Disclaimer: See Chapter 1.

AN: Thank you all again for all the positive feedback – so many views! This chapter took me slightly longer to write than other chapters so far because I had to take my time on one section in order to get it right. The section is a little tense and I didn't want it to come out offensive or overdramatic. Sectionsreferencing "the book" are about the book Dolph's brother, Ryan Nemeth (Briley Pierce of NXT fame) wrote, I Can Make Out With Any Girl Here.

Special thanks to Annalore and SparksFlyOut for keeping up with this, and stellamarie27 for reviewing! Annalore actually went out and bought a deep-dish pizza pan and made one from scratch, which is the best thing ever.

Chapter Warnings: John and Nikki being adorable. John and Nikki having uncomfortable conversations about the future. Dolph has Briley Pierce feels. And then some. Punk: greatest knight in shining armor ever. Aimless driving. Breakfast. Dog breed talk. Poor Nikki Bella. Unbeta'd.

*There are trigger warnings for this chapter. To see them, please scroll to the VERY bottom of the chapter.

Waking up at home with the sun shining in his windows, curled up next to a beautiful woman – with time to lay around goofing off – was how John wished he could spend every morning.

This was one of only two days in the last month he'd been able to do so. And it would probably be the last time for another month that he could. But he was thankful nonetheless.

He buried his face in Nikki's hair, taking in a deep breath, letting her smell burn at his tongue, his eyes, his lungs. He nuzzled at her scalp, pulling her tighter against his chest, and she giggled, obviously more awake than John assumed.

"Squeezy much?"

John smiled, kissing all along the back of her neck. "Among other things."

Nikki curled her arm around his and laid her head back to rest against his shoulder, leaving her neck open for the taking. John pressed feather light kisses all along her jaw and grabbed her chin, turning her face to peck her lips. "Good morning."

Nikki blanched. "Oh God, your breath is terrible."

John buried his face against her shoulder, lips pressed against her skin as he spoke. "Yours is nothing to write home about either, doll face."

Nikki groaned and buried her face in the pillow. "No beer before bed ever again."

"Something tells me it was the jalapeno poppers."

Nikki's laugh went right through him. "Or the wings. Jesus, we just went all out!"

"It was a celebration."

"For nothing."

"Best kind of celebration, babe."

John decided Nikki's silence signified her agreement. He ran his hand through her hair for a few minutes, just enjoying the peace of holding her before it would be interrupted with their race to get ready to head out to the next venue. No matter how much time they allotted, the two of them in one bathroom – on a schedule, no less – was always an absolute disaster. The last time, John had knocked half of Nikki's makeup bag into the toilet and had to fish tubes of mascara and ruined brushes out of it. The time before, Nikki had set a towel on fire one the warming rack.

At least they usually laughed about it. If anything like that had happened with…well…John would likely have been divorced far sooner.

Nikki finally weaseled her way out of John's arms, claiming she needed to pee after having his knee lodged against her kidneys the entire night. He followed her cue and got out of bed, working to finish packing his things for the next road trip.

After lunch, and far sooner than John would have liked (and with only one mishap involving Nikki's blouse and the garage door), they were on the road to the airport, ready to go to Kentucky and get into the groove of things before the pay-per-view that weekend.

They were out on the 589, mid-morning light shining in the sunroof and lighting up Nikki's hair. He caught her eye and smiled, and could see her eyes light up, even behind the massive sunglasses she had on.

"Can you imagine how adorable our babies would be?" Nikki gushed.

John laughed at her tone, though he didn't follow. "Our babies?"

"Really. Your dimples and my lips? Heartbreakers." The conviction with which Nikki declared this made John stare.

John pondered the concept for a while…and then realized he was thinking about children who didn't exist – his nonexistent children with Nicole Garcia. John had been divorced for less than a year, married for the four before that, and on and off with Liz for the century prior. They'd talked about having kids plenty of times, but had never followed through. He'd never even considered having kids with anyone other than her, and to think about it now was…well, it made John's skin crawl. Though he wasn't sure he was completely opposed to it. It was just…weird.

