John Cena's eyes cracked open, and he winced, reaching up to block the sudden onslaught of light. Placing his hand over his face, he took a couple of slow, deep breaths, trying to shake the sleep out of his brain. His thoughts were moving slow as he squinted his eyes open, his vision fuzzy and hard to focus. Glancing around the room, John shifted slightly, feeling his bare back rub against the cottony sheets. He was lying on his side, curled slightly, a certain warm, almost naked body fitted against him, facing away from him. Randy was still dead asleep, his chest rising and falling steadily, his inked arms clutching a white pillow against his stomach. He was spooned up against John, a single pillow buried under his head, and the second held tight up to his body. John couldn't help but give a small smile as he sat up, looking down at the younger man beside him. Randy was hugging onto that pillow like his life depended on it…and—even though Cena definitely was not the sappy type—he had to admit it was kind of cute. Damn…who would've thought he'd ever think of Randy Orton—WWE's Apex Predator—as cute? Funny how things could change so quickly… Barely two weeks ago he would've easily nodded in agreement if someone said his biggest rival, and possibly greatest enemy, was Randy Orton. Now they were sleeping together—both literally and figuratively. Laying back down, John reached out to the side of the bed, his hand scrambling across the wooden nightstand at the bedside. Eventually his fingers found what they were looking for: his metallic cell phone. Tapping the touch screen, he quickly glanced at the time before setting the phone back down.

Noon. Damn…as much as he liked sleeping over at Randy's room, he didn't like wasting half his day in bed. He was always a morning person…but he and Randy tended to have long, busy nights, and that made waking up much, much more difficult.

Laying his head back down on the pillow, John stared up at the ceiling, wondering what to do next. Last night, before they fell asleep, Randy had mumbled something about John waking him up…he'd already been halfway into dreaming when he said that, so John hadn't really been able to understand him. When they came back to the room it was already late, so they just sat around watching some TV. John learned—much to his amusement—that Randy loved the Food Network; they must've spent two hours watching people cook up delicious deserts and visit the best restaurants in the world. John would've never pegged Randy as the cooking type, and he hadn't been able to contain his laughter as Randy watched 'Iron Chef' with rapt attention. He'd learned so much about the notorious Legend Killer…so many things he hadn't expected. After the Food Network came Animal Planet, and they spent almost an hour watching a documentary on crocodiles—Randy thought they were some of the most badass animals on the planet. After that they'd gotten into an argument over which was better, rap or rock music, and their heated discussion soon turned into an all-out wrestling match. John had quickly found himself on top of Orton, and one thing eventually led into another and…well, he could understand why he slept in so late. He could also understand why Randy seemed to be so damn tired still… Grinning smugly, John reached over, placing a hand on Randy's shoulder, shaking him slightly.

"Hey…hey, Randy." John said quietly, propping himself up with his arm, his elbow digging into the mattress.

No response. The Viper's breathing remained steady, undisturbed.

"Randy…?" Cena tilted his head to the side, shaking the younger man again.

This time Randy twitched in response, his frame curling up more, pulling away from John's touch.

"Come on Randy…" Cena rolled his eyes good naturedly, still tapping him on the shoulder, "You wanted me to wake you up…remember?"

He grumbled something, his slurring words sounding like the irritated growls of a grizzly bear.

"What was that?" John smirked, his voice taking on a false sweetness.

"I said fuck off." Orton growled, rolling over onto his stomach, burying his head into the soft pillow.

"Come on…you were going to go work out, remember?" Cena sat up more, the sheets falling down to his waist, sticking to his warm body.

"Later." Randy groaned, not moving at all.

"It's already noon…if you keep putting it off, you won't do it. That's what you said last night, remember?" John's grin grew wider as Randy rolled onto his back. Reaching up, he yanked his pillow from beneath his head and placed it over his face, trying his damnedest to ignore Cena.

"Don't feel like it right now…" Orton snarled, his words muffled through the thick pillow.

