A/N: Back again, finally. Thanks to everyone who's stuck with me so far. I appreciate everyone reading and reviewing! Enjoy!
IX. Battle Lines
2012
You couldn't not like Seth.
That was Roman's thing.
Yeah, okay, sometimes he was obnoxiously balls-out gung-ho, and it was a little annoying sometimes the way he always pushed them to train harder and work in the gym longer - Roman never participated in the shit-giving Dean did about that, but he tended to agree that Seth was a total CrossFit dork because who the heck sat around watching videos of dudes working out and got into arguments on the internet about technique? - but besides that, he was driven and determined as hell and really damn nice.
Seth hadn't been signed yet when Roman had his first match, but by the time Roman finally picked up his first victory, Seth was not only there, but was the first to shake his hand and congratulate him backstage.
One of the few who did.
Roman came from a football background, having played in college, so he was used to a locker room atmosphere where, while, yeah, there was some friendly rivalries over who could bench more, everyone was still on the same team and working toward the same goal.
The FCW locker room was almost completely the opposite.
He got it: everybody was competing for a handful of spots on the main roster, meaning the guy you were tagging today with wasn't going to hesitate to knock you down and step on your back tomorrow if it meant getting a rung higher on the ladder.
Alliances formed and dissolved so fast it made Roman's head spin.
So it was kind of a breath of fresh air when a guy like Seth Rollins - an honest-to-God star in the making, Roman thought - came up to him after a win and said, "Good match, man, congratulations."
He noticed Seth tended to be that way with all the guys - not an ass-kisser, but somebody who was secure enough about his own status to not act like a jealous douche if somebody else had a great match and managed to stand out.
Roman told himself that was how he was going to be if he ever made it to the top.
In the meantime, he kept his head down, his mouth shut, and got to the business of learning everything he damn could.
Wrestling was in his blood and he'd be damned if he was going to settle for anything less than climbing all the way to the top.
xXx
"No, no no nononono," Seth was mumbling in his sleep. "Don't, don't, don't."
He pulled his arms tighter around himself, huddled deeper against the plane's wall.
Leaning away from Roman, like he'd been all damn flight.
Thanking God the flight wasn't all that crowded, Roman reached over and settled a hand on Seth's jacket-covered shoulder. "Shh, it's okay, baby. It's okay. I gotcha."
Seth stirred, snuffled, and lifted his head. Glassy, barely-open eyes found Roman's. "Rome? We there?"
"Got another half-hour or so," Roman said quietly. "You were having a bad dream."
"Oh. Mm, it w's..." Seth yawned and whatever he'd been about to say trailed off into a sleepy nonsense mush. He lowered his head against the wall again, and his eyes drifted back shut.
Couldn't have been comfortable, but Roman guessed Seth was too tired to care.
When Roman had woken up, some three hours after he and Seth had left Dean back at Regal's room, he'd found Seth standing at the window, staring out, pale as the frosty morning outside and tired-eyed, and he'd known Seth hadn't slept a wink.
Or maybe he'd tried and had had bad dreams dogging him then, too.
Down where Roman couldn't protect him.
Not that he'd been able to protect either of his boys much this week, and that really cut - how easily guys like Wyatt and Regal (two sides of the same damn coin) managed to slip between the three of them and pull them apart until it felt like were just frayed threads holding them together, all stretched to the breaking point.
Seth had felt far away ever since they'd made it back to their hotel room after Wyatt let them go, and it felt like it only got worse after they'd left Regal's hotel room.
He hadn't let Roman touch him on the way back, he'd shrugged Roman off this morning when Roman had tried to wrap him up, and yet again he'd leaned away with his arms wrapped around himself where he'd usually be using Roman for a human pillow.
Leaving Roman standing there with his useless hands clenched in his lap and the taste of failure coating the back of his throat like a melted aspirin.
Because on the other side of this screwed up tug 'o war was Dean, who right now didn't just feel far away.
He felt gone.
Roman hadn't been able to protect him, either - not that the stubborn jackass ever would ever admit he needed somebody to look out for him - and that one really cut, knowing Wyatt had gotten to Dean three damn times without Seth or Roman knowing about it.
Knowing it was William damn Regal who had known.
This whole thing felt like it was spinning out control, like some kid's top bouncing off the furniture, wobbling and going just crazy.
"You guys tossed me away like it was fucking nothing."
Roman scratched at his goatee and dropped his head back against the top of the seat.
He looked over at Seth again.
It was easy to want to push Dean out because he'd turned into a complete asshole the last few months - getting full of himself and bragging how good he was, then turning into an excuse-making dick when he couldn't back it up, then going a little nuts trying to prove he wasn't the weak link everybody accused him of being. He'd been moody and erratic, driving both Roman and Seth completely nuts by running hot and cold for weeks at a time.
The more they tried to rope him in, the more they tried to prop him up and tell him they didn't buy into that weak link crap, the more he spun away.
He picked fights with Roman, snapped at Seth, and walked off to go sulk - and then had the stones to expect things to be normal (to get sex) when he got back.
Roman got a little tired of seeing how stressed out Seth got over that.
Dean always acted like he wasn't interested in anything but sex with them - shied away when Roman or Seth mentioned going out anywhere that wasn't a bar, got real weird about touching that wasn't about sex, and never seemed to be around during any of the conversations Seth and Roman had about maybe making this a more permanent thing - and for him to throw that shit in their faces last night was low.