Catching the expectant look on her face, which was quickly slipping and leaving her lips hard set in a straight line, John spoke up. "Honestly, they'd probably come out looking like your sister. And who wants that?"

Nikki cracked a huge smile and punched him in the arm. "Ha. Ha. You are the funniest man alive! Can't even handle it; you're the next Will Ferrell."

"Best in the world over here."

"That you are." She leaned over and placed an exaggerated kiss on his cheek, complete with sound effects. "My superman!"

John grabbed Nikki by the back of the neck and pulled her in, pressing an equally overdone kiss to her temple before dropping his arm to her shoulder and keeping her close. She didn't complain about the center console she was wound around, so John imagined he'd said something right.

And he'd managed to steer her quickly away from the baby topic without anything going wrong. So he chalked it up as a point for him in the grand scheme of life and only made small talk about things they saw the rest of the way to the airport.

When they were checked in and waiting at the gate, he let Nikki catch up on US Weekly and called Punk, head swimming at the thought of little babies with full heads of Bella twin hair.

Nick startled awake when his phone rang.

He wasn't in bed, but rather sprawled across the couch. The television was still on, the volume set as low as it could go before it muted. He'd passed out at some point; he couldn't even remember what he'd been watching. It was still early, the sun still low through the windows. Glancing at the cable box, he found it was just past nine – late enough for calls from the east coast.

His phone stopped ringing, a notification appearing that he'd missed a call from his brother.

He sat up, rubbing at his sleep heavy eyes. He took a second to get his bearings before calling his brother back.

He picked up on the first ring. "Nick, hey!" His voice was wrong. It was off, saccharine and trying far too hard. Nick thought that Ryan sometimes forgot Nick had known him every second of his life – that he knew him better than he knew himself half the time. Whenever he tried to lie, Nick knew.

His voice was a lie.

"Hey, bro." He could play along though. If his brother needed to lie, he had good reason. Ryan didn't lie. He gave zero fucks about sparing people's feelings. It's what they'd been raised to do – the nuns in school had once told their mom that Ryan was too honest.

"How are you feeling? How's your head?"

Nick rolled it, cracking his neck and rolling out his shoulders, still stiff from spending 10 hours on the couch. "Pretty good. Saw the doctor yesterday. Should be better and on the road soon."

"Good, good." He was silent. There was nothing but silence from either end of the phone. Ryan didn't pause like this. Ryan didn't make small talk like this – he got straight to the point. Nick swore he heard him gulp.

Nick took a second to clear his head, bracing himself and preparing for the worst. "What's wrong?"

"Um…I just called…I have something to tell you."

He didn't miss a beat. "Tell me."

There was silence, and just as Nick was about to repeat himself, Ryan dropped the bomb. "I just got released. Like…literally five minutes ago."

Nick's stomach plummeted. He was silent – everything was silent, even his head. He wasn't processing the words; they sounded so foreign and so wrong. He was going through the statement by syllable, by sound, by every weird pitch in Ryan's voice. This wasn't making any sense. None at all.

Ryan pulled him back in. "Nick? Are you there?"

"Are you fucking around with me?"

"No…why…this…I wouldn't joke about this."

Nick knew that. He knew all too well. Nemeth boys didn't joke about wrestling. "Are you okay? Is everything okay? Do you need money? I don't even know what to do…"

"I'm fine. I'm fine." Ryan was trying to convince himself as much as he was trying to convince him. Nick felt it in his bones. "I'm just…shocked. I'm good, I've still got book money. I'm just…yeah."

"I'm shocked too." And he was. This fucking business. Why was it so fake? Why were they so good at building you up to your face, and so fucking down on your behind your back? Everyone was nothing but yes to your face, and no behind your back.

Why the fuck did they love this business so much? It was just going to tear them apart, piece by piece, until nothing remained.

"I just…I thought I was going to get called up…"

"I did too, Ry." He did. He'd been told. They'd told him it was just a matter of months. That his brother was tenacious, just like him. That he was funny, that he connected well, that he could work his ass off.

What had changed? That was still Ryan! Fuck, that was their evaluation of him less than two weeks ago! What had gone wrong?

Nick pulled himself together. "You're still great. It's their loss. I'm not just saying that as your brother; I'm saying this as someone who knows what they're talking about: they had no reason to do this."

