Disclaimer: See chapter 1.
AN: Thank you again to my ever-lovely reviewers, followers, and favoriters. You all rock! I apologize way in advance for how long this took (I really try and update twice a week, and this took two weeks). Most of that is due to anxiety about how this turned out because I think it's sort of an important chapter where a lot happens (or doesn't?) and it's very long. The holiday on the fourth, a surprisingly busy real life, my best friend coming home from being stationed in Turkey, and then terrible anxiety about getting tickets to Money In The Bank…which I attended (and goodness, it was great) all added to the delay. But I finally feel really good about this chapter!
Annalore has written a John/Punk high school AU one-shot called Escape that I cannot recommend to you highly enough. You're probably thinking "high school AU? No way. Not happening" but trust me on this. It's more adolescent AU than anything it's just so poignant and sad and sweet. It's great. I'm trying to get her to write a sequel. You should try to. (And in all the time it took me to finish this chapter, she also wrote a quick Punk/John post-MITB one shot that is also incredible called Safe.)
There's section in this chapter is written a little differently than all the sections so far in this story, and that's because (spoiler!) it's the first section all three guys have been in at the same time! So if you're like, whoa, the POV changed a little, don't let it throw you off – it's supposed to come off weird.
Chapter Warnings: Reunions! Feels! Wrestling! Denny's! Smut! Wait, what? Smut? Isn't this slow build?
Nine weeks.
It had been nine weeks since Punk had been here. It had been exactly ten weeks since he fought at WrestleMania. He wasn't sure which was crazier – what he'd been doing when he left this behind or leaving it behind at all.
He'd been keeping his mind off of this, thinking of anything but coming here today to keep him from the frenzied feeling he knew was lingering just under the surface.
He spent Saturday afternoon in the gym, texting Chris from the treadmill to make sure they had everything down. He had swung downtown and picked up his sick – and he meant sick – new ring gear. He had spent the night occupied with Game 2, and even if the 'Hawks let him down in overtime, 1-1 wasn't a horrible record this early in the finals. They were going to win. He could feel it.
He wound down for the night and stared at the ceiling for an indeterminate amount of time, all the while wondering if it would all feel the same when he went out to that ring the next night.
He slipped into the empty staging area, where the monitors were already on, showing the silent arena and the stage crew working to set up the padded barricade at ringside. He took a minute to flip up his hood, close his eyes, and breathe in the way he did before he went out there to bring down the house. He opened his eyes, feeling clearer than he had in so long, and stepped up the stairs, coming out from behind the darkened TitanTron and out onto the stage, only lit by the house lights. He stepped to the head of the ramp, shoving his hands into the pockets of his hoodie, and let his eyes fall closed again.
It was like nothing had ever changed.
"You were really going to leave all this behind?"
Punk turned, reverie broken, and there John was in all his dumb, grinning glory. John offered him his hand, but Punk rolled his eyes and hugged his friend instead. John returned it, patting Punk's back hard enough to shake the impact through his chest.
"No way. Never."
"Good."
Punk pulled back. "I plan on being the one to retire you someday. Have to outlast the champ."
John scoffed. "I'd like to see you try."
"Well, I don't plan on having to try."
"Hey now. You've been back about 15 minutes, you need to relax that shit."
"I've been saving it up."
John draped his arm over Punk's shoulders. "Then spend it. Let's get your antisocial ass to the green room and you can sass all of them."
"Fuck, do I have to?"
"Yes. You do."
"Oh man," he groaned, "Fine. Whatever."
"Let's go."
John took him back to the green room, and Punk was greeted like his life was an episode of Cheers. Most of his friends – and even some people he wasn't particularly fond of, but could tolerate in small doses – came up to shake his hand, clap him on the shoulder, and welcome him back. Kofi wasn't there, which made Punk a little sad, but the man deserved the time to heal and get to know his son before he was back out on the road with these hooligans again. John's phone rang and Punk shooed him off to go answer it.
Punk spotted Nick sitting off on his own, scrolling through his phone. When he met Punk's eye, he smiled, and Punk gestured that he would be right over. He managed his way through a few more minutes of his royal reception, and got over to Nick.
"Hey man." They shook hands and Punk sunk down in the chair next to him. "How are you?"
"Pretty good. Excited to be back?"
Pun's smile pulled his lips wide enough that he though his mouth might tear in half. "That's a bit of an understatement."
"Really?"
Punk nodded. "Yeah. I don't think I've ever been this excited about any of this…"
"That's awesome man."
Punk watched Nick for a second and caught himself before frowning. Nick didn't look particularly happy to be where he was, like a few more pounds of force on his shoulders would be more than he could handle. "You dropping tonight?"
Nick nodded. "Yep."
"Sucks man."
"Turn too."
Punk was taken aback. "…I didn't really see that coming."
"Me neither. It is what it is. Going to go get my head bashed in for 10 minutes and leave with nothing. So much risk..."
"So little reward," Punk finished.
"No reward."
Punk frowned. "It'll work out you know. Crowd likes you."
"Crowds like a lot of people. Doesn't mean shit, we both know that." Nick raked his hand over his face. "I'm sorry, man. I'm raining on your parade, you need to get away from me tonight." He laughed a little, but the sound set Punk ill at ease. "I'm happiness poison right now. That's why I'm camped out in here."
