A/N: Thanks to everyone for the kind reviews, and once again thanks to everyone who's read this beat. I'm glad you're liking it so far. It's a bit on the slow side, but we'll get there eventually. Enjoy,
By and Down
IV. In and Out of the Shadows
October, 2011
Regal never was much of one for superlatives.
He didn't tend to rank his opponents or compare them - didn't have favorites or think of them in terms of the "the most" or "the best."
He prepared for each match exactly the same: studying his opponent until he figured out their strategies, until he found their weak spots (everyone had at least one, and most more than that), until he knew them.
Although interesting and unusual, Ambrose was hardly 'the worst" or "the best" or "the most" anything Regal had faced in his career, and Regal prepared for the match just exactly as he had hundreds of matches before it.
And, in truth, he found the it wasn't terribly difficult; he'd been studying Ambrose from the day he walked into the company, and knew the lad's methods and weaknesses probably better than anyone.
Going into it, Regal knew he stood little chance of losing.
Ambrose was grossly overconfident - a naive little boy bashing a hornet's nest he should have bloody well left alone - and it probably wouldn't take much to goad him into making a critical mistake.
Shame, that.
Shame Ambrose attacked him at all and insisted on this idiotic fight, but Regal supposed that was what he got for trying to play a more subtle intellectual game with someone who, by and large, was the walking embodiment of the Freudian Id: impatient, driven by his whims and a strong need for immediate gratification.
Seemed to be typical of his generation, though.
All now-now-now, and no patience or appreciation for the subtler, finer things in life.
Of course, Regal supposed he was a bit of a relic in this day and age.
But not so old he couldn't teach young Ambrose a thing or two.
It was a physical match, the two of them pummeling one another more than actually wrestling, just as Regal expected. Back and forth it went, the two of them staying on surprisingly even footing, until Ambrose made one mistake and Regal flipped him onto the ring apron.
When Ambrose got up, his arm was dangling useless at his side.
Regal knew it was basically over at that point, but decided to prolong the match just because he could - just because the idea of punishing this obnoxious twit for his impatience held a great deal of appeal.
The thing about Ambrose, though, Regal discovered, the thing that he really hadn't prepared for, wasn't how Ambrose strung his attacks together without an apparent strategy or how quick he was, but rather that he just. Bloody. Wouldn't. Stay. Down.
Even with his arm hanging grotesquely from its socket, Ambrose still smirked up from his knees and said, "That the best ya got?"
Even with Regal's forearm scraping across his face and his injured arm wrenched in the most hideously uncomfortable position Regal could get it into, Ambrose laughed wildly and said, "That supposed to hurt? It fuckin' tickles!" all the while trying to eel his way out of the hold.
Even backed up in the corner, eyes glazed and nearly out on his feet, with Regal's forearm across his throat, Ambrose choked out, "You coulda done this to me while you were fuckin' me, y'know. I totally dig it."
Even after the Regal knee put him down for the count, the idiot boy jumped right up to his feet and demanded a rematch. His arm was dead weight at his side and his face was chalky pale from what had to be a tremendous amount of pain, but his eyes were bright with furious determination.
"You give me another match," he called down from the floor, "and you won't beat me again."
Regal ached all over, but still managed to dig up a little smirk that said it knew better.
Part of him, though, couldn't help noticing just how quickly Ambrose had gotten up, and that part of him really wondered.
xXx
Bray sent Erick off to grab Ambrose's luggage from the locker room again, while he and Luke carried the little rat to the truck. They tossed him into the back and made quick work of tying his wrists and feet, gagging him, and tying him down to the truck bed so he wouldn't be able to move, even if he woke up.
Afterward, Luke leaned against the tailgate and turned to look at Bray.
Bray stared up at the night sky often, but always like he was searching for something, sort of half-turned in on himself.
Luke never liked to interrupt him, but this time he couldn't help himself. "What about the others?"
"I'm sure Rollins will be around during the match," Bray said. His face was mostly shadow under the brim of his hat. "When you and Erick appear, it'll likely draw him outta wherever he'll be hiding. You and Erick take him down. We'll take him with us after the match. Did you two decide which of you gets him?"
"If it's all right," Luke said, "we want to share them both."
Bray actually smiled at that. "Fine with me," he said. "Look at you boys, actually willing to share. Seems like it wasn't so long ago you couldn't stand each other. But look at you now - stronger and better than ever. You're brothers now. Steppin' out of your shadows and into a whole new spotlight. Does my heart glad."
Erick was lately-come to the family - another lost soul Bray'd rescued somewhere down in the swamps. Big and mean, he'd fought everybody - especially Luke - until Bray took him back out into the swamps for a few days.
What happened out there, what was said and what was shown, neither Bray nor Erick ever told, but Erick came back transformed.
Quiet and obedient, humble, and willing to listen where he was none of those things before.
He and Luke never fought now.
"You did it," Luke pointed out. "Your teaching. Your guidance. Hers, too."
Luke had been ten when Bray's little sister passed, but he still remembered her, remembered her always shadowing Bray everywhere.
He swore she still did.
Shadowed him and led, but where they were going, he had no idea.
Bray's smile widened. "We just set your feet on the path. It was you who chose to walk it with me. We are going to do great things. Terrible things, but great ones."
Luke jerked his head toward the back of the truck. "What are you going to do with him?"
"Another lost soul for us to try and save," Bray replied. "He'll be a challenge, I'm sure, because I doubt he's even aware how lost he is, but with time and patience, he'll come to see it. She'll show him."
Uneasy all of a sudden, Luke pulled his flannel tighter around himself. "He about ripped your throat out, Bray. I ain't sure I like the idea of him bein' that close to you. And I know you can show him, but what if he don't want to see it?"
