Thank you, sincerely, to those who've read and reviewed this beast. Warning for non-con and general mindfuckery. This will get ugly. Enjoy.

VII. "'Will you step into my parlor?' said the spider to the fly."

The hotel bar was neither crowded nor empty.

It was neither posh nor particularly dumpy.

It was just a bar, bland beige wood tables and uninteresting neon beer signs scattered here and there, a few televisions playing soundless sports above an unadorned bar, no dartboards or pool tables to provide any sort of distraction, a little less than half-full, and relatively quiet - only the low murmur of conversation to fill the void spaces.

The two of them sat across a small table from one another like a couple of old chess players, sizing each other up over their drinks: a beer in a green glass bottle for Ambrose and a glass of scotch and soda for Regal.

(More for politeness's sake on Regal's part; the bottle (among other things) had bitten him hard enough years ago to leave some nasty scars - several of which, like his estrangement from most of his family and many of his mates, were of the permanent variety, and far worse than any he'd ever sustained in the ring. Almost ten years after he'd climbed out of the bottom of the barrel, he still had to remind himself to be careful.

Especially considering he who he sat across from right now.)

Nothing said as yet, just sly, slanted looks passed between them, Ambrose's eyes narrowed but bright with mischief and amusement, one corner of his mouth pulled up, and Regal sat back and mirroring.

Thrill of the chase, and so on, and he was already enjoying himself.

Eventually, Ambrose slid his beer bottle forward - pawn to e4 - and folded his forearms on the table.

Regal picked up his glass - pawn to e5 - but didn't drink.

"So," Ambrose said then, "hypothetically speaking, if Cena and Wyatt did ever lock up, who do you got?"

"Hmm." Regal took a small sip and set the glass back down. As openers went, it wasn't quite what he'd expected, but he supposed he could work with it. "In an ideal world, they'd destroy one another. That's the only good outcome. Everything else is lose-lose. One wins, and the other is still bloody here. The cancer and the monster. Still, having said that, in a one-on-one fight, I'll take Cena every time."

Ambrose frowned at that. "Why?"

Inclining his head, Regal sat back. "Think about it," he said. "You tell me."

"Uh." Ambrose's fingers idly skimmed his bicep in slow circles, and Regal caught himself wondering if Ambrose was even aware he was doing it. Ambrose continued to frown down at the table, looking a bit like a pupil who'd been given a particularly difficult logic problem to work out. Finally, without looking up, he said, "I mean, the easy answer is 'cuz he's Cena and he's like fuckin' Superman. But I don't think that's what you mean."

"Not exactly, no."

"Well, I mean, he's Cena, right?" Ambrose picked up his beer and sat back, eyebrows still pinched together. He took a drink and glanced at Regal. "He's fake. Like, all that good shit he does, it ain't 'cuz he's trying to be a good guy, even though he plays like he is. And, like, he's gotta know people know that. Like Wyatt and whatever. Right? I mean, I know he's got a head like a block of wood, but he can't be that deaf."

Regal smiled slowly. "Go on."

"So he plays on that. Throws out the shit jokes and acts like he doesn't give a fuck. But, like, I've seen him really watching people. You know? Like he watches matches and he's - oh. Yeah. Okay. So while somebody like Wyatt is going after the shit Cena wants him to, Cena's figuring Wyatt out for real."

"Exactly," Regal said, nodding. "Cena's no fool. He's been around long enough to know how to play the game on his own terms. He'll let Wyatt play his mind games, but when the time comes, he'll have Wyatt scouted so well you'll wonder why Wyatt even bothered climbing into the ring."

"Yeah," Ambrose said, "if it's just Wyatt." He took another long drink of his beer, burped quietly into his fist, and then set the bottle down again, elbows coming to rest on the table behind it. "But if those two inbred hillbilly assholes get involved, that's gotta change the odds."

"That it does. So I suppose the question for Cena is whether or not he can have them barred from ringside. Which I reckon he can. And, of course, that's even assuming you and your mates leave anything left of the Wyatts to make it that far."

Ambrose's whole expression darkened. "Not fuckin' happenin," he muttered. "I swear to God, if we have to tear the whole building down to end this war Monday, we will."

"You're likely going to have to," Regal said. "I rather doubt he'll stop."