Punk knew Nick just wanted to be alone. He got that. And as long as the man was calm, he would leave him be. He'd have to keep a close eye on him though, just in case he got…not so calm. Punk stood, clapping Nick fondly on the shoulder, and went off to find John and some food.
John was waiting in catering, and he discreetly slipped Punk a Diet Pepsi. "One won't kill you."
"I really shouldn't."
John shrugged. " Fuck it, you'll be fine. How was it?"
"Oh. It was like the second coming of Christ. All of you are obsessed."
"Oh, we definitely are. It's hard not to be with you running around now, looking like Hugh Jackman."
"Hey," Punk punctuated the word by sticking his pointing finger in John's face to make his point. "Hugh Jackman is a beautiful man, I take that as a compliment."
John swatted his hand away. "Oh, I meant it that way." Punk stared John down, and John threw his hands up in surrender. "Hugh Jackman is my man crush, dude! I was following him around like a puppy when he was here."
"Please never say 'man crush' again."
"Awe, are you jealous mine isn't on you?"
"Why should I be? Mine is on Hugh, too."
John laughed. "We both have commendable taste."
"We really do."
Nick woke up in Chicago in a pretty sour mood.
He'd pulled on his big boy pants for breakfast with some of the roster, including April who was over the moon with how her night was set to end. He refused to fuck this day up for her; she deserved this, and his terrible mood would be the last thing to bring her down if he had his way.
He moved through the day bouncing back and forth between wanting to go find a private place to cry and ripping a door off its hinges to beat the nearest person with it.
The very first time April asked if he was okay, if he needed anything, he mustered up the brightest smile he could, hugging her and telling her how proud he was. He refused to lie to her, and she deserved to keep having a great day, so saying he was fine was not an option. He left her with Celeste so that he could take his raincloud elsewhere, and made his way to the green room to hide in plain sight. If anyone found him off on his own, moping in some hallway full of equipment, they would never leave him be. But moping here was a sure way to guarantee no one would bug him about his pout.
Yes, he was pouting, he could admit it.
Tonight was going to be frustrating. It didn't matter if he was making a face turn, coming out of the match the hero despite his loss. A loss was a loss, and losing the title now could mean trouble in the long run – even if more than a few people has assured him otherwise.
He wasn't being some big baby – at least he liked to think he wasn't. He was just so frustrated and so anxious and so worried. Worried about spots going awry and being out for weeks again, maybe months this time, maybe forever. He worried about this being the end of the road, even with the promise of a good summer ahead of him. He worried about his brother.
Worrying sucked.
And worrying just pissed him off. He was on the edge; he was so close to never having to feel this way again. He just needed that last big push to get over the top and he just knew he'd feel so much better. And just because it seemed like it was coming, didn't mean it was. Because this business was full of a bunch of liars and he knew better than anyone now that everything they said to his face needed to be taken with a grain of salt.
Their assurances meant nothing to him anymore.
It was now, tonight, that might get him stuck spending the rest of his career collecting paychecks without a match until he was quietly released a few years down the road. He couldn't let that happen. And as hard as it was going to be, he was going to fight to make sure it didn't. He wasn't going to let the past decade go to waste. Because really, who got this close to achieving their childhood dream and then just willingly let it all go?
The atmosphere suddenly became much more excited, and when he looked up from his phone, Punk was at the door. The entire room seemed to migrate Punk's way. Everyone from Punk's friends to people Nick knew Punk wanted to send pistols accompanied by 'kill yourself' notes swarmed their returned Second City Saint.
He watched for a moment and realized that whatever feeling this was he was having, Punk was feeling the polar opposite.
The man was all smiles, bright eyes, radiating joy. He looked so electric, like if Nick went over and just touched him he would be vibrating with all this energy. He looked like he might burst if anything added to his glee. He looked the way someone returning to the best thing in their life should.
He looked right.
Nick knew he was staring. He couldn't help it. He wanted that so bad. That feeling. He'd had it enough times before – fuck, Raw after 'Mania, anyone? – to know exactly how it felt to be inside Punk's skin right now. He'd give anything to feel that way. It was overwhelming.
He could feel legitimate tears welling up, the frantic zing of panic starting up in his chest, and he tore his eyes away, looked back at his phone, and numbly scrolled through his mentions on twitter to distract himself.
It made him feel good that so many people were so sure he was going to win. It made sense, right? That the guy they let keep the title for a month when he wasn't on tv was obviously going to retain tonight. Because that made sense. It was logical; it was formulaic.
The hate tweets were laughable, and almost put Nick in a better mood.
He looked up again and Punk looked right at him. He couldn't help but smile at the man who had just spent weeks by his side while he recovered. Because that man looked like a totally different beast tonight, all happy and confident, beaming at even the most annoying assholes that greeted him. Punk signaled that he'd be over to see him, and Nick watched as he got through the last few people welcoming him back, being uncharacteristically polite in his fantastic mood.
Suddenly, Punk was in front of him, shaking his hand, and Nick almost wanted to jump up hug him and tell him that he looked like he should never take a break again and that Nick would like to spend every moment near him so he could feel that way too. But he stayed firmly planted in his chair, hoping he could make it through this exchange without taking his anger out on this ecstatic man.
"Hey man, how are you?" Punk sat next to Nick
"Pretty good," he lied. Punk accepted that, and Nick was a little more thankful for his friend. "Excited to be back?"
