Disclaimer: See chapter 1.
AN: Many thanks again for feedback, views, etc. Thank you to Annalore and InYourHonour for reviews.
Chapter Warnings: Punk is the vegan Rachel Ray. Dolph and Punk have a heart to heart that leaves Punk unsatisfied. Nikki is going to kill John. Punk imagines John and Nikki's imaginary family and isn't a fan. Dolph asks for pity shots in place of pity fucks.
Nick ordered Extreme Rules a half hour before it started. He was willing pay $45 despite Punk's insistence that the WWE wasn't really wiretapping his house ("I was only kidding!...the third time I suggested it…"). He dutifully ignored Punk's digs about his rising paranoia levels.
At least those were the only jokes at his expense. God knew Punk had more than enough material to go on.
There had been no mentions of the…incident since it occurred. Nick had spent the rest of the day, and the entire night, up in his room alternating between sleeping and laying awake wishing he was sleeping because he felt so odd.
Saturday went far better than Friday had.
He'd pulled himself out of bed after a sunrise nap, feeling a little wired, but mostly better. He'd made coffee and gone out to sit by the pool. Being in the living room had still felt a little too stifling and made his skin itch a little. A bit later, Punk had come out to join him, his own mug in hand.
Nick waited on the edge of his seat for Punk to bring up what had happened the day before, so anxious that he was sure he was going to start freaking out again, when Punk simply asked, "Want to go to the gym?"
It was then that Nick knew he didn't have to worry about what had happened and it wasn't going to be a problem.
Now here he sat, ready to watch the pay-per-view, Punk off in the kitchen throwing together some crazy vegan concoction he swore Nick would find enjoyable. Nick was skeptical, but he'd try anything for the experience (especially if the experience ended terribly and he could rib Punk about it forever).
"What are you pouting about?" Punk called from the counter.
Nick turned to look at him, watching as he methodically chopped…something. Nick had never seen that vegetable – fruit? – which he found a little off-putting. "I'm not pouting."
"You're pouting."
"I'm pouting about how hungry I'm going to be after you feed me that…whatever that is."
"It's Romanesco broccoli and it's delicious and it cost me $7 for this one head, so don't complain about it, Ziggy."
"It looks like a Pokémon."
Punk furrowed his brow. "It might be. There is a very good chance they based one of them off of this."
"Then it isn't vegan."
"Pokémon are created from data. So it is."
Nick shrugged. "Whatever. I'm mortified that you know that, and I still think you're going to poison me."
"Yeah, with better health. Maybe it'll erase some of the effects of that powder you think is helping you."
"Hey, that powder is…mostly made from things that occur in nature. Sometimes." Punk threw a piece of something yellow at Nick, who caught it and ate it, smirking. "This tastes like water."
"Whatever, man. It's delicious and it's fibery."
"Is that why you spend thirty minutes in the bathroom every morning?"
"No…that's for other purposes."
Nick snorted and joined Punk in the kitchen, taking a seat at the island across from Punk's workstation. "Please spare me that explanation."
Punk narrowed his eyes. "It's to trim my beard."
Nick shrugged. "If that's what you like to call it, we'll go with that." He really didn't want to know either way what Punk was doing in there (plus, Punk was starting to get mutton chops and he didn't want to criticize the lack of progress he was making in those thirty minutes).
"Ha ha. You're so funny."
"I try." Nick grabbed a piece of what he was pretty sure was radish and popped it in his mouth. Definitely radish.
"For someone so against this meal, you sure are eating a lot of it."
"Hey. That first piece you pretty much forced me to eat-"
"I was trying to re-concuss you with it."
"-And radishes are my favorite, so…"
Punk set his knife down and stared at Nick, confusion on his face. "I'm sorry, radishes? Radishes are your favorite?"
"Yes."
"They are no one's favorite. They are filler."
"Well, sign me up for their fan club. I can't get enough of them. And Luna Lovegood feels the same." To emphasize his point, Nick grabbed another hunk of the chopped vegetable, and popped it in his mouth, smiling cheerfully at Punk.