"But they did, so they must have…I've just got to move on."

"You will. And they'll be crying for you soon, and you'll have options."

"I don't know, bro."

"They will. They'll be begging for you, knocking down your door. Trust me."

"I do."

Nick gulped. "You should come stay."

"No, I'm not imposing."

"When have you ever cared about imposing before?"

Ryan laughed quietly. "You've already got company."

"So? Come. The more the merrier."

"I'm not going to do that."

"Why not?"

"Honestly? Like, I don't want to be a dick, but do you think I want to be around Dolph Ziggler and CM Punk right now? Like…wallowing in my mediocrity with champions?"

Nick was shocked into silence.

"Yeah…because I don't, Nick. I'm not being a dick. I just don't want to think about all of this for like…two weeks."

"I'm not Dolph Ziggler. I'm your fucking brother."

"One in the same."

If Nick was perfectly honest, there was a stinging pride in hearing that, but pondering how similar he was to his character was a slippery slope right now. "What are you going to do?"

Ryan's sigh was heavy on Nick's heart. "Honestly? Sit around for a day…maybe just have a normal weekend? I might go see mom and dad…."

"Do that. That's good."

"Yeah. Maybe I can avoid thinking about all of this."

"Don't avoid it."

"I can't just obsess over things the way you do and find an answer. I need to like…sort it out in my own time."

"Yeah. Makes sense." It didn't. Nick didn't understand the propensity to push things away like they hadn't happened. He would rather think about it until he was lost in it. At least then he might figure out the answers to his problems. Ryan had always been the opposite though, letting shit go like it meant nothing.

They were quiet again for a while. Nick's mind felt heavy and he had a million questions. But he knew Ryan just needed him to be there for him, even if he was silent at the other end of the line.

They eventually managed to make small talk for a while. Nick felt good about it, and he really hoped he was helping his brother keep his mind off of it. But Nick knew he had other calls to make, other people to tell. There was no way Nick wasn't first; Ryan came to him first for everything to do with wrestling.

Nick let Ryan go, and he sat on the couch, with no clue what to think or feel. He looked around on twitter for news, but couldn't help tweeting his frustrations.

HEELZiggler
countless WWE peeps personally told me how hard HotYoungBriley worked & how he was the most entertaining guy in NXT
#WeirdBiz

He threw his phone aside and stared at his quiet television, eyes following the words across the news ticker, but taking in none of what he read.

His brain felt like it would never turn off. He wasn't thinking anything specific at the moment – it was all just white noise. He felt like he was catching glimpses of each of the thoughts racing through, but not seeing enough to comprehend them.

He had no clue what was going on. He couldn't understand how his brother – who really was better than a lot of guys, it was kind of obvious – could have been let go this early in the game. The same brother he'd sometimes been sure would surpass him within a year of getting called up to the main roster.

He suddenly grabbed onto one of the thoughts he was having, and his stomach was sent back into free fall.

Because no. That was ridiculous. There was no way that had anything to do with this. No way. No chance. Not at all.

But the thought kept circling back up no matter how many times Nick tried to push it out of the loop: your fault.

Nick constantly worried if the things he did and said – the undermining tweets here, the sarcastic throw away insults there – would one day come back to bite him in the ass. It wasn't some all-consuming worry; he managed to get over them as quickly as they came most days. But in all that time, he'd worried for himself. He was always aware of the distinct possibility that he may piss off the wrong person and lose a title shot, lose a storyline shot, that he would wake up one day to find himself totally buried, that he'd get released before ever making an impact.

The one thing he'd never considered was his brother bearing the brunt of his actions.

But after Monday, maybe he was. Maybe they'd seen a lack of opportunity with Nick – releasing the guy in the middle of a contract, while he was World Heavyweight Champion, while he was concussed, while he was pulling in serious merchandise money would not have gone over well. But his brother, someone whose contract was far looser, who was only in developmental, who Nick had repeatedly shown his love for…Ryan was an easy target.

Fuck this. Nick had tweeted and said bullshit like this all the time, and not once had anyone ever told him to stop. If this was their version of warning him, it was getting through loud and clear, and holy shit was it fucked up.