"I know. He's a sick fuck, isn't he – which coming from me is saying something." Before Regal could answer that, Ambrose snapped his fingers and said, "Oh, hey, speaking of sick, I meant to ask you - you see his fuckin' neck today?" He ghosted fingers over the side of his own in unconscious imitation. "All cut up and shit. The fuck do you think happened there?"

"Ah, yes, I was planning to mention that," Regal said, running a finger around the rim of his glass. Not nervous, exactly, but conscious this might not go over terribly well. "I paid him a visit before the show this evening. Since he saw us together this afternoon, I thought it best just to let him know that I'm aware of what's going on. I did warn him off while I was there, but I doubt it mattered. Seems rather set on bringing you over to his side, which…" He shook his head, frowning. "Considering what he did to you, I'm not exactly sure how he expects to accomplish that. By force, I reckon, but even then…"

"Even then," Ambrose said, voice gone clear and cold, "first chance I had, I'd rip his goddamn throat out."

"I did tell him that." Regal glanced up and found brilliant eyes watching him intently from across the table, and for once, Ambrose was still, leaned forward as if he was hanging on every word. "It barely registered. Seems he's rather set on this notion you won't be able to stand on your own if your mates aren't there to prop you up."

"The fuck? I don't need anybody to fuckin' prop me up."

"I know that." Regal took another small sip. "But you can see where he got that idea, can't you? The way you've been struggling in the ring lately, the way it seems you're more interested in proving you're better than Reigns than actually winning, all the in-fighting between you and your mates. Even I've noticed you haven't seemed quite yourself in some time - letting yourself become distracted by things that ultimately don't matter. Which is a recurring problem for you."

He kept his tone factual, almost apologetic, aiming more to inform than upset.

The jabs hit their mark anyway, as anger chased hurt across Ambrose's face. Fingers that had fallen still began scratching his biceps again. A slow flush spread up his neck like lava inching away from a volcano's mouth. His jaw worked, but not a sound came out.

It was still just as satisfying now as it had been two years ago, seeing that flicker of wounded pride.

The part of Regal that still remembered the weeks of horrible nausea and headaches and dizziness in the wake of their last FCW match was tempted to revel in it, to gloat, to laugh.

Knowing he still had it in him to cut Ambrose deep - probably deeper than anyone not named Rollins or Reigns, which was itself debatable - was rather a rather heady feeling.

The rest of Regal, though, the bigger part of him, had already licked those wounds clean long ago, and now chided himself for even entertaining the idea of settling for such a cheap, quick victory when there was a better one to be had in a few more moves.

He looked pointedly around the half-full bar and leaned forward, making and holding eye contact with the boy, who was still clearly struggling to come up with something to say. "Take a breath, lad," Regal told him, voice pitched low. "I know there's a lot of bad history between us, but I didn't mean it like that. I was only telling you what I've seen. It's exactly what Wyatt's seeing. Difference is, I know what you're actually capable of. He doesn't."

Wonder of wonders, Ambrose pulled in a few breaths, nostrils flaring while he made a visible effort to calm down. The scratching slowed, but didn't quite stop. Eventually, he unclenched his jaw enough to grind out, "He doesn't know shit about me. And neither do you."

"I think I know a little," Regal said. "Considering. Even if we haven't been around each other much recently, it doesn't mean I haven't been watching."

Ambrose gave him a narrow look. "You've been watching."

"Of course I have," Regal said. "I watch everything. It's part of my job."

"Right. Your job." A fist knocked lightly against the side of the table. "Probably been laughing your ass off along with everyone else, right?"

"Part of me was, I suppose," Regal admitted. "I won't lie and say I haven't gotten any satisfaction out of seeing you stumble, but for the most part I've been...baffled, I suppose. You've fallen so far away from who you were in Florida that I barely recognize you some days. All that talent and potential, and I haven't seen it put to much use. As I said - and, again, not to upset you - you've seemed more set on trying to prove you're better than Reigns than anything."

Ambrose snatched up his beer and drained half of it in a long gulp. He wiped his mouth on the heel of his hand and thumped the bottle back down. This time, he sat back and folded his arms over his chest. "I am better than him."

"I know," Regal said simply.

