A/N: Thanks, as ever, to all you lovely readers and reviewers! Lateral movement this time, rather than forward. Some Ambrollins backstory. Enjoy.
VIII. Patches
Early November, 2012 - I
"Dude, no," Seth said from his side of the bed.
Early November evening in an Orlando hotel bed. Heyman hadn't wanted to meet with them in Tampa (dude was paranoid somebody would figure out what he was up to), so he'd had Seth, Dean, and Roman all make the drive to Orlando.
"Why?" Dean asked. He tossed some popcorn into his mouth and chewed on it in the most obnoxious way he could.
Deliberately. Because he was a jerk.
Seth slugged him in the arm. "Close your fucking mouth. And because. That's why."
"Come on," Dean wheedled, propping up on one elbow. "You said you wanted to try a threesome."
"I said maybe. Sometime. And definitely not with a straight guy we work with."
Dean shook his head. "Not straight. Bi."
Seth sat up on both elbows, eyes narrowing. "How do you know?"
"He told me today." Dean tossed a piece of popcorn in the air and caught it in his mouth. "Well. I mean, I got it out of him. Might not've been, like, completely voluntary, but…"
"What did you do?"
"Me? Nothing." Dean was all mock innocence. "I caught him checking you out at the gym this morning, so I all walked by and I was like, 'Got a nice ass, doesn't he?' And gets all flustered, like, 'What? No, dude. I wasn't looking.' All macho straight guy shit or whatever. And I'm like, 'It's cool, but you know me and him are a thing, right?' He didn't. Said he doesn't pay attention to rumors and shit. But then he goes, 'So you're gay, then? You two.' I was like, 'Nope. Definitely wrecked our fair share of pussy, too.' And he goes, 'Oh.' And I went, 'Guessing that's you, too.' He goes, 'You could say that.' So there you go. Definitely not totally straight."
Seth tucked his hands behind his head, thinking. "You like him?"
"I mean, he's - okay. Like chill and shit. Definitely the, y'know, strong, silent type. Hot as fuck, too."
"Tall, dark, and handsome," Seth mused.
"See? Even you think so. Dude looks like he could go like a fucking champ."
"Yeah, he does," Seth admitted, reached over to trace the new muscles on Dean's stomach. "But, yeah, I dunno about that one."
Seth and Dean had hooked up first about a year ago - trading angry blowjobs in the FCW parking lot not long after Dean had had his first match with Regal, and right before after Antonio Cesaro decided to screw with Seth. Dean had actually stopped to warn Seth that Cesaro was gunning for him, which Seth had not only found weird, but thought was complete bullshit. He'd actually decked Dean, but that seemed to make the guy even more determined to make Seth listen. They'd gone round and round until almost midnight, yelling and kicking the crap out of each other, and basically just behaving like a couple of assholes, getting all the old animosity and shit out of their systems in a way that Dean at one point said probably would've given Dusty a fucking stroke.
And it was that - Dean doing a ridiculously good impression of Dusty - that finally snapped the tension, and they both fell against Seth's car, laughing and bloody and fucking exhausted and Seth couldn't fucking remember who kissed who first, but he remembered shoving Dean away, so it was probably Dean who did. And it was definitely Dean who kissed him the second time, hard and fast, crushing and bruising, and this time Seth didn't push him away.
First of many he didn't back away from - no matter how many times and how many ways he told himself he should.
Dean had cost him the FCW 15 title last month and had been nothing but a constant thorn in his side from day fucking one, and all Seth wanted to do - all he should have done - was kick Dean's ass from here 'til next month.
But instead, he kissed back - adrenaline high and punch-drunk - and didn't say no when Dean's hands scrambled to free his dick, and definitely didn't say no when, after Seth stood up and leaned back against the car, Dean sucked him off like a goddamn champ.
He never said no.
Because he was an idiot.
But he never said no.
xXx
William Regal wasn't so much pulled out of sleep as he was ejected from it - thrown out of a gentle dream of days gone by straight into a living nightmare.
Dim light in the room.
A hand clamped down around his throat.
A bony knee dug into his sternum.
The burning, rage-filled eyes of a madman hovering inches above his own.
Bared teeth - a feral dog at its most territorially nasty.
"Wake the fuck up," Ambrose snarled at him. Unshaven and with his hair sticking up in about a dozen directions, he looked like a crazed serial killer. "Wake up, you fucking piece of shit."
Regal squinted up at him, nonplussed, too sleep-foggy and taken aback to do anything but.
"You think I wouldn't find out, you son of a bitch?" Ambrose shifted, digging the knee not on Regal's chest into Regal's side. "Huh? Why did you do it? Why? Was it some sick fucking joke? Do you fucking hate me that bad? Huh?"
The hand on Regal's throat squeezed.
Fighting a wave of panic, Regal slipped one of his own hands out from under the covers and gripped Ambrose's wrist, fingernails biting into the soft skin right over the vein. He managed to squeeze out, "What're you talking about?"
"Like you don't fucking know." Spittle blabbered from Ambrose's lips. He was almost literally foaming at the mouth. "Don't tell me you don't know. Don't fucking lie to me. You know. You know. You fucking know." He shoved something toward Regal's face. Regal flinched but relaxed, fractionally, when he saw it was only Ambrose's phone. "This, you fucking bastard. This."
Regal let go of Ambrose's wrist - he'd loosened his grip on Regal's throat just enough Regal didn't quite feel like his eyeballs were going to pop out - to push the phone's glowing screen back enough he could see it properly.
There were several text messages, all screaming black letters on a remorseless white background.
keep ur damn phone on! read the first. The name at the top of the screen said 'Seth.'
The next block of text read: wyatt jumped us after sd & told us what he did to you. said Regal told him to. owed Regal a favor. said Regal watched him hurt you. Regal behind all of it. you need to get away. call me asap so I know your ok.
Regal's stomach sank.
Ambrose swiped his thumb across the screen. His eyes were practically shooting sparks, the whites around his irises practically glowing. "There's more. Keep reading." He shoved the phone forward again.