Probably why Seth hadn't slept.
Thing was, Roman really liked Dean.
Despite all his bullshit lately, the guy was great in the ring whether he was wrestling or had a mic in hand, and he, unlike a lot of guys, he was willing to share what he knew and give pointers to try to help Roman improve. He was funny (often cracking jokes mid-argument or making up some bullshit story that left them rolling), could be a lot of fun to be around when he wasn't acting like a moody asshole, and, yeah, okay, he gave great head.
Before this weak link crap had started Dean on this stupid hot-and-cold kick, the three of them had a pretty fun thing going.
Roman thought maybe Dean would calm down (and knew Seth was hoping he would), but the longer this went on, and the closer Roman got to Seth, and the more he found himself hoping Seth would just decide enough was enough and cut the guy loose.
Maybe it wasn't fair, but he really thought - and he was pretty sure Seth thought - that this wasn't anything but casual sex to Dean, even if it had been going on for two-plus years.
For him to throw that 'of course it mattered' crap in their faces last night after he stood there and said it didn't, man, talk about a low blow.
Add that to the crap with Regal, and it was just - bad as it sounded, Roman felt like shaking Seth and saying, 'He's gone, dude. Let him go. We're better off.'
Seth wouldn't do it, though.
He couldn't let go the first time Dean stuck in Regal's orbit.
Too much history, too deep a friendship, too...something.
Just something with those two, and Roman didn't have a clue what he was going to do to help, how he was going to protect those two idiots from themselves - and keep everybody safe from the damn Wyatts.
Some damn powerhouse I am, he thought glumly, looking over at Seth again.
Seth pulled his arms more tightly around himself.
Roman sighed.
xXx
Late October, 2011
Dean Ambrose was the most obnoxious asshole Roman ever met.
But he had a weird kind of charm to him that made him hard to really dislike him.
Roman had never seen anybody take so much joy in being an asshole, and even if Roman felt like punching him in the mouth, once in a while he caught himself laughing quietly at the guy's antics - some funny thing he slipped into the middle of a promo, some goofy face he made in the middle of a match, some weird movement in the ring that looked stupidly uncoordinated but that confused his opponent enough for him to take advantage.
As often as Roman rooted for Ambrose to get his ass kicked, there was something a little satisfying seeing the guy's crazy act pay off.
Roman avoided him, mostly, but that was pretty easy since the only two guys Ambrose seemed to see were William Regal and Seth Rollins.
One afternoon, though, not long after Ambrose's first match with Regal, Ambrose was, for whatever reason, hanging around the training ring where Roman - still going by Leakee then - was working a practice match with another guy.
Toward the end of the practice session, the other guy (some local who was only at FCW for a minute) slipped and sliced his hand open bad enough he needed to go get it stitched up.
As Roman was toweling off, he heard a quiet, "It's Leakee, right?"
Roman looked around. Saw Ambrose standing with a foot up on the ring steps and both forearms on his thigh. He was wearing old jeans with holes in the knees, wash-faded black tee shirt, and hiking boots that looked like they'd seen better days
"Yeah," Roman finally said. "Ambrose, isn't it?"
A cocky smile, glittering eyes, and, "Like you don't know."
Roman rolled his eyes and armed sweat off his face. "What do you want?"
"You ever think about adding a spear to your moveset?" Ambrose asked.
"No," Roman said. "Why?"
"You should," Ambrose said, frowning down at this boot. "You're a football guy, right? A spear's just a running tackle. For somebody your build, it's a good move. Be a good finisher - better 'n that spinny bulldog shit you're doing now." He straightened and glanced off at the door. "Think about it."
Before Roman could even ask what Ambrose was talking about, the guy swaggered away to go harass Seth Rollins, who'd just walked in with his ring gear on.
Roman didn't change his finisher, of course, not then.
He liked the Checkmate because it was unique - a move nobody else had - and because, hell, anybody could do a spear.
Who the hell did Dean Ambrose think he was, anyway?
xXx
I want my rabbit, Abigail muttered churlishly.
"Now, don't take on so, little darlin," Bray murmured to her. "Soon enough."
Taking no notice of the early Wednesday morning cold, he picked his way through the icy slush and made his way to the back of the old truck, where his boys stood patiently waiting.
Bray handed Luke the keys. "Watch over the flock. Plan on seeing me Friday. If anything changes, I'll get word to you."
Luke, icicles in his beard and red-cheeked from the biting wind, hesitated. "You sure about this, Bray? We could come with you. Or one of us could. Should."
"I'll be fine," Bray said. "I need you both to go back to the home place and be with the family. The snake is no danger to me."
Erick and Luke both looked down toward Bray's neck - toward the cuts, Bray was sure - but neither of them said a word about that. Instead, Erick, face for once not hidden behind his mask, said, "Why are you botherin' with Regal? You know he's gonna want to get at you for blamin' him for all this. Why don't we just go get Ambrose?"
"We can't touch Ambrose until after Monday," Bray replied implacably. He held up the old phone the company required them to carry. "Their daddy called me while y'all were fueling up earlier. Apparently the little skunk and the big ox ran to him cryin' the blues about how we've been troublin' them. Their daddy threatened to put a hurt on us if we don't behave until Monday. He actually pulled them from the road this weekend."
Luke and Erick exchanged uneasy looks. "They told?"