There was a pause. Ambrose, eyebrows pulled together again, seemed to be waiting for more. Regal merely looked at him, and Ambrose looked back, warily. "I am."

"I know."

"Do you?" A clear challenge.

"You're stumbling a bit right now, admittedly, but in a match, I'll take your cunning and resilience over Reigns' brute strength any day." That much was true. "You're far more experienced and far less predictable. As long as you avoided the big punch and the spear, I'm sure you'd find a way to win."

Blinking like someone had just woken him up, Ambrose closed his mouth. His Adam's apple bobbed.

"I don't even know why it's a question," Regal said. He took another slow sip of his drink, letting it roll around his mouth a bit before he swallowed it. "I really don't."

Ambrose's tongue flicked out along his lower lip. "'Cuz everyone says-"

"Oh, everyone says, do they?" Regal cut him off, not even bothering to let Ambrose finish that stupid statement. "Since when the bloody hell do you care what anyone says? When have you ever cared what anyone says?"

"I - don't, but, like, I hear shit and it - yeah, it fuckin' bothers me." One hand clenched on the table, white knuckles and taught tendons, while the other scratched at the fabric covering his elbow. "Mean, I know, okay? Roman's a fucking star. I know that. He's gonna go all the way to fuckin' top. And that's - it's, like, it's good. Good for him. He's – I mean, clearly he's good. And he deserves it. But for people to fucking sit there and say I'm the one holding him back? I'm holding the team back? Gimme a fuckin' break."

Regal nodded. "They've got it the other way 'round, haven't they? It's not you holding them back. It's you being held back. The pair of them tugging on your leash."

A quick flick of a look, all bright blue eyes like sunlight glinting on steel. "Yeah. And what's funny? Wyatt said the fucking thing to me yesterday. How Seth and Roman are pulling the leash so tight it's strangling me."

"Dogs, hounds, leashes - hardly a unique metaphor," Regal said dismissively. "Anyone who looks can see it. The point still stands."

"So, what, you think I should walk? Turn my back on my brothers? Wyatt thinks so."

"That's where we differ," Regal said. He polished off the last of his scotch and set the glass down. "I think you should walk away, but there's no need for you to be naughty about it - unless you want to. Free yourself of those distractions and then go do whatever you like. Do it your way, say things the way you want to, be who you are - not who anyone else wants you to. You don't need anyone standing over your shoulder telling you what to do."

"No," Ambrose said, eyes narrowing again. "No, I don't."

Regal waved him off. "But if you want to stay, then stay. I wouldn't think any less of you for choosing to stay loyal to your mates – in spite of what it's doing to your career, and despite the fact they haven't shown you much loyalty lately. Do whatever is in that maze of a brain of yours to do. Because all this-" he made some vague, all-encompassing gesture with a hand "-is just my opinion. It's pretty meaningless, push come to shove."

There was a bit of a pause before Ambrose shook his head and reached for his beer again. He drained the last of it, pushed the bottle away, and propped his chin up on his fists. He looked a bit tired all of a sudden. "Maybe," he eventually said. "Maybe not."

"Well, I suppose before you rush into anything, you ought to focus on Wyatt."

"I am. I will, I mean. This weekend. When me and the guys ride together, we'll - I mean, we'll figure it out. Figure something out." A lazy flick of one hand. "I just - I gotta ask, what the fuck are you doing? Like, you went and saw Wyatt. Why? I don't need you to fight my battles for me."

"No, you don't," Regal said, "but as he saw me with you earlier, I thought I'd best let him know I am not to be trifled with. That was more what it was about, although, yes, I did warn him off. As I said, I don't think it did much good, but one can hope."

"Huh," Ambrose grunted. "And trying to get me to walk away from Seth and Roman? What's that all about?"

"Makes it easier for me to take advantage of you, of course," Regal said, straight-faced. "Get you alone and vulnerable, prey on you because you're so weak you need someone strong and masterly to take control of you. Twist you around for my own sinister purposes. Make you do all manner of naughty things."

Ambrose's eyes actually went a bit cloudy at that. The corners of his mouth twitched. "Kinky."

"You like that?"

"Uh, well, I mean, the whole 'masterly' thing was kinda much, but - I swear to God I never said this - but that was actually kinda hot."

"Hot." Regal tried not to smile - really tried - but failed miserably. "Think so, do you?"