The name at the top had changed to 'Roman,' and the text read: Wyatt made Seth suck H & R off to keep me safe. He didnt want me to tell you, but no more secrets. You should of told us what he did. Call us. We need to deal with Regal now.
It took Regal every ounce of willpower he possessed not to wince.
He'd thought Wyatt might pull a stunt like this - had more or less baited him into it, hadn't he, with that line about not caring what happened to Reigns or Rollins - but the reality of it was worse than expected.
No time to ponder that, because Ambrose tossed his phone onto the other bed and leaned in close. "What. The fuck. Did you do?" Fatally, lethally quiet.
Regal suddenly had visions of teeth ripping into his windpipe.
As much as he could with a knee all but crushing his chest and a hand clamped vice-like on his throat, though, he took a breath. Ambrose watched closely, and Regal knew anything - the smallest twitch or quiver - would set him off. The bloody boy was a timebomb ticking out its last five seconds.
"Whatever Wyatt's told your mates," he said, voice strained and winded, but the words calm, "it's not true. Not a bit of it. I'd swear that to you on my life. I have nothing to do with Wyatt, other than wanting his head stuffed and mounted on a way for what he did to you. I wasn't there when he hurt you, and don't bloody insult me by assuming I would be." He let a little of his own mounting anger creep in. "I know you're angry, and I don't blame you, but stop a second, calm bloody down, and let's think this through."
He looked hard into Ambrose's eyes, searching for something, some sign that the rage hadn't entirely consumed Ambrose's ability to see reason. For one awful moment, it looked as if the words had fallen on deaf ears. The hand around Regal's throat tightened, and Ambrose continued to stare down from his crouch, wide- and wild-eyed, neck and ears flushed dark, and breathing hard.
Regal remained still, not backing down or challenging, just trying his damnedest to remain calm, to project calm, to be calm.
It wasn't easy: the knee in his sternum really bloody hurt, his ears were buzzing, and he honestly wanted to grab hold of a couple of Ambrose's fingers and bend them until they snapped like twigs.
Of all the bloody stupid assumptions to make-
"You didn't do this," Ambrose said, the words all ground glass. "You didn't know. You really didn't."
"No," Regal squeezed out. "I didn't. My word on that."
Another eternity passed, but finally, without breaking eye contact, Ambrose backed away, shifting himself over to sit cross-legged on his half of the bed. He positioned himself at Regal's hip, fists on his knees, chin lowered.
After taking a moment to get his breath back, Regal irritably flung the covers off of himself and sat up against the headboard. He scrubbed slightly unsteady hands over his face, wiping the sleep out of his eyes and pushing his hair back off his temples. "Thank you," he said, and if it came out rather sharply, well too bloody bad. "There's five years gone off my life."
Ambrose said nothing, just sat unnaturally still, eyes narrowed and eyebrows drawn together, hair a wild and shaggy curtain across his forehead.
Regal finally cleared his throat. "Did you call your mates?"
"No," Ambrose eventually said, voice gone a bit rough. "I saw the texts and I-"
"Decided you'd shoot first and ask questions later?"
"-kinda flipped shit. You okay?"
"Yes," Regal said honestly. More rattled and angry than anything, if he was honest. "You didn't hurt me."
Ambrose's tongue darted out across his lower lip. "I, uh, I'm sorry. That - fuck. I'm sorry."
While there was a small part of Regal a bit impressed that Ambrose even bothered to offer an apology, the rest of him remained stony. "I suppose it's understandable," he allowed, "given the circumstances. Still, do you really think, lad, do you honestly think for once second I'd actually ask someone do something so awful to you? Do you really think - do you honestly believe - I'd stand there and watch?" Outrage had him nearly shouting. "What happened to you - and Rollins, too - was disgusting. To think I'd actually ask someone to do that to you - it makes me want to vomit." He shook his head. "But you didn't think, and I could be dead right now."
Cutting words, those, cold and furious, and probably a bit of an exaggeration - he probably could have struggled out of the hold if he'd had to - but still necessary.
Damnedfool boy needed to see the damage he could have done.
Ambrose had gone white as a sheet, expression at once slapped and horrified and stricken. His shoulders hunched and he lowered his head. "They hurt Seth," he mumbled. "I lost it. I - fuck, Regal, I'm sorry. That was - fuck, that was stupid. I'm sorry." He swiped a hand over his chin, palm hissing over stubble. "That was exactly what Wyatt wanted, wasn't it?"
"Probably."
"Fuck. I'm s-"
"Stop apologizing," Regal said shortly. He reached over and took hold of Ambrose's chin - firmly, squeezing - to make sure they were eye to eye. "People like Wyatt - and me, for that matter - like playing with someone like you because you make it far too easy to wind you up and twist you into doing things. Because you don't think; you just react. That's a big part of why you've been doing so badly in the ring lately - because you're reacting to what people are saying about you instead of focusing on winning like you should be. But if you've got any hope of helping your mates burn Wyatt to the ground, you need to remember he's doing and saying what he's doing and saying in the hopes he'll get you to do something like this. D'you see that?"
"...yeah." The rage had been all but snuffed out, leaving Ambrose's eyes fatigue-dull. "Yeah, I see it. I just - I get so fuckin' mad sometimes it's like I got a fuckin' bonfire in my head. Makes it hard to think sometimes. Especially-"
"Especially when someone like Wyatt hurts one of your mates."
"Yeah. Or..." He gestured between them. "I wanna fuckin' kill him."
"Makes two of us." He let go of Ambrose's chin. "Call your mates. I know it's - bloody hell, what time is it?"
"Uh, like, one-thirty."
"Mm. Well, give 'em a ring anyway." Regal, wide awake now, swung around to stand up - gingerly, because his hips, lower back, and thighs were about as sore as he'd expected from last night's activities. He hadn't even noticed before. "If they are up, see if they'll agree to meet us - yes, us - either here or somewhere neutral. If I'm being accused of something I should be allowed to have my say. Shouldn't I?"
A tight nod down at the duvet. Ambrose looked rather like a kicked dog, shrunk down and cringing.