"Just that we gave them trouble - not what we did." Bray was sure they'd have had more trouble on their hands if Reigns or Rollins had told Hunter just exactly what happened. "I'm sure they're off lickin' their wounds. We'll leave 'em to it. Let them plot their war. It'll make it that much sweeter when we beat them down Monday and take the rabbit."
"But Regal?" Erick prompted.
"We're going to have a nice chat," Bray said, "about how it's an abomination against nature for toothless old snakes and rabbits to lie together, and how such a thing could lead to even worse consequences for the other animals around them. I doubt Regal actually cares about what happens to Reigns or Rollins - he wouldn't have offered them up to us if he did - but I'm sure he knows Ambrose does, and I'm sure he knows Ambrose is going to be mighty upset to find out it was Regal who put us up to hurting them in the first place."
His boys exchanged that look again, a little frown like they weren't quite certain they'd heard right. It was Luke who said, "Will he believe you, Bray?"
"It was Regal who put us up to it, boys," Bray said. "Remember that. Believe that, as those Shield boys would say. He said it himself - he didn't care what happened to them. You heard him. So it was Regal's fault they were hurt. I might've changed the story a bit, but the truth of the matter was, it was Regal's doing."
Erick shifted, brushed the snow off his overalls, off the top of his head. His ears and cheeks were wind-bitten red. "I believe that," he said. "I heard you. He said he didn't care. If he'd said not to, we wouldn't have."
"That's right," Bray said. "He told us to."
Luke, though, ever the Doubting Thomas, frowned over. "But how are you going to convince Ambrose?"
Bray reached up to clap Luke's damp, flannel-covered shoulder. "I'm not," he said, smiling again. "Regal is. He's going to pay for what he did to the rabbit's little friends. Bad men always do. You'll see. Bad men always pay."
Bad man, Abigail said uneasily.
(You failed her.)
Not this time.
Bray shook the snow off his hat and turned away.
Bad men always pay, Abigail.
Abigail said nothing.
xXx
Early November 2012, I
"I'm telling you, Roman," Paul Heyman said, voice high and reedy over the phone. "May I call you Roman, by the way?"
Roman kicked his feet up on his rickety-ass coffee table and smiled. "Sure."
"Great," Heyman said. "I'm telling you, there's a lot of injustice right now in the WWE. Have you seen what they've done to my client, CM Punk, lately? The kinds of matches they've made him work? What he's having to put himself through night after night to keep his championship?" The man sighed dramatically. The sound reminded Roman weirdly of bagpipes. "Or you, for example, who are an obvious star in the making, being kept down at NXT for no good reason. It's a travesty!"
"Uh. Right," Roman said. "A real travesty."
"Exactly!" Heyman exclaimed, sounding excited. "It's an injustice! Something has to be done."
"Uh-huh."
"I have an idea Call it a proposition. I want to hire three of you from NXT - as a sort of security force. Not just for me - for the entire roster. You'll right all the wrongs that the McMahon and Helmlesys are perpetrating all over the WWE. In the process, you'll get yourself out of NXT and onto the main roster."
Roman frowned over at his sagging bookshelf, thinking. "I'm listening."
"You're the powerhouse. The enforcer. The intimidation."
"Okay."
"Seth Rollins would be the brains of your group," Heyman went on. "He's a very shrewd ring general, and I think a good fit to plan things for you. You've worked with him before, haven't you?"
"I've had a few matches against him," Roman said. "Sharp guy. I like him."
Not just words, either; he and Seth hadn't talked much beyond occasionally congratulating each other on a job well done (really well done in Seth's case - he was already a multiple-time champion), but the guy's energy and his smile always seemed to lighten the mood anywhere he went.
(His smile, what the hell? When the hell had he noticed the dude's smile?)
"Oh, good, good," Heyman said. "The other I have in mind is Dean Ambrose. I know he's got a wild streak, but he'll be a terrific spokesman. That, and I've heard a rumor that he and Mr. Rollins are, uh, close, so I think Mr. Rollins will be able to keep him in check and focused on the task at hand."
There was some kind of innuendo behind that 'close', Roman was sure, but it flew right over his head.
He didn't pay attention to backstage crap.
So Rollins and Ambrose were friendly. Who cared?
Roman had seen stranger alliances during his time at FCW.
"That's fine," he finally said. "I can handle it. I really just want a chance to get my foot in the door."
"So do they," Heyman said. "They both said that exact thing when I talked to them. I think you three will work just fine together. But I want to meet with you first, so can you be in Orlando, in, say, a week? I'll have Ambrose and Rollins meet us down there. We'll talk."
"Um." Roman rolled to his feet and walked into his apartments tiny kitchen. He'd hung an ACC football calendar up, and right now - early November - it was on Wake Forest. He squinted at the dates he had penciled in. "Yeah, I gotta work shows next Friday and Saturday nights. Other than that, I'm good."
"Let's do next Wednesday," Heyman said. "I'll make the arrangements and let you know where you'll be staying."
Roman grabbed a pen and wrote it in. "Sounds good."
Getting his foot in the door, taking that last step to following in his old man's footsteps, maybe righting some wrongs in the WWE, walking in and taking the company by storm - yeah. If this was his way in, he was gonna take it, hell or high water.
Who cared if it meant working for Paul Heyman?
"Great, glad to hear that," Heyman said. "I do have a suggestion for you, though, Roman, while I'm thinking about it. I've seen your Checkmate finisher, and it's brilliant, but I think you need something more impactful. Something more immediate for a finisher."