If he noticed the cold, Bray gave no sign. He dressed the same whether it was freezing cold or boiling hot, and right now his breath made vapor trails in the air. Finally, he looked around and reached over to pat Luke's shoulder. "We'll keep him locked up and his mouth covered for now. That way he won't have a choice but to listen and look, and that way I'll stay safe. 'Course," he added, "I can always let you yank his teeth out of his face if he gets too rabid."
Luke grinned. "I'd enjoy that."
"I know you would," Bray chuckled. "And if he doesn't want to see, he can spend his days as Abigail's plaything. She's taken a shine to him."
The way Bray's gaze lingered on the back of the truck, Luke thought maybe Bray had, too.
He didn't say that, though.
He just rubbed his nose - it was about frozen - and turned to wait for Erick.
xXx
Regal honestly meant to leave it alone.
He did.
Hunter had asked him to stay on with the main roster through the summer to work with some of the newer NXT talent that would be debuting soon, and he'd accepted the offer quite gratefully. He enjoyed himself down at NXT - and would continue to do commentary there - and most certainly enjoyed his scouting trips, but there was something about always being on the moved he'd found rather comforting.
Used to it, he supposed, for all he'd spent thirty years doing it.
He'd never quite got the hang of settling somewhere and putting down roots.
The opportunity to be close to the main stage again, even if he had to live vicariously through others, was one he couldn't pass up.
At the moment, that meant he was gathered with a few others around of the monitors to watch the latest Shield-related drama unfold.
Ambrose stomped off in a right sulk after Rollins questioned him - yet again - about what had happened last night. Rollins more or less insinuated after Ambrose left that they didn't believe him, and Regal supposed that was probably his fault for seeking Ambrose out in the locker room earlier, but he had needed his phone, and it was hardly his fault the locker room was the most obvious place to look.
How was he meant to know the others had made it in?
Still, Regal resolved to stay out of it.
He meant to - even after Wyatt accepted Reigns' challenge and after Wyatt led his two ugly guard dogs off in the direction Ambrose had gone.
What happened last night between Ambrose and Wyatt was not his problem.
It wasn't.
But if, fifteen or so minutes later, he found himself casually wandering 'round a hallway that happened to lead to where the main locker was, well, it was the main hall and it wasn't as if he was actually looking for anything - anyone - in particular, now was it? He felt a touch restless, was all, and a nice stroll about the arena seemed to be in order.
And if, as he was ambling about not going anywhere in particular, he just happened to spot one of Wyatt's men - the ginger git with the sheep's mask - carting some luggage out of the locker room, well, he supposed there was no harm in following, discreetly.
The luggage did rather bear a passing resemblance to luggage he'd seen Harper walk away with last night.
It would, he thought idly, be a shame if that luggage was separated from its own again.
If any of the other people Rowan passed in the hallway noticed, they gave no sign; they simply let him walk right by, most of them - three divas, the Miz, and Fandango - just looking grateful he didn't stop
Regal didn't blame them.
He followed, though, just-so-happening to be headed that direction himself.
It was cold out, the restless night air having rather sharp teeth, but he slid his hands in his pockets and moved into the narrow gap between a couple of production trucks to wait. He remained there until he heard Wyatt and his troupe tromp on by, Wyatt signing that damned children's song again, and one of the two hulking gargoyles behind him whistling it.
Once he was certain they were inside, he ambled across the quiet carpark - just popping out to get something out of the car, thanks - and over to where Wyatt's truck - an ugly thing, gray and boxy and quite old, that looked every bit as sullen as the Wyatts themselves - was parked.
Light from one of the lamps overhead buzzed down through the shadows, just enough to see by, and he was glad of that.
He peered over the truck's tailgate, and felt alarm cut straight through any notion he'd been anything other than concerned this would happen.
The luggage - Ambrose's he was sure - was there, but there was something else, something roughly human-shaped, but covered up by a mildewy old blanket.
He scrambled into the back - barking his shin in the process - and, heart hammering, threw the blanket off.
Ambrose lay on his side, mouth taped shut again, his hands tied together behind him and also tied to his ankles, which themselves bound. Probably a good thing he wasn't awake, because the position looked bloody uncomfortable - they had wrenched his heels up nearly to his backside, making him look like some sort of bow ready to have an arrow shot out of it.
They'd also tied him down to truck bed, another length of rope criss-crossing like a shoelace between a series of eye bolts on either side of him.
He was alive, though, clearly breathing, and Regal nearly sagged to his knees with relief.
As it was, he had to take a moment to gather himself, deep, calming breaths pulled in and released, before he could properly assess the situation.
Idiot. You damned foolhardy idiot.
Anger – frozen fury – tried to seep in around the edges of his consciousness, but he pushed it to the back of his mind.
More important things to worry about now.
They'd tied Ambrose up with rope this time, slick white nylon, and they'd tied him tight, but whoever'd done it had used quick-release knots - similar to the ones Regal himself favored, and had to huff a quiet laugh at that because who the bloody hell knew that particular fetish would come in handy some day?
Less than a minute later, he tossed all the ropes out onto the ground beside the truck.
That done, he eased Ambrose over onto his back and then moved to crouch by his shoulder. Ambrose showed signs of stirring, eyelids fluttering a bit, as Regal reached for the tape, and by the time Regal pitched the wadded-up ball of it over the side of the truck, Ambrose's eyes were halfway open.
Regal leaned over him. "Are you all right?"
"...fu-huh-huck," Ambrose groaned. One hand found its way to his temple. "Man. The hell hit me?"
"Wyatt, probably," Regal said.
"Mm. Where are we?"
"Back of Wyatt's truck," Regal said. "As for what happened, you'll have to tell me. I'm assuming an ambush of some sort after you stomped off."
"Oh. Yeah. Yeah, by one of the trucks." Ambrose pulled himself up so he was sitting. The hand never left his head. "Smells like ass back here."