His ire finally cooling a bit, Regal paused in the doorway to the bathroom. "It 's accepted, lad. Your apology. I know you were upset because of what happened to Rollins. It's understandable, as I said. Just use your damned head next time."
Once again, Ambrose only nodded.
"And for whatever it's worth," Regal said, "try something like that again, and I'll break your fingers. Every last bone in them. And mind you, I had about a hundred ways I could have countered that pitiful excuse of a pin attempt. I just didn't. Didn't want to embarrass you."
A ghost of a smile. "Right."
"By the way, I notice you're sitting rather gingerly," Regal pointed out archly. "Feeling a bit sore?"
"Was gonna ask you that," Ambrose said. "You're walkin' like you're about a hundred."
"It's worth it, considering I won the bet." Regal said, shrugging. "Ring your mates, lad. Make sure you make it clear my head is to remain attached to my shoulders. I don't fancy having to put it in one of those x-ray bins at the airport. Can you imagine trying to carry it on? I'm sure they'd charge me an arm and a bloody leg for it…"
The quiet sound of Ambrose's laughter followed him into the bathroom.
Regal closed the door behind him and moved to brace himself on the counter, head down, breathing hard to try to calm his admittedly frazzled nerves.
The worst part - the most galling thing - was that this was his own doing.
For going to Wyatt.
Oh, he damned well knew what he was getting himself into when he told Wyatt he didn't give a damn about what happened do Reigns and Rollins. It was an open invitation for Wyatt to take a shot at those two, to do something like this.
His own fault he was going to have to defend himself to two people whose opinions and regard meant more or less nothing to him, and his own fault he was going to have to pretend he actually gave a tinker's damn about what happened to Rollins. It was disgusting and quite degrading, and no, no, Rollins probably hadn't deserved it, but the fact still remained Regal just could not find it in himself to care.
Hypocrite that way, considering he wanted to burn Bray Wyatt's testicles off for what he'd done Ambrose (and now for this), but there it was.
He twisted on the cold water and bent down to splash some on his face.
xXx
Early November, 2012 - II
It was never anything regular, the thing with Dean, not at first - just the occasional blowjob in the parking lot until Regal caught them kissing, (and if there had ever been a sign that this was a bad fucking idea, that was it, because Dean didn't even bat a fucking eye when Regal walked past; it was almost like Dean was fucking rubbing it in Regal's face).
After that, Seth made a rule that the FCW parking lot was off limits for this, and Dean had been agreeable enough.
Somehow, impossibly, they wound up back at Seth's place, and real clothes-off sex happened.
Good sex.
Edgy, kind of angry sex, the kind Seth had a hard fucking time getting out of his head afterward, even though he was kinda rude and kicked Dean out after it happened.
Despite Seth's better judgment, it got to be a regular thing - it was just sort of expected that after a show or if they were on the road somewhere they'd wind up at one of their apartments (usually Dean's because Seth had a bunch of roommates, and Dean's lone roommate was hardly ever around) or in one of their hotel rooms. Even if they separated and Seth went out for drinks with other people (and Dean went wherever the hell it was he went after shows), they'd eventually meet back up later.
Seth thought it'd be really weird, considering he and Dean did nothing but fight the first five months they knew each other, but it was surprisingly - not.
Before the Regal obsession turned Dean into a raging fucking drunk and sent him into a depressed tailspin that made Seth break things off, things were low-key, fun, and not at all what Seth expected.
(He guessed he shouldn't have been surprised. They matched up really fucking well in the ring, strengths and weaknesses pretty much canceling each other out, so it probably stood to reason they'd match up well outside it.)
They were both competitive guys, so a lot of their time together was spent doing ridiculous shit like playing drunk strip poker, thinking up stupid bets (Dean winning way more than he probably should have, the fucking cheater), finding the most outrageous places to give each other blowjobs (Seth really got off on the idea, as long as it wasn't in places where it was fucking Regal who'd catch them), and on and on.
The sex was pretty fucking good, too. Dean wouldn't let Seth fuck him (didn't let anybody do that, he'd explained, old ghosts in his eyes, and Seth had winced at the implication), but was open to anything and everything else Seth wanted to do: getting rough enough to draw blood when Seth was in the mood for it, fucking anywhere Seth wanted to (the bathroom stall at Chili's in Ft. Lauderdale was probably his favorite - Seth balanced precariously on the toilet tank while Dean gave him a blowjob as probably half a dozen dudes came and went, all totally unaware), and pretty much anything else Seth wanted.
By Valentine's Day, about four months later, they'd gotten into the habit of maybe finding a movie to watch or something before they fucked. Sometimes they went and hung out on the beach. Sometimes they just hung out and talked about their days on the road, just swapping stories and shit, and the more they did that, the more Seth realized they really weren't all that different - both worked their way up from pretty much nothing to get where they were, and were both bound and determined to get to the top in their own ways.
Dean drove Seth crazy, no doubt - he was a slob, was lazy as hell, tended to drink too much, and good luck getting him to actually talk about anything that mattered to him - and they argued about shit all the time, but it never amounted to anything more than the two of them avoiding each other for a few days.
At one point, shortly before the big Regal-induced meltdown, Seth looked at the calendar and was kind of stunned to realize he and Dean had been seeing each other - or whatever the fuck they were doing - for the better part of six months, and still going strong.
Was even more surprised to realize he was kind of okay with that.
Was okay with the way Dean wasn't real touchy-feely except during sex, was okay with the way Dean didn't like even little hints this was anything other than casual fucking (even though by now they both knew better), was okay with the idea that this probably wasn't going to end anytime soon - not unless something drastically bad happened, because he and Dean had found a groove that worked pretty well for them.
Was a little weirded that the idea of this thing ending actually bothered him.
The wheels came off right about then, of course, because Dean was Dean and self-destruction seemed to be hardwired into his fucking DNA.
It happened fast, all at once, one night after a taping where Regal had walked during Dean's match. Dean had snapped, walking into the back screaming something about a broken heart, and it kind of broke Seth's.