Why the fuck did he let Punk challenge him? It wasn't Punk's fault. He knew that. But Punk didn't get it. Punk wasn't like him anymore. He had a contract for millions, he was a cash cow, they actually believed in Punk. He could say anything he fucking wanted and no one cared at all because it was just Punk being Punk, gosh, isn't he just a rebel?

Maybe he should have answered those 203 phone calls on Monday night. Maybe he should have shut his mouth occasionally. Maybe he should have thought before he did things. Because he never did – he was an impulsive asshole.

Like when he'd been a dick to Cena the week before. Had Cena said something? Cena could say anything he wanted; his word was gospel. Part of Nick really doubted it though. He was sure if Cena was actually pissed he would have whined about it to Punk by now and Nick would have heard.

But, Jesus Christ, this was his baby brother. Nick could remember being four and holding Ryan when he was barely half an hour old, not understanding the gravity of what had just gone on, but getting that this squirming little bundle was his fucking kin and FUCK.

He sank onto his back, trying to find his way back into his abandoned blanket fort just to find a bit of comfort, but he realized quickly he was past the point of being okay.

What was Ryan supposed to do now? It wasn't like the book was a bestseller – that money was going to run out. He was so smart and so talented, but shit took time. Nick got that – he'd gone through developmental with no money except what his parents sent him and what he had left in graduation savings because that salary had been meager at best. There was no way Ryan had saved any of it – he'd lived off it.

Ryan had other aspirations, but Nick could remember them being small and wrestling each other during WrestleMania 3 and thinking, even then, that they were going to do this together when they were grown up. It had been both their dreams.

Had Nick stripped Ryan of his dream in favor of his own?

That idea was even worse. Was Nick still in possession of his career right now because Ryan wasn't? Could Nick maybe call and offer to hand over the title if they would call Ryan back and say they were kidding?

Did Nick only have the title right now because Ryan didn't have his job?

His head was pounding like it hadn't in over a week. He was concussed. He shouldn't be stressing like this. But fuck, Ryan was definitely stressing, so why shouldn't he?

Concussions were so fucking stressful. So fucking scary. All of this was so scary. What if his brain just never got better? What if he ended up like Sidney Crosby where he lingered in postconcussive syndrome for months afterward, never able to fully return to action, losing out on everything?

God, what if they were still going to fire him when he came back in a couple of weeks? What if they were just going to let him come back to get totally embarrassed and then just let him go?

What if he went back and got concussed again? Oh god, what if he got multiple concussions? What if he ended up like all those NFL players with brain damage and Alzheimer's? What if his amnesia came back, but it was real amnesia this time? What if he couldn't remember how to wrestle? What if he had already forgotten stuff but he couldn't remember it because he'd forgotten not remembering it? What if his amnesia had really just been the early stages of Alzheimer's he already had? Fuck, he'd been concussed no less than five times before. His brain was done for, he was totally sure of it. It was a fucking miracle he was breathing!

Except he wasn't.

Nick hadn't realized he was hyperventilating, that his heart was speeding up, that he was shaking, that the blankets on the couch were suddenly hot and overbearing and sticking to his moist skin. He didn't know how long it had been going on, but he gasped and shot up. On his quick rise to stand, his knee caught the end of the glass coffee table, flipping it over with a loud bang.

He gasped again, trying to catch his breath, but he couldn't. He wrenched his shirt over his head, though he could barely unclench the muscles in his chest long enough to lift his arms over his head. That stupid piece of fabric just wasn't helping right now, with its tight hug on his torso. He grabbed his chest and found his hands were cold and wet and shaking when they met the heated skin above his heart.

Fuck, he was having a heart attack. There was no way this was normal.

He still wasn't catching his breath. He could feel his stomach rising back up from its previous low. He started gagging as he slumped to sit on the floor, legs pulled into his chest. He was choking. God, he was going to choke to death on air.

He gasped. And gasped. And gasped.

Punk wasn't asleep by any stretch of the imagination when he heard weird noises from downstairs, and then a heavy crash.