"Aw come on, you said you really wanted to go on a run, remember?" John persisted, reaching over and running his fingers down Randy's stomach. John couldn't help it; when Randy was shirtless he just was unable keep his hands to himself. John grinned in satisfaction as his fingers glided over Randy's abdomen, causing his cut muscles to quiver in response.

"So…run? Workout? Remember talking about that last night?" Cena continued, undeterred by Randy's lack of enthusiasm.

"Hey Cena?" Randy lifted the pillow off his face, shooting John a frosty death glare, "Unless you're going to fuck me, you should really let me go back to sleep."

"Hey, last night you told me to wake you up and remind you to go workout, I'm just doing what you told me." John laughed, looking down at Randy.

"If I get up and go for a run today, will you let me sleep in tomorrow?" Randy groaned, reaching up to rub his tired eyes, his biceps flexing enticingly.

"You're assuming I'm staying with you tonight too." Cena stated abruptly, turning and giving Randy a sidelong glance.

"You got somewhere else you'd rather be tonight?" Randy asked dryly, scowling as he looked up at John, still remaining on his back.

"Of course not." John shook his head, giving Randy a small, serious smile, "If you run today I promise I won't wake you up tomorrow, deal?"

"Deal." Randy sighed, "Damn…you're annoying…"

"You weren't complaining last night." Cena grinned arrogantly, swinging his legs over the side of the bed and standing up slowly.

"Yeah well, last night you were being useful, now you're just bothering me…" Randy smirked handsomely, also standing up, stretching his arms up in the air, wearing nothing but a pair of black boxers.

"Aw, are you trying to hurt my feelings Randy?" Cena gave a fake frown, reaching down to scoop his clothes off of Randy's floor.

"Oh shut up." Randy threw John's shirt at him, the purple fabric hitting Cena right in the face.

His chest heaving, desperately forcing air in and out of his lungs, Randy reached up, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand. He was on a sleek, black treadmill, his Nikes pounding hard against the track. The hotel gym was pretty empty; there were a few women using the aerobics room to do what looked like a spine-knotting routine of yoga and Pilates. To the far side of the room, in front of a few large, shimmery mirrors, two or three high school boys were using the bench, lifting a meager amount—or at least, it was meager compared to what Randy was accustomed to. Randy was the only one using the cardio machines—the ellipticals were empty and his treadmill was the only one whirring with energy. He was running at a decent, seven minute pace—a little slow for him, this was the pace he preferred when he was doing longer distances.

For the shorter runs he'd aim for a six minute pace or less. At about mile three he'd slipped his sweaty t-shirt off, hanging it on the bar to his left, leaving him in only his black Nikes and a pair of dark blue gym shorts. Beads of sweat were rolling down his torso, and as he reached mile seven (forty-eight minutes straight of running) he could see the high school boys staring at him in admiration. Whether that was due to his rigorous pace or his impressive stomach and back muscles, he didn't know, but the ego boost made him pick up his step. Eyes narrowed in concentration, he focused on his breathing, his chest aching from the effort it took to maintain the oxygen level in his blood. His legs felt good though; neither his calves nor his thighs had started aching yet. Usually his legs began to tire at around mile eight or nine, and by ten or eleven (if he went that far) his legs would be feeling like they were made of cement. Once he got to that feeling he'd usually try to push on for another mile, just to force his body to adapt, and then he'd collapse in exhaustion.

He had forgotten his iPod back at the room, so—as he began his eighth mile—he couldn't help but think back to last night. After the craziness with Barrett, he and John had gone back to his room and watched TV. Randy had never been much of a television guy (with the exception of the Food Network) but he found it a lot more enjoyable when he had someone to talk to while watching. Him and Cena had had a fun time watching crocodiles drag kicking zebras to the bottom of the river—as sadistic as it may sound, Randy had found their hunting fascinating, and him and John quickly became engrossed in the documentary. Then of course they fucked—which always seemed to be the inevitable outcome of all of their encounters—and Randy had fallen asleep against John, waking up in almost the exact same position he'd been in when he first closed his eyes. He'd asked John to come with him to the gym, expecting him to eagerly agree—everyone knew how much of a workout freak Cena was—but to Randy's surprise, John said he had to go back to his room to run a few errands, shower, and get some clean clothes. Cena ended their conversation by saying he'd meet up with Randy back at his room after he was done working out, and then maybe they could go out and explore the city, and actually do something together. They were currently in New York, and John was sure they could find something fun to do. After that John had pulled Randy close up against him, giving him a gentle kiss on the lips, and then turning to leave, a wide smile on his face.