Because the worst thing about Dean - the things Seth hated more than anything - was his fucking obsession with William fucking Regal. There were times Seth would look over while they were watching a movie, and Dean would be a thousand miles away. At the arena, Dean was always watching Regal, or worse, even fucking following him, like some little puppy begging for some attention. Instead of trying to win his matches, he was trying - and failing - to play mind games with Regal.
While Seth was rising to new heights of success as FCW Heavyweight champion, Dean was losing matches left, right, and center in his sickly obsessive need to get Regal's attention.
Regal wouldn't give it to him - not one fucking word.
Because the sick fuck knew exactly what he was doing.
Not only knew, but was enjoying it, if the little furtive, smug little smiles Regal gave Dean when he caught Dean staring were anything to go by.
Two days later, Seth went over to Dean's apartment and found Dean passed out facedown in a pile of beer bottles, half a dozen fist-sized holes punched in his living room wall and blood all over his plaster-covered hands. Dean had come out of his stupor still mostly drunk, and had proceeded to throw beer bottles at his wall, slurring on about Regal this and Regal that, until Seth had finally snapped himself, slapped Dean across the face, told him to get a fucking grip, and walked out.
Dean came around the next afternoon, half drunk and so fatally, bitterly angry at Regal that he'd picked a fight with Seth. Seth, furious and absolutely sick inside, wound up punching him in the face and kicking him out of the apartment, the words "We're done," ringing in the air between them.
That was the last time Seth actually saw him sober outside of the arena for almost three fucking months.
Seth got so disgusted he challenged Dean to a match, and fucking dominated him - something he shouldn't have been able to do because they matched up so fucking well together. He jammed the knife in even deeper by putting Dean in the Regal stretch at one point, and oh man, he was legit terrified for his life at that point, but fuck Dean. Here he and Seth had actually had something, and the asshole had to go and throw it away for over some pointless match with some old never was.
Yeah, yeah, there were some hard feelings.
And there were incidents.
Seth heard secondhand from Dean's roommate (who wound up leaving) that the cops had been called a few times for noise disturbance, that more than once the roommate had to send a cab to collect Dean from whatever bar he'd wound up in, and that Dean had stopped working out - spending most his time hung over and just laying around his room, muttering to himself about Regal, Regal, fucking Regal. And Seth saw firsthand how edgy-restless Dean was as he paced the halls of the arena, saw himself how many more fights Dean got into backstage, and saw how Dean stalked Regal openly, relentlessly.
Seth tried to ignore him.
He was a champion and there were a lot of things for a champ to do - signings and a lot more matches, and so on, and he was happy about that.
More than happy to be the face of FCW.
He even started going out again, managing to score some pretty impressive hookups with very beautiful women.
And if the sex was a little bland, if he missed the rough scrape of stubble against his shoulder, if he missed that stupid Dusty Rhodes impression, well, he'd get over it.
xXx
After he hung up with Seth, Dean threw his phone onto the dresser and sat down on the edge of the second bed, hunching down to shove the heels of his hands against his eyes.
That fucking volcano was still going off in the back of his mind, rage flowing hot like fresh lava, screaming at him to jump up and start throwing shit - tear the beds apart, smash lamps, bust the TV.
Just something.
Fucking anything.
The Wyatts had fucking touched Seth.
Seth.
Somebody was going to motherfucking die for that.
Somebody was.
But Regal-
Maybe he didn't trust Regal, but just going after him like that without even fucking asking was probably one of the stupidest fucking things he'd ever done. He'd been ready to kill the guy - like legit choke the life out of him - right then and there, to just give in to all that shit screaming in his head and just fucking end him and never give him a chance to explain.
Without even stopping to consider it might just be another Wyatt mindfuck.
How the fuck had he missed that?
His hand shot out on its own and swiped at the alarm clock, which was some cheap battery-powered thing that broke open and spilled its little battery guts everywhere when it hit the floor.
They'd fucking touched Seth.
And Dean's fucking hands were still shaking when he heard the bathroom door open and the quiet sounds of Regal padding over to take a seat on the other bed.
Dean didn't look up.
Didn't need to - knew exactly how Regal would be studying him: sharp, knowing eyes and fuck, Dean hated that - how Regal never seemed to miss a fucking thing.
Not that it was probably real difficult right now for him to guess, what with Dean sitting there probably looking like a shaken-up beer bottle ready to blow its fucking cap.
"Well?" Regal prompted. Straight to the point - all business, no bullshit.
Focus, asshole.
"They'll be here in about ten minutes." Words so tight he could hear them, like, vibrating - some guitar string pulled out too far and snapped back in place. "Didn't believe me. About you. Roman freaked out when I said you'd be here."
'Freaked out' was maybe understating it.
Dean had never heard Roman shout like that before, barrel-voiced, like a general on some ancient battlefield barking out orders to all his troops. Oh, he was mad, shouting about how he was going to snap every bone in Regal's body. The part of Dean that wasn't cringing away from the phone was actually kind of impressed: who the fuck knew Roman had that kind of rage in him?
Of course, Seth had been - well, the Wyatts had fucking touched Seth, and God knew Roman was as protective of Seth as a mother fucking bear and her cub. (But just about Seth, some ruthless part of Dean couldn't help pointing out. For like the hundredth time in the last five minutes. Just Seth - not you.)
And, yeah, Dean was with him on wanting to put Harper and Rowan's eyes out with a rusty fucking fork for fucking with Seth like that - no question.
Harper and Rowan would learn the hard way real fuckin' soon you never put your hands on a guy like that.
For right now, though, they had to worry about Roman and Seth.
And Regal, who Dean suddenly realized was standing in front of him.
Fuck's the matter with you, asshole? Pay attention.
A hand in his hair gently tugged his head up. He craned his neck and looked up and up. Regal looked down at him from some impossible height, all cool, calm eyes and a surprising lack of surprise in his expression.
Didn't really even look that mad anymore, which was pretty impressive, considering the whole 'I want to introduce your face to a wall a few dozen times, dear boy' vibe he'd been giving off not ten minutes ago.