Now, Punk wasn't someone to jump up and investigate things – he was from Chicago after all. But Nick's house was usually pretty quiet, and the guy was still recovering from an injury. Plus, Punk had seen his first Gila Monster the previous day, and he was fairly certain those things were cunning enough to get into a house and ransack it.

He rolled out of bed, pulled on a shirt, pocketed his phone, and went downstairs.

The television was still on, but Punk couldn't hear it over the loud choking sounds coming from the couch. He hurried over and found Nick red on the floor, sweat beading on his forehead, hand around his own neck, gasping for breath.

"Holy shit!" Punk slid to a knee next to him, ready to lift him off the ground and give him the Heimlich if necessary. "Are you choking?" He pulled Nick's hand away from his throat, but Nick's other hand came up and clawed at Punk's arm, blunt nails digging in hard enough to make Punk hiss in pain. "Are you choking?" he repeated, almost yelling this time, trying to grab him by the back of the head so he would quit flailing.

Nick shook his head and kept gasping. Punk forced his hand around Nick's wrist, trying in vain to take his pulse or just something to help him. "Does your chest hurt? Is it your heart? I don't know what to do!"

Nick shook his head again, and grabbed Punk by the shoulders. Punk looked at him head on. Tears chasing each other down his cheeks, absolute wide-eyed panic. Nick's fingers were digging into his delts, and Punk had to mirror Nick's grasp in order to keep his balance as the blonde man pulled at him. "What's wrong? You have to tell me what's wrong or I can't help!"

"My brother," he gasped before he could finish his thought. He was hyperventilating – Punk got that now. He was still getting air, but it was all wrong. His voice was stressed and hoarse; it was all so wrong. Punk could feel his own heart rate kicking up and willed himself to stay calm. He really wished he had a paper bag or something, but there was no way he was going to get to the kitchen. Not now.

"Is he okay? Are you okay?"

Nick nodded and then shook his head like he couldn't decide either way, but Punk understood: he's fine; I'm not. He was mumbling, crying harder now. Somewhere between gasps, sobs, and weird words like "dreams" and "book" Punk caught "released".

That wasn't a word their circle took lightly. And it clicked.

Punk looked at Nick for a moment, trying to come up with something – anything – to do. "Your brother got released?"

Nick nodded, collapsing into Punk's chest and shaking there, crying and gasping for a while. Punk let him, hands now trapped awkwardly grasping at his shoulders so that he couldn't let go or hold the guy…or even decide which he would do if he were free.

Punk kneaded his fingers into Nick's shoulders, trying to give him some sort of sensory distraction. "You have to breathe. You're going to pass out if you don't breathe."

Nick nodded and didn't stop nodding for a while, fisting Punk's shirt and burying his face in it. Punk kept repeating himself, not sure if he was trying to remind Nick or himself. His heart was pounding. He realized he'd been so scared, and that itself was pretty scary too.

They'd been sitting there longer than Punk had kept track of when Nick's breathing began to right itself. The gasps spaced themselves out, but the shaking increased. Punk was sure Nick was going to tear his shirt off if he tugged any tighter on it. Punk finally freed his hands, and he managed to grab him and steady himself before all of Nick's weight was on him. "Can you breathe?"

"Yes." It was choked, but if he was speaking, he was breathing, he wasn't gasping.

"Are you okay?"

"No."

"Will you be okay?"

"Probably not."

Punk squeezed his shoulders in a way he thought was reassuring. The worst of the noises, the ones that had really had Punk scared, finally stopped, but Nick hiccupped every so often, choking back sobs. He'd gone from red to paler than Punk thought possible for someone who wore that much self tanner. He was practically kneeling in Punk's lap, his shirt tear and saliva-soaked, twisted in his white-knuckled fists. "Can we get up? Can you stand?"

Nick shrugged, but tried anyway. He stood on fawn's legs. Punk supported some of his weight and they both made it to their feet without any major issues. Punk got a better look at him – he was wrecked. "Come on," he told Nick, keeping an arm around his shoulders and heading toward the back door.

"What…the fuck just happened to me?" Nick puffed out a breath of laughter.

Punk almost laughed too, but he knew if he did, he might cry. At least Nick was still funny. "I don't know. Let's go outside."