Hitting his ninth grueling mile, Randy reached forward, his fingers working on the buttons of the treadmill, slowing down the machine. Nine miles was a pretty decent cardio workout, he decided, sucking in breath after breath as his legs slowed. After a few minutes of walking, he reached forward again, this time turning the treadmill off. Stepping to the side, he grabbed his white shirt off the bar, heart still pounding rapidly in chest as he tried to steady his breathing. He'd felt great while running, and—after a few calf, hamstring, and quad stretches—he decided to hit the locker room. Ignoring the sly eyes of the yoga women, he strode across the gym, reaching the door to the locker room in a few quick, easy strides. Reaching down, he yanked the door open, walking inside briskly. He'd left his gym bag in the locker way in the back, so he weaved his way past the bathroom stalls and past the tiny showers, heading towards the far side of the locker room. The tile beneath his feet was a dull beige, and the metal lockers were of a matching color. Reaching locker 221, he pulled it open, yanking out his black bag and setting it down on the wooden bench behind him. It then that he heard footsteps, and Randy turned, looking over his bare shoulder, his breath catching in his throat as a tall, lanky man came into his line of view. Turning around, Randy's hands clenched into tight fists as he realized just who had entered the locker room.

Wade Barrett. The leader of the Nexus was leaning against a line of lockers, wearing dark jeans and a black shirt, a cocky smirk plastered across his face. His narrowed eyes were working their way up and down Randy, pausing noticeably as they grazed over his bare abdomen, taking in the tight muscles. Orton could feel the hairs on the back of his neck stand up as Barrett looked him up and down—he couldn't help but feel a little violated. Judging from the grin on Wade's face, he was thinking something very unpleasant… Fuck, what was he doing here? Randy's head raced with a million thoughts as he scowled, taking a step back.

"What do you want with me?" Randy hissed, his voice low and quiet, eyes narrowed into angry slits as he glared across the room at Barrett.

"You didn't think I was done with you…did you?" Wade chuckled cruelly as he took a few slow, calculated steps toward Randy.

"Attacking me isn't going to get you the championship." Orton snapped, pointing a furious finger at Barrett, his heart thumping harder than ever as the leader of the Nexus took another step, and another…

"What make you think I'm going to attack you to get the championship?" Barrett asked, reaching up, drawing a finger across Randy's jaw line. The bruise from the previous attacks had, for the most part, faded away…but the pain had not. The Viper couldn't help but flinch, yanking his head away from Barrett's touch, a fearful, fluttery feeling in his stomach. He'd couldn't believe Barrett was audacious enough to actually touch him…and here they were, all alone…

"How do you know I'm not here to attack you for another reason?" Wade continued, his smile widening as he lowered his hand, probing eyes still staring at Randy, "Perhaps I'm here because John Cena has rebelled against me…I must punish him for helping you at Bragging Rights, you see. But I can't hurt him; that would never work. He's not the type to give in to physical pain. So think of this as you paying the price because he decided to disobey me…"

Wade moved so quickly Randy didn't have much time to react. His fist shot out, and he punched Randy hard across the cheek, causing the slightly smaller man to cry out in surprise and pain. Randy crumbled to the ground, his hand clutching at his cheek, his mind unable to comprehend what had just happened. Barrett smiled down at the writhing man, and then he reached forward, his fingers working their way into Randy's brown hair. He caressed Randy's head, fingers moving from his scalp down to the side of his cheek, and then down to grip Randy by the jaw, forcing him to look up. Randy's pale eyes were filled with pain, rage, and…delicious fear. Wade felt a rush of heat between his legs as he held Randy's jaw still, forcing the kneeling man to look him in the eye. He struggled a little, but as Wade's grip on him tightened, his nails digging into Randy's skin, the smaller man went still. He was staring up at Wade with such hatred it was intoxicating…Barrett loved his spirit, would love to take his time breaking it… That had recently become his greatest lust: to break Randy Orton to pieces.