Rumpled tee shirt or not, bed head or not, that was the Regal Dean remembered from Florida.
The hand in his hair slid down to his temple, and was joined by the other hand on the other side, so Regal had hold of his head the way Seth had the other night. Cool hands, not holding hard.
"Look at me, lad." Before Dean could point out he already was, Regal said, "We'll sort this out one way or another. Just keep your head. Don't get stuck here-" one finger tapped the side of Dean's head "-on this nonsense, because that's exactly what Wyatt wants. Remember that. Remember what we just bloody talked about. All right?"
Maybe it was the chill-as-fuck way Regal was watching him, maybe it was the no-bullshit way Regal was talking to him, or - well, who the fuck knew? It was something, and that maybe that something didn't stop or shut up the fucking tempest raging in Dean's head, but after he took a breath or two, he felt like he was out ahead of it a little ways instead of being pummeled and yanked apart in the middle of it.
Finally, he nodded. "Okay."
Regal looked down at him for another few seconds before nodding himself. "All right, then." His thumbs swiped across Dean's cheekbones just once, then he lowered his hands and turned away. "Because if nothing else, lad, I don't fancy taking a spear from Reigns tonight. Might have to use you as a human shield."
Dean scrubbed a hand over his face again. "Very fuckin' funny. You know he almost broke my ribs doing that shit to me, right?"
Regal, who Dean noticed really was moving like he was about ninety, limped over to snag his pants off the back of the desk chair. "You'd let him batter an old man like - oh, bloody hell, of course you would. Probably laugh your arse off while he did it, too."
"Probably." It was on his tongue to ask why the fuck Regal was getting dressed since Seth and Roman were coming over, but he wound up shaking his head and going off in search of his own discarded clothes instead.
He bet Regal didn't want Seth and Roman to see him anything less than put together, which - whatever.
Dean threw his shirt and jeans back on while Regal - in his slacks, dress shirt, and vest - headed back into the bathroom. Still feeling edgy and really fucking restless, Dean straightened the bed back up and tossed his shit behind the chair.
The knock came about ten minutes later, with Regal watching TV at the table, and Dean pacing the room.
At the sound, Dean glanced over his shoulder, eyebrows raised in silent question.
Regal switched off the TV and nodded.
Mouth suddenly bone fucking dry, heart jackhammering, Dean made his way to the door and pulled it open.
The first thing he noticed when he caught sight of Seth and Roman was how ragged they both looked: puffy eyes with dark crescents under them, coats hanging open over wrinkled tee shirts, hair pulled into sloppy pony tails that had let a lot of pieces escape, Seth's shoulders pulled in and Roman's jaw doing that I'm chewing rocks I'm so mad thing it always did.
They were both frowning - Seth mildly, and Roman so much it looked his fucking face was trying to fold in on itself.
Unsure what to say, Dean just gestured for them to come in.
Seth shook his head. "Come out here a second. We need to talk. Alone."
"What about?" Dean asked, eyeing them warily.
"Don't be an asshole," Seth said quietly. "It's us dude. Come out here."
"No," Dean said. Images of the Wyatts grabbing him swam into his mind's eye for a second - The hell's the matter with you, asshole? Seth and Roman don't do shit like that. You know they don't - before he shoved them away, firmly. "Just come in and let's fucking deal with this shit. Get it out in the fucking open and stop playing 'he said, they said.' I'm fucking sick of it."
Without waiting for an answer, he deliberately let go of the door and backed into the room.
Either they'd catch the door or they'd let it close - one way or the other.
In or out, guys.
One of Seth's gloved hands shot out to catch the door as Dean headed over to stand by the dresser, one arm propped up on it.
"Nicely done," Regal murmured behind him.
Startled, Dean glanced over. Regal was actually smiling, just a little, which - either he was mocking or he actually approved or whatever, but Dean didn't have time to really dig at it.
After what felt like a fucking eternity, Seth and Roman got their asses into the room, and shed their coats. Seth sat down on the end of the bed while Roman, whose flinty eyes hadn't left Regal's face for a second, leaned back against the edge of the desk, arms folded over his chest.
Dean looked at them both, one to the other and back. "You guys okay?"
Roman nodded. "Just a headache. I'll be all right."
"Fine," Seth said flatly, flicking a dark look Regal's way. "It's fine."
"The fuck it is," Roman muttered. To Regal he said, "You got thirty seconds, old man, before I walk over there and rip your head off. Start talking."
Regal inclined his head. Didn't even look fazed. "Big scary man and his big scary threats. I am well and truly terrified. I'm also innocent, incidentally. Do calm down."
"You don't tell me what to do," Roman said. "And you better have something better than that."
"What d'you want, exactly?" Regal asked. "A confession written in blood? I had nothing to do with happened to you tonight, nor anything that's happened to him-" he nodded at Dean "-the past few days. This is no more than a case of Wyatt winding you lot up and trying to set you off in the wrong direction. Your fight is with him, not with me. But for what it's worth, I am sorry for what's happened to you lads. What they've done to you is sickening. They deserve to burn for it."
"Yeah, they do," Roman said, pushing away from the desk. "And so do you. Because if you think I believe any of that bullshit you just said-"
Dean stepped in front of him, cutting off his access. They were almost close enough to kiss. "No."
Roman pulled himself up to his full height, shoulders squaring. Made the height difference between them feel a lot bigger than it was. "What do you mean no?"
"I mean no," Dean said. "I mean he's telling the truth. I mean you don't touch him."
"So, what," Roman grated, eyes narrow and nostrils flaring, "this you now? After what happened to Seth tonight, after what's been happening to you, you back that asshole over your brothers?"
Nodding, Dean said, "On this, yeah. Why are you so sure he's guilty, Rome? What did Wyatt even say? That's what I wanna know. I mean, I know you guys said he blamed Regal, but what did he say, exactly?"
It was Seth who told him, speaking in an unnaturally flat near-monotone that bothered Dean a lot more than the actual words Seth was saying (which smelled like Wyatt had been shoveling a big pile of bullshit - basically Wyatt just taking a big swipe at Regal, more than anything).