Regal snorted. "They're not exactly the most hygienic bunch, are they? I'm quite sure I'll have to send everything I'm wearing off for decontamination." He studied Ambrose critically. "Are you all right? Do we need to get you in to see one of the doctors?"
"I'm fine. I got worse last night." His eyes widened and he darted a frantic look around. "Oh, fuck. The match. Roman and Wyatt. What happened in the match? Are they okay? Seth and Roman? Are they all right?"
"Calm down," Regal said quietly. "The match hadn't started yet. It may have by now, but it hadn't when I came out here. They were fine."
"Okay," Ambrose said, nodding. "Okay, good. Okay. I gotta get down there. I gotta - yeah. I gotta go." He pushed off the wheel well and got to his feet, where he stood swaying enough that Regal shot up and put a hand on his shoulder to keep him from tumbling over the side of the truck.
"Easy, lad," Regal murmured, frowning. He didn't dare let go. "Easy."
"I'm fine, I'm fine," Ambrose mumbled. Sounded like he'd swallowed a mouthful of gravel. "Just - stood up too fast, is all. Headrush. Gimme a second."
It was more like ten seconds, and Regal stood quiet the entire time, staring off into the darkened car park beyond the truck. A few people meandered by in the distance, but no one he recognized, and no one came close enough he worried about it.
Ambrose eventually pushed his hand away and made his way to the tailgate. He seemed a bit steadier on his feet as he climbed over and hopped down.
"What about your things?" Regal asked. "I wouldn't advise leaving them here."
Hand still on the tailgate, Ambrose jerked back around, blinking like he'd already forgotten Regal was there. "Uh. Fuck." The hand combed through his hair, sending it shooting up in a dozen wild directions. "Okay, uh, hand me something, then. My backpack or whatever. I'll, uh, I dunno, stash it all somewhere out here, I guess. Whatever. Just - yeah. Hurry."
Regal fished his rental car's key's out of his coat pocket. "I'm parked a few spaces over behind you," he said, tossing them down. "Put it all in there for now. I'll wait for you so you can get them once the match is over."
There were only three bags, and Ambrose got it all in one trip.
Regal hadn't even begun to climb down out of Wyatt's truck when Ambrose jogged back over, tossed the keys back with his thanks, and raced off toward the arena at a full sprint, leather coat flapping about him like bat wings.
"I'll wait for you outside your locker room," Regal called.
An impatient flick of a wave was his only acknowledgement.
Shaking his head, he made his careful way down from the truck. He gathered up the ropes, fully intending to toss them back in Wyatt's truck, but, after a quick second thought, carried them over to his own car, setting them in the boot with the handcuffs.
One never knew when such things would come in handy, did one?
On his way back into the arena, with that crisis behind him, anger crept in, hot and dark, and he glutted himself on the images of all the hideous ways he could tie Wyatt and his two men up while he cut them apart inch by inch.
So much for staying out of it.
xXx
Seth knew he was screwed, but if he was going down, it was going to be swinging.
Or flipping over the top rope, as the case was.
Harper and Rowan, of course, hadn't been ay the hell out of Roman's match.
Of fucking course.
So Seth slipped out from under the ring and, with the crowd roaring its approval at him, raced across and flipped over the ropes onto Rowan and Harper, who both fell down, just as stunned as Seth by the impact.
Landing on concrete just hurt.
There was no two ways about it.
From where he landed, he could see the big screen. On it, he saw Roman take the fight to Wyatt, landing solid punches that staggered the creepy bastard.
But just as Seth made it back to his feet, Roman missed a charge and rammed shoulder-first into the ringpost.
He rolled out of the ring and didn't get back up.
One of Wyatt's boys seized Seth's hair and Seth only had time to think, Oh fuck before he found himself being bounced back and forth between Rowan and Harper - who smelled like they hadn't bathed in weeks, all stale sweat and unwashed clothes and rancid breath strong enough to turn Seth's stomach - like some kind of swinging pinata at a kid's party.
Huge fists pummeled him and big boots smashed him until his damn ears rang, and it fucking hurt, but the thing that probably hurt worst of all was knowing no help was coming.
I'm outta here.
"Pick him up!" Wyatt bellowed over the crowd's boos. "Pick him up."
Harper or Rowan - Seth's head was swimming too much for be able to tell - did.
There was a sudden roaring in Seth's ears, and he thought, muzzily, oh fuck, let it be quick, let it be quick, just before something that felt like a bulldozer slammed into whoever was holding him, jarring them both hard enough for Seth to bite his tongue when he smacked the floor.
The roaring, he realized blearily, wasn't in his head at all.
It was the crowd.
It was the crowd because Dean was there. Dean was there in a leather jacket and fighting like a human fucking tornado, and it was the adrenaline shot Seth needed to get back to his feet and join the fray.
The whole atmosphere changed, with the crowd chanting its approval as Roman made it back to the ring and kicked the shit out of Wyatt, and oh, fuck, it was awesome, that energy, it was fuckin' electric, just like old times, and Roman had it-
Until he didn't.
Until Harper distracted Roman, and Dean slid into the ring.
Dean unloaded on Wyatt, snarling, "You think you can do that to me, fucker? You think you can fuckin' do that?"
The ref signalled for the bell.
Harper and Rowan hit the ring as everything broke apart.
In the end, the Shield took their damn yard back, sending the Wyatts scurrying up the ramp like rats deserting a sinking ship, but man, the furious look Wyatt gave them promised it wasn't over, and in fact Wyatt bellowed over the crowd noise, "You this is over? It's just getting started, boys. We are just getting started."
As Seth looked at Dean, who was glaring murder at Wyatt, an at Roman, whose eyes were practically spitting sparks both at the Wyatts and at Dean, he couldn't help thinking this didn't feel anything like a victory.
Not at all.
xXx
Later, well after the match, and after most of the FCW roster had gone home for the night, Regal was nearly startled into a heart attack.