A grin the likes of which Nick had never seen crossed Punk's face and Nick wanted to cry. He hated this feeling. He hated how jealous he was of someone who deserved this. "That's a bit of an understatement," Punk told him.
"Really?"
Punk nodded. "Yeah. I don't think I've ever been this excited about any of this…"
"That's awesome." It really was. Nick was so happy for him, under it all. He hated that his happiness for Punk had suddenly compounded itself on top of all his other negative feelings, weighing him further down. Like being happy for someone else was cause for misery.
God, Nick just hated himself right now.
"You dropping tonight?"
Nick nodded and hoped the defeat he was feeling wasn't showing. "Yep."
"Sucks man."
"Turn too."
Punk looked about as shocked as Nick had when he'd found out. "…I didn't really see that coming."
"Me neither. It is what it is. Going to go get my head bashed in for 10 minutes and leave with nothing. So much risk..."
"So little reward."
"No reward," Nick shot back without thinking. Nick didn't care how whiny that sounded. He wasn't going to front for Punk. Punk had seen him hyperventilating and slobbering on the floor over this shit – fuck, he'd held him while he did it – so he was going to get the nitty-gritty now too.
But the look on Punk's face still made Nick want to smack himself. He studied him like he could see every stupid doubt he had written all across his face. Nick tensed up to keep from fidgeting, from getting up and bolting.
"It'll work out you know. Crowd likes you."
"Crowds like a lot of people. Doesn't mean shit, we both know that." He thought he might cry for a minute, just burst into tears, and he brought his hand up to cover his face. It passed, and he tried to pass it off – he needed to pass this entire conversation off. "I'm sorry, man. I'm raining on your parade, you need to get away from me tonight." He forced a laugh that hurt squeezing from his chest. "I'm happiness poison right now. That's why I'm camped out in here."
Punk stood and clapped Nick on the shoulder without saying a word. He was so thankful Punk didn't question him – he had no clue what he would have said if this got real. But he wished he could have left his hand there, squeezed him, gave him every bit of comfort he could. But Nick had no clue how to ask for that. So he let Punk leave.
He wished he'd made him stay though, just for the closeness of having him sit beside him in a room full of people.
John found himself sitting in Punk's dressing room watching Ziggler's match despite his aversion to the whole situation – or more specifically, Ziggler in general.
He'd come to check on Punk before his own match with Jericho and found him stretching on the floor, eyes glued to the monitor.
"Punk-"
Punk shushed him. "Sit. Be quiet."
John stared at him for a second and rolled his eyes, but sat on the couch anyway. "I'm offended because I feel like you don't tell people to be quiet during my matches."
"Because I don't even watch them."
He snorted. "That hurts, Punk. My heart is breaking."
"You've got enough heart to go around."
Despite the fact that he was kidding, Punk was quiet, and John didn't want to push him…too much. He watched as Punk pulled himself into a split and laid his entire torso flat on the ground, eyes never leaving the screen. It was… "Your dedication to this is insane."
"He's getting his head kicked in. Don't mind me if I'm a little worried."
"I'm not minding you!"
"Then stop talking about it!"
"Well, I did come here to talk to you but you shushed me and-"
"Shhhhhhh." The shit-eating grin Punk threw his way made John kick him in the ass. Punk glared, but John played dumb, zipping his lips and throwing away the key. "You're a dick, you know."
John shrugged.
"You're ridiculous."
He stayed pointedly quiet.
"Are you serious right now?"
John nodded.
"Fine, whatever. I just won't take you to Denny's after this."
"Hey!"
"Oh, look who found the key!"
John gave him the finger and quieted down, giving up his attempt to ignore the match before him and watching the monitor. He had to admit, there were a few times he was definitely convinced this was going to go wrong. But it seemed like they'd put a lot of effort into it, Alberto was always pretty great, and John had to (begrudgingly) hand it to Ziggler, he was taking it like a champ.
Not like the champ, but a champ nonetheless.
The match ended shortly after that, and John watched as Punk stopped stretching to watch the screen as they led Ziggler back stage. His face was blank and John frowned, unsure of what to do. Both Ziggler selling his way up the ramp and Punk's emotionless observance went on far longer than John found comfortable. He shifted awkwardly on the couch, and just as he was about to break the silence, Punk turned away from the screen, smiling as if the last minute hadn't happened.
"I need to go. Good luck."
John tried not be taken aback, but he was pretty sure he failed. He awkwardly raised his arm, not knowing what he was doing with it, before offering his fist for a bump. "Break a leg, man."
"I'll try not to." Punk tapped his taped fist to John's, flipped up his hood, and left.
John stayed in the room a little while longer, trying to figure out what had just happened. He looked back up at the screen when Punk's music hit. And then, there he was, face still covered. But Punk was there, going back out to the ring.
It looked so right.
To think there was a time just weeks ago when John had worried whether or not this would ever happen again. Now, knowing otherwise was great.
The best part was watching Punk's eyes. Leading into 'Mania, John had never seen Punk look more tired, more edgy, less enthused to be where he was. But even earlier today, some of that energy Punk got was boiling under the surface of familiarity and comfort, of looking like he'd made the best decision ever by returning. Now, the mania was at the forefront – Punk's eyes bled wrestling.
John felt a mix of emotions, all positive, well up in his chest.
His match sucked.