He tried to deny it, but Seth had a pretty bad fucking temper. It didn't get away from him like Dean's did, but when he got mad, he got mad, yelling until his voice sounded like a chain-smoking eighty-year-old woman's.
Right now, he was pretty much the opposite of that, all bottled up and shit, while he ran through what Wyatt said, and what he had Rowan and Harper do, which - Seth didn't go into details, but what little he shared still made Dean's fucking stomach shrivel and his blood boil.
More than anything, he wanted to go over and reel Seth in, wrap him up, and not fucking let go for a while.
Just until he was sure Seth was okay.
He didn't, though, because the ugly little voice that always seemed to speak up lately when it came time for him to do something that really fucking mattered whispered that Seth'd push him away, or Roman would get mad, or that everybody would stare at him like What are you doing, you idiot?
So he just stood there like a chump while Roman sat down on the edge of the bed, tattooed arm sliding around Seth's shoulder and pulling him in.
"I gotcha, baby," he said, cheek finding its way to the top of Seth's head. "I gotcha."
"'M fine, Rome," Seth said through a sigh. "'M all right."
"I know, but…" Roman leaned in to say something into Seth's ear.
Dean turned away, checking a sigh of his own, and walked over to pull the table's other chair out. He glanced at Regal, briefly, but ended up turning away from him, too, when he caught Regal watching.
Too fucking knowing for his own good.
It was Roman who finally broke the silence, shooting Regal a glare over Seth's head. "So you get why we might be a little skeptical."
"No," Seth said quietly. He turned to face Regal himself. "I didn't think about this before, but this isn't your style. And I don't think you'd be stupid enough to advertise you did something like this, anyway - not when there's a chance we'd go to the Authority or the cops."
"No, I wouldn't," Regal agreed. He hesitated like he was arguing with himself about saying something, then shrugged. "I suppose in your defense, Wyatt is extraordinarily good at convincing not only himself but others that what he's saying is the truth. It's understandable you might not have been thinking completely clearly, considering the circumstances."
Seth's eyes, half-lidded and ringed with fatigue, narrowed. "How are you even involved? That's what I want to know? Why did Wyatt say you were?"
Regal folded his hands together neatly on the table and told Seth and Roman his part, from the first time he found Dean to his meeting with Wyatts, only leaving out the parts about he and Dean sleeping together.
When he was done, Dean filled in all the gaps - explaining again what happened during and after the Elimination Chamber match, and then telling them all the shit he hadn't told them about the following night.
Took him the longest because he had the most to tell, and he ran through it as cut-and-dried and to-the-point as Regal had, trying not to get too mired down in any one thing. He could still hear that fucking storm buzzing away in the back of his mind, ready and waiting for a chance to suck him up and throw him around again.
The room got quiet after he finished, all four of them kind of retreating to let it all settle in.
He expected maybe Seth or Roman to ask him why he hadn't told them about the Monday stuff, but neither one of them did. Instead, Seth leaned forward again and scrubbed both hands over his face, "I can't even tell you how much I wanna rip fucking Wyatt apart right now. Him and his fucking goons. With my bare fucking hands."
Sounded more like himself at least, Dean thought tiredly, chewing on a thumbnail.
Roman nodded, big hand rubbing circles on Seth's back. "Makes two of us, baby."
"Pretty sure we all do, Rome," Dean said.
Neither Seth nor Roman said anything, and Dean had the weirdest feeling like he'd turned invisible all of a sudden.
Made the storm in his head start buzzing again.
Seth propped his chin on both fists. Now the question came: "Why didn't you tell us, dude?"
"Oh, how am I doing?" Dean asked sarcastically. "Been better. But thanks for asking, and, you know, not climbing on my back about not telling you. 'Cuz as shitty as the last couple days have been, I really don't need that."
"We don't need the attitude, either," Roman said, a clear warning in his voice. "He was just asking."
Without looking away from Dean, Seth reached over and squeezed Roman's leg. "No, he's right. I shouldn't have said that." He held out an arm. "Come here."
Because a fucking pity hug was gonna make anything better.
(Weren't you just wanting to hug Seth?)
Dean told himself to shut the fuck up, made himself stay put.
"I'm sorry," Seth said. "Okay? Now stop being a stubborn asshole and come over here."
The storm in Dean's head got a little louder - stubborn asshole, huh? - and he found himself swiveling back and forth in his chair, flicking each fingernail against his thumb - index to pinky, pinky to index.
He heard Regal snort, quietly, but completely ignored him - asshole - in favor of focusing on Seth and Roman.
Might as well have been staring at them across the Grand Canyon.
The difference between Seth and Dean, though, was that Seth had never let even a huge fucking gap like that stop him from getting what he wanted.
Always rushing in where angels feared to tread, or however that shit went.
Dean had always really liked that about the guy.
Except times like now, where he was looking like ground-up dogshit, because even through the gathering clouds in his head, Dean still managed to feel like an asshole about it.
Because Seth got up anyway, and came over to kneel right in front of his chair (and, fuck, the memories), all tired puppy-dog eyes and scraggly fucking beard and hair in serious need of brushing, and he shouldn't have had to get up, but he'd never, ever learned how to just let Dean be a stubborn asshole, so of course he did, and of course Dean reached over to tuck one of those fried blond pieces of hair behind his ear.
Seth didn't smile, but his eyes did, maybe. Lightened, maybe. His hands settled on Dean's knees, tentative, like birds ready to fly away at the first sign of danger. "Been better, huh? So not good?"
"Not really," Dean admitted. Trying really fucking hard not to let himself get pulled down into Seth's eyes, that fucking rabbit hole, because it'd just break his stupid heart all over again when Seth got up and walked away.
Because he would.
Because what was two-and-a-half years scratching and clawing through hell to carve out a little happiness, anyway, when Seth had tall, dark, and tattooed over there and nothing but calm seas ahead of them for-fucking-ever?
Fingernails to thumb - index to pinky, pinky to index, flick-flick-flick, like a steady, monotonous heartbeat.