Nick immediately laughed at the look on Punk's face – somewhere between disbelief and exasperation. "I would say "Oh my God", but...I don't have a God-"
"Stan Lee."
Punk stared off in thought before continuing. "I would say "Oh my Stan Lee", but I don't want to take the Lord's name in vain."
"Gosh, babe, save the "Oh my God" for bed!" Punk beamed him in the forehead with something hard and orangey, and Nick frowned. Punk threw his fist up in a celebratory fashion. "Oh, shut up. That's the only time since you got here I haven't caught something you've thrown; don't get cocky."
"Oh, don't you worry; I'll save the cocky," he emphasized the word with an eyebrow waggle, "for later, babe."
"You're gross. Like hardcore, to the max gross."
Punk smirked and popped a cube of radish in his mouth, going back to chopping.
Nick watched Punk continue in silence. His hands moved quickly, surely, and Nick thought it was pretty…cool, though he usually found cooking a little boring. But Punk was into it, a little passionate about that, and Nick found himself attracted to cooking for the first time. His eyes widened as Punk poured some sort of liquid that smelled ridiculously spicy – was that label in Cantonese? – into the pile, before throwing it all in a pan and stir frying it.
Punk started rambling about how he was considering taking his diet to the next level and going macrobiotic if he could get back on the vegan track full time ("Can't believe I ate so much dairy this week. I might as well snort cocaine."). Nick asked if he was trying to look like Kate Moss in the long run and got a glare for his comedic efforts, quickly raising his hands in defense, fully expecting another thrown veggie attack that didn't come. He was slightly disappointed.
Punk eventually finished after an attempt at flipping the contents of the pan ended in a good fifth of it landing on the floor, Punk – looking sheepish, for what Nick believed was the first time ever – quickly turning off the stovetop and plating their meals as Nick laughed and cleaned up.
Grabbing his plate and taking a whiff, he was sorry to say that it smelled pretty great.
They sat on the couch and Nick dug in and tried to pretend like he didn't love what he was eating.
"Oh my Stan Lee! We missed the preshow! Whatever will I do without that luscious Miz on my screen?"
Nick choked on a bite of his dinner, and Punk laughed harder than he'd ever heard him laugh, clapping him on the back – not helping in any way – in an effort to dislodge the offending bite.
When Nick could breathe again he glared at his guest. "Wow, you're such a dick."
"Oh, come on. Putting guys in the preshow is like putting them on Superstars. It's fucking offensive."
"Shut up." Nick focused on his plate and kept eating. If someone like Miz, former WWE fucking champion, was on the preshow, it was just a matter of time before Nick was off begging Dixie Carter for a contract. And that sounded pretty gross.
Nick caught Punk watching him eat, smirk growing. "What?"
"You like it. Admit it. That's the best thing you've had in weeks."
"Better than your fucking pizza."
"You mean our pizza, Ziggy-poo. Don't deny its parentage."
"Shut up." Punk threw his hands up defensively, but heeded Nick's request.
They ate in silence through a couple of matches.
Nick knew it wasn't Punk's intention to anger him, but at least Mike got to be on the preshow. He knew that even though Ryan – who he'd talked to the day before – was angry ("I would never go back, what assholes!") at this point, he really wished he could have been on anything, even something everyone looked down on as much as they did Superstars, because at least he would still be with the company. Fuck, being on Superstars would have been a step up from NXT.
No. Nick wasn't going down that road now. Not when he was trying to enjoy himself and watch some wrestling and he was eating this delicious…whatever it was.
He looked over at Punk who was watching him, dinner abandoned in his lap, lip ring tucked into his mouth.
"…Is something wrong?"
"What happened was kind of shitty, you know that right? But…it happens."
Nick sighed. He really didn't want to have this conversation. Not right now. "Yes. I know. I've been around the block too…"
"It's happened to better guys." Nick glared at him. "I'm not saying he wasn't good. He was good for someone who never worked anywhere but here. But he'll be fine. And I Googled him, so I know he has other stuff going on…"
"That's not the point though."
"I know."
"Then what's your point?"