Nick came to that conclusion just before the very last spot. The entire thing had been a miserable affair, but right now he just wanted it over and done with. His head felt fine, but there was the big finish and he had the worst feeling…
He glimpsed April leaning in under the bottom rope, far more concerned than would have been needed to just pass off this entire angle. He finally pulled himself to his knees, arms defensive like he might actually try for something, and got the last shot to the head, and holy fuck that was loud.
And just like that, it was over.
Doc was in the ring with him almost immediately, and Nick rolled onto his side, burying his face in the ring, half to sell the loss and half to hide his actual anguish. Doc asked him about his head, and Nick came to the realization that allowing this to happen was pretty fucked on everyone's parts.
But he'd passed the ImPACT tests, so it wasn't like he could have said no anyway.
Alberto celebrated the win and sold his turn, and Jesus' voice chimed in over the PA so loud it almost did give Nick a headache. He shook his head no to all Doc's questions – he was fine, physically at least. But a few frustrated tears were leaking out now, despite his best attempts to hold them back. He felt April slide in behind him as they pulled him out of the ring, and she took a seat on the apron next to him. He looked up at her face, and she was more upset than he was.
He was selling more than was necessary, but he past the point of simply selling the second the bell rang. At least he would get praised for how well he sold this entire clusterfuck.
The group of them made it to the foot of the ramp before Nick was so overwhelmed he collapsed to his knees right there.
Watching Nick's match was…uncomfortable to say the least.
It was brutal in the weirdest way – the entire thing was almost calm – and Punk was surprised anyone from medical agreed to clear Nick to get kicked in the head repeatedly for 15 plus minutes. Punk was pretty sure more than a few people had called some of this program content into question – especially Doc, considering how many times he ran into the match to check, even if it was all a work. Punk was under the impression Nick had felt obligated to do this; Punk tell simply from the look on April's face that no one was particularly fond of the situation they were in.
It was the legitimate frustration on Nick's face throughout that made Punk the most uncomfortable. Like he wanted to pounce out and take down anyone he could get his hands on, but he had to keep the work going.
After Alberto got the pin, Nick's face was buried into the ring and Punk couldn't tear his eyes away. He had no clue if John was still there, if John was even talking. He was so singularly focused on watching Nick…it hurt.
It hurt because Punk cared about the poor guy. He'd just been through a lot, and now here he was losing the title they so graciously allowed him to keep for a mostly untelevised reign. It was all a little messed up. But whatever, shit happened. He knew that, Nick knew that, the world knew that.
But whatever creative had set out to accomplish with this match was achieved when Nick collapsed at the bottom of the ramp and the uncomfortable factor increased dramatically. Punk had to finally look away. It felt wrong to watch something like that.
He turned to John and played the entire thing off. "I have to go. Good luck."
"Break a leg, man." John offered a fist bump.
"I'll try not to." Punk bumped it, just to shake the uncomfortable stillness from his bones.
He pulled up his hood and headed out the door, just as Paul was hanging up from berating his daughter about some upcoming boy band concert he "absolutely was not" going to allow her to attend "because those little assholes are all on fucking drugs, I can tell you that right now, Azalea. And I refuse to allow my hard earned money to be what lets those little fuckfaces 'pop Mollies' in 'da club'!"
Punk tried not to laugh and Paul just groaned. "Fucking kids, what was I ever thinking? Should have sent them to boarding school with no internet access."
"I don't know man. Society fooled you into thinking it was a good idea."
"No, their mother did that."
Punk laughed and started off for the arena entrance.
Chris was already there and into his last minute stretches, something Punk knew far better than to interrupt. He pulled on his headphones, going for one more song while he got worked up. Chris disappeared through the curtain and Punk rolled his neck a few dozen times. He could feel how loud the crowd out there was yelling all through Chris' entrance, and he knew it would be even louder for him.
Paul's customary tap to his shoulder had him handing his phone and headphones off to the closest PA and waiting for his cue.
The second they got out there, it all rushed back.
It was right.
Over an hour after his match, Nick sat alone trying to decompress.
The trainers had checked him over, and Doc gave him the okay and an uneasy smile because apparently that's what you did to idiots who agreed against everyone's better judgment to have their just-healed concussions exploited on pay-per-view television.
He'd made his way back to the dressing rooms, everyone sort of ignoring the fact that anything uncomfortable had happened, and telling him he had a good match anyway. He showered and changed quickly, and let April know that he would be there when they needed to leave, but for now he needed to be alone
He just needed time.
He heard footsteps off in the distance, and realized they weren't just passing by as they got closer and closer. Suddenly, Punk was right in front of him and – God.
"Have you been hiding?"
Punk had looked for Nick everywhere. He'd questioned nearly every person he'd come into contact with, until April told him Nick had wandered to be alone. He'd been torn. Part of him wanted to let Nick have his privacy, to get his head right. But the other part needed to make sure he was okay.
Nick forced a smile and rose. "No, I just needed to be alone." Nick gazed up at Punk and almost flinched away at the sight of him. He might as well have glowed; Punk held himself like he had just won the Royal Rumble, Money in the Bank, and the main event at WrestleMania all in one night. It was intimidating to say the least. "You're in a good mood."
"I had a good night."
"Yeah. Those are always great."
Punk frowned. "You all right?"
Nick shrugged. "I don't know. I'd just like tonight to be over. It kind of sucked."
"Yeah. Your match was a little hard to watch."
Nick snorted. "It was a little hard to participate in."