"You ask what I want with you, Randy?" Wade snarled, pulling Randy's head forward so that his cheek was resting against one of Barrett's jean-clad thighs, "I think it's pretty obvious just what I want…"

For the first time since one of his ex's hit him in the middle of a fight, Randy felt genuinely afraid. He struck his fist out, catching Barrett in a blow to his stomach, causing the standing man to keel over, clutching at his abdomen. He cursed loudly as Randy scrambled to his feet, trying to get away, but then he speared the escaping man to the ground—catching Randy right in the stomach and causing both of them to tumble down onto the tile. They rolled back and forth for a few moments, Randy kicking out with as much strength as he could, catching Barrett painfully in the shins with his heels. Barrett cried out in agony at that, and he punched Randy in the gut, the glancing blow just barely strong enough to make Randy wince in pain. They struggled some more, and then eventually Barrett got the upper hand, his tall body forcing itself on top of Randy, his hands wrapping around Randy's wrists and pinning the smaller man to the ground. Orton wasn't done yet though; he continued to kick out in protest, his struggling body rubbing up against Barrett in a very nice way… Wade slapped him across the face, and then Randy used his now-free hand to throw an elbow at Barrett's nose. He missed his target, but he did manage to catch Barrett in the cheek, knocking his head back. Wade then somehow kicked Randy's legs apart, and then he was forcing himself between the fighting man's legs, forcing his groin against Randy's, smirking in triumph as Randy—feeling Wade's unmistakable hard on pressing up against his ass—howled out in anger, his face turning a bright, shameful red.

"Excuse me?"

Both Randy and Wade instantly went still at the sound of a third-party voice, turning to their left, both of them wearing expressions of shock. Wade was still holding Randy down by the wrists, Randy's bare back scraping against the tile, and both were completely silent as they turned to see who had spoken.

"I think you should get off of him…right now." John Morrison was standing at the entrance to the locker room, wearing tight jean pants, a bright red shirt, and a dark, frightening scowl of rage on his face. His wavy brown hair was framing his face nicely as his chocolate eyes glared at the two on the floor, his hands threateningly curled into white-knuckled fists.

"Do yourself a favor, Morrison…stay out of my business!" Wade growled, still remaining where he was, "I have no quarrel with you…and it would be in your best interest to keep it that way by turning around and getting the fuck out of here."

Morrison narrowed his eyes, his gaze turning from Wade to Randy. The Legend Killer's eyes were wide and pleading as he stared up at the Shaman of Sexy. He didn't say anything…but the message was clear: please for the love of God don't leave me alone with this psychotic pervert.

"You know, I don't think Hunter Helmsley would be very happy if he knew how you were treating our WWE Champion…" Morrison sighed, giving Wade a sharp look, "I might just have to give him a call, let him know that Wade Barrett's giving Randy Orton a hard time…and who knows? He might decide to pay you a visit to take care of that…you want that to happen, Barrett? You want me to go make a phone call to Hunter? Because if you don't get the fuck off of Randy right now, that's exactly what I'm going to do…and trust me, Hunter does not like it when his boy's getting fucked with."

Barrett went very quiet at that, his face turning a dark red. After a few moments of consideration, he let go of Randy's wrists, shoving the WWE Champion in the chest as he stood up, his hands clenching into infuriated fists. He gave Morrison a long, stony look as he walked past him, yanking the locker room door open and quickly disappearing. The enraged look on his face made it very clear that he was not happy at all with how things turned out. To Randy's dismay, as he disappeared behind the door, he shot him one last, hateful look.

Morrison strode over to Randy, holding his hand out to the downed man, "Come on. Let's get you up to your room."