Punk placed his plate on the coffee table and repositioned himself to face Nick. "I just want to make sure you're okay."
"…You want to make sure I'm okay?"
"Yeah. For some unknown reason. Possibly because I'd like for you to never have a panic attack like that in my presence again."
Nick's chest tightened up at the phrase he was avoiding even thinking of. He quickly brushed it off, but it lay there under the surface, twisting itself around enough to twinge. "You would like me to never have one again?"
"Just not in my presence!"
Nick rolled his eyes and turned back to the television, stabbing at – was that seaweed? – what was left on his plate with no real purpose. "Wow. That's so nice, Punk. Seriously. I appreciate it."
"Hey!" Punk grabbed Nick's wrist and pried the fork out of it, stealing the plate away as well and setting them with his. "Look. That came out wrong. And I don't know how much sap you can take…"
"You? Sappy?"
"No. Not really…but look. I meant that I don't want you having one again. Because you might not say it, but I can: that shit was scary. I've seen stuff a lot worse, but that was not something that needed to happen. And I'm just trying to figure it out because you don't seem like someone who goes around freaking out like that…"
Nick slammed his fork down. "Can we drop this?"
"Can we? Yeah. But, will we?" Punk shook his head. "Nah. Not right now."
"Ughhhhhhh."
"Yeah. That's how I feel about this, but I have some puppy-saving moral compass that makes me take care of shit like this when it comes to my friends, okay?" Nick looked down at his lap at that. "Because you are my friend, Nick. And this little crusade probably has something to do with the whole 'always the designated driver' thing too, but whatever."
Nick looked over at him. "You have a serious complex."
"I'm rather simple." That shit-eating grin…
Nick groaned and rolled his eyes. "God, you have the worst sense of humor too."
"I have no sense of humor, that's the problem."
"Whatever, Punk."
"Nope, come on. Are you okay?"
"Yes. I'm fine. Can we quit this?" Nick tried to give Punk his most intimidating look.
Punk rolled his eyes. "You look like a kitten."
"Shut up."
"I get that you're going to keep telling me that you're okay, and I'm going to do my best to try and believe that. But I just want to make sure you know why that happened to you because I don't know…"
"Yeah, Punk. I know."
"Want to talk about it?"
No. He really didn't. "When the hell did you become a therapist?"
Punk shrugged. "Didn't mean to. Some people just give me a lot of practice."
"You know, you don't actually have to care, right?"
"Yeah, I didn't really want to, but hanging around you made me care. So you're going to have to deal with that."
Nick considered this for a moment. "Can you maybe be an asshole right now? That would help."
"No. Not right now."
Nick groaned and threw his head back, nearly defeated. He really didn't want to go through this right now, but Punk was persistent and it was annoying…and possibly chipping away at Nick's resolve. But he still wasn't going to give up. He didn't want to talk about Ryan, his guilt, his small bit of anger toward Punk, his anxiety about Cena's douchebaggery, his concussion, his absolute belief he was in the beginning stages of Alzheimer's…none of it.
"Can we talk about this later? Please? I promise I'll talk about it, just not right now, okay?"
Punk almost – almost – lit up in victory, but he quickly suppressed it. "Yeah, sure. Whatever you want."
Nick was sure if he'd been any cockier he might have punched him and meant it.
Nick breathed a sigh of relief and tried to get back into the matches before him. He nearly lost it laughing during the I Quit match ("Are they seriously going to keep asking them like that?") and he couldn't help but rib on Cena throughout the Last Man Standing match ("You need to tell John to quit wasting fire extinguishers like that. What if there was an actual fire? Are people supposed to get Kane'd because John Cena wanted to put on a show?"
"Nick, shut the fuck up.").
And when Ryback crashed Cena through the screen, he saw Punk tense up out of the corner of his eye. He shot him a look, but Punk just shook his head and muttered, "Planned." He went back to normal when the camera crew got them back on the screen.
They both groaned their way through most of the cage match, though Punk occasionally laughed at Heyman's antics.
And in the end, when a much calmer Nick turned the television off for the night, Punk gave him an expectant look that he caved under.