He was loading his things into his car when Ambrose's voice drifted out of the dark behind him. "So you got what you wanted, right?" Sounded like he'd swallowed broken glass. "You won. You beat me. That's what you wanted. You're not better, not always, but tonight you were."
Once his heartrate returned to something less lethal, Regal closed the boot and turned to lean back against it, hands loose on either side of him.
Ambrose stood a short distance away, a shadow-wrapped figure stopped just beyond the edge of the pool of orange light the lamp overhead threw down. His left arm was in a sling - dark, against the pale of his shirt - and for once he stood still.
Regal wasn't sure he liked that; bit too much like a prey animal poised to attack. Still, he made himself remain calm. "What d'you want?"
"It was stupid," Ambrose said, shifting, "going after you like that. I shouldn't have."
"No," Regal said, looking pointedly at the sling, "you shouldn't have. What did the doctor say?"
"Dislocated. They popped it back in. I gotta take a few weeks off."
"How unfortunate." Regal made a show of examining his fingernails. "There's something to be said for being patient, you know. Might have found yourself getting something other than a dislocated shoulder for your troubles."
"I know," Ambrose said. "I knew as soon as I attacked you I made a mistake." He squinted up. "I don't make mistakes like that. But you make me so fuckin' mad sometimes I can't think straight."
"Because I won't give you what you want."
"We want the same fucking thing!" Ambrose yelled at him. His good hand cut through the air as if to emphasize the point. "But you gotta jerk me around and fuck with my head, and what for?" He pulled in what sounded like a ragged breath and backed off a step, turning to glare off into the nearly empty carpark. "You think it's funny, don't you? Get me all wound up. You get off on that."
"I'm a villain, lad," Regal pointed out. "That's rather what I do. And if you'll excuse me," he added, straightening away from the car, "it's late and I'm quite knackered. You need to go look after that shoulder."
"Fuck the shoulder!" Ambrose snapped. "Stop fuckin' running away. Jesus Christ, you're so fucking stupid. You gotta play these stupid fucking games instead of just fucking taking what you want. Why? Why do you gotta waste time twistin me up here-" he tapped the side of his head "-when you could be twistin me up in ways we'd both find a whole hell of a lot more fun?"
There was a note of such utter desperation to the question that had Regal backing up, slowly, toward his driver's side door, eyebrows pulled together.
"That's enough, lad," he said quietly, gently, all games and sly amusement and attempts at flirting put aside. "I don't know why on Earth you wanted this so much in the first place, but I don't think it's a good idea. In fact," he added, shifting his keys from hand to hand, "it might be best if we stayed away from one another for the time being. Shouldn't be too hard, if you're taking time to let your shoulder rest."
Even if Ambrose wouldn't stay down, the fact of the matter was Regal had taken it farther than he probably should have. He'd gotten a bit lost in all the mind games. Even worse, he'd gotten even more lost in the desire to inflict as much pain as he could - not to teach Ambrose any sort of lesson, but just because he'd wanted to hear Ambrose scream again.
The match should have been stopped the instant the dislocation happened.
But Regal had attacked it like a dog attacking a raw steak, and good lord, he could have ended the idiot boy's career before it even had a chance to properly start.
And he wouldn't have felt a scrap of remorse for it, either, not then.
Ambrose, meanwhile, made his way over. His face was pain-creased and pale, eyes tight at the corners. Both his forehead and his good hand were knotted up. "Don't. Don't do that."
Regal held out a hand to ward him off. "I don't what it is you think you want from me, but you're not going to get it. You don't need it. I don't want you, all right? I never made a move because I never planned on it. I was just having a bit of fun at your expense. You made it easy."
"Bullshit-"
"No, I was," Regal said, harshly. "Now go home. Go home, heal up, and bloody move on. Find somebody else to pester - Rollins or whoever." A thought that made his stomach twist rather unpleasantly, if he was honest, but it was better that way. It was. "Just leave me alone."
"You're full of shit, Regal. You're a chickenshit liar. I want another match."
"No."
"I want another match," Ambrose repeated, pushing closer yet. His eyes were practically glowing with fury; Regal could feel it radiating off of him in heated waves. "You wanna punk out and be a pussy about this other thing, fine. Fuck you, but - whatever. Be a pussy then. Your loss. But a match? You fucking owe me."
Regal uncoiled suddenly, furious himself and determined to put some space between them. He planted both hands in the middle of Ambrose's chest to give him a hard shove away.
One of Ambrose's feet hit the car's rear tire and he fell backward, landing right on that injured shoulder.
His pained cry on landing made Regal smile in vicious satisfaction.
Until he saw how badly Ambrose's uninjured hand shook as he dragged himself up to sitting; until he saw how Ambrose's face had gone as white as his shirt; until he saw how shocky-blank Ambrose's eyes suddenly were; until he saw the blood running down Ambrose's elbow - a thin, dark red line that shone in the light overhead.
The smirk curdled, and Regal suddenly felt sick all over.
What are you doing to me, lad?
Ambrose eventually made it back to his feet - couldn't stay down to save his life - without any help, but stood pulled in on himself, body curled protectively around that arm and shoulder, trembling and clearly not well.
Regal said, "I'm sorry. That - this is why we shouldn't…" He shook his head. "Are you all right?"
"Fine," Ambrose said tightly. The tremor was even in his voice. "I want that match. You owe me."
"I don't, actually," Regal said gently. "I don't owe you anything. Now go home, lad. Just leave this where it is."
Ambrose looked away and mumbled something about "home" under his breath, something all mushed together that not even Regal - king of the mutterers - could make out.
"What was that?" he asked.
"Never mind," Ambrose said, shaking his head. "I'll figure it out. I want that match."
"Good night," Regal said simply, turning to climb into his car.
He glanced in his rearview mirror just once after he drove away.
Ambrose was standing in the same place, head down, good hand stuffed in his pocket - a lone figure in the middle of an empty ocean of a dark carpark.