"In a 'that will never happen' kinda way, yeah."

"It might," Regal felt compelled to point out. "If you lost the bet, that might very well happen."

It might have been a trick of the light or just his imagination, but Regal could have sworn he saw color in Ambrose's cheeks. Ambrose cleared his throat, pushed a hand through his hair, swallowed. "Uh. Yeah. Uh, anyway, getting back to Seth and Roman – quit tryin' to distract me, you asshole."

Chuckling, Regal said, "Yes, yes, yes. Is it so inconceivable to you I want you to succeed? I spoke rather highly of you to a lot of people while you were in Florida, as you'll recall. I'm still hoping you'll prove me right. Getting you away from what's distracting you is a start."

"Highly of me?" Ambrose snorted. "Fuck, Regal, those first few weeks, I was amazed you didn't climb over the announce table and hump my leg. Or, you know, get stuck to the chair after you blew your load on air."

Regal kicked his shin. "Says the man who practically jumped me in his locker room."

Ambrose smiled, but the fingers that reached for his beer bottle seemed hesitant, slow, pausing halfway before finally reaching out to take it. "So what's with the bet?"

"I don't know," Regal admitted, shrugging. "Make things a bit more interesting, I suppose. Bit of fun."

"Oh." Nothing more, nothing less. Just oh. The Mona Lisa gave away more in her smile.

"Speaking of," Regal said then, "shall we head up? Or did you want another drink? More talking?"

"Fuck no," Ambrose said. "No more talking." His chair scraped obnoxiously over the tiled floor. "Let's go. I'm dying to see you lose."

Regal paused in the act of rising. "I won't."

"Yeah, you will."

"No, I won't. D'you know why?"

Ambrose folded his arms over his chest. "Why?"

Regal stepped very close and leaned forward to speak directly into Ambrose's ear. "Because, my dear boy, I know your dirty little secret: you're going to lose because you want to. The idea of letting me have my way with you for a night - oh, it gets your blood boiling, doesn't it? Makes your heart race. Why could I possibly do to you? Hmm? You want to know, don't you? So very badly."

He stepped away suddenly, not waiting for an answer.

A quick glance over his shoulder showed Ambrose still standing with one limp hand on the chair, his face slack, and his eyes fogged over.

Regal chuckled all the way to the elevator.

Check and mate, lad.

xXx

To his credit, the boy didn't make it easy, but eventually, he caved.

His eyes had nearly rolled back into his head, expression nothing but one sheer bliss, mouth sprung open, hands white-knuckling the duvet cover beside him. He was bucking and jerking under Regal, even with his ankles locked as they were around Regal's back.

Regal himself was buried to the hilt in that wonderful, tight heat, hair a sweat-matted curtain over his forehead, gasping and sweat-drenched and fairly dying to get off, hanging on by just a thread, one hand lightly squeezing Ambrose's throat and the other working Ambrose's cock in short, sharp little bursts - rapidly and tight, then slowing until Ambrose started moving against him, impatient and eager for more friction.

"Fuck," Ambrose panted, voice squeezed and thin. "Ohgodfuckjesus."

"Say it," Regal grated at him.

"No," Ambrose gasped back. "No fuckin' way."

"Then you don't come," Regal said, surging forward hard enough to make the headboard crack smartly against the wall. He was going to be bloody sore in the morning, he was sure, long as they'd been at this, but at the moment, he profoundly did not care. It had been far too long since he'd been able to have sex like this, unrestrained and without worry he was going to hurt his partner. He wasn't about to stop now. "Bloody say it."

"Oh fuck. Fu-huuuuck. I gotta - y'gotta...fuckin' let me come. Shit. I'm gonna…"

Regal stopped moving all at once - removed both hands and, even though it made him hiss at the loss of contact, pulled himself all the way out. "No," he said, sitting up on his knees. "No, you're not."

He took hold of Ambrose's damp hair and yanked his head up to force eye contact, ignoring . "Just say it. Say it and I'll finish you off. We both know you want to anyway, so stop being stubborn. Give me what I want and I'll give you what you want."

Ambrose batted Regal's hand away, weakly, then thumped his head back against the pillow, glassy eyes half-lidded and unreadable. "You're an asshole. And you better not fucking gloat. But fine. You win. Please, oh fucking please would you just finish me off already?"