"I just felt really bad about it because I feel like I played a hand in it, all right?"
Punk's brow furrowed low and his eyes narrowed. "What, did you tell people to release him and then get guilty about it?"
"No! I would never do that to anyone…I just felt like it was my fault."
"I'm really not sure how it could have been…"
"People really were calling me on Monday, you know? And I might have said too much all at once. I can get away with that stuff one tweet at a time but…maybe I went a little overboard."
"…You seriously think that? I think that's bullshit. I think there's a million more things you could say."
"Well, I don't think so."
"I think you're wrong. I think they had a other reasons, bullshit reasons of course, and your tweets were probably not one of them. They do crazy shit like this all the time. Look at Colt."
Nick snorted. "This is different."
"How?"
"Because it's my brother! I did this to him because I couldn't keep my mouth shut. It's my fault."
Punk gave him a look that Nick just knew meant he thought he was a total idiot. "Nick. It isn't."
"Then whose fault is it?" Because Nick wasn't sure whom to blame, and if Punk knew, he better let him know. Especially if it was Cena, that god damn…
Punk smiled fondly. "No one's? Everyone's? Who knows? The company just makes stupid choices sometimes. They work in mysterious ways man. This is probably one of them. Again, look at Colt. I bet you by this time next year both of them are on Raw, feuding over the intercontinental title or something equally as ridiculous."
Nick glared. "…You're looking at me the way Danny Tanner did when he would give Stephanie a great piece of advice at the end of Full House."
Punk punched him in the arm. "I did just give you a great piece of advice. It's really not your fault, man. Fuck 'em all. They realize mistakes they made like that all the time and bring people back, it's not a huge deal…." That stupid shit-eating grin crept back onto Punk's face. "Besides, you aren't important enough to punish over tweets anyway; no one sees yours or cares."
Nick returned the punch. "Asshole."
"Nothing I haven't heard before."
Nick sighed. "I have a headache now."
Punk gave him an exaggerated pout. "But, babe, you always get a headache!"
Nick laughed at Punk and got up. "You're ridiculous and I'm going to bed."
He gathered up both their plates and took them to the kitchen, cleaning them off and washing them, ignoring Punk's fake sobs and stage whispers of, "All the spark is gone! What has marriage done to our passion?"
He could feel Punk's eyes on him the entire time, but said nothing. After taking his time to dry each and every drop of water off the plates and put them back just so, he turned around and Punk was watching ESPN, studiously ignoring him.
Nick rolled his eyes and headed for his room.
"Nick." He turned back around, but Punk still wasn't facing him. "Not your fault, man."
Nick nodded and went up to bed.
John was buzzed on adrenaline when he got back to his dressing room. He always got like that after long, intense matches, and the high spot at the end had been a stroke of genius he was happy to take part in. Sure, he was slightly banged up – not from "landing" on that metal contraption – because he'd been laid up there in the time it "took" for the ref and the cameras to get back there – but from all the other slams through the match.
It was a good feeling if John ever knew one.
He was just pulling his shirt on when he heard the door open, and turned to find Nikki coming in.
"Hey, babe," he greeted, pulling her into a hug.
She was stiff against his chest, failing to return the embrace.
He pulled back a little and studied her face for a moment: the hard set of her eyes, the raised eyebrows, the sucked in cheeks.
"…What's wrong?" He slowly let her go and studied her tense form.
Nikki pursed her lips and looked away from John, taking in a breath so deep, her entire body trembled at the attempt to fill its rigidity. "Oh, I don't know…is there anything you've forgotten to tell me about lately, babe?"
John quickly racked his brain. He was especially good at thinking quickly with an angry woman in front of him – he had enough practice. He immediately thought of his unchanged schedule, so there were no messed up plans between them. He wracked his brain, desperate for anything she might be pissed about, but only one thing came to mind…and he was fairly certain he had no STDs….
"No…?"
Nikki stared incredulously at him. He was pretty sure if her expression could talk it would be asking him if he was a fucking moron. John wasn't sure how he would answer. "Is that a question, or your answer, John? Because I'm pretty sure that was a question."