"It wasn't bad…" It hadn't been. It had done what it was supposed to and it had kept his attention, though Punk was pretty sure he would have been attentive no matter what.
Nick didn't exactly agree. "I did nothing but get kicked in the head, but thanks for trying to make me feel better."
Punk frowned. "Nick, I'm not trying-"
"You are though." Punk was trying. Punk was trying to make him feel better about it, and it just wasn't helping. He didn't want someone who felt fine right now trying to make him feel better about it. He wanted to be alone again to stew in this until he was past it and able to deal with Punk again without biting his head off.
He leaned back against the wall and sighed. All he felt right now was defeated.
Punk stared at Nick a while, his heart sinking for his friend. He was so upset, and he really just wanted to cheer him up – puppy-saving moral compass and what not. He pulled on a smile. "Hey. Come on. I promised we'd go have dinner, and winner always pays. John is coming too."
Nick's neck hurt with how quickly his head snapped back around to glare at Punk, a little wide-eyed and slack jawed. "…I'm sorry. You think…what the fuck, Punk?"
Punk frowned. "…I don't know what you think I think but…"
Nick laughed bitterly. "I don't want to go out, Punk."
Punk stepped closer and gripped his shoulder. "I know you're in a bad mood. Come have a good time, and relax."
"I was relaxing before you got here."
"No, you were obsessing before I got here."
Nick flinched away. "God, Punk, you know me so well."
Punk frowned. "Don't act like it's not the truth. I wouldn't even have to know you that well to know."
Nick sighed. "Look. I don't want to go out right now, okay?"
"Why not? Just for food. I mean really, free food makes everyone happy."
Nick finally snapped. "Punk, look, I don't want to go out for food, and I especially don't want to go out for food with you and John. Just back off and leave me alone."
Punk stepped back from Nick. He was pretty confused, but he was pretty sure whatever was going on right now wasn't just about Nick's match. "…You don't want to go out with me? What the fuck did I do?"
"You didn't do anything!" His anger was slowly ebbing away and turning into something else. He felt so cornered right now, and the thought of going out with Punk and acting like everything was all right made him uneasy because it was just so fake.
The thought of John fucking Cena going with them compounded the uneasiness until it made him feel desperate and cagey. And he really didn't want to cause a scene right now, and he didn't want to make Punk uncomfortable because of how weird it would be between him and John after the unfortunate laughter incident. And he really didn't want to be around Cena period, no other reason than that, so that just made it all even worse.
Punk could see this was upsetting Nick. He just wanted to help him feel less down on all of this, and it was backfiring miserably. He really had no idea what to do to help, and that wasn't something he was okay with. "I obviously did something if you don't want to come. If it's a big deal and I offended you, you can pay if you want. It's not a big deal."
"This isn't just about that!"
"Then what's it about because you are making no sense right now."
"Are you kidding?"
"No. I'd love to know." Punk tried to move close again, but Nick leveled him such a glare he backed up, raising his hands defensively. "Hey. Calm down. Can you please just come? It'll be good for you. You can't just go disappear to some hotel room like this. Going out will get your mind off whatever this shit is."
"No, it won't. It's just going to add other shit to it and-" he abruptly stopped when he spotted the person coming down the hall over Punk's shoulder.
Punk sighed. "Then let's talk about what's wrong because-"
"Hey! I've been looking- "John stuttered to a halt when he realized Punk wasn't alone.
Ziggler met his eye over Punk's shoulder, and John instantly grabbed Punk by the back of the arm, pulling him away. Ziggler looked like he was about to lose it – John didn't know what 'it' was, but it was something – and he wasn't about to let Punk be on the receiving end of that shit. Ziggler was all wide-eyed and upset, looking all sort of cornered animal, and John had a bad feeling about it.
Punk glanced at John and pulled his arm away, moving back toward Nick. "Come with us."
With Cena there, Nick knew any chance he had of cracking and telling Punk what was wrong was long gone. He just wanted to get away from both of them. And now. He was getting itchy and his chest was getting tight and, "I'm not doing this right now."
"Nick."
He made to move past Punk – opposite where Cena was, he wasn't going anywhere near him – but Punk grabbed him anyway. "No, Punk! I have to go." He was going to lose it. He couldn't stay here right now. He couldn't be in this building. Not at all.
Punk caught Nick's eyes and got even more worried. His was red faced, eyebrows pulled together over wide, watery eyes. His jaw was set all wrong – tight and hard and clamped like it was holding something in. He was tense all over: his shoulders were set too high, his arms were pulled too close to his sides, he was planted so firmly where he was, Punk was sure he wouldn't ever be able to move him. "You don't. It'll be quick. I know you have the time. April told me. Come out, and relax."
Nick wrenched himself away. "I just can't – I can't. I have to go – let me go."
Punk moved to stop him again, but Nick startled and sidestepped him. "Nick!"
John watched the scene before him unfold with confusion. Ziggler was freaking out, and Punk was trying to get him to come out, but if Ziggler really didn't want to, John didn't see the harm in letting him go work out his problems elsewhere. "What's-"
Punk put his hand up and threw him a warning look. "John, don't." He stepped closer to Nick, but he back up again. "Please, let's just go talk and then go eat and you can go."
Nick shook his head over and over. "You don't get it. April's waiting for me. I have to go!" He got past Punk and away as fast as he could, shaking. He had to force himself to breathe again, to stop thinking crazy thoughts like last time. He just needed to get out of here.