(Idon'tgotaridehome.)
xXx
"I had the match won," were the first words out of Roman's mouth backstage. Low words, a rumble from deep in his chest. The knuckles around his vest's neckline were white. "I had it won, Ambrose. Why the hell did you do that? I could have ended it right then and there."
He'd pulled to an abrupt stop in the stubby little hallway just past Gorilla position, turning on his heel to stare Dean down.
Dean, red-faced and sweaty in his hoodie and leather jacket, lifted his chin. "All you were gonna do was win a match, Rome. That wouldn't have ended shit. You can't just win one fucking match and expect those fuckers to walk away. Doesn't work like that."
"Oh, so suddenly you're the big Wyatt expert, huh?"
"I think I got a better idea how Wyatt thinks than you do."
"Takes crazy to know crazy, I guess."
They were standing close enough together they'd have butted foreheads if either of them leaned forward.
And, fuck, they looked like they wanted to.
Seth took that as his cue to push between them, one palm on each of his teammates' chests, cutting Dean off in the middle of whatever he'd been saying. "Hey, hey, hey. Knock it off, guys. Calm down." He swore to God it felt as hot as a lava pit in the little gap he wedged himself into. "Don't start this shit, all right? Not now."
"I had the match won, Seth," Roman protested.
"Maybe." Seth realized his left hand was touching nothing but air, and looked around in time to see Dean slouch back against a wall. The big inside pocket of Dean's leather coat had flapped out during the scuffle; jerky hands tucked it into place. He wasn't looking at either Seth and Roman again, and Seth checked a sigh.
Some days it like trying to herd cats.
Roman retreated a step, too, arms folded over his chest as he gave Seth a narrow look. "What do you mean maybe?"
"I mean, yeah, you would've won the match, but, honestly, I think Dean's right - even if you'd beat him, it still wouldn't be over. It's not over. So we gotta take this back to the drawing board. Figure out a new strategy. You know? 'Cuz it's pretty obvious we can't do this one-on-one, right? Wyatt's gonna bring Dumb and Dumber no matter what he says, and we're at our best when it's the three of us working together anyway."
He looked at Dean and Roman in turn, daring either of them to contradict him.
Neither one said a word.
"So lemme think it over," he went on, charging straight into the tense silence like a bull going after a red cape. "We're gonna have to bring something big to the table to end this crap once and for all, so let me kick a few things around, and then we'll sit down together and hammer it out. All three of us. All right? And hey," he added, "look at the bright side, Rome: you had him beat, so you know you'd kick his ass in a fair fight. And Dean, man, seriously, you were fuckin' awesome out there. And we took our damn yard back tonight. Didn't we? We won the night. So let just not fucking do this, okay? Just - let's get our shit and get on the road."
Roman lifted his chin. "I would kick his ass in a fair fight."
"Abso-fuckin'-lutely," Seth said. "And everybody knows it. You're the man, Rome."
"So are you, baby." A small smile chased away some of the dark in his eyes. He unfolded his arms and reached over to hook one around Seth's shoulders. "The way you just kinda shot up out of nowhere, that was crazy. Human cannonball. I love it when you do that."
Seth relaxed against him. They were both sweat-damp, and Seth's skin was kind of crawling with the need for a shower, but he didn't let himself worry about that. The tension appeared to have broken a little - enough - and when he tried on a smile of his own, it fit just fine. "Yeah, and how about Dean going all Hulk smash Harper? That was pretty badass, wasn't it?"
"Uh-huh," Roman said. His eyes never left Seth's. "We got this, right? The Wyatts. We got it."
"Of course we do," Seth assured him. He shook his hair out of his eyes and glanced over at Dean, who was watching them warily. The fingers of one hand were up near his shoulders again, drumming away. Always drumming or scratching because Dean was allergic to being still. "We got this, man."
"Yeah," was all Dean said. He pushed away from the wall and stepped around Seth and Roman. "All right. Well, I'm out. See you guys tomorrow."
Seth reached over and snagged hold of Dean's arm. "Whoa, whoa, whoa. Where you going?"
"I got a ride waitin," Dean drawled. He squinted at a point over Seth's shoulder. "My shit's already loaded up and I wanna get outta here, so…"
"Man, don't be like this," Seth said, tightening his grip. The leather creaked and crackled under his glove. "It's not that we don't trust you. We do. We just - we want to know exactly what went down. We're not accusing you of anything. It's just, you know, Regal being involved at all kind of sketches me out. I don't like it."
"Makes two of us," Roman put in. "What does he want?"
"Nothing," Dean said, tugging his arm free. "Not him we need to worry about, anyway. It's Wyatt. I don't know what the fuck he's doing, but he's up to something. Tryin' to push us apart or something. I don't know."
This time, Seth and Roman fell into step with him when he walked away. Seth shot Roman a quick frown. "Dude, we know Wyatt's fucking with us, okay? But we wanna talk about Regal. I don't care if you don't. We gotta know that him helping you out or whatever last night was just a one-time thing."
He had way too many bad memories of the ugly, obsessive mess Dean had been during his whole Regal phase - Dean stupid-drunk and screaming at the top of his lungs when Regal refused the match, Dean punching holes in the wall of his apartment, the way Dean pushed everyone away.
Including Seth, with whom he'd actually sparked something not all that long after the first Regal match.
Dean went well and truly off the deep end, and it was months after that second match before he was anything like himself again.
They rounded the corner that led to the main hall, and of course Regal was there - halfway down, leaning against the wall across from the locker room in his usual black suit.
Of fucking course he was.
"What if it's not?" Dean asked suddenly. His eyes were on Regal.
Seth shrugged out of Roman's grip and stepped around to put himself between Dean and Regal. "What are you doing, Dean?" he demanded, voice pitched to stay in the small gap between them. "Huh? What the hell is this?"