He could tell she was one wrong answer from punching him. Granted, he was a pro-wrestler, but she had a mean right hook he liked to steer clear of, even when they were just play fighting. "No! It was my answer!"
She began laughing and he took a step back, totally frightened for his balls. "Are you serious right now? Let me take you back to fifteen minutes ago, John! Because I looked like a complete asshole running around frantically trying to find out if you were okay! Stagehands were giving me looks like I had lost my mind! Because when someone isn't warned that their boyfriend is going to go through an LED screen in a fiery blaze of pyro, and land on a fucking metal – I don't even know what that was! – they tend to become concerned about their boyfriend's wellbeing! Especially when they're taken off on a stretcher with a brace around their not-so-great neck!" She was crying by the time she was done.
John's heart sank. He knew – no – he swore he had told her the minute he and Ryan had come up with the spot the previous week. There was no way he hadn't. She had to have forgotten. "Nik, I definitely told you!"
"No! You didn't, John!" She was almost shrill. "I think I would remember you saying, 'Oh! Hey babe! By the way! At the end of my match, Ryan is going to tackle me through the TitanTron and there's going to be an explosion and I'm going to get carted away, but I'll be fine!' Are you just fucking dumb, John?"
"No! Why are you so upset? I told you what was going to happen! It isn't my fault you forgot!"
"Why would I forget about something like this? You didn't tell me!"
"I did. Jesus fucking Christ, Nicole. I told you!" He tore his phone from his pocket to search for the message he'd most definitely sent her. "You better fucking apologize when I find this, for the love of fucking-"
"I better apologize?" Definitely shrill now. "How about I stick my foot so far up your ass-"
"Now you're being ridiculous."
"With good reason!"
John scrolled and scrolled through his messages to Nikki, absolutely sure that he would find it. There were silly selfies, pictures of cool things they saw when they were apart, long emoji exclusive conversations, and actual messages. John was so sure, so absolutely certain the message was there.
But as he got back to messages from April, he realized that it doesn't wasn't.
He slowed his scrolling, apprehensive about looking up, about admitting defeat. But when he did, Nikki's gaze was teary and sullen, as if she didn't want him to admit there was no message just as much as he didn't.
"You never told me, John."
"I must have."
"You didn't." She was so quiet compared to her previous screams that he had to strain to make out the words.
"…are you sure?"
Her look was pleading. All he could do was nod his understanding: she was sure.
"Nik, I'm…"
"I know."
"I didn't mean…I must have just thought I got everyone…"
"Everyone meaning…?"
"You. My family. Couple of trustworthy friends…"
"Like Punk?"
John was taken aback at who she chose to single out. "Um…yeah?"
"Because I feel like…John, this is going to come out very wrong so you need to just let me say things, okay?"
John was beyond confused with where this was leading. "Okay?"
"I feel like you tell Punk – and only Punk – a lot of things that you should be telling me…."
The admission baffled him. "…Do you want me to talk to you more about protein and baseball? Like…cars? Do you want to get into cars? Maybe boats?"
She smiled fondly – the condescending way parents do when they come in to find their kids covered from head to toe in the paint they got into. "That's not even close to what I meant."
"…Hockey?"
She shook her head like she couldn't comprehend was she was doing with him. "Oh my God…"
"I'm sorry! I don't know what you mean!"
Nikki sighed. "Just…finish getting ready and we'll go to the hotel and then…yeah. Text me when you're ready…if you can manage that."
"Hey! That's low!" he called after her, but she just let the door slam shut behind her.
John sighed and collapsed onto the bench. He didn't have any clue where this conversation was going to go, but he wanted to avoid it at all costs. God, it wasn't like this was a big deal. He left her out of the loop with things like this all of the time. He got his things together to leave, before realizing he still didn't have his belt back. He groaned, realizing this might cause a delay Nikki wouldn't appreciate before going off to track it down.
He made sure to text her about it, since she apparently had a hard-on for that type of thing.
It took him twenty minutes and six production assistants to find it, and by then his usual happy-to-see-you personality was long gone and replaced with a rude man he hated, brought on by sheer apprehension.
