suddenly stiffening and pulling away, his cheeks flushing in anger and embarrassment. Roughly, he shoved Triple H away from him, snarling his hatred. "What the hell was that for? You get off on forcing other men to kiss you, huh? Is that why your precious little stable broke up? Ric Flair didn't want to get freaky with you, yeah? Everyone knows about your sordid little affairs with Batista and Randy Orton…"

"So me and Dave were happy enough with ourselves to be honest – big fucking deal. And, for the record, there was never anything going on between me and Randy Orton. That little jerk was always far too arrogant for me." The Game grinned and smoothed back his damp hair. "As for you and me - you really think I don't know what's going on, Edge? You really think you can keep your true feelings to yourself? Oh please! I spent two whole years with Dave and Randy fawning all over each other while I tried to hide behind my anger, tried to deny what I felt for Batista!"

"What are you trying to say?"

"What I'm saying, Edge, is that your bad mood has been getting worse and worse lately – and it's got nothing to do with this title belt, with your feud with Cena. The truth is – and I'm telling you this because you've been denying it to everyone, most of all yourself – you want me, Edge. You want me."

"I want you? Don't give me that gay bullshit!"

"Don't deny it. That's why you wanted me on your side in the tag match the other week, isn't it? That's why you've been so frustrated. It's about damn time you just grew up and admitted it."

"Fuck you, Triple H!"

"And you would, given half a chance." The Game laughed again, knowing full well that he was right. It was strange; now that his rage had subsided, after tonight's Royal Rumble match, when he'd teamed up with Randy to fight Rey Mysterio, it was if he'd achieved some kind of inner peace. In allying himself with his former rival, he'd laid to rest some of the demons which had plagued him since splitting up with Batista. Only now could he see how much he'd matured in a mere few months. In Edge, he could see himself a year or two ago – the hot-headed impetuous man unable to admit to himself his true emotions, so torn up inside that all he could feel was anger and sorrow. "You want me, Edge, but that's alright. Did you think I was gonna get mad at you or something?"

"Oh, that's just great. So… what now, big man? You wanna go tell Lita, huh? You wanna humiliate me in front of the whole locker room? Go ahead. I lost a title belt tonight, I may as well lose my dignity, too."

"I don't need to do that." Triple H gave a reassuring smile. "I think you've got me all wrong here. I'm not out to humiliate you – although, God knows, you probably deserve it for all the shit you put me and Evolution through a year or two back. No, Edge, what it comes down to is this; I'm lonely. Pure and simple."

"Lonely?" Edge choked back a laugh. "The mighty Game is lonely? Don't make me piss myself laughing, Trips! You're the king of the mountain, the cream of the crop. You're the top of the fucking food chain around here. You could get whatever you wanted – whoever you wanted, even. Trish Stratus, Mickie James, Candice… why aren't you out chasing their asses instead of hanging around here talking to me?"

"Maybe they don't have what I want."

"So what exactly do you want?"

"What do you think?" Triple H cocked his head to one side and sighed. "You seem to know so much about me and the way I work. You tell me what I want."

"Batista."

"Got it in one." The Game nodded, then shrugged. "But he's not here now, and I doubt he ever will be again – so, until then, I guess I'll have to make do with whatever I can get my hands on."

"Me?"

"Hell, why not? Maybe you need a change of attitude sometimes, but all in all, I guess you're not so bad. Just give me a call if Lita ever gets too much, alright?"

"What the...?" Edge just gaped at the larger man, his mouth opening and closing as if he were struggling to find the right words to say. What the hell could you say if one of the biggest names in the WWE just calmly walked over and tongued you - and pretty damn well, too?

"You and me, Edge. Just you and me. Think about it."

And with those words, the Game walked off laughing, leaving Edge with one hell of a headache.