"Nick!" He didn't turn around, and eventually disappeared at a turn in the hall. Punk raked his hands over his face as he turned back to John. "What the fuck..."
John stared at Punk, waiting for an explanation of what he'd just stumbled upon. "What was that?"
Punk shrugged. "I don't even know. He just…"
"Like what, does he have something against Denny's?"
"Not funny, John."
John flashed him a sheepish grin. "Oh, come on. He didn't want to come with us! Who doesn't want to go to Denny's?"
Punk shook his head. "It's not about Denny's. It's about something else."
John watched as Punk paced around a little, waiting for a response. "…I feel like I'm missing something."
Punk shrugged. "So do I." He really did. There had to be more to this than just Nick's brother and what had gone on with his match. But until Nick told him, there was nothing Punk could do about it. He sighed, and quit pacing in front of John. "Let's just go, I want to sleep in my bed one last time before this travelling nightmare starts again."
"What nightmare? You love it."
"Shut up."
Nick found April – already pajama clad and bespectacled – grazing craft services and filling her purse with packs of Cheez-Its and mini-water bottles for the ride to Grand Rapids.
"Can we go?"
She startled and he cringed as her face faded to concern. When she went to speak up – he just knew what she was going to ask – he held up his hand. "Please? Can we please just leave? I can't stay here."
April's brow furrowed. "Yeah. Absolutely. Let me find someone."
She went to go, but he grabbed her hand instead. "I'm coming with you."
She was quiet for a second, but nodded. "Yeah. Of course. Come on."
She led him out to the hall and grabbed a PA who was still rushing about. After a few moments of headset communication, they were being escorted to the car waiting to take them up to Grand Rapids so they could grab a few hours of rest before their ridiculously early call time at the local station for radio and morning show interviews.
In the backseat, he pressed up against April's side, wanting to be as close as he could. He knew she was watching him, but he stared resolutely out the windshield, still gripping her hand in his, white knuckled and hoping he wasn't crushing her bones. He could feel her other hand carding through his hair, and he leaned into it, desperate for her touch, her comfort. She let go of his hand, and he frantically reached out to find it, but she snaked her arm around him and pulled him closer, hand in his hair forcing him to bury his face in her neck. She held him, and he grabbed her around the waist, yanking her closer.
"Are you okay?"
He shook his head. "No," he choked out, "everything is so fucked up."
She kissed his temple, hand tight in his hair, and the contact – the pressure of the contact – was so good, so amazing, so real. "Everything is going to be okay. I'm here. I've got you."
He nodded, pressing his lips against any part of her neck within reach. "I can't do this anymore. I can't."
"Shh, Nick. It's okay. Calm down."
"I can't!"
She pressed her lips to his ear. "I have you. I'm not letting you go."
"I hate this."
"I know."
"I can't do it."
"You can. You have. You have to. I'm going to help, I promise."
"April-"
"Shh. Just rest. I'm right here."
Nick quieted down and just held her, listening to her breath while she held him.
John watched Punk pour packets of sugar into little piles on his empty plate.
The meal had been quiet and Punk had seemed distant the entire time. John wasn't sure what to say to fix it. He'd racked his brain for ways to approach the situation, but he really had none. He wasn't used to this Punk, wasn't used to him being quiet, wasn't used to him being the one with the problem.
John wasn't sure what to do. But he needed to get Punk to lighten up or this Denny's trip was a bust.
"So…Ziggler is an asshole!" John smiled and gave a him thumbs up.
Punk's hands stilled, and he stared at John for a long while. John was pretty sure he'd broken the guy, but then Punk laughed awkwardly. "He's not, John." He shook his head. "He's just upset."
"I don't know him, and he isn't making the greatest impression. So, asshole."
"Right now, I don't feel like I know him, so I can't sway you from that."
"Well, you know him better than I do. So you must be a hell of a lot less confused than I am."
"Actually, I think I'm more confused."
"No. There is no one more confused than me right now."
Punk sighed. "I thought he was just upset about how the night went-"
"Oh, so he's a big crybaby when he doesn't win matches? That's rich."
Punk stared at him, blank-faced, and John had the sense to look sorry. "No," Punk continued. "He's just…incredibly upset about a lot of things that resulted in that. I thought I knew…but I'm starting to think he's upset about more than he told me."
"You realize that everything you're saying right now makes this guy appeal to my bro-senses less and less, right?"
Punk tossed his last empty sugar packet down in the middle of the table and sat back. "First, don't ever say 'bro-senses' again. And second, I get it…I don't think he was very happy with the idea of coming out with both of us. He kept telling me he wouldn't so…"
"Oh, so he doesn't like me. Knew it."
"He's never exactly said it, but yeah. I think your feelings towards him might be mutual."
"I don't see why. I didn't squawk at him."
Punk finally cracked a smile. "But you squawked at me."
"Shut up."
Punk laughed, then sighed. "His brother got released."
"I heard."
"He didn't take it…well. He thought it was his fault. And he was kind of…a mess after that. He had it together when I left. I don't know what happened after that. I have no idea why he was so upset when we were leaving, but he seemed very adamant about not going with us, and kept saying that I didn't get it…"
"So are you trying to tell me I should excuse the squawking because he was already crazy?"
"John," Punk warned.
John held his hands up in defense. "I'm just trying to make this situation better. I'm trying to make you feel better."
"I know. I appreciate it. I'm just worried about him."
