Here we go again.

Thanks to BrightAsNight and Bluestar711 for leaving a comment :D

Bluestar711: Thank you so much! And oh yeah, lots of realizations ;-)

BrightAsNight: Yup, poor Punk D: Let me spoiler just a bit, there's much more of Phil to come…

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It was already around 10 a.m. when John finally crawled out of his nice and comfy warm bed, hit the shower, made his way down to his living-room and found the couch, where he supposed a dozy Phil, empty. Except for a note.

You read this, means you have finally fallen out of your nest. Surprising enough but good. It's 6 a.m. and by the sounds of it you're busy with cutting down the rain forest. I can't sleep, and yes, it's your fault, but since I'm a nice guy, I'm not going up there and kick you awake. Instead I'm going home now and try to catch up some sleep. You owe me something for letting you have your sleep. Maybe I should warn Randy that he's never ever gonna find sleep again if he moves in with you. You know what you do is grievous bodily harm, don't you? Oh, and Sunshine? I hope your day will be as sunny as your smile… Really. Come on, I want you to smile, I know you can do it… Atta boy ;-)

Smiling softly, he ran his thumb over the paper and walked over to his kitchen, where he pinned the note to his fridge. Somehow he didn't want to throw it away. Standing there a little longer with his eyes fixed on the note, his mind drifted back to the moment when Phil had him trapped against the counter. He'd been so close, so close… Blue eyes drifted close and for a second it felt like Phil was there, right before him. And suddenly the heat he'd felt the night before was back, again coiling up in his stomach…

His eyes snapped open.

God damn, get a grip, Cena. He's a man!

Shaking his head he went for a quick breakfast, before he drove to Randy's hotel to collect his things. When he opened the door to Randy's hotel room, he was greeted by an almost sterile atmosphere and shockingly few personal things. Some clothes, a single book, toothbrush, shaver, a few personal papers, the key to the post-office box. And a picture beside the bed.

John took it and sat down on the bed, looking at it for a while. The picture had been folded in the middle and the visible part was showing a little girl, obviously Randy's daughter. He fiddled it out of the frame and outspread it revealed a beautiful woman, holding the girl's hand. And this was obviously Sam, his wife. Putting it back into the frame the way he'd found it, he stored it between Randy's clothes to make sure it would reach him unharmed.

He kept sitting on the bed for a while, trying his best to swallow down the lump that built up in his throat as he realized how lonely Randy must've felt all the time. Surrounded by this… nothing.

"What the hell happened to you, Randy?" he murmured into the quietness, his eyes roaming the comfortless room.

Eventually he left the room, checked out in Randy's name and made his way to the post-office box, which badly needed to be taken care off. That done, he drove directly to the hospital, quickly fetching two coffees and the promised sandwich and rushed to Randy's room.

In front of it he stopped dead. The always busy noises of the hospital faded into the background as he stood there, coffee and sandwich in his hands and a bag with a few clothes and other stuff for Randy thrown over his shoulder.

Here he stood and suddenly he was nervous. Like never before in his entire life. His jaw-muscles twitched as he stared at the white door, trying to figure out what the hell was wrong with him. And then Phil's words echoed in his mind…

John… you're falling for him and he's not going to return your feelings … Yeah, maybe I'm nuts, Cena. But I saw you that night. I saw your face, your eyes and I heard your voice. There is more. We both know it … I just wonder how you'll handle your crush on Randy when he moves in …

Even if John would have wanted to move that moment… there was no chance his body would have obeyed his order. He had no idea why, all of a sudden, he was such a nervous wreck and why, out of all fucking possible moments, Phil's words had to come back to him now. Just like that…

I don't have a crush on him.

His own words… shallow and… as true as they untrue. In a way. And somehow it seemed that it had taken Phil only a glimpse on John to notice it…

I still try to figure out what's driving you when it comes to Randy. Since you claim to NOT have a crush on him … Do you really, and I mean really, think that it's worth it?

This man was much too good at feeling things.

I think it's damn worth it. He's worth it.

John blinked a few times, swallowing hard. He'd said those words not long ago and… they were true. Every single word. He'd meant every single word...