"More immediate?" Roman said dubiously, frowning at the calendar. "I'm not following."
"You're a big, powerful wrestler, and you're going to go far, but you need a big wow move."
"A - what, like a spear or something?" Roman asked, throwing out the first move he could think of.
"Ooh," Heyman said, a grin in his voice. "Yes, that's very good. Explosive, powerful, perfect - and a Roman warrior with a spear. That's good. That's very good. I like that. Do you do a spear, Roman?"
"I know how, yeah," Roman admitted. "I might've been working on it a little here and there."
Not because of anybody's suggestion, of course, but because it was a good, basic move to have in his utility belt.
"Oh, reeeeally?" Heyman said. "Work on it more. Make it perfect. A move like that could make you a star down the road."
"All right," Roman said, nodding. "I'll do that."
Slimeball or not, Heyman knew what he was talking about - had to, because if a guy like CM Punk trusted him, well, that had to count for something. Guy had made a lot of stars in his day, so odds were good he wasn't blowing smoke up Roman's butt.
"Good, good," he said. "I'll be in touch with the details about next Wednesday. I'm looking forward to working with you."
"You too," Roman said. "Thanks for the opportunity. And the advice."
"Oh, you're most welcome, Roman. Work on that spear."
After Roman hung up, he set the phone down on table and pumped his fist.
He was on his way.
But he swore to God if Ambrose ever said 'I told you so' about the spear, he'd - well, he'd spear the guy in half.
xXx
Wednesday passed like nothing.
A sleepless and crammed-in flight to Florida (Regal up in first class, and Dean stuck in the last available seat in coach), a near-wordless lunch at some Tampa restaurant Regal liked, and Dean collapsing in Regal's small, uncluttered spare bedroom - nothing in it but a bed and a dresser, like a stripped down hotel room, not even pictures, just bare pale walls, one window, bland carpet, dark blue bedding - sometime early afternoon and immediately crashing.
He drifted awake sometime before noon Thursday with the late morning sun filtering in through the curtains, threatening to sizzle his eyeballs.
After a quick pitstop to the bathroom, he padded over to the dresser and unplugged his phone from the charger. Saw a text from Seth: "Pulled from shows this wknd. Hunter wants no contact w/Wyatts. Call me."
Yawning, Dean flopped back down on top of the covers, threw an arm over his eyes, and he hit 'redial.'
Seth picked up after the first ring. "Hey!" Bright and cheerful, much more Seth-like than the zombie Dean remembered leaving Regal's hotel room. "Whatcha up to?"
"Just woke up," Dean admitted, clearing his throat to work the sleep out of his voice.
"Yeah, us too," Seth replied, and then Dean heard him say, "It's Dean," and heard Roman reply, gruffly, "Put him on speaker."
"You're on speaker, Dean," Seth said a second later. "Rome's here. We're chillin at my place."
"Oh, hey," Dean said. "Guy doin' okay?"
"Yup," Seth said, and Roman followed it with, "We're hangin' in there, man."
Dean had the sudden mental image of the two of them all tangled up together on Seth's ugly brown couch - the one he'd have had to sleep on if he'd gone up there. Made his stomach twist, so he pushed it out of his head. "'S good," he said. "Glad to hear it. Sleepin' okay? Bad dreams or anything?"
"A little, but not too bad," Seth said. "Getting better. You?"
"Same. I totally just slept like eighteen hours. Fucking awesome."
"Lazy ass," Roman said.
"My middle names," Dean said agreeably. "So no shows this weekend?"
"Yeah," Seth said. "Hunter called yesterday morning to talk to us about running interference for Randy Orton next week, and, uh, we mentioned we'd had some issues with Wyatt outside the ring-"
Dean sat partway up. "You fucking told him?"
"Not specifically what happened," Seth said quickly. "Chill, man. We just - we told him we'd had some problems with the Wyatts coming at us. That's literally all we said. Hunter told us to stay home this week and keep our heads down - didn't wanna take any chances on any of us starting shit before Monday."
Made sense, Dean guessed, but it seemed like kind of a pussy way to go - like they were hiding behind Triple H and Stephanie.
Stubble sighed against his palm when he scrubbed his hand over his cheek.
He'd kinda been hoping he'd have a chance to take a run at Wyatt this weekend.
But, wanting to avoid another fight, he worked something reasonable into his voice and said, "That's probably a good idea. He gonna talk to Wyatt, then?"
"Don't know," Seth said. "Didn't ask. Don't care."
"Cool."
"So, hey, you alone?" Seth asked.
"Yep." Far as he knew or was going to bother finding out, anyway; he doubted like hell Regal was hovering on the other side of the door with an ear to the keyhole. "Why?"
It was Roman who said, all quiet and frowning-voiced, "Because we wanna hash our shit out."
"Oh, come on, I just woke up," Dean complained. He sat up, though, and leaned back against the headboard, head tipped against the wall behind it, short-clad legs stretched out ahead of him. "We really gotta do this now?"
There was a shifting noise on the other end of the line like maybe Seth and Roman were moving, too. Settling in. Getting comfortable.
Choosing our positions.
And Seth said, simply, "Yeah."
"Fine," Dean said through a sigh. "Talk."