He texted Nikki, hurried back to his dressing room to grab his bag, and met her at the car. They didn't say a word as they climbed in the back, and for the first time ever, John was not very thankful for the post-match car service because at least if he was driving he could feign sole concentration on the road. But Nikki stayed silent, alternating her focus between staring out the window on the 10-minute ride and checking her phone. Even if he'd wanted to keep talking about it, there was no way he was going to get her involved with the body language she was throwing at him – body facing the door and away from him.
At the hotel, he carried both their bags, as he always did, but he really hoped the chivalry might buy him a pass this time.
Once up in their room, Nikki locked herself in the bathroom.
John sighed. The longer she waited to confront him, the more anxious he got. He wanted her to come charging out now, guns blazing, and get to the point. It really didn't help that he had no idea what she was talking about, no way to anticipate what she was going to say, no way to prepare a defense…. What was even worse was that she hadn't been fuming when she left; she hadn't just chewed him out right then and there.
Dread quickly replaced anxiety.
Nikki came out a bit later: hair up, face washed, pajama-clad. She gave him a small smile, but it didn't reach her eyes.
John sat on the end of the bed, waiting for her to start. He was tense, primed to get up if he had to, to leave so they could both cool off if the situation got too out of hand. She crept over, sinking down next to him, slumping forward as if she had already accepted defeat.
"…What's wrong, Nik? For real, because this isn't you…"
"You really don't see what I see, do you?" She sighed. "You just…sometimes I feel like you don't trust me at all."
"But I do! I trust you! I wouldn't be with you if I didn't trust you, you know that."
Nikki nodded. "I know. But you don't rust me like you trust him."
"What the hell does that mean?"
"John, I get that Punk is your best friend, but you don't talk to me about half the stuff you talk to him about. And I'm sure about what I'm saying because sometimes, when you talk to him and I'm around, you say stuff to him like it's nothing and it's usually the first time I'm hearing about it!" She took a deep breath. "I don't want to get angry about this. I really don't."
"Then don't, Nik." He stood up and crossed the room, taking what she said into consideration, but he really didn't see it the way she did. Punk was open for all his bullshit; he could take the mind-numbing bullshit John thought about and turn it into something tolerable and thinkable. He didn't want to worry Nikki with half the stupid things that went through his mind.
"I'm just trying to tell you that sometimes…sometimes I get really upset about this, okay! You save all the happy, stupid, silly stuff for me! It makes me so angry, so jealous-"
"You're jealous? Of what, Punk?" John laughed. "Seriously? Punk?"
"Yes, Punk! God, John, do you think this is easy for me to admit to? I don't get jealous; that's not me! But you seriously keep our entire relationship to all the sweet stuff! You don't share anything with me!"
"What do you want me to share with you?" John was startled by his own raised voice, but carried on. "What, you think I just tell you about all the pretty shit? You want to hear about the other stuff, Nik? Like how all I can ever fucking think about is how the other shoe has got to drop any second now? That-"
"Yes, John! That's what I want to hear!"
"Don't interrupt me. Do you even know what I talk about with him most of the time, Nik? I seriously spend all of my time annoying Punk with all the stupid shit I worry about because I worry about everything. The last time I got a paper cut I was convinced it would get infected and never heal. Is that the stupid shit you want to hear about? What are you going to do? Coo at me?"
"Oh, fuck you." Nikki got up and got right in his face. "You really think that's how I would react, John? Oh wait! Of course it is! That's the only experience you have with me because the shit you give me to work with warrants that kind of reaction! Maybe if you didn't tell me about mindless, goofy bullshit all the time-"
"I'm trying to protect you!"
"From what, John!"
"Me!"
Nikki backed up like he'd struck her. "What?"
John pondered how best to approach this. "I just…I don't want you to have to deal with my bullshit…"
"I'm here! I obviously want to! Just tell me what you mean!"
"I'm not going to explain this. This argument is stupid."
That wound her back up.
"This argument isn't stupid! We were just getting somewhere! Fuck, John! Why are you closing up like this?"
