Disclaimer: I do not own these characters, no disrespect is intended.
Author's Note: This takes place directly after the 6/23 Raw (Draft) and contains spoilers.
Specious
"Son of a bitch."
"Easy Dave, just sit down, let me look at it."
The trainer is hovering around me like a moth beating on a screen door. Blood mixed with sweat has trickled into my eye, and to make it all worse adrenaline is pumping through me like a freight train. I grab a towel from his hand and press it against the top of my head.
"Fuck." It hurts.
"Damnit Batista, sit down and let me look at it, you need stitches."
I close my eyes to make the stinging stop and start pacing in the small room. This had all happened way too fast. I had grown accustomed to the Smackdown travel schedule, had adjusted to the rug being roughly pulled out from under me in the summer of 2005, had gotten into my comfort zone. The trade to Raw was a surprise and a disappointment in the immediate aftermath. But disappointment had turned to a glimmer of hope that there would be a revival of my feud with Paul, and then that had been smashed as surely as the collision with Adam had cracked my head open. There were too many thoughts jumbling around in my head to sit docilely and let the doc stitch me up.
"Hey. If you won't sit down for McDoctor here, then sit down for me and let me take a look."
His voice is soft and I hardly hear it over the roar in my head, but I can feel his hand on me, easing me back to reality.
"Leave me alone Chris," I snap as I try to wrench away from him.
His hand becomes firmer on me, and I hear that edge enter his voice, the one he has perfected over his hiatus from wrestling.
"Sit down before I leg sweep you down and make it even worse than it already is."
With a heavy sigh I plunk down on the table, let the trainer remove the towel and apply an icy cloth in its place. I wince, and refuse to open my eyes to see Chris's smug expression. When the trainer pulls the cloth away I can't hold back the growl as he prods at my skull.
"This looks worse than it is," he says. "Four stitches ought to close you up."
"There, see, that wasn't so bad was it?" A sarcastic tone has entered Chris's voice now.
"Bite me Irvine," I mutter under my breath, and in my head I hear a string of his comebacks about how he'd be only too glad to comply. I hunch over in irritation. But he's silent, so I concentrate on relaxing so the trainer can do his work, and I can get the hell out of Dodge.
The trainer tosses me another cloth, and he turns to make his preparations. I dab at my face, my eyes, and watch as Chris settles into a chair to watch.
"Don't you have something better to do?" I ask as I toss the cloth aside.
"Better than this?" he snorts, "I hardly think so." He gives me a patented smirk, "Watching you cry like a little girl is way up at the top of my list of things."
Instead of answering, I flip him the bird and he has the good grace to blush and waggle his brows. The trainer goes to work on the stitches, and I hardly feel a thing. It's either the adrenaline still, or I've had stitches so many times that I'm numb to the feeling.
When he's done he turns to wash his hands. He pours out a horse pill and a cup of water, "Take this," he says briskly. "If you still have pain tomorrow come see me and I'll give you another."
Reluctantly I take the pill, then slide off the table to stand. "Thanks," I manage.
He waves me off as I level a look at Chris.
"Happy now?" I ask.
"As a clam," he says, and he follows me out the door.
Somehow I knew he intended to follow me, but I pretend to ignore him as I strip out of my trunks and dress out in loose track pants and jacket. Fuck the dress code, it's not far between the building and the hotel. Any fans still lurking around will have to get an eyeful.
"I'll drive," he says cheerfully.
The thoughts start jumbling around again as I follow him. I don't even bother to argue with him, I just put my head down and follow him from the arena like I had done thousands of times in the balmy days before he retired right out from under me. I get in the car by rote, sit in silence as he maneuvers the short distance from the building to the hotel. I even follow him willingly up the back way, and down the hall. It isn't until we stand in front of his room that I snap out of it.
"Hold on," I say as I reach out to brace myself against the wall. "These aren't the good old days anymore."
"Maybe not," Chris says, and he opens the door and steps inside the room. He holds the door open and meets my eyes as he looks back over his shoulder, "But I didn't play my cards this way just to have you traipse down the hall to your own cold room."
I lunge forward just as he slips his hand from the door. A quick look over my shoulder confirms that no one else is in the hallway, and I flip the security lock on the door as it closes.