John was quiet for a while. "You really like the guy?"
Punk nodded. "Yeah. He's cool. And he's sort of an asshole like me, so I can appreciate that. I just don't know what's going on with him right now…"
"I'll give him a chance if you want me to."
"As great as that sounds, you should give him a chance because you want to."
"Whatever. Next time I see him, I'll try to smile and shit."
"He'll probably call me and ask me why you were snarling at him," Punk smirked.
"Oh, fuck you, Brooks! You suck."
Nick startled awake to April calling his name and rubbing his shoulder, and he felt foggy and numb.
"Nick, come on. We're here." He looked up at her, and she smiled, pushing his hair out of his face. "You can sleep when we're checked in."
Nick had no memory of getting from the car to the room, and he was still dazed when they got there, dropping his bag and sinking onto the first bed he reached. He looked at the clock, and it was already past two. He remembered they needed to be up in less than four hours to do this entire media morning. The idea had him choking on more panic and the overwhelming dread he'd dealt with all day spilled over.
He broke.
He started crying again, sobbing into the heel of his palm, like he'd waited to do since he had reined it in at the foot of the ramp and got himself backstage as stoically as he could manage. But now, he couldn't help it, and it had all bubbled to the surface and exploded.
April suddenly knelt in front of him and he knew she was asking him what was wrong over and over, but he couldn't say anything, couldn't force any of it out. She was off her knees and hugging him, and he sobbed into her chest. He couldn't stop. He tried to avoid gasping; he didn't want to hyperventilate. And he didn't – thank God.
He cried for a long time. He knew it had to be because April had shifted around several times, finally ending up next to him, rocking him from side to side. He had calmed down considerably, and pulled away to look at her.
April wiped his eyes and he felt like a complete asshole when she smiled softly at him. "It's okay, you know."
He rolled his eyes. "Being a complete mess?
"No. Being scared. Life is scary. Especially this life."
"I'm not just scared."
"I know. Things are tough."
"My head…"
"Is okay. They said it was okay."
He took a deep breath. "I don't think it is," he just barely forced out.
She pressed a kiss to his forehead, lingering with her lips just brushing the skin for a while before pulling completely away. "It's okay. It's perfect."
Nick gazed up at her, and he couldn't take it, pulling her in as bone-crushingly close as he could stand and resting his forehead against her chin, hands tangling into her long hair. He wanted to tug at it and let it go and do it again. He wanted to bury himself inside her chest, under all her skin and bones, where he could always be inside her and let her keep him safe and sound, just like this. Her hands were running through his hair again and it was so soothing, so right.
April pulled away enough to lay her forehead to his, and he hated himself even more just meeting her eyes. He could tell how much he was scaring her, how worried she was about this, but she was so brave. Brave for him, and he really truly did not deserve anything out of her. She owed him nothing, especially not all this.
He tried to smile but it just turned into a sniffle, and her soft laughter made him feel just a bit lighter. "I can't imagine…I know you're really stressed right now. But you're okay. You're going to be okay. Your head is fine. Your career is fine. Ryan is fine. I'm fine. We're all fine. Nothing is going to happen, okay? I know you know that deep down, I know you're just letting the stress get to you. You need to start believing all this. Because it's the truth – I would never lie to you…."
He nodded. He wasn't sure how much he believed her, but she got it. She understood where his head was. And even if she wasn't 100% clue in on all the details of each of his worries, she got them. He loved her for it, loved her for how well she got where his head was.
"I know. I'm just…" he thought about what to say a long while, and went with the one thing that kept popping up. "You're perfect."
April laughed. "I'm not, Nick. But…thank you."
He shook his head. "No, you are," he insisted. "You're so perfect that I really can't even stand it."
All levity drained from April's gaze and Nick nearly fidgeted under the serious replacement. "You shouldn't say things like that."
"I'm not going to lie. It's the truth."
"It's not."
"It's what I think is true."
"Nick…"
He grabbed her hand. "Seriously."
"I…"
"I think about you all the time."
April looked away from him. "Nick…"
"I do. You don't even know…I just…"
"I think about you all the time, too."
It was so soft that Nick almost didn't catch it, and it took a second to sink in. But then she finally looked at him again, and it was written all over her face. He couldn't stop himself from leaning – no, pouncing – forward and kissing her.
Fuck, it had to have been nearly three o'clock at this point, but Nick didn't care at all. He was wired now, there was no way he was going to fall asleep at all, especially after this development. And fuck, April didn't even care that he was gross and clammy and sweaty and snotty – she was kissing him back.
He pulled back, scooped her up under the thighs, and gently tossed her further up the bed, giving her a watery smile as she giggled a little on the landing. He was up the bed and hovering over her before he even realized he was moving, and all the light-heartedness of that little moment left her face as she reached up and pulled him down, relocking their lips and slipping her tongue in against his.
He moaned into her mouth at the sudden sensation, and she tugged at his hair, earning a groan. He could feel her smirk against his lips, and then she was licking across his bottom lip. She nipped at his mouth before pulling away, and when he met her eyes, she pulled down the zipper of his hoodie so slowly he thought he might bat her hands away and rip it off himself if she kept teasing him. Her blunt nails raked down his arms as she pulled the sleeves down, and when he was free, he tossed it aside and buried his face in her neck. "Fuck, April…"
He slipped his hands under the fabric of her shirt and ran his fingertips along her sides. She shivered under him, rubbing up against him, and he bit into the skin under her ear. She gasped and he bit down again, lips following teeth as he sucked at the spot to soothe it. His hands crept higher, and he found she was braless. His hands flew out of her shirt and he grabbed the hem, pulling it up as quickly as he could.