"Are you?" he suddenly heard himself ask. "Okay, I mean. Are you?"
Because he remembered how fucking disgusting he'd felt after Wyatt got done, how fucking just gross and dirty, like he'd rolled around in shit and needed to go shower in bleach to make himself feel clean.
How ready to go rip somebody's fucking nuts off he'd been.
How fucking stupid he'd felt for letting himself get caught like that in the first place.
And Seth maybe knew - or guessed - that was what Dean meant, because he said, "I will be, yeah. Just - I wanna get these assholes in the ground, you know? Soon as we do that, and I sleep like a week, I'll be good."
"I know the feeling," Dean said, because he did. But it wasn't going to be enough just to plant them. He had thoughts of playing Operation on Wyatt with a rusty fucking fork - and not giving a shit if Wyatt's fucking nose lit up or the bastard screamed.
Regal'd like that, he thought for no reason.
Did not let himself look over, but was suddenly conscious he and Seth did have an audience. "So we good, then?" he asked. "You guys, you satisfied I'm not, like, being played by the evil mastermind over there?"
He was hoping for at least a smile, but he didn't get one. Seth stayed serious. "I mean, I guess I buy Regal's not behind it, but what the fuck was the point, then? Like, was he trying to get us to fight more, trying to get us to go after Regal? What? The fuck was he doing?"
"Hitting back, I think," Regal said, knuckles rapping lightly on the table.
Dean glanced over. "Yeah, I kinda thought so, too. Mean, okay, he gets us all pissed at you for like a minute, but he's gotta know we'll figure it out."
"Unless he really thinks you are that stupid," Regal said. "Which would actually work to your advantage. Means he'll have underestimated you."
"I don't buy that," Dean said. He gave Regal a narrow look. "You don't either, do you?"
"No," Regal admitted. He leaned back in his chair, hands folded over his stomach. "I think it's most likely this was a retaliation."
"For you making a run at him," Roman cut in. Dean swore to God he could hear ice snapping between the words. "Which means this is your damn fault. You stuck your big damn nose where you shouldn't have, and you got Seth hurt."
"So is it my fault they jumped me after RAW the other night, then?" Dean asked. Snapped, more like, almost a reflex of a question, but Roman could actually out-stubborn Dean sometimes, like a dog with a bone it just fucking refused to give up. "I tore a big fucking chunk outta Wyatt's neck, and pissed him off pretty bad. He came at me later that night, so I guess that means it's my own fault, right? I had it coming?"
Flicker of gray eyes right then, dark as rainclouds, and Roman scowled hard enough to cut deep lines across his forehead. "It's not the same thing, and you know it, Ambrose. Don't twist my words."
"Guys, don't," Seth cut in. He sounded fucking exhausted all of a sudden. "Let's not fight about this."
Dean kept right on swiveling in his chair. "Who's fighting? I was just gonna say, our beef is with the Wyatts. It's always been with the Wyatts, so why is this even a thing?"
Seth balled a fist and knocked it lightly against Dean's shin. "It's not. So we got fucked with, is what happened. Bottom line is, we gotta figure out how we're gonna burn 'em down." He rolled to his feet and made his way back over to the bed. "Back to focusing on that."
Once again, Roman's arm found its way around Seth's shoulders. "Beatin' 'em to a pulp? I'm down."
They looked good together, Dean couldn't help noticing, comfortable and easy, Seth tiredly resting the back of his head on the top of Roman's shoulder, his arm going around Roman's back.
All Dean had done the entire time Seth had been over here - looking for what Roman's giving him - was flick his stupid fingers against his thumb.
Still was, in fact, as he swiveled and tried to ignore Regal fucking watching him again.
Seth stuffed a fist against his mouth to stifle a yawn. "Fuck," he muttered. "Dean, I know you're planning to go back to Vegas, but you should come home with us this week. The Wyatt thing - I'm not real cool with you being off by yourself all week."
"Uh." Dean coughed, the words come home hitting him funny. "I'm sure I'll be fine."
"No, seriously," Seth said. "We'll even pay for the ticket. Just - come stay with us."
Roman nodded. "I don't want to take any chances on anything happening to either of you, so you should get your stuff and come stay with us. That way there's no chance anything goes wrong this week. That, and maybe we have a chance to hash some of this other shit out."
"Exactly," Seth said. "We were just gonna hang out, anyway. Maybe go hit the paintball range or something one afternoon. But other than that, it's just gonna be whatever, you know? No big deal. So come on."
The hand that had been flicking slid around the back of his neck, hooked there, each finger tapping in turn. "Look, it's not that I don't-"
"Hey," Seth said over him. One hand flew up as if to say 'stop.' "You can't argue with us on this one. We're right and you know it. The best place for you this week is with us."
"With you," Dean muttered. "You mean on your couch. While you two are back in your room fucking. Yeah, that sounds like an awesome fucking week to me."
If he had a choice between sleeping on Seth's couch while those two fucked in the bedroom or getting his stabbed in the nuts with a rusty fork, he'd take the stabbing at this point.
Which he didn't say of course, but he was pretty sure they got the idea anyway, if the comprehension he watched break across their faces meant anything - both sets of eyes narrowing at him, lips thinning, and Seth scrubbing a hand over his beard.
"So you are mad at us."
Seth always did have a talent for stating the glaringly obvious, but rather than answer him, Dean said, "I'm not going to Vegas anyway, and I'm not gonna be by myself, so you don't gotta worry about me."
It was Roman who asked, quietly, "Where are you going?"
"Home with me, actually," Regal said himself. Sound almost like he was gloating, the smug asshole, but Dean didn't really have the energy to call him on it.
Suddenly didn't give a shit if Seth and Roman knew.
Roman straightened like someone had jammed a steel rod into his back, eyes homing in on Dean's face like a couple heat-seeking missiles. "No."
"Hell no," Seth echoed. "Dean, what are you even doing? What is this? I know you're mad at us right now, but come on."