"No," Roman said. "Bro, it's you who needs to talk to us. Why did you say you were cool with just Seth and I being together if you're really not? You said you saw it coming, and you said you weren't into the whole hearts and flowers thing, you said 'no big deal, I can fill my bed anytime.' But now you're acting all mad, like we did something wrong. If we got an issue here, let's get it out in the open and deal with it."
"If we got an issue?" Dean said incredulously.
"Yeah," Seth said, like he thought Dean was asking a question. "Look, you can't - it's not fair for you to say one thing and turn around and act a different way. So whatever's on your mind, man, just speak up. We're not gonna be able to solve anything if-"
"Would you two fucking stop with this fucking After School Special shit?" Dean suddenly snapped, his vehemence surprising even him. But, fuck, it was like they were parents talking to an unruly teenager or something. "Am I mad? Yeah. 'Thanks for the blowjobs, but fuck off now 'cuz we wanna play house'? Really? Like, what, you think all I've been sticking around for the last two-plus years is the dick? Come on."
Caught-breath pause like it hit them funny, but it was the truth, wasn't it?
Seth finally ventured, "You said you weren't into-"
"The hearts and flowers shit, yeah," Dean finished for him. Calmly, for all that he was flicking his fingernails against his thumb again, one by one, index to pinky and back. "I'm not, but that's not the same thing as not wanting to stick around."
A thousand miles away, Seth cleared his throat. Rasped, "You never said that."
"No," Dean admitted, "but you didn't say anything, either, and you never asked. Guys always seemed to wait until I wasn't around to talk about that shit."
He brought his fist up to his mouth, blew on it quietly, and flicked all his fingers open.
"Because we didn't think you wanted to," Seth said.
"You never did want to," Roman added.
"How do you know?" Dean asked. At the sound of a quiet tap on the door, he rolled out of the bed and padded over to answer it. Regal, of course, standing on the other side of the door in a black WWE-logoed short-sleeved polo shirt and black slacks. "You never tried." Dean motioned him in and headed back to the bed. Somehow or other, he managed to get the phone on speaker, and dropped it onto his chest. "You'd tell me you wanted alone time, so I'd go, and you'd get all fuckin' lovey-dovey with each other and you'd never say a fuckin' thing to me when I got back."
Regal wandered in and leaned back against the dresser, a quizzical look on his face.
Dean shrugged a shoulder as he stretched all the way back out.
No reason Regal needed to hear this, but no reason he shouldn't, either; he'd leave it up to the old guy to stay and listen or go.
"Well, you know, you haven't been making it all that easy to be around you lately," Roman said. "The way you've been acting, and all these fights you've been picking with me-"
"You've been pickin' 'em with me, too, Rome," Dean said over him.
Because of course he'd go there.
"Cut it out," Seth cut in. "I'm sick to death of you two always arguing. I don't care who starts it. You both need to stop it." He pulled in an audible breath. "What was stopping you from saying something, Dean?"
"I didn't know I needed to," Dean said, chewing on a nail. "Didn't think - didn't know, I guess - you guys were gonna get that serious about it. Seemed like we were keeping it pretty casual when it was the three of us. But I didn't know what you two were up to, so - how the hell would I know?"
"Because when something matters, you say so, bro," Roman said. "Doesn't matter what the situation is."
"You guys never said anything," Dean pointed out.
Lamely, though, because there wasn't a whole lot he could say to argue that point.
"Yeah, I know," Seth said tiredly, "and I'm sorry, but, dude, I didn't think you wanted us to - especially lately. You haven't wanted to hang out or even talk to us or anything. All you've done is act all pissy because you're on a bad streak and then come back for sex. You can't seriously act that way and expect us to think you're in it for more than that - especially when you keep saying you're not into the hearts and flowers thing. And, yeah, I know - two and a half years. I get that, but you have to look at it from where we're standing. The last six months, man. What are we supposed to think?"
A hard pit settled in Dean's stomach, and he closed his eyes.
It all ran through his mind, clear as day - images flashing past like a fast-motion flip-book:
Getting tired of hearing all the whispers and grumblings and rumblings - Roman's the best, Rollins amazing, weak-link Ambrose - and needing to get away.
("Why didn't you stick to the damn game plan, Ambrose? You should have tagged out. We should have won.")
Coming back to the hotel rooms in a frustrated knot afterward and seeing those two so wrapped up in each other he didn't know where one stopped and the other started.
Standing there feeling awkward and out of place, wanting something from them but not knowing how to ask for anything except a fuck.
Knowing Seth wanted something else from him besides a good blowjob, but not knowing what the fuck to give him or how to even ask Seth to tell him.
Like he was supposed to know how this shit worked?
Losing.
And losing.
And losing.
Are you the weak link?
Seth and Roman winning.
And winning.
And winning.
Are you the weak link?
How the hell had things spun so far away so fast?
We can't fix this.
"You still there, Dean?" Seth. Tentative.
"Yeah."
"Then say something."
"Something."
A snort. "Asshole."
"You know it."
"'Course I do."
"...yeah."
"For real, though, man," Seth said, "you okay? You just - you got real quiet."
"Yeah." For a man sitting in the middle of bomb-wreckage inside his own head. "Yeah, I'm okay."
"What are you thinking?"
"I'm thinking it's lunchtime and I haven't eaten since yesterday at lunch," Dean said. "And I guess I'm thinking we just - we leave it how it is. You guys do your thing. I'll do mine. Team stays the team. I'll try not to be such an asshole if you guys get off my back about where I go after the shows. That work?"