Regal raised eyebrows at him. "That sounded more like a demand than you actually begging."

"Jesus fuck, I fucking said it, didn't I?"

"I think you can do better."

"Yeah, or I can just fucking finish myself off." Ambrose's hand strayed toward his still-erect cock.

"Get your hand away," Regal said, all dry authority. "Put it back where it was."

Ambrose's hand practically leapt back onto the duvet. He went very still, eyes widening.

Regal took hold of himself and lined back up, pushing forward slowly and smoothly until he was buried all the way in again. Slick as he was, as Ambrose was, it was easy.

Ambrose's head fell back onto the pillows again, and he made a quiet, almost helpless sound - a choked curse or a groan - that made Regal smile and swoop down for one more quick, hard kiss, one that was more teeth than anything - a light tug of Ambrose's bottom lip.

Regal rolled his hips. "Say it again," he rumbled into Ambrose's ear. "One more time, and I'll finish you."

Ambrose's hands wandered up from the mattress to latch together around the back of Regal's neck. "Fuck," he muttered, wincing. "You're killin' me here, Regal. I'm gonna fuckin' die. But fine. Please finish me off. Please? I can't-"

Regal cut him off with a hand over his mouth. "Shush. D'you want…?" He lifted his other hand back to Ambrose's throat. "Like that?"

A foggy sort of nod.

Smiling, Regal squeezed a bit and moved his other hand down.

And thought, Checkmate, as he squeezed with one hand and stroked with the other and watched through slitted eyes as Ambrose absolutely came apart, body bucking again and all manner of wonderfully strangled noises coming from him and his face dark red.

The look on his face when he finally went over was one of sheer, blissful relief.

Check bloody mate, Regal thought again, and raced to his own end.

xXx

After they washed up, they collapsed back down on the bed together, Ambrose on his stomach with both arms folded under his chin and Regal on his back with his arms tucked behind his head - not unlike the way they'd started out this morning.

Amazing, Regal reflected, yawning, the difference twenty-four hours made.

From 'no,' to being so bloody shagged out neither of them could properly keep their eyes open.

Best kind of truce there was, honestly., especially given what now lay ahead for them in Florida.

And, good lord, the possibilities...

Ambrose yawned widely himself, turning to rest his cheek on his forearms. "C'n hear you thinkin' still," he mumbled. "Why're you thinkin?"

Regal offered a crooked smile. "I'm really not," he said. "Mostly just trying to decide what I want to do with you while we're in Florida. As my prize. I've an awful lot of ideas."

"Asshole."

"A victorious one, though," Regal said smugly.

"Told you not to gloat."

"I'm not. I'm savoring. I don't win very often these days."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah. You're still an asshole. What're you gonna do?"

"Not sure yet. Right now, I'm thinking I might stick you in drag; or tie you up and torment you for hours on end - nothing horribly painful, but I can assure you it'd be more than a tickle; or perhaps something along the lines of just having sex with you on basically every available surface of my flat. I'd need the whole week for that, though."

There was a noticeable pause before Ambrose cleared his throat. "Well, I mean, you could - uh, you could have the week. For that. If you wanted. Um. The tying me up thing could, uh, that - um. Could be, like, fun, but you can't, like, leave marks or anything where anybody could see, if that's what you're talking about. And the drag thing? Only if I get, like, giant fake tits and a skanky dress. 'Cuz I'm gonna be an ugly fuckin' woman anyway, right? So might as well at least have big tits show how for it."

"You'd want to play with them yourself all night."

"Oh, totally."

"So you're all right with any of those options."

"Yep," Ambrose said easily. "Whatever."

Regal eyed him warily. "You're taking this better than I thought."

"Yeah, well, maybe you weren't wrong earlier," Ambrose mumbled into his forearms.

"I'm sorry, did you just say I was right about something?"

Ambrose turned away to flick the lamp off. "G'night, asshole."

Regal smirked, closed his eyes. "Good night, rotten bastard."

Despite all his exertions, his mind buzzed and hummed in a way he thought meant he'd probably lie awake a while, but exhaustion soon sank its claws in and tugged him down in a deep and dreamless sleep.

xXx

Dark.