"It's not what you think," Dean said, gaze flicking to Seth and over to Roman and back. "This ain't like it was. I'm not. He's not. I just - I dunno. Like, I feel like I need my own space lately. And I'm kinda gettin' the impression you guys want your space, too. Which, hey, if that's the case, then just fuckin' say so. I'm not gonna freak if you don't want me in your bed anymore. Not like I can't fill my own."
All too aware of who was standing behind them, Seth shook his head. There was time and place for this conversation, and this was definitely not it. "It's not like that, man. We just-"
"It is like that, Seth," Roman said over him. "It's exactly like that. Dean, we don't wanna hurt your feelings, man, and you know we love you like a brother, but Seth and I want to give this a real shot. We're crazy about each other. You know? We can't help it. I can't." A big hand found its way to Seth's elbow. "I love him, man. But as far as the team goes, it's still us three. All equals."
Seth, caught between wanting to slug Roman and hug him, grabbed Dean's shoulder. "This team is still a fucking team. We're all equals, Dean. You understand that? This doesn't change anything. We train together, we ride together, we fight together. You got our backs, we got yours. Okay? All that changes is maybe we don't stay together anymore. Which - I know it sucks for you, and, like, I'm sorry about that. Maybe we can work something out with-"
"Don't worry about it," Dean cut him off. He'd gone pretty tight, but he didn't look very surprised. "I'll figure something out. Okay? It's fine. I told you, I could tell. It's cool. You guys know I'm not into the whole, y'know, hearts and flowers shit anyway, so – yeah. Whatever. So…" He cleared his throat. "We good?"
Roman said, "Depends on you, Ambrose. Are you good? No problems with this?"
"Nope," Dean said. He even smiled. It a fragile little thing, looked brittle and ready to collapse at any second, but Seth guessed it was better than nothing. "It's all good guys. I'm cool."
"Good," Roman said, smiling himself. "Like Seth said, it's-"
"Don't, Rome," Dean said. "I don't - just...don't. It's fine. But, yeah, I'm gonna get outta here."
"Ride with us," Seth said. He squeezed Dean's shoulder. "Come on. You got a better feel for how Wyatt thinks than I do. Help me figure this shit out."
But Dean shook his head. "We can do that tomorrow. Meet up for breakfast or something. But right now, I just kinda wanna have my own space, like I said. You know? Not think about this shit."
"Then we don't talk," Seth said, shrugging, He dropped his hand. "I just - I don't want you around him. Seriously. People don't change, okay? They don't. He doesn't. He fucked you up last time and it was months before I got you back. I don't wanna go through that again."
Dean rolled his eyes. "You won't, Seth. Jesus, chill out. I'm not going back to that. You got nothin' to worry about. So don't. Just watch out for Wyatts, all right? Watch your backs. See you tomorrow."
With that, he squeezed between Seth and the wall, and walked over and then past Regal, who turned to shoot Seth and Roman a nasty little smirk before he headed off to catch up with Dean.
"I fucking hate that guy," Seth said shakily. His stomach was in a fucking knot all of a sudden, and he wished to God Wyatt or somebody would have walked around the corner right about then because it would have given him somebody to take his frustrations out on. "I really fucking hate that guy."
Roman's arm sneaked around his shoulders again. "I do, too, but what can you do? We can talk 'til we're blue in the face, but Dean's going to do what he's going to do. You know it and I know it."
"I just - this fucking Regal thing, man…"
"I know, Seth," Roman said. "I was there. I remember. We won't let it get that far."
"How are we gonna stop it?" Seth asked, looking bleakly up at the empty hall. "We just told him we wanted him out. We just told him don't want him to stay with us anymore, and he ran straight to Regal. Dude, we just fucking pushed him that way. God dammit. Why did you have to say that? I told you I wanted to wait."
He could hear Roman's teeth grinding together. "He's not stupid. He knows the score. I didn't see any point lying to him about it. So don't get mad at me. Just how it shook out. But if it helps, fine. I'm sorry I didn't stick to the plan. Okay?" He pushed some of the sweat-matted blond hair off Seth's forehead and dropped a kiss across Seth's temple. "I love you."
"Dammit, Rome," Seth grumbled. "I'm trying to be mad here. Quit being all logical and, like, romantic and shit. I hate it when you do that."
"Gets your motor going, doesn't it?"
"It's distracting."
"Maybe you need distracted."
"It's not enough of a distraction."
"Big shower in the locker room," Roman said, nosing Seth's cheek like a playful puppy, "and I think most everyone's cleared out by now. Might help with some of this tension. Put you in a better state of mind so we can talk all this stuff out tonight. Or you can talk and I can listen. Whatever you need. Okay? You got me. You get that? You got me, and we will figure this out. We'll fix it. So. Uh. Is that enough?"
Seth touched his forehead to Roman's. "Fuck you," he mumbled, snickering. "Sayin' all that shit just so you can get in my pants. I see how you are."
Roman's chuckle vibrated through Seth's chest. "Oh, come on. You gotta admit that was pretty good, even for me."
"Yeah, yeah, yeah. Fucker." But he slid his own arms around Roman's back. His anchor while everything felt like it was blowing the fuck apart around him. "Love you too. Now come on. Let's go test out that shower."
xXx
Luke Harper wasn't much of a praying man, but as he knelt in the dirt on some lonely side-road in the middle of a frigid night, he found himself praying to anyone who'd listen that he'd survive.
Bray paced back and forth in front of Luke and Erick like a starving tiger. He hadn't even bothered to put his back on, so his hair was flying wild all over the place.
He hadn't said a single word since Ambrose showed up, either, and that was the scariest part of all.
But now he did. "She's angry," he said, fists at his temples. "She's cryin. Heart's just broken. I can feel her. How did he get away, boys? How did her little rabbit escape our snare?"
"Maybe…" Luke swallowed. He shifted to get a rock out from under his kneecap. "Maybe the rope got loose."