Like being stuck in an endless NASCAR race, going round and round just to end up at the same fucking place, but, shit, where else could they end up?
They weren't gonna ask him to come back and he wasn't going to beg - he wasn't his fucking mother - and they'd all fucked it up (especially him, which was nothing new), and what was there left to do but fucking let it go?
Move on.
There was some conversation on the other end of the line, too quiet for him to overhear.
He opened his eyes, finally, and looked across the room.
Regal was in exactly the same place Dean had last seen him, leaning back against the dresser, watching - no sympathy or anything like that in his eyes, just a vague frown and something kind of thoughtful in the way he was staring at the phone on Dean's chest.
Dean didn't even want to know.
Finally, Roman said, "We're not gonna get off your back when you're doing stuff we don't like."
"Like Regal?" Dean said. Then lifted a hand and twisted his hand in a 'reverse that' gesture "Well, other way around, he does me, but-"
"What?"
"Nothing," Dean said, all mock-innocence. Regal covered his mouth with a hand, shoulders shaking. "I know you don't like me being around him. I heard you the first thousand times and I still don't care."
"Dean-"
"Look, you guys dislike it all you want. Right now I'm fucking starving and I wanna get laid, so I'm gonna go do that. Maybe at the same time, I don't know. But, look, sorry if I've been a dick. We're cool as far as I'm concerned. So just - yeah, text me or whatever when you're ready to talk Wyatts, all right?"
He hung up without waiting for an answer - like a dick - and tossed his phone off him. Sighing, he dropped his head back and flung an arm over his eyes. "You know, I'd almost rather get kicked in the nuts than sit through conversations like that."
Felt like he'd been squeezed through a meat grinder or something.
Fucking exhausted all over again.
Regal said, "Painful, either way. Been through a few of those myself. Never gets easier."
"Sucks," Dean muttered. "What're you up to, anyway?"
"Seeing if you were still breathing. Quiet as you've been since you got here, I wondered."
"Mm." Dean lowered his arm and pushed himself up sitting. "Yeah, I was more tired 'n I thought, I guess. Slept like the dead. I just woke up right before I called those two. Guess I should, uh..." He gestured vaguely toward the bathroom. "Get cleaned up."
Regal's eyes narrowed. "You could," he said. "Then again, you could wait a bit."
Dean frowned over at him. "Why?"
A sly smile as Regal pushed away from the dresser. "So I can get you a bit dirtier first."
"...oh." Dean grinned himself and leaned back on his elbows. "Yeah, that - that could be a thing. Why don'tcha do that?"
Good way to shut the brain off for a while.
After all this crap, he needed that more than anything.
Regal toed his shoes off and knee-walked onto the bed until he was straddling Dean's hips. His fingertips found Dean's collarbones.
"I believe I will," he said.
xXx
Early November 2012, II
"Got a great ass, doesn't he?"
The question drifted over from somewhere behind him, and Roman started, yanking his attention away from where he was definitely not staring at Seth Rollins' ass and turning to glare at Ambrose. "What?"
Ambrose dropped down from the pull up bar and nodded over at Seth. "His ass. You could bounce, like, well, anything off that sucker. Great, isn't it?"
Roman set the dumbbell he'd been using for bicep curls down. "I don't know what you're talking about, man. I was just, uh, watching. In case he needed help. You know."
Rollins had been doing squats with about two hundred pounds on his weight bar, the muscles in his legs and thighs flexing and contracting in a way that was weirdly hypnotic.
(Hell's the matter with you, man?)
Ambrose draped his tee shirt around his shoulders like a towel, shook his hair out of his eyes, and sat down on the bench next to Roman. "I could watch this all day."
Roman shifted away, frowning. "I wasn't watc-"
"You totally were," Ambrose said, cheek dimpling with his grin. "It's okay, dude. I don't mind. Just, like, quit being so obvious about it."
"You - what?" Roman side-eyed him. "The hell are you talking about?"
"Oh, come on, Roman," Ambrose said, nudging Roman's knee with his own. "You know. Everybody knows. Me and Seth are, like, a thing. Mean, I don't mind if you watch, but damn, dude, put your tongue back in your mouth, wouldya?"
"A-? Like…?"
"Like I'm hitting that." Ambrose's forehead wrinkled. "You seriously didn't know? How do you not know? Everybody knows."
Roman snagged a towel and wiped the sweat off his face. "I don't pay attention to backstage gossip, Ambrose."
That actually seemed to throw the guy, because he leaned back and his eyes narrowed like he was trying to figure something out. Then he shrugged and whipped his shirt from around his shoulders. "Well, whatever. Yeah. So, we're a thing."
Once again, Roman found himself looking at Seth. Seeing him with new eyes, he guessed. The sweat-slick curve of his back, the muscles in his arms - dude was lean, but jacked as hell. Not an ounce of extra anything anywhere.
Looked like the type of dude who could go.
Plus, he was a nice guy on top of that, so-
Wait, what? The hell…?
He made himself look away, but that didn't help because Ambrose's grin was just knowing as hell. "So what," Roman said gruffly, scratching the back of his neck to give himself an excuse to look anywhere else, "you guys gay?"
"Us? No. Jesus." Ambrose laughed. "Bi, probably. We've both wrecked our fair share of pussy in our day."
Roman wrinkled his nose. "Classy."
