Angel Dust

A/N: As you might have noticed, I've really cooled off on the double-updating with this story. Today, though, the story is assaulting me and I'm on a roll. I'm not promising that it will happen often, but for some reason, the inspiration is really flowing right now. I hope that you all Enjoy!

Dave was a man used to feeling like he was in control. He was used to powering through every moment, every situation. He liked being the only one who knew, with absolute certainty, what was going to happen next. And Courtney was taking that away from him, and fast. It felt as though the ground were slipping out from under his feet as he sat in his room, listening to her confession about her abortion, watching her fuck Nitro, enduring her little jaunt to Vermont to clear her head.

As time wore on, he began to wonder if he had ever really known Courtney at all. She was sharing secrets with Nitro and Trish, sometimes with Randy, that she had never felt comfortable enough to share with him. And now he found out that she and John Cena hadn't just been friends in high school, but that they had dated? Dave knew his wife, and that wasn't the kind of information she just forgot. She had intentionally kept it from him.

He wished he could just throw the door of Trish's room open and growl like the intimidating beast who had once made powerful political figures bow to his every whim. But that wasn't allowed here - there was no entrance into a living space other than your own without express permission from the owner. So he settled for pounding on the heavy door with authority. Far less intimidating, but effective, nonetheless.

The door opened after only a moment, and he lowered his hand, somewhat disappointed that he hadn't gotten the chance to rattle it from its hinges. "Come in, David," Trish invited softly.

Dave entered the room, jarred by the sparseness of it all. Though he had no reason to assume, he had always figured that Trish's room would be one of oppulent warmth, something fit for a queen. Instead, it was a small, studio apartment with bare brick walls and battered furniture, circa 1970.

The couch on which Eddie and Trish were seated was brown, with swirling pink flowers. "Hey, man," Eddie welcomed with a smile as Dave lowered himself into a beat-up leather recliner. "What's goin' on, David?"

The frown on his face told Eddie that his friend was not there for a social visit. Not that Dave ever left his constant watch on Courtney for anything less than a "dire" emergency. When the larger man didn't respond, it felt as though the temperature of the air around them dropped by ten degrees.

"Maybe I should just go," Eddie offered, nearly choking on the obvious tension in the room.

Staring at the platform in the center of Trish's room, Dave's mind began to churn. He had tried to convince himself that he was wrong. Surely she wouldn't deviate from the plan. There was no way that Trish had any reason to steer Courtney away from the original agenda. Courtney always used to laugh him off and say he was paranoid. Maybe she was right.

But as he turned his attention to the couple on her platform, his suspicions were confirmed. Trish was watching John and Courtney, sitting at the restaurant, laughing over an expensive dinner. Something wasn't right.

"What the hell is going on, Trish?" he demanded finally.

"Hey, man," Eddie held a hand up at Dave's angry tone. "Chill, alright?" He looked at Trish and then back at Dave. "Just because your wife is having a conversation with an old boyfriend does not give you the right to yell at Trish."

But Dave ignored Eddie and stared harder at the tiny blonde woman on the far end of the couch. Her eyes were fixed on the screen as she clutched a water glass in her thin hands. "You know something," he insisted, standing and moving to the platform, standing between it and the woman who seemed to be ignoring him. "Something's been bothering me since you sent Courtney to Vermont, and I want to know what the fuck you're trying to pull."

Eddie fell uncharacteristically silent as he sat back on the couch. Part of him said that he should leave these two to their business. But the overwhelming, chivalrous need to protect Trish kept him pinned to his seat. "She suggested Courtney get away. She didn't send her to Vermont specifically, man," Eddie reminded.

"You told her to go someplace she felt safe and happy," Dave accused, hands on his hips as if to tell her he meant business. "You think I don't remember the night she told you Vermont was her happy place, the one place she always thought of when she needed peace and tranquility?" He scoffed. "I remember everything she tells you. You knew exactly what you were doing when you sent her away."

Turning back, he pointed to the screen. The pieces of information began to fall into place as kept his eyes on the image of his smiling wife while speaking to the silent woman behind him. "These platforms are set up for the express purpose of allowing the dead to watch their living loved ones. But you didn't know Courtney before you died, or you wouldn't be able to appear to her now," he reasoned his suspicions as he spoke.

Trish watched with no expression as Dave turned back and put his hands on his hips. Though he said nothing else, it was clear that he was waiting for an answer. "I sent Courtney to Vermont because I knew John was going to be there," she answered.

"Cena? That's your living loved one? You loved John?" Dave laughed as though it was the most absurd thing he had ever heard. "What? Were you one of his gold-digging groupies? One of his throngs of adoring fans?" He had partied with John for awhile, long enough to know that Cena had never been married and only really been in love once.

And since it was now clear that Courtney was that "one great love," Dave found Trish's explanation a little hard to believe. "Please, Trish," he added, crossing his arms. "Enlighten me as to the intricacies of your master plan."

"He's my son," she answered calmly, her voice hushed.