"Nikki," he warned her, "stop. I don't want to talk about this. I don't want to do this. I just…I need to go." He grabbed his phone from the dresser and started toward the balcony.
He caught the look on Nikki's face and realized that he probably should have just left the phone.
"Oh, that's rich, John! Go call your fucking boyfriend!" She was screaming, tearing up now, and he had to duck to avoid the object – a pillow, it turned out – he saw her chuck at him from the corner of his eye. "Just like you always do!"
That had been his plan.
Punk went up to bed satisfied with the night, but still a little frustrated.
He wasn't used to having to pry problems out of people. Hell, he'd never even had to ask John if anything was wrong to get his worries to come tumbling out.
But Nick was different, and despite his rather visceral display, he wasn't going to just come out and tell Punk everything that was bothering him.
Punk felt a little put out.
Punk's phone vibrated on the bed and he briefly considered ignoring it because he was exhausted for the first time in a long time. But then he saw John's name and he reconsidered. At least John was forthcoming.
"Hey man, what's up?"
"Fucking women!"
Woah.
To say Punk had not been expecting their conversation to start off like this would probably have been an understatement. The thing was, John rarely talked to Punk about Nikki. Punk suspected John felt it was taboo to do so, since the minute he'd started talking to Punk about Liz, things with Liz had changed and the divorce had started and it had ended up being the messiest couple of months ever.
"Women in general, or a specific one?"
"What do you think?"
"I know what I think, I'm just sort of hoping I'm wrong…"
"She's fucking crazy. Why do I attract all the crazies?"
"Nikki isn't crazy John…"
"What, are you saying I'm crazy?" John's tone was gruff.
Punk was taken aback. "No…I never said that. And I don't think that."
"I bet you do. Apparently she thinks I'm in love with you or something, and now you think I'm crazy!"
What the fuck? "Are you drunk? Did Nikki seriously tell you she thinks that?"
"No! But she's jealous of you! Jesus, can't I have just one friend I can talk to, what the fuck did I ever do?"
"You need to calm down and make sense, John."
"Don't tell me what to do."
"Why else do you call me?"
He hadn't meant to say it. He really hadn't. And even when he did, he hadn't meant for it to come out the way it did. If he could freeze time like his life was Saved By the Bell and climb through the phone, grabbing at all the words as they tumbled out and push them back through the receiver, back into his mouth, he would have.
John was quiet a long time. "Because we're friends." He was calmer, softer, more guarded.
"I know. I didn't mean that. It came out all wrong."
"Because I trust you, Punk."
"I know. I trust you too."
"You better."
"I do!"
"…You could tell me if you were worried about stuff…"
"I don't worry about anything."
"That's bullshit."
"It's true. Not nearly as much as everyone else."
"Yeah. But you do worry. And you can throw that shit on me the way I throw it on you."
"I know. I just don't." Punk was quiet for a bit. "She really said you were in love with me?"
John laughed. "Fuck, she called you my boyfriend."
"Ew, why?"
"We were fighting. She said I tell you everything and I don't tell her anything."
"She has a point."
"I guess…I just don't want her all caught up."
"Dude, if she didn't want to be, she wouldn't be there."
"That's what she said."
"Terrifying that her and I are on the same page, but I guess it proves what a tool you are."
"Shut up, Punk."
"Make me."
John laughed again. "Fuck. She's really angry. And now I'm trapped on the balcony."
"Don't jump."
"Shut up. It's kind of windy out."
Punk ignored him. "You should talk to her."
"Yeah, I should apologize. I was kind of mean."
"No. I mean, the next time you want to call me and tell me you stubbed your toe and you think you got nerve damage in your foot that will end your career, you should tell her. But not one hundred percent of that stuff because then she'll leave your neurotic ass."
"Are you trying to tell me to stop telling you about this stuff?"
"No. Just tell her more."
"She wants to have kids," John blurted out, barely waiting for Punk to finish his statement.
"So do a lot of women."
"With me. Like…soon…I think."
"Oh."