Nick nodded and Punk pulled the door open, herding him to the patio set and sitting him at the table. Nick's head and shoulders slumped forward as he leaned against his knees, but he seemed far more relaxed out here than he had inside. Punk slid into the chair next to him and let him be for a few minutes.

"Are you all right?" He only asked when he felt like his own heart rate was finally back to normal, when his feet weren't numb, when he was finally thinking to himself that this heat was disgusting.

Nick looked up at him, face red and puffy. "I have no idea," he told him softly, monotonously. "What the fuck…"

"I think you were panicking."

"I was definitely panicking."

"Does this usually happen to you?"

"No."

Punk nodded in understanding. Nick's pupils were blown and he couldn't really seem to focus on anything in particular. "Stay here."

Nick didn't acknowledge the command. Punk went back inside and got him a bottle of water, found Nick's shirt on the couch, and grabbed his things and a pair of shoes for each of them from the door. He came back out and Nick looked at him curiously. He handed him the bottle, and Nick went at it like he hadn't had water in days.

Punk offered him his shoes and Nick eyed them, like he wasn't sure what their purpose was. Punk shrugged, setting them on the ground and pulling his own on. He waited and Nick didn't move. "I'm going out, but if you want to stay…"

Nick pulled his shoes and shirt on faster than Punk thought possible in this state.

The city passed Nick by in a blur of blue sky and brown earth and white, white light. He'd lost track a while ago of where they were going, back when they were only blocks from his house. He had no clue how long they'd been driving.

Every few minutes, he would catch his hand shaking and have to make a fist to stop it. He could feel the blood pounding through his skull. The air conditioning had him cold, even thought there was still sweat sliding down his back.

All the while, he felt like he was floating over the car, not really there. Somewhere up in the atmosphere with the clouds. Over the desert, never coming back down, not ever again.

He stayed curled against the door until they pull into a café and Nick realizes they've just been circling around the city for the past hour. He realizes it's helped. He realizes he's exhausted. He realizes he's distracted. He can barely remember what just happened.

Punk leads him from the car and does all the talking, makes all the eye contact. They get seated outside and the openness, the fresh air, helps even more. Punk keeps talking and Nick dutifully sips and picks at everything that ends up in front of him. They're silent the entire meal.

After Punk's requested the check, Nick can feel his eyes on him. They don't leave. Nick finally meets his eye. "You okay?" And he knows Punk means it, just from his tone. The sincerity in his eyes just backs it up.

Nick nodded. "No."

Punk can see Nick slowly coming back to himself. He knows he's going to need a little more time to calm down, to get back in his own head, because Punk knows he hasn't been there at all since he found him. When they get back to the house, Nick retreats up the stairs, and Punk doesn't expect to see him again that day; he isn't going to attempt to either.

He rights the fallen coffee table and gets the mountain of blankets folded and off in a chair across the room. (Seriously? How is Nick sleeping with any of these? Punk is sleeping with nothing but the top sheet, and he still wakes up a sweaty mess after 30 minutes.)

He watches television for a while. He never even changes the channel from where Nick had it, and he really doesn't give a fuck.

When his phone rings, he knows without looking it's John.

"Hey man!" John is bubbly and happy and it almost throws Punk for a loop after the morning he's had.

"What's up?"

"Airport. House show. Not all of us just get to go off on vacation."

Punk snorted. "Yeah, okay. You could, asshole."

"Not right now."

"Whatever."

They were quiet for a bit before John spoke up. "You all right?"

"Yeah. Just had a long morning."

"I need to have words with Ziggler, or…?"

Never. Don't. He can't act like that ever again. Don't push him. "No. Jealous much?"

"Am not. Shut up."

"Yeah, you're right."

"I'm right?" John sounded confused.

Punk laughed. "Yeah, sometimes you can be. I know it's a hard concept for you to handle but…"

"I'm legitimately shocked."

"I am too." Punk thought for a minute. "The three of us should go out once I'm back. I think you guys might actually get along…you're pretty similar." Punk wanted to say "you're both really good at freaking out and scaring the shit out of me," but he figured John might not appreciate that.

"…I find that hard to believe."