"Look, I'm not gonna fight with you guys about this," Dean said, straightening. Took most of his willpower not to spin around in the chair and kick a hole through the wall. Starting to feel like they were going round and round in an endless fucking circle "You guys tossed me out like it was fucking nothing, like you really fucking think two and a half years didn't mean shit to me, so like I said, you don't get to tell me what to do anymore."
Words hurled like tactical fucking nukes. He could tell they landed by the way both Seth and Roman flinched.
Dean refused to let himself feel guilty. "It'll be fine. Just - give it some time. Space. Whatever. And let's not forget the important shit - like you guys keep saying, the team's still the team, and right now we gotta bury some fucking Wyatts. Because, really, none of this other shit matters while they're floating around, right?"
"I think you three really do need a bit of a break," Regal said suddenly. "It's late, you're all clearly exhausted, and none of you are at your best the moment, so before any of you says anything you'll regret, perhaps you two had better head back to your hotel. Have a rest and try this again this weekend."
Roman snapped a look at him. "I don't think anybody here was talking to you."
"Be that as it may, Mr. Reigns, this is my hotel room, and I am rather exhausted myself. We've got an early flight in this morning, and, as I'd prefer not to be a complete zombie, I'll ask you to see yourselves out." He held up a hand, though. "For what it's worth, I'm sorry for what happened to you two tonight."
"You should be," Roman said, standing. "I don't care what you say. You stirred the pot and Seth paid the price. You think we don't see that? You really think we don't see what you're doing here?" Another cool, quick look Dean's way, storm gray and frown-shadowed, before he glared at Regal again. "Stay the fuck out of it. We don't need you sticking your damn nose in it. And so help me God, I find out you're fucking with Dean again, they're gonna find pieces of you all across the country." This time, he looked directly at Dean. "Nobody fucks with my boys."
"Easy, Rome," Seth said, reaching up to pat Roman's arm. "Take it easy." He stood and leaned against Roman's side. "Dean - you're gonna do whatever you're gonna do. I know that. Just - please be careful. And keep your phone on, okay? 'Cuz I'm gonna call you, and we're gonna talk about shit. What you said."
Index to pinky, pinky to index, and back again. Over and over. "Whatever."
"Dude-"
"Okay," Dean cut him off. "All right. Fine. Just - watch yourselves, okay? Get some rest and, whatever, take a break, and let's just - let's try this again in a few days."
And he knew - he fucking knew - he should get up and go over to try one more time to smooth shit over, pull 'em in, show 'em he was okay and assure himself they were okay, but he sat there looking at them and this time it felt more like he was about as far away from them as the Earth was from Pluto.
Eventually, they left.
And as they did, Dean couldn't shake the feeling that Wyatt had won the round.
No fucking contest.
xXx
Eventually Dean's match with Regal happened.
Afterward, after the dust had settled and Regal had been transported to the hospital for CT scans and whatever else they were going to do to his head, Seth had gone out to his car and found Dean standing there.
Sober. Clear-eyed. Contrite.
Dean had actually apologized - probably the first time Seth had ever heard him do it - and had left it at that.
He hadn't asked for another chance, just said he was sorry for "fucking it all up," wished Seth good luck at NXT, and had gone on his way.
A couple weeks later, Seth became the first-ever NXT champion, and as he'd stood there shaking Triple H's hand, he'd felt alive and fucking vindicated for all the hard work he'd put in and all the shit he'd been through in the last few months, because winning this belt was huge.
Meant it wouldn't be long before he'd on his way up to the bigs, he was sure of it.
After shaking hands with nearly everyone else on the roster (except Dean, which wasn't surprising but was still a little disappointing), Seth retreated to the locker room with his new title, still fucking high on the adrenaline. He'd no more than set the belt down on his bag when he heard the door open behind him.
When he turned, Dean was standing there in his street clothes, hands shoved in his pockets, looking weirdly nervous. He said his congratulations with an awkward little smile, nodded when Seth thanked him, and turned to leave.
Seth almost didn't stop him.
Did, though, by asking Dean how he was.
And that was the start.
It took time, but eventually they found their way back into the groove.
The dumb jokes came back, the stupid competitions, the rambling talks about absolutely nothing important, and, best of all, the sex - all of it came back a little at a time.
Nothing complicated, no strings (or so they told themselves), but something worth hanging onto.
Dean kept Seth from getting lost in frustration when the shot at the big-time Triple H promised him in September never materialized, and Seth kept Dean from getting too down about having nothing to do but dark matches for months on end.
By mid-October, though, they both admitted they felt like they were spinning their wheels.
So when Paul Heyman called them, they both jumped at the chance.
Which was where they were now, the two of them and Roman Reigns, three days away from making their move into the big-leagues.
Seth didn't know Roman very well.
They'd had a match once, all three of them, and Dean had tagged with the guy once, but they'd traveled in different circles and hadn't spoken very often. All Seth knew of Roman was he was built like a fucking Greek statue and, while he green as grass in the ring, definitely had the raw talent of a star in the making.
He didn't talk much, was the thing, so nobody knew him all that well.
The whole tall, dark, and mysterious thing was how he rolled.
It was just - after a year of ups and downs with Dean here, Seth found himself actually wanting to have a chance to enjoy the ride before the water got all choppy again.
So, as he traced absent lines across Dean's stomach, he said, "Lemme think about it, huh Maybe have a chance to see what he's really like."
"Oh, yeah, sure," Dean said. "I didn't mean, like, tonight. Just - y'know, if you wanted to. Sometime. Maybe. Whatever." He smiled, easy and untroubled, and pushed the popcorn bag out of the way so he could crawl over and straddle Seth's hips. His hands wandered down to Seth's chest, fingertips straying to the waistband of his shorts. "If not, that's cool, too. We do pretty good on our own, right?"
"Real good, I'd say," Seth said. "But I'll think about it. How's that grab ya?"
"That," Dean said, leaning down to kiss Seth, "is cool with me."
xXx
A/N: Obviously there's another piece of the story bridging how Dean and Seth got from here to where they are in the present, and we'll get to that shortly. Probably no update until the week of the 4th. Heading out on vacation. Yay.