"Mayhap," Bray said, gravel crunching under his feet as he paced. "But you've never had one get out of that before. Those knots were tight. I saw myself."
"Somebody could have seen," Erick put in, his voice muffled behind his cracked sheep's mask. "There were people in the hall."
Bray jerked to a stop so suddenly that both Luke and Erick flinched away. "Who?" he demanded, pushing right up against Erick's mask. "Who saw?"
Erick stammered out a few names, hesitated, and then added, "But I didn't see nobody follow me out. Swear to it. I's watchin."
"I'm sure you were," Bray said, straightening away. "Cowards and narcissists, all of them. I doubt any of them ever look beyond the edges of their own shadows." He resumed his pacing. "They're all cowards. From John Cena all the way down, they're liars and thieves and ignorant hypocrites - pigs content to live in their own filth. We'll lead them all out of the dark, just like I led you two, but first, we've got to do this one thing for Abigail. She's asked us for so little and given us so much. We have to get him for her.
"And we will, boys, we will. Him for her, and the others for you. Tomorrow. Tomorrow - ashes, ashes, it all falls down. He's got the whole world, in his hands…"
Bray looked up at the sky as he sang, and for the first time in his life, Luke found himself shivering in a way he was pretty sure had nothing to do with the cold.
xXx
On the way out the door, Ambrose had turned and said, "You care if I ride with you?"
Startled, but inwardly pleased, Regal had said, "Not at all. But weren't you going to-"
"I don't wanna talk about it," Ambrose had said over him. He'd pulled his coat tight around him, shoulders bunched up against the cold. "I don't wanna talk about anything."
"Fair enough," Regal had said.
There was not another word spoken between them for the duration of the ride. Ambrose sat awake, staring moodily out at the passing late night traffic, while Regal simply drove and left him alone to his sulk.
The radio provided passable enough company, in any case, as it always did, and kept the silence from feeling terribly leaden.
He spent his time mulling over the possibilities for revenge on the Wyatts, what it was Rollins and Reigns had said to Ambrose to make him walk away from them, his new role with the WWE, mind drifting easily from one thing to the next and back again in a slow cycle that he found damned relaxing - despite some of the darker things he was thinking about Wyatt.
Wyatt's sudden interest in Ambrose was troubling, and as reluctant as Regal still found himself to become involved, he was still glad he'd gone looking when he had. The thought of what Wyatt and company would be doing to him right now honestly made Regal's stomach turn - enough he made himself move on to avenues of thought that weren't apt to make him angry enough to throttle the steering wheel.
And if he glanced to his right a couple times, well, it was just to see if Ambrose had fallen asleep.
Certainly wasn't to reassure himself.
The miles passed agreeably enough, and before he knew it, bright city lights beat back some of the dark around them, and the signs telling him they were nearing Milwaukee began appearing at regular intervals.
He broked the silence, finally, by asking Ambrose where he was booked to stay.
"Wherever you are, I guess," Ambrose said, shrugging. And then frowned, as if it occurred to him what he'd just said. "I's supposed to stay with Seth and Roman, but that's not a thing anymore, so I gotta get a room somewhere else. So wherever you're staying's fine. Easier that way."
"That it is," Regal said. He didn't ask any of the dozen or so questions he wanted to ask. Instead, he offered, "Of course, if you wanted to save your money, I think I've got a double again. It wouldn't be any trouble."
"'Kay," Ambrose said. "Yeah, I don't know. But, uh. You know. Thanks."
"Sure," Regal replied. "And for whatever it's worth, I am sorry about that bit in the locker room this afternoon. I wasn't trying to cause any friction."
Ambrose sighed, a sound like the long hiss of a flame along a gunpowder trail. "Bullshit you weren't. It's you, Regal. When do you not cause friction?"
"When I'm asleep," Regal said. "That's probably the only time. Incidentally, hello, pot. I'm kettle."
That at least earned him a snort. "You probably still manage piss people off in your dreams. Or, you know, you manage to, like, infiltrate other people's and piss 'em off there."
Regal chuckled. "I don't doubt it a bit. Nor, I should add, would I be surprised to discover the same for you."
"Yeah, me neither."
He didn't seem inclined to say anything else, and Regal left him alone again as he concentrated on not getting them lost.
Things stayed quiet as Regal checked them in, and as they carried their things up to the room, and as Ambrose disappeared to have a shower. Regal got changed himself for bed, fatigue settling in like a heavy fog just as he pulled the duvet cover back and got himself comfortable.
He tucked his hand under his head and just watched as Ambrose exited the bathroom, dressed now just in a pair of shorts. The livid marks on his neck appeared to have faded a bit, but he appeared to have acquired a fist-sized bruise on his right side, just below his ribcage.
Bloody Wyatts.
Ambrose got himself arranged in his bed and turned on the television, turning the volume low enough it didn't keep Regal from drifting off to sleep.
Once again, though, he didn't stay that way long, because he blinked himself awake when he felt his bed shift.
Just enough light drifted in through a gap in the curtains he could see Ambrose sat on the edge of the bed, his back to Regal, hunched forward, head down with elbows on his thighs and arms crossed over his stomach. His fingers tapped a rhythm like an erratic heartbeat against his arm.
"Hey," Regal murmured.
Ambrose's head whipped around. "Huh?"
Regal shifted over a bit to make room, then pulled the duvet cover back. "Come here."
Probably a bad idea, this, but he was honestly too damned tired to care.
There wasn't enough light to see Ambrose's expression, but eventually, Ambrose shifted around and slid in under the covers. He wound up lying on his back, but pulled close to the edge where he'd sat, leaving a noticeable gap between them.
Regal didn't say anything, just looked across his pillow at the dark shape next to him, and waited, figuring if Ambrose had something to say, he'd say it.