"My glasses are caught!" she yelped, and he let go. She worked her shirt off the rest of the way, and he was caught off guard when she put her glasses right back on.
April in glasses and topless, hair spilling over her shoulders and down her back and all fucked up from his hands was…fuck. He was almost instantly hard at the sight.
He kissed her again, and his hands roamed her torso, leaving goose flesh in their wake that felt more than incredible when his hands skimmed back over it. She shivered. Her body was soft and strong under his hands, and he figured it was pretty fitting for how she was.
April's hands were under his tank top, nails erratically scraping at him when he kissed away from her mouth and down her jaw, along the slope of her neck, across her chest. She moaned, arching her back to press her chest closer to his mouth, and he pulled away long enough to let her pull his shirt off. They locked eyes for a second. April threw his shirt across the room. He snaked an arm around her waist and pulled her closer, kissing her again.
He pulled away and undid the drawstring on her pants, hands suddenly shaking with anticipation. "April…"
April grabbed his hands, steadying them. "It's okay. I know." She cupped his cheek and kissed his forehead. "I've got you."
He grabbed the fabric of her pajamas where it lay loose around her thighs and pulled, eyes following plaid as they slipped down over lean, tan legs. Her gripped tightened on his cheek, and when he looked up, when he met her eyes, his chest swelled and he realized exactly how bad he wanted this – wanted her. She toed her pants off, and he was running his hands up from her calves – he could reach them from here, she was so tiny under him. He ghosted his fingertips across the backs of her knees, and her eyes fell closed and her head tipped back, and his mouth was on her throat before he could think about it. His hand brushed against the outside of her thigh, across the front, and up the inside.
He was obsessed. He had to touch her.
His hand cupped her panties and she was hot, so hot, heat was radiating off her.
He pulled away from her neck and looked down, just to see it – he had to see it himself.
His hand looked so huge holding her, and when it slipped under the flimsy fabric and disappeared, all the muscles in her stomach tightened and went concave, and he leaned down to nip at them, suck at them. Shit, he just needed his mouth on them, needed to feel her response with his tongue, his lips…
"Nick! Holy-" she moaned, and dug her hand into his hair.
He kissed up her chest, and his other hand found its way to her hip – to her waistband – and pulled down, making him lose his grip on her for a second. She whined in protest and quickly lifted her legs from where they laid around him. He got her free, and her legs were back around him, ankles locked around his waist. She frantically grabbed at him, pulling back in for another kiss.
She grabbed his hand and forced it back between her legs, and he laughed against her lips. "Impatient much?" he gasped out.
"Oh – fuck – shut up! I swear, I'm going to torture you even worse than this, just touch me!" she demanded and his heart jumped at the prospect of her touching him too.
So he touched her, slipping a finger inside her – so wet, so warm – and she clamped down hard on it. He thought he might drop dead right then and there – he could barely feel his finger – and he kissed her again, much harder this time. As he slid his finger in and out of her – April fluttering around him the entire time – he found himself grinding into her leg.
He'd been so consumed by April, in touching her and watching her, he'd barely even though about it (an actual first in his life). But, fuck, was he hard. He needed out of his pants – what had possessed him to even think jeans were a good idea? – and he needed April touching him again.
He grabbed the hand that had grabbed at him before and brought it to him, and April gasped out an "oh!" against his lips. She was suddenly working at his button and fly, and if she didn't hurry he might start thrusting at air. Her hand brushed against him as she tugged at his zipper, and Nick bit down on her lip so hard she pulled away.
She grabbed at his pants, purposely catching his briefs with them, and yanked them down his legs and then – holy shit her mouth.
He was knocked over, suddenly on his back from his kneeling position, and April was over him, straddling his thighs, and he wound his hand into her hair as tight as he could. He needed her, she was his anchor – he had to hold on. She kept his cock in her mouth – he couldn't even think about what she was doing with her mouth past that, it was too much – and she worked his pants the rest of the way down his legs.
Her nails ran up his abs and he was shaking, and he had to pull her away before it all ended. He grabbed her by the hips and flipped her onto her back, and after several awkward moments of fumbling to get his wallet from his jeans, he had one of her legs wrapped over his shoulder and he sank into her.
He stilled his hips because if he didn't, he'd be done.
April's nails were in his shoulder, and she ground into him and he had to pin her hips to the bed for a second just to focus. She whined and wrapped her other leg around his waist and – holy shit, he'd thought about this enough times watching her in the Black Widow, but having her around him was something else entirely.
It was quick and fast, and he couldn't get away from her lips long enough to kiss her anywhere else. And it all came crashing down around him when her eyes rolled back, eyelashes fluttering, and she'd called out his name and clamped down on him, nails and arms and legs and feet all digging into him. It was over stimulating and he fell into her.
And later, he held her as close as he could. She puffed even little breaths into his neck. He stroked her hair and managed to slide her glasses off without waking her.
The panic was better, but it was still there, thrumming under the surface. So he just focused on April, and she got him through.
AN: Well. There's that monster. Don't hate me. Or hate me. I would hate me too.
Feedback of all types is appreciated!