Someone bumped against his shoulder and startled him out of his thoughts. He shook his head a little, as if he could shake his thoughts off and in a way it worked. But the nervousness stayed. This was absurd. This was Randy in the room and if he had to be nervous about something, than it was that Randy might have changed his mind.

"No, he has not changed his mind…" he reassured himself and knocked at the door.

There was no answer and he guessed that Randy was asleep. Opening the door as quietly as possible, he slipped into the room, walked over to the bed and sat the coffee and the sandwich on the bed-stand and the bag on the chair beside the bed, before he carefully sat down on the edge of the bed.

Randy was still asleep and John's eyes roamed his face. The cuts, scratches and bruises were fading and in a few days they would be completely gone. Well, except for the gash on his forehead that was still covered with a bandage. His expression was smooth, peaceful. He'd seen his face so often before, but he never had taken a closer look. And yes, John had to admit… Randy was a handsome man. For a few minutes, all John did was watch him sleep and listen to the soft and even breathing, wondering why he had been so nervous before. Now, that he sat here, he felt calm…

"Do I have something stuck to my face?" a sleepy voice mumbled suddenly and for the second time in a few minutes John was startled out of his thoughts.

Slowly Randy turned his head towards him and eyes, as sleepy as his voice, opened, locking their gaze with John's.

"Yeah, well… I just thought that I've never seen you this fluffy before," John replied, smiling softly at him.

Okay, a white lie, but hey, telling Randy that he thought he was handsome wasn't an option. A raised slender eyebrow was his answer.

"Oh, he's trying to be funny," the younger man yawned and tried to prop himself up against the pillows.

A wince told John that this wouldn't work. Not losing a thought about what he was doing, he leaned forward and cautiously slung an arm around Randy's upper body to help him sit up.

"Let me help you," John murmured and after a moment of hesitation, Randy wrapped his good arm around the older man's shoulder.

He lifted the headpiece of the bed a bit, arranged the pillows against the headboard of the bed and helped Randy scoot up a little, until he could sit comfortably. As he let go of the younger man, he heard a quiet thanks murmured close to his ear that made him smile.

Sitting back on the edge of the bed, he noticed the way Randy looked at him. Wary in a way, surprised. But after a moment Randy's eyes flicked over to the coffee and he squinted at it, as if he tried to figure something out and John had a faint idea what it was. He took a tumbler and handed it over to the younger man, who again squinted at it. And then at John.

"I want the other one," he said, holding his own towards John, whose smile broadened.

Shrugging his shoulders, he did as he was asked and his smile broadened even more, when he heard a disappointed grumble.

"I knew you would want mine, so, yeah, Randy, both decaf," he explained and while Randy started to sip on his unloved decaf coffee, John turned his attention to the bag.

A short while later the mail waited on the bed-stand and toothbrush and toothpaste sat in the bathroom were they belonged. The shaver found a temporary place beside the mail and after the clothes were sorted into the small closet, John turned back to Randy with the picture in his hand.

As the grey eyes fell on it, the younger man froze, an immensely sad expression washing over his face and John felt a painful tug at his heart. Without a word John created some space on the loaded bed stand and placed the frame there.

Watching Randy stare at it he asked quietly: "When was the last time you saw her?"

When there was no reaction, he took the coffee out of the younger man's hand and sat back on the bed, before taking a hold of Randy's hand. Finger's closed around his at the contact.

Randy blinked a few times, blinking back tears that formed in his eyes, before he whispered: "The day I moved out."

Again John felt a painful tug at his heart, knowing that being separated from his little girl for such a long time must be unbearable for Randy. But he was a father and a father had rights, so…?

"Why?" John asked and it was out before he could himself stop from asking such a private question.

"Sam doesn't want me to see her," Randy replied in a hollow but clipped voice, obviously trying to dodge further questions.

"But you have rights, you could…"

"John…" he was interrupted. "Can we please change the subject?"

"Sure. I'm sorry, Randy."

The grey eyes locked gazes with his and although the sad expression was still lingering there, they were soft and something in them asked John to distract him. He was John Cena, he could do it, right? Right. The question was… how?

His eyes fell on the shaver. Sighing silently, he tried to pull up a sunny smile to upgrade the poor distraction that was on his mind. The smile he managed wasn't as sunny as he wanted it to be, but it would do.

"How about I free you from the fur that grows in your face, fluffy?" he suggested and grabbed the shaver.