After a long stretch of quiet, Ambrose said, "What the fuck was he gonna do to me? Wyatt? Why does he keep…?" His voice had taken on that heavy rasp, the words rough at the edges. "What he does he want?"
"I don't know," Regal admitted. He turned to his side and moved a bit closer, enough he could comfortably reach across the blanket and settle a hand on Ambrose's blanket-covered chest. "I don't quite understand why drives a man like Wyatt myself, honestly. But, lad, don't dwell on that - on what he would have done. There's no point. It didn't happen. Nothing happened."
Not much of a reassurance, considering, but being comforting at a time like this was rather far out of Regal's purview.
"Pretty sure I pissed him off today," Ambrose said quietly. "His neck. Maybe that had something to do with it."
"Possibly," Regal allowed. "That was you. I thought so."
"Yeah. I - for what he did. You know? I just wanted to, like, to show him I got bite, too."
"From what I hear, you nearly ripped his throat out." Regal's hand drew absent circles across the blanket. "I wouldn't have blamed you. Don't think anyone would've. Wish I would've been there to see it."
"...yeah," Ambrose murmured vaguely. "I don't think he's gonna stop."
"I think you're right," Regal admitted. "Whether it's you or your team, seems he's after something. Don't wander off alone, lad. Stick by your team or stay in areas where you've got people around. The more the better. I doubt very much he wants witnesses."
"He doesn't," Ambrose said through a yawn.
Regal yawned himself. "You need to be careful. I know that word doesn't exist in your vocabulary, but until this is over, you need to be. Don't let yourself get caught out alone. All right?"
Seemed fairly important he got that point across.
He'd make it a hundred times if he had to - make a sign and hang it around the damnfool boy's neck, if that was what it took.
"Yeah," Ambrose said, "all right. Okay. Okay."
"All right," Regal said. "Now get some sleep, lad."
He patted Ambrose's chest and started to pull his hand back, but one of Ambrose's slipped out from under the blanket and caught hold of his wrist, keeping it in place on his chest. His grip was tight, but not painfully so; his thumb ran back and forth just above Regal's wrist, a small, light bit of movement.
For a moment, the only sound in the room was their breathing - Ambrose's heavy and slow, and Regal's quiet and even.
He braced himself for those four damned words he knew were coming, the word 'no,' already shaping itself in his mouth.
But Ambrose squeezed his wrist once, lightly, and then let go, mumbling, "G'night." He pulled his hand back under the blankets, squirmed about a bit, and then settled in with a sigh.
Regal shook his head and murmured, "Good night," as he made himself comfortable again.
Fortunately, the bed was large enough not to feel crowded.
If someone had told him eighteen months ago ago he'd wind up sharing a bed with the man hellbent on ending his career, he would've laughed.
Or, honestly, if someone had said that just the day before yesterday.
And yet here he was, and it was actually-
It wasn't so-
Well.
His life just ridiculous sometimes, that was all.
xXx
Ambrose was still Ambrose, though, and, sometime after dawn, Regal slipped back into bed after a quick trip to the toilet to find half-lidded blue eyes watching him from across the bed. Ambrose was on his side, knees drawn up.
One of Ambrose's hands wandered out from under the blankets and made its way across the gap, back of his fingers ghosting lines along Regal's forearm from wrist to elbow.
This time, though, Ambrose didn't say anything.
Didn't need to: the light scratch of his fingernails and the heat in his eyes were saying plenty.
Regal waited for the 'no' - that heavy oak door - to slam into place, the word to shape itself like a dagger in his mouth, that impulse to push away rather than pull in to kick in and derail him.
All he felt was warmth pooling low in his belly, desire slow-curling up his spine like smoke.
Maybe, he thought, maybe not hearing the words for once made a difference.
Or maybe he was just tired of fighting himself over something he didn't have to.
Or maybe…
Or maybe…
Maybe it didn't even matter.
He sat partway up, giving himself just enough room to strip off his shirt, eyes never leaving Ambrose's - wanting to savor the startled hitch of eyebrows, the surprised twitch of a smile.
Telling everything in his brain moaning this was a bad idea to bugger off, Regal moved to straddle Ambrose's hips.
He leaned over, not to kiss Ambrose - not yet - but to breathe four words of his own into Ambrose's ear.
"I want you, too."
He felt the wicked curve of a smile like a knife's blade against his neck, and knew, oh he knew, he was in trouble.
But as he moved in for the kiss - for the kill - he couldn't have cared less.
xXx
November 2011
A month or so after the match with Ambrose, Regal found himself - unsurprisingly - the last one out of the arena. He'd gotten a bit lost in thinking about the upcoming traveling he'd be doing in the next couple of weeks, and time had rather slipped away from him.
As he made his way across the dark carpark, he saw his wasn't the only car left.
Rollins' ugly little blue thing was still there, parked next to one of the light posts.
But what nearly drew Regal short was the fact Rollins was pressed up against it, either being mauled or rather thoroughly kissed by Dean bloody Ambrose.
Regal was just close enough he heard Rollins' choked-off moan, and guessed it was the latter.
Made his stomach twist - just distaste, he told himself, only that - and he couldn't quite keep himself from calling over, "Good night, lads."
Rollins jumped a foot in the air and shoved Ambrose back. "Uh…"
Ambrose, meanwhile, merely turned and shot Regal a sharp little smile, like he'd known Regal was there.
Probably had; honestly, Regal wouldn't have put it past him to do this deliberately.
"I want my rematch, Regal," he said, swiping his lower lip.
Regal kept right on walking.
"Don't be a pussy, Regal!" Ambrose called after him. "Fuckin' fight me."
Once again, Regal said nothing.
As he drove off, he risked a look in his rearview and saw Rollins was backed up against his car again and Ambrose had gone down to his knees in front of him.
Regal doubted very much he was praying.
When he got home that night, Regal began preparing mentally himself for the war he knew was coming.
A/N: Thanks for reading.