"The fuck does that mean?" I growl.
He's already in the room, his shoes kicked off, and white-socked feet propped up on the bed as he slouches down in the only chair. "Get me a beer, and I'll tell you."
"I'm the one's injured," I grouse as I pop open the mini-bar and take out a bottle of beer for him and water for me.
"Mmmhmm," he says as he twists off the top and watches me, "Maybe so, but I'm the one with the upper hand here." He smirks again and waves his bottle toward the bed, "Sit there, don't want you passing out from loss of blood."
With a sigh I sit down on the edge of the bed, take a sip of water, then lean my arms forward on my thighs; level myself so I can meet his eyes. "Explain."
"Come on Einstein, figure it out," he says, and without even giving me time to speculate he continues on. "When McMahon asked me to come back, I said I would with a few conditions attached. Naturally I said I wanted control over my own programs, merchandise, all that shit. I wasn't gonna get stuck parroting lines that were written for me, and hawing shirts that look like they were designed by a ten year old."
"Naturally," I say softly, and down the rest of the water.
"But I also asked for something else," he says, "And eight months later it finally came through."
I arch a brow, and as the realization strikes, he says the words,
"I wanted you back on Raw."
"Bloody hell Chris," I feel the rage billow up inside me, "Why? You think I can't take care of myself? You think I need you mother-henning me? I did just fine with you gone," emotion clogs my throat and my voice cracks, "I'm not the same now as I was back then." I surge to my feet and resume the pacing I had started in the trainer's small room. "You think maybe you might have asked me before you started deciding my future as it best suits you? I like Smackdown, I was comfortable with my role, I didn't need anyone trying to make me over."
"Comfortable?" he says and he remains irritatingly calm as he folds his fingers together and watches me pace. "In the role of Smackdown patsy, playing second fiddle to Adam and Mark, phoning in a horrific 'Mania match to show some brand supremacy that made Smackdown look like a joke. You're comfortable in that role?"
"Fuck you Irvine," I roar. "There may have been a time when you were inside my head and knew what I desired, but those days died off when you allowed yourself to be carried from the building kicking and screaming. I don't want you in my head anymore."
"Really," he's still unfazed as he slides his feet from the bed and leans forward in the chair. "Is that why I saw such hope in your eyes when you faced Shawn and me in the ring? Is that why I saw the fire when you delivered promos that were perfectly spot-on during our three way dances? You're not a good liar Bautista; you might be able to get away with it when you talk to Vickie Guerrero, but not Chris Irvine. You want this a damn sight more than you're willing to admit."
There's a throbbing ache in my head as I reach down and haul him up, slam him against the wall, lean into him. "I don't want this at all Chris, not like this. I don't want you making my decisions anymore."
He wriggles out from under me and neatly reverses our positions. It's either he's gotten stronger in the interim, or I really have lost a lot of blood. He keeps me pinned against the wall with a strong arm, and raises his hand up in front of my face. I flinch back, even though I know he has no intentions of hitting me. There, right in front of my face I find he's holding his left hand, the tattoo a stark contrast against the pale flesh of his finger.
"You do want it David. This isn't about me making your decisions for you; this is about promises that meant something to me, and to you. This is a dog eat dog world we live in, take your comfort where you may." He takes a deep breath, and his voice is a whisper as he continues, "There was no way I was coming back to this ungodly grind without you. I waited long enough."
It's only there in a flash, the unguarded look in his eyes where he shows me the true depth of his feelings, and if I'm honest in that flash he sees it in mine too. We both close our eyes, and he loosens his hold on me. I sag against the wall, barely aware of the sounds of him moving about in the room. The mini-bar opens again, and I hear the tops snap off two beer bottles this time. With an effort I rouse myself and walk over to join him on the bed.
We touch the bottles together, and regardless of the fact that I've just downed 800mg of ibuprofen we upend the bottles and drink our silent toast. I heave a deep sigh as I lower my bottle.
"You're right Chris," I murmur.
"I know I'm right," he says.
It's like a mask has dropped over his face when he turns toward me. The naked emotions are clothed again, and the cocky heel has overtaken him. "What was that you said earlier about biting?"
All the anger and tension drains in a snap and I chuckle, "I said 'Bite me Irvine.'"
"That's what I thought you said."