The idea…scared Punk. He could admit that. Not because John wasn't good with kids. (He was like the baby whisperer; it was almost terrifying how one smile and stupid string of words out of this guy's mouth could soothe a baby. It was also pretty gross.) But because he couldn't bear the thought of John being married off again so soon, this time with kids in tow, a family that could fall apart.
Part of him was worried because he didn't want it to end like the last time. But he also felt bad just thinking that another marriage would end like the first one. He felt bad for thinking John hadn't learned his lesson from the last go around. He felt bad thinking John wouldn't fight to stay with the mother of his children if it came down to it.
The other part, the part Punk was pretty sure was drunk with exhaustion, was angry that John would want to cut their bromance (and that was how he knew he was tired, because bromance was a forbidden word around Punk) short to shack up with some woman and have a bunch of kids. If John did that, Punk was pretty sure their friendship wouldn't last. Especially if Punk had to hear drivel about little Johnny's first fucking t-ball game.
That part was completely ridiculous, and Punk almost laughed at even having a part of his self that felt that way.
And another miniscule part of him was screaming that she just wasn't right for him. Which was insane because Nikki was great and fit John perfectly. But there was something he just didn't think was right, something he didn't think was going to work in the long run. He just wasn't sure what.
The thought made him so tired he was done dealing with life for the day.
"John, I hate to do this to you, I have to go. I'm sorry man, but I'm really tired. But you did a good job tonight."
"Oh, yeah, of course. I should go back in…if she hasn't locked me out."
"She didn't."
"I bet she did."
"That's a bet I'm willing to take."
He heard the rush of air and John curse under his breath. "Night, Punk."
"Night, man."
He turned his phone off, mind set on getting more than a couple of hours of sleep.
The next two weeks flew by.
Nick got better. He even started driving them around himself, and for that, Punk was grateful. He wasn't sure he could leave Nick behind in good faith if he was unable to get around for the next week or so before he went back on the road. But Nick proved he could get around, and Punk was satisfied.
He just hoped Nick was okay with the things that were bothering him. He was more worried leaving him alone without getting the whole story. He just knew there was more. He wasn't sure he could bear the thought of Nick going through another panic attack by himself.
"I'll see you, man." Punk got out of the car at the curb and was surprised when Nick cut the engine and came around to join him. He leaned against it, a nonchalant little smirk on his face.
"So, when am I coming to Chicago for real food?"
Punk laughed. "I don't know, how about we both get back to work first?"
Nick nodded. "Sounds good…I'll miss you, man."
"Ew, don't get sappy on me."
"Hey. You asked me how much sap I could take. This is how much."
"I think you surpassed my own levels with that one, but um…I'll miss you too." The admittance was rushed and he quickly followed up with, "Dinner on me after Payback?"
"You know it. I'm going to lose, so you better buy me pity shots."
Punk rolled his eyes. "Whatever." He stuck his hand out and Nick shook it.
"You know. Since I can't even get a pity fuck out of you."
Punk cringed and pulled his hand away. "Oh, you were so close, Zig. So close, but then you just took it too far.
Nick smirked. "Oh, come on. I haven't earned the right to start up with the vaguely homoerotic star-crossed lovers who can never be comments yet? Fuck, Punk, I made you French toast this morning. What kind of one-sided friendship is this? You just save that shit for Cena?"
"Cena has never made me French toast."
"Wow. Dick move if he's getting the right to joke about snuggling with you."
"I know, right?"
"Whatever man." Nick gave him a side hug that Punk tried half-heartedly to pull away from. "Quit squirming, you love it."
"I don't. You smell like Axe."
"Oh, fuck that. This is Emporio Armani. I would never lower myself to that level."
Punk got away. "Bye Nick! You smell like a chick!"
Ziggler went back around to the driver's side of his car. "Later!"
Punk headed inside to check in for his flight.
AN: Romanesco broccoli/cauliflower is real and it's awesome and it's a real life fractal. Beautiful looking vegetable. I have no clue what I made Punk cook, I just typed what sounded nice in my head. Dixie Carter is president of TNA.
Anyway. Next chapter has a bunch of characters coming face to face for the first time in this story! Yay for variety!