It was so dark.

Hot, too, and hard to breathe.

Seth groaned and forced his eyes open halfway. Tried to. Bright, silvery pain sparked like lightning behind his eyes, and he slammed them shut again, groaning softly.

Whatever was making it hot and hard to breathe was pulled away from his face.

Dim light assaulted his eyes.

He held up a hand to fend it off.

Felt like he had the mother of all hangovers - his mouth sticky and dry, his head throbbing, and his stomach feeling shriveled and like it wanted to eject whatever it ate earlier.

"Fuck, Rome," he mumbled fuzzily, "what'd we do last night?"

Probably Dean had gotten them drunk - again.

The dick.

Someone laughed nearby, a quiet chuckle that thwacked against the inside of Seth's skull like a mallet. "Oh, little hound, I'm insulted," someone said, the words a rolling drawl that wasn't Dean's smoker's rasp or Roman's heavy baritone. "You've forgotten our special night already. How could you?"

With an effort, Seth lifted his head. Opened his eyes a little - enough.

Wyatt was a blurry figure in a dark corner of the room, rocking in a chair.

Memory hit like a wrecking ball crashing into the side of his head: being knocked out in the parking lot. And - fuck. Seth tried to look around, but suddenly realized something was holding him in place: his wrists arms were straight down between his knees, and tied tight to his ankles. He'd been laid out on his side, and couldn't do much to look around.

"Oh, he ain't in here," Wyatt said then, rocking away. "Your brother-hound is sawin' logs in the back of your car at the moment. And as long as you're an obedient little pup for me right now, there's no reason he can't stay there, safe and sound - nothin' worse than a little headache for his trouble. Whaddya say?"

"Fuck d'you want, Wyatt?" Seth asked muzzily.

"Not me who wants anything," Wyatt replied. He pulled his hat off and tossed it aside. "I'm doing this on behalf of a mutual acquaintance of ours. William Regal."

William Regal sends his regards.

The whole room seemed to be spinning, slow and lazy, like it was on some kind of carousel at a carnival. Seth could hear his heartbeat pounding in his ears. His hands were cold, and felt prickly, like they'd fallen asleep, tied as tightly as they were. When he shifted, it occurred to him he was on a bed, he realized, as mattress springs squeaked at him.

William Regal sends his regards.

"Fuck," he finally croaked, giving up on getting comfortable. "What does he want?"

"He already got it, little hound," Wyatt said, a smile in his voice. "Your so-called Lunatic Fringe."

"Dean?"

"Yes, indeed," Wyatt said. Harper and Rowan suddenly swam into Seth's line of sight, moving to stand on either side of Wyatt's rocking chair. "Down in Florida last year, my boys had a minor indiscretion. Nothing serious, but the sort of thing people like Triple H and Dusty Rhodes wouldn't have looked too kindly on. Regal found out about it, but offered to keep his silence in exchange for a favor to be called in at a time of his choosing.

"Last week, he came to us to call it in. He wanted us to corner Ambrose and hurt him. I am nothing if not a man of my word, so did that very thing the other night. Took him outside during our match. Knocked him out. Went back for him and tied him up so he couldn't get away. And I hurt him - badly - while Regal watched from the shadows, smiling.

"He smiled while I raped your brother."

Seth froze, mind in absolute freefall, lost somewhere between sick denial - no, no way - and disbelief and absolute horror.

"You're lying," he heard himself say, voice all rusty nails and ground glass. "That didn't happen."

"You saw the marks on his neck, didn't you?" Wyatt asked, voice sliding snake-like across the room. "Everyone saw them. 'That Ambrose,' they said. 'Big a whore as his mother.' He was such a good little lamb for me while I made those, docile and unresisting. Of course, Regal had me threaten the two of you to keep him from fighting me. It worked, too. Gentled him right down. He gave it up like the whore he is, and Regal just smiled. And it worked, didn't it? Ambrose fell right into his arms, ready to give it up to him."

There was a twist in those words, almost a snarl, but Seth was too shocky-blank to really register it properly.

His mind's eye, that fucking traitor, kept pushing forward that image of the pale cold of Regal's eyes while he'd stared down Seth and Roman earlier. The way Dean couldn't seem to see anything - anyone - else. The way they'd smiled at each other after Regal tugged Dean's hat down over his eyes.