Ambrose sucked his thumbnail and shrugged again. "You got 'pussy wrecker' written all over you, too, but the way you're eyeing Seth there, I'm guessing you swing both ways." When Roman didn't answer, Ambrose just smiled.
Guy had dimples for damn weeks, and Roman felt like punching him because since when did he ever notice a dude's dimples?
Or Seth's eyes, for that matter?
Or - hell.
"Guess we all got that in common, then," Ambrose said, bouncing to his feet. "That's cool, man. Nothing wrong with it. Three of us, I think we got a lot in common. Gonna be kickin' in some doors and shit soon."
Roman nodded. "Yeah, man. For sure."
Ambrose gave him one of those long, assessing looks again. "You don't talk much, do you?"
"No."
"That's cool," Ambrose said, clapping Roman's tattooed shoulder. "Big enforcer type, you don't gotta say much. And Seth says I talk too much, anyway, so…"
"Wouldn't have guessed," Roman said dryly.
Which earned him another grin. "This is gonna be fun."
Roman, eyes straying over to Seth one more time, said, "Be interesting, that's for sure."
For damn sure.
xXx
Over lunch, they debated wrestling, Regal striving to keep things easy and light, and Ambrose apparently determined not to fall into the bad mood he'd been close to after his conversation with his mates.
Not that Regal would have blamed him wanting a good wallow in self-pity after that nonsense.
To his credit, though, Ambrose hadn't lost his head about any of it, not even when his mates more or less pinned the whole mess on him; he'd looked, more than anything, just resigned about the whole thing and quite ready to have done with it.
And Regal was honestly glad he'd chosen to forgo the wallow because it had meant a very good shag and relatively companionable conversation afterward.
Although, there was something just a bit off in the way Ambrose wouldn't quite make eye contact and the two or three times he'd turned to stare out the window their waitress had had them next to during the handful of silences that fell, but Regal left him alone about it.
They debated which wrestling era was best, which led to a rather spirited discussion about Regal's English style wrestling versus the faster-paced modern American style, which led to Regal recounting a couple of anecdotes from his days working the Pleasure Beach, which led to Ambrose recounting a horrifying episode where he'd nearly seen a man bleed to death during a so-called deathmatch.
"That's why I was so primed to go after Foley," Ambrose said. "I know it's not his fault, like, directly, and, yeah, nobody put a gun to my head and made me wrestle in barbed wire and broken glass, but if you think about it, people only want to see that shit 'cuz they saw guys like Foley doin' it first on TV."
"Very true," Regal said. A little over an hour ago, he'd been running absent fingers over a couple of old barbed wire scars on Ambrose's back, thinking something along those very lines. "He's a good man, Mick, but he never quite understood what sort of legacy he'd be leaving behind."
"Nope."
"Are you still bitter you didn't get to wrestle him?"
Ambrose shook his head. "Not really. Dude can barely walk. Nothing I can do to him his body isn't already doing. Mean, he's gotta live with the consequences, and that's good enough."
"Fair enough," Regal said. He set his fork down, wiped his mouth on his napkin, and pushed his plate away. "D'you ever miss it? The death matches?"
"Nope." Ambrose's smile was easy, untroubled. He pushed his own plate away and scratched absently at his collar. He was actually wearing something that wasn't a tee shirt for a change - a blue button-up that, other than needing a good ironing, looked quite nice on him - with his jeans; the only unfortunate thing was that he'd left the top two buttons undone, so the new lovebites Regal had left in place of the faded old ones were quite visible.
Of course, knowing Ambrose, he didn't care.
Seemed to be the sort who'd display his lovebites without a second thought and who'd just shrug at anyone who looked twice.
Yeah, I got laid. Got a problem with that?
"I miss the adrenaline rush sometimes," he suddenly went on. "But you know the whole waking up your shirt stuck to you and your bed lookin' like a crime scene? That kinda sucks."
"That it does," Regal said. "I've done that a time or two myself. Unpleasant."
"Yeah." Ambrose reached for his beer. "Speaking of shit that sucks…"
"Yes?"
"You decide what I'm gonna have to do for the bet?"
"Yes."
Ambrose's eyebrows climbed. "You gonna tell me?"
"No."
"Gimme a hint."
"No."
"Come on."
"No."
"At least tell me when."
Regal leaned forward on his elbows. "No."
"You're killin me."
"I know." Regal propped his chin in his palm and smiled. "That's the fun, isn't it? Keeping you in the dark - not knowing what or when or where, only knowing it's coming. Oh, the possibilities. What will I do to you, my dear boy?"
Once again, there was an odd moment where Ambrose's eyes appeared to cloud over - oh, you really like that, don't you? - and it took him a second to shake himself out of it.
This was going to be fun.
"I will tell you this," Regal said then, "it won't be tonight. I've got NXT tapings this evening. Care to join me? You can watch from backstage if you like."
Ambrose polished off his beer. "Yeah, why not? Been a really long time since I've gone to a wrestling show just to watch wrestling. Good change of pace."
"Should be, yes," Regal said agreeably. "I don't have to be there until around half-five, so you can do your washing or run whatever errands you need to until then."
"Oh joy," Ambrose muttered. "Yeah, I better. Probably don't want me runnin' around in shirts that haven't been washed in like a week."
"I'd prefer it if you didn't."