No, this wasn't a good distraction but Randy played along.

"I warn you, Cena, don't try to be funny. If you cut strange pattern into my beard, I'm gonna punch strange patterns into you face. Got me?" he shot back. "And don't ever call me fluffy again."

"Got it, plushy," John acknowledged and intentionally ignored the smoldering glare that hit him.

Not even ten minutes later the fur was reduced to very short stubble and while John contemplated his work, Randy eyed him and let his good hand brush over his chin, producing a quiet scratching sound.

"Guess we'll try the razor tomorrow," John suggested.

He was graced with a raised eyebrow.

"Sure, Cena. As if I would let you get close to my face with a sharp blade."

John pursed his lips.

"Well, if you want your pretty-boy looks back…" he started and trailed off with a smile on his lips, as Randy's second eyebrow went to visit the first one.

The second Randy opened his mouth to throw a matching remark at him, the door was pushed open and John turned around in surprise, accidently giving pressure onto Randy's broken leg in the process. He jumped off his place as he realized it.

"Sorry, Randy," he apologized guilty for causing the younger man pain. "I didn't want to hurt you."

But Randy only looked at him in question and John frowned.

"Your leg," he said. "I leaned onto it…"

Randy kept looking at him in question a few seconds longer, until something seemed to make click in his head. And then he sighed heavily, nodding ever so slightly. Randy motioned him to sit back down, but the older man did not sit back down. He remained frozen to the spot and faintly registered a nurse and a doctor step up to the bed, but stayed focused on the younger man.

"Randy?"

Again Randy sighed.

"I can't feel my legs, John."

First his brain refused to accept what his ears clearly registered but the expression on the younger man's face and the simple and sober way he spoke those words made it clear that this wasn't a joke. His eyes never leaving Randy, he eventually sat down on the chair, folding his hands to stop an sudden trembling in them.

"What…? Since when?" he stammered, shocked.

Shrugging his good shoulder, Randy replied: "Ever since I woke up."

His voice was so calm and detached that it sent a chill down John's spine. And then he remembered that just a moment ago the doc had come in and he looked up to the white clad man who was silently watching the scene.

"Why?" John asked the medic quietly. "I mean, how did that happen?"

"The broken vertebrae," Randy cut in. "Right, doc?"

The man frowned lightly and his gaze jumped from John to Randy and back to John.

"Yeah," he affirmed slowly.

Swallowing hard, John tightened his grip as the trembling threatened to become stronger.

"Will he… be able to walk again?"

The frown deepened.

"The chances are good but it depends on the healing process and the rehab, so we'll have to wait and see," the doctor replied, starting to prepare bandages. "Now, sir, if you please wait outside for a few minutes?"

With a glance at Randy, who looked right back at him with a strangely neutral yet careful expression, he eventually got up and left the room, accompanied by a bad feeling coiling up in the pit of his stomach and a cold grip around his heart. He walked over to the lonely chair close to the room, that lonely chair he'd already been sitting on a few days ago.

Bracing his elbows on his knees, he leaned forward and buried his face in his hands. A low groan fell from his lips as he fought back a wave of sickness. Randy couldn't move his legs… And if that wasn't enough shit for one day, there had been that frown on the doctor's face. He kept sitting like this for minutes, until he heard the door open up.

The doctor stepped out of the room, talking to the nurse who walked out right behind him. John jumped up from the chair and with a few quick strides he was at the medic's side, patiently waiting until he'd given his instructions to the nurse, before seeking his attention.

"Uhm, do you have a few minutes?" he asked as the doctor turned around to him. "I've got some more questions."

The man gazed at his watch and nodded, before he signaled John to follow him as he started to walk down the corridor. Falling into step with the medic, John tried to push the uneasy feeling aside. After a few meters they stopped at a door with a private-sign on it and the doctor motioned John to go in. It was a neutral room, maybe some kind of a conference-room with a table and a few chairs. Behind him the door closed quietly and he turned around.

"What can I do for you, Mr. Cena?"

For a moment John studied the man's face and eyes and yes, he was sure that there was something the doc hadn't told him. He scratched his temple and frowned. He was still noted as Randy's next of kin and normally he would be such an ass to play that card, but right know this uneasy feeling in his stomach made him forget his boy scout-attitudes. And he hoped that the medic wouldn't insist on the medical confidentiality.