He smiled while I raped your brother.

And, oh God, it made Seth just sick at heart to think about it.

He squeezed his eyes shut and prayed to anything listening this was just some kind of fucked up bad dream, that he'd open his eyes and be back in bed with Roman while Dean slept on the hotel room's other bed.

But nobody was listening.

When he opened his eyes, he was still in the same cramped, dimly-lit hotel room, and Wyatt and his boys were still in the corner - Wyatt rocking away in his white pants and tan hat and red flower-print shirt, and the other two in their usual grungy clothes - just watching him.

"I'll fucking kill you," Seth finally managed, the words coming out of some cold place in his heart. "You're a dead man, Wyatt."

"We're all dead men, little hound," Wyatt said laughing. "We are born dying. But it won't be you who pushes me to that end. No, indeed, I have a long and prosperous road ahead of me - for me and my family. You and yours, you're nothing but speed bumps on my road to John Cena. Ashes in my wake, as you put it."

"Then what the fuck do you want?"

"From you? I want nothing at all. Regal's the one with the old grudge. He's the one who asked me to take you and Reigns and confess what we did. He wants to gloat. I don't know exactly what his plan for your boy - your former boy - is, but I don't think it'll end in happily ever after." His rocking slowed down. "This is nothing more than Regal throwing it your face, and us being the vessel through which he's accomplishing that end."

Despite everything, Seth threw back his head and laughed. "Don't shoot the messenger? Is that what you're seriously telling me?"

"In so many words, yes."

"Fuck you, Wyatt." Seth pulled against the ropes, but that only made them tighten. "We're gonna bury you on Monday."

"We'll see about that." The rocking slowed. "There's one other thing, one last thing Regal asked us to do. To you both. The same thing I did to Ambrose. Just as a 'fuck you' to you two." Wyatt laughed again. "Literally."

Seth's pulse shot through the ceiling. "No," he said, struggling harder. "Don't."

"How about a deal, then? We'll let you out of those ropes if you'll go to your knees before us and put that mouth of yours to work. You take care of Luke and Erick real good and that'll be the end of it. We won't drag Reigns in here and make you watch what we do to him with this." He reached over for what looked like a souvenir miniature baseball bat that had some kind of wire - barbed or razor - wrapped around it. "What do you say?"

"Don't do this, Wyatt," Seth said. "Just let us go."

Wyatt settled his hat back on his head and got to his feet. He stalked slowly across the room like some kind of large cat stalking its prey, not stopping until he reached the edge of the bed. Kneeling, he looked Seth right in the eyes. "Tell you the truth, little hound, we don't want to do this at all. We want no part in this business. I hate William Regal. He's a bad man, and if we didn't owe him, we wouldn't be here now. We'd much rather be on our way home. But since we're here, you should know - you and Reigns - it'll be Ambrose we go hardest after on Monday. Regal wants us to, but Ambrose deserves it for being weak-minded enough to fall right back into the arms of a man he knows has it out for him. You and Reigns, you'd be better off letting it happen. Letting Regal have what he wants, not getting mixed up in it. Let Ambrose fall by the way. You two don't need him, anyway. Certainly don't want him - do you?"

Seth said nothing. Refused to let himself be goaded into answering.

Wyatt snapped out a hand and tangled it in Seth's hair, tight and painful. He yanked Seth's head back. "Do you? You and Reigns, you've paired off. Rightly. You make a handsome couple. Even better now that you're not carrying that extra weight. If I were you boys, I'd let Ambrose drown. It'd be the most humane thing to do."

He smiled while I raped your brother.

"Get your fuckin hands off me," Seth snarled. His eyes had begun to water from the way Wyatt had a hold of his hair. "Let me go. Don't fuckin' touch me."

Wyatt leaned in close, close enough Seth could feel the scratch of his beard, could smell the rotten meat stench of his breath. "Should we bring Reigns in here instead, then? Make you watch my boys take him instead?"

"No!" Seth's heart felt like it was slamming against the inside of his chest. "Don't you touch him."

Wyatt's mouth curved again, right against Seth's cheek. "Then on your knees or on your back - one way or the other, you're going to give my boys the reward I promised them."