The server - a pretty young thing with curly blond hair and striking green eyes - came by and gathered up their plates. She quite earned her tip when, after Regal and Ambrose both declined another drink and dessert, she had the bill ready.
Regal took it from her and reached for his wallet. "I'll get this," he told Ambrose, who'd reached for his own wallet. "You pick up the next one."
Seemed the least-awkward and least date-like way of going about it, and, judging by the way his face relaxed as he nodded, Ambrose agreed.
Interesting, that.
Back at Regal's, they both took care of a few mundane things as the sky grew cloud-thick and threatened rain outside. The clouds finally broke open toward the middle of the afternoon, right about the second time that day Regal found himself hovering over a very naked and quite amiable Ambrose - elbows and knees this time, though, and Ambrose with his forehead down on his forearms, mumbling at Regal to "hurry up already, Jesus, old man, you forget what you're doin' back there?"
He went completely still when Regal slapped him sharply on the backside, the close-thunder snap echoing off his bedroom's walls and hovering in the air.
Regal, naked himself and on his haunches, held still in the slightly breathless silence that followed, watching a hand-shaped red mark rise, and waiting to see what would happen.
The little gold hoop in Ambrose's ear flashed in the pale light when he lifted his head and looked around. Hint of a challenge in the lift of his eyebrows, but nothing terribly readable in eyes that had gone quite dark. "That all ya got, old man?"
"No," Regal said, lifting his hand again. "Not even close."
In retrospect, it wasn't the best idea he had, going that hard, because by the time they were finished, he felt quite glutted, lazy and content and quite ready to sleep the remains of the day away.
Ambrose lay on his stomach beside him, backside blistered red, face calm and expression, for a change, quite peaceful.
(That was interesting, too, wasn't it?
Nothing terribly complicated in it, really - chaos craving a bit of order, order craving a bit of chaos - but it still said something about them both.)
Felt a bit they'd fallen into their own little momentary bubble, where the day's earlier nonsense with Ambrose's mates and the distant threat of Wyatts either stopped existing or just didn't matter anymore.
Wouldn't last, of course, but he closed his eyes and let himself enjoy it while he could.
xXx
December 2012
Seth didn't have a concussion.
That was the big thing.
Ryback had thrown his ass off that big ladder and Seth had landed all sorts of awkward on the table, but the guy proved he had more lives than a cat, and Roman breathed a little easy when the backstage medic declared Seth clear to go for the night.
That had been a scary-ass fall.
Roman's heart might have actually stopped.
But it started up again and kept going, and now they were in their locker room, changing out of their battle gear and getting ready to head back to the hotel.
Bumps and bruises aside, he felt good - damn good.
First WWE match, and they'd won.
They'd gotten the match on their own and had broken free of Heyman's grasp, and now the sky was the damn limit.
Door kicked open.
"-that shit, man," Dean was saying, twisting around to show Seth the big red mark on his back and side where Kane had chokeslammed him on the chair. He tossed his shirt aside. "Coulda broke a rib."
Seth lifted up his own shirt and pointed to a red mark on his chest. "Yeah? That was a ladder."
"Oh, shit," Dean said, bending down to look. "You got letters."
"Nice!" Seth said, craning down - carefully, though, because his neck. "Yeah. LS. That's cool. Must've been stamped on the top of the ladder."
Their eyes caught and Dean suddenly surged up and kissed him, quick and fast, and Roman, who'd been bent over his bag, digging out his street clothes, looked away.
Not the first time they'd kissed in front of him, but it always felt a little weird.
Like he was intruding on something.
When he looked up again, phone in hand, Dean was standing behind Seth, chin on Seth's shoulder, and the two of them were turned Roman's way, looking like some weird sort of two-headed monster.
Dark eyes and blue ones found his.
"So Rome," Dean said, mouth twitching, "you ever thought about a threesome?"
Roman dropped his phone. "Uh. Not - uh, not with two guys."
"You should," Dean said. "Call it a hunch, but I bet you got a great spear."
Roman put his head down and laughed and laughed and laughed.
xXx
The taping went well enough, although Regal had to work twice as hard to bring half the enthusiasm to commentary he normally did.
No one called him on it, though he did make a mental note about getting back down here sometime this week to re-record bit of what he'd said so it didn't sound quite so flat.
There'd actually been several good matches (and, in fact, he was quite looking forward to getting Ambrose's opinion on them); he'd just worn himself out a bit too much earlier.
Old man, indeed, he thought, shaking his head as he waved goodbye to everyone at the announce desk - Sami Zayn had popped by to chat up Renee Young - and wandered off in search of his house guest.
Said house guest had - typically enough - not wanted to hang about backstage, so he'd elected to watch the show from Regal's cramped office, all the way in the back of the building.
Regal passed through the backstage area, waving at the handful of lads and lasses still milling around chatting, but didn't stop himself.
He left the backstage area and-
Froze.
Standing at the exit to Regal's right, hat and beard and blue flower-print shirt dripping fresh rain onto the tiles, was Bray Wyatt.
Wyatt looked up slowly, burning bright eyes traveling up until they settled on Regal's like a physical weight.
Regal could see Wyatt smiling, even through the layers of beard.
"Evening, Regal," Wyatt said quietly. "We need to talk."
xXx
A/N: You'll have to forgive me - I'm not a particularly fast writer. Most of these scenes go through something like eight or ten iterations before I'm happy with their tone and pacing, so it takes me a while. We're getting there, though. Thanks for reading!