"You know, I wonder… when Randy said the paraplegia results from the accident, you hesitated before you affirmed it," he asked then. "And I don't know why, but I've got the feeling that there is something else. So could you please tell me the truth?"

While saying that he saw a flicker in the doctor's eyes and he knew he had been right. There was more. And the way the man paled a bit, though he held John's gaze, fed the uneasy feeling. The man sighed and sat on the edge of the table, staring at some invisible point on the floor for a minute or two and John kept quiet, waiting for him to speak.

Eventually looking back up to John, he said: "As a matter of fact, the paraplegia does not result from the accident. The broken vertebrae did not damage the spinal marrow. But during the emergency surgery we found a tumor."

The words hit home like a sledgehammer. A wave of dizziness rolled through John, leaving sickness behind. His heart missed a beat.

"A tumor?" John whispered, shocked.

The doctor nodded and continued to explain: "Yeah, very close to the spinal marrow of the lumbar region. That kind of tumors trigger paraplegia sooner or later through pressure on the marrow."

Closing his eyes for a brief moment, he took a shaky breath and asked: "Why haven't you told me that when I asked you the first time about his state of health?"

"Please understand, Mr. Cena, we had our reasons…"

"Oh, great, you had your reasons! "Now that's an explanation…!" he interrupted him harshly. "Can't it be removed in a surgery?"

The man in front of frowned deeply.

"The tumor has been removed in the emergency operation. The tumor was so close to the spine trauma that the surgeon removed it. He can speak of luck…"

"Speak of luck?! He can't move his legs, dammit!" John snapped and held up a hand a second later. "I'm sorry, doc. I didn't want to…"

The man waved it off and nodded. "It's okay. What I meant was he can speak of luck because the tumor was benign and the marrow didn't suffer a major defect. The nerve damage due to the excision of the tumor tissue is so marginal that the nerves will recover over the time."

John exhaled audibly and asked: "Means he'll be able to walk again?"

"The paraplegia is the minor problem." The doctor paused and sighed. "There's a good chance that he'll be able to walk again like nothing ever happened but it will take time… time he probably doesn't have."

It was the choice of words that made his heart skip a few beats. Fear coiled up in his belly…

"How am I supposed to understand that?" he asked slowly, scared of what answer would come.

"Sir… I'm telling you this despite the explicit order of Mr. Orton to keep this information a secret…" the man started and paused then, as if he was debating with himself if he should continue.

But he did…

"A few months ago Mr. Orton came here because of a very painful and lasting headache and we made a CT-scan of his head. Unfortunately… we found two tumors. One in the occipital lobe, the visual center of the brain and the second in the motor cortex, which is the part of the brain that controls arbitrary movements," the doctor explained, the whole time keeping his eyes fixed on John. "We wanted to take a biopsy first hand, but he refused the treatment. There is a chance that it's malignant tissue. If we knew if it is or not, we could decide if a chemotherapy or a surgery would be the better option. Undergoing a surgery would mean that he could suffer a permanent damage, even if the tumors can be removed. Anyway, he refuses a surgery as well as a chemo."

John stared at the doctor for a second or two and tried to process the information. It took a few moments to sink in, but the seconds it did, John felt his world shatter.

"What… will happen if he won't undergo a therapy?" John choked, fighting down the urge to throw up.

"Blackouts and memory losses in the beginning. There is a chance that he will lose sight, his ability to do the movements he wants to do, to the point of an absolute paralysis. During the further progress he will suffer of failures of the nervous system. Seizures. Organic failures are possible, too. Without a treatment the tumors are going to be lethal, sooner or later. Even if they're benign. They'll grow, maybe not as fast as if they were malignant, but they will and the pressure on the brain…"

John's body went numb and he turned away from the medic, sitting down on a chair the very second his knees gave out. His mind faded the voice of the man out, refusing to hear even one more word. Something deep inside him shattered… And with a low groan he leaned forward and began to retch.

Distantly he noticed the doctor who kneeled down beside him, laying a hand on his shoulder, talking to him. Asking him if he was okay. No, he wasn't okay. He was far from okay and he wasn't sure if he would ever be okay again.

Randy would die.