Seth sent up a desperate prayer that Roman or somebody would kick the door down and get him out of this mess, but once again it fell on deaf ears.

He swallowed.

"Fucking untie me."

"Back or knees?"

"Knees. Hurry the fuck up. Let's get this shit over with.'

Wyatt kissed his cheek. It was all Seth could do to keep from gagging. "Just remember two things, little hound: you wouldn't be in this situation if not for Regal and Ambrose, and if you fight or bite or try to run once we let you go, you'll get the bat. Understood?"

Seth glared at him best he could. "I won't. Why the fuck are you still talking?"

Another kiss, this one on the mouth, and then Wyatt pushed away, chuckling. "Good boy."

Turning his head, Seth spat on the moldy blue bedspread, trying to get the feel and taste of Wyatt away from him.

"Get him untied, boys," Wyatt said, resuming his place in his chair. "He's all yours."

Seth closed his eyes and tried to think about nothing but the snow outside.

xXx

It was horrible.

Wyatt sat in the corner, humming, while Harper and Rowan stripped Seth naked. They pushed him back and forth between them the same way they had outside the ring last night, from one to the other and back, in a horrid mix of textures and rough touches and tastes. He gagged and choked and at one point nearly passed out from lack of oxygen. A hard slap across the face brought him back, made his eye water, fucking infuriated him to the point he almost bit down on what Rowan stuffed in his mouth.

Roman, he reminded himself.

He'd cut off his own foot before he let them have at Roman.

So he fucking did it, finishing the job with his eyes closed and his mind on getting Roman the fuck out of here. After it was all over, he raced into the disgusting little bathroom, went back to his knees over the toilet and threw up - violently, stomach just heaving with a sudden, desperate need to get rid of what he just had to swallow.

The bile burned his throat, but he'd take that taste any day.

Any fucking day of the week.

Shaking still (the little bathroom was cold and he was still naked), he climbed to his feet and moved to cup water into his hand. He glanced at himself in the mirror: wide, starey eyes, hair a mess from being grabbed and tugged, one cheek slapped red.

His head throbbed and his stomach felt about as shriveled up as a raisin, but he was okay otherwise.

Alive, anyway.

Ready to get Roman.

Ready to go find Dean.

Ready to murder Regal and the whole fucking Wyatt family.

But mostly just ready to get the fuck out of here.

He snagged a towel off the rack and wrapped it around his waist. It wasn't big enough - not by half, but he twisted it to cover his junk and held it closed against his waist.

But when he got back into the room, he found it empty.

The Wyatts had disappeared, just as completely as if they'd never been there. Which was just creepy as hell: they'd even taken their rocking chair with them.

All that remained was a set of rental car keys on the dresser.

Breathing out a sigh of relief, Seth reached for his shirt and began to dress.

xXx

He found Roman in the trunk of the car, tied up in the same uncomfortable knees-to-wrists way Seth himself had been. Roman was wide awake and hot-eyed enough he probably could have melted steel.

Didn't look like he'd been touched.

"Hang on," Seth said, reaching for one knot. "I'm gonna get you out of there."

"What. Happened?" Roman asked, deep voice gruff. The menace was somewhat undercut by how hard he was shivering: it was frigid out, snow pounding down fast and furious, and even if the trunk had provided protection against that, it didn't have any heat.

"I'll explain here in a minute," Seth said, his own teeth chattering. He fumbled one knot undone and reached for the second. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," Roman said, rolling his wrist. "My head hurts, but I'm fine. Are you?"

Seth's thick, stupid fingers managed to untie the second knot. "I'm not hurt."

He stood back while Roman stretched himself out and finally climbed out of the trunk. The big man rolled his shoulder, popped his neck, and raised his arms to the sky. Then he stepped forward and settled hands on Seth's shoulders. "You're not hurt," he said. "But are you okay?"

No, Seth tried to say. No, I'm not.

But his throat was suddenly so tight he couldn't say a fucking thing, so he threw his arms around Roman's shoulders, burying his face against the cold side of Roman's neck as the snow rushed down around them from a bruised purple sky.

xXx

A/N: Chapter title is from the poem "The Spider and the Fly." I feel it's relevant. (BTW - I wouldn't trust what Wyatt told Seth here. All I'm saying.) Thanks for reading.