"Well, believe it. You're both ridiculous." They are. They are both absolutely fucking insane. They both make Punk edgy and insane. They're all the fucking same.

"I'm not ridiculous."

"Yes you are. You're the most ridiculous person I've ever met. You're like a weight-lifting golden retriever."

"If I'm a golden retriever, what's Ziggler? A poodle?"

"Is there one of those dumbass designer names for a toy poodle and a Chihuahua? Because that's definitely it. Only put in that machine from Honey, I Blew Up the Baby so it's like, the size of a Great Dane."

"Chipoo."

"This is why you're ridiculous. How the fuck do you know something like that?"

"Hey. I almost bought one for Nikki; I've done my research."

"I feel like Nikki might not actually appreciate that as much as you think she would. And I'm also pretty sure that you just Google cute little dog pictures in your spare time." Punk was actually sure of it – he'd caught John doing it several times before. "I think my IQ dropped twenty points when you said that: Chipoo? Seriously?"

"I don't think it's possible for your IQ to drop below zero, Punk."

Punk could imagine the smirk on John's face. "Fuck off."

"What would you do without me if I just fucked off, hm? You wouldn't be able to go on."

John was probably right. "You give yourself far too much importance in my life."

"I'm the most important thing in your life after Chicago and tattoos."

Punk hated him. "…That's fairly accurate."

"Knew it."

"Shut up. You're making my headache worse."

"Oh, you have a headache? Go take an aspirin…oh wait! You can't"

"Fuck you."

"Guess you'll have to have a warm glass of milk and a nap, Punky Brewster."

"Maybe I'll go snuggle with Nick and make you jealous."

"…That's pretty much the last thing that would make me jealous." John was laughing pretty hard by the time he finished speaking. Punk could have kicked himself. "If that's what you two are into though…"

"Fuck off."

"The more you say that, the less impact it has on me. Plus, I can't get the image of you being spooned by Ziggler while you suck your thumb out of my head. So it's having absolutely zero impact at this point."

"I'm going. You're intolerable."

"Fine. Have a good nap, snugglepuss."

"Don't think you got out of hanging out with him either, by the way. It's my newest mission."

"That's going to be a failure, but, whatever. Your time, not mine."

"Ugh. Bye!" Punk ended the call and threw his phone on the coffee table in annoyance.

Fucking John.

Nikki tried to keep her eyes on her magazine and off of John while he sat on the phone. She really did. She thanked God she had her earbuds in and the volume on her phone as high as she could tolerate it. Thank goodness for didn't even have to ask whom he was on the phone with to know. He only got that way talking to one person, and it wasn't her. And in the less than three days they'd been together this week, he'd already talked to him seven times, not including this call.

Sometimes, she wished John felt the way he did about Punk about her.

It wasn't like John had some big gay crush on Punk. That was laughable. But God, he trusted that man more than he trusted himself. He went to him for advice on everything (Nikki had once heard him have a twenty minute debate about which shirt he should wear at a house show with the guy, and in the end, he went with Punk's opinion anyway, despite fighting against it vehemently. Why he'd asked for Punk's opinion in the first place, Nikki would never understand). He relayed literally every piece of his life to the man.

Nikki was fairly certain Punk knew more about her sex life than she did. It was that bad.

Sometimes she thought she was jealous of Punk. Other times, she was disappointed in John. She didn't know which was the truth, or if her true feelings were some amalgamation of the two.

She constantly felt let down that John would rather confide in Punk than her. If this relationship was going to lead anywhere in the long run, John was going to have to start shifting some of his confidences toward her. Nikki feared that it wasn't going to happen, and that hurt. She wanted to spend the rest of her life with John; she wanted to start a family with John. But so far, it seemed as if John was perfectly content to linger in this "we're serious, but it's not going anywhere right now" state they'd been in since Christmastime.

It just hurt – a lot – to know the man you wanted to be your husband, the father of your children, was content to remain in bachelorhood rather than put his life together with you.

Nikki wanted to cry when John smiled, dimples deeper than they ever were when he smiled at her.

AN: I'm a terrible, horrible, no good person.

*Trigger Warnings: Panic attack from first person POV