A/N: So, Chapter 1 was brief, but it began to set things up. What the hell is cooking in Matt's little noggin? Read on to find out…
WWE owns all, I own nothing. Thanks to all who review.
Edge entered the main doors of the hotel, his movements wooden and his breaths slightly ragged. He was sporting the beginnings of a black eye, and his curly blonde locks were a disheveled mess, despite his usual meticulous grooming habits. His face wore an expression of weary disgust. He wanted to fucking to kill Matt Hardy.
When Adam Copeland had left the hotel earlier that evening, he'd been eager for the rush that only copious amounts of alcohol can give.
But if he'd been drunk before, he wasn't now. Matt Hardy's little psychotic rant had made sure of that.
"You're gonna help me destroy my brother", he'd said.
"No, I'm not. You two wanna fuck each other up? I'm not against it. That's two less assholes I need to defend my title against. But I am not getting involved."
Matt had leaned in, a dangerous glint in his eyes. "And what if you lost your precious title? What if you lost the only reason you have that title in the first place?"
"Vicki?", Adam breathed, unable to believe Matt was going this far with his little tantrum. Adam smirked. "What're you gonna do, Hardy? Kill her and bury her under her desk?"
"Don't fucking tempt me." Adam had never seen Matt like this. He was serious. It was starting to make him really uncomfortable.
The Rated R Superstar had tried to adapt a casual persona. "So what do you have in mind for poor Jeffy?"
Matt smiled. "I'll let you know."
Adam thought over the conversation again, and found himself torn. Should he warn Jeff that shit was coming his way? After all, he didn't really like the younger Hardy, and he currently was in contention for his belt, but did he really deserve to be taken apart by a psycho?
Edge sighed bitterly. When had he grown a conscience?
He felt like he needed another drink.
* * * * * * *
Jeff woke slowly from a sleep filled with disturbing half-dreams. Unmoving grayscale patterns and familiar shadows lingered on the edge of his vision. He blinked open sleep-gummed eyes, wincing in the bright morning light.
Something hit him in the face.
"Get up, kid", urged a gruff voice from across the room.
Jeff pulled the t-shirt off of his forehead, and sat up. "Mornin', Deadman", he said to the Undertaker, who was sipping a cup of the terrible hotel coffee while trying to tame his mop of long, unruly hair with a much-abused comb.
The young Hardy rose, and stretched his limber muscles, trying to work out the kinks from sleeping on the floor. He threw on his shirt then, readying himself to head back to his room for a shower.
"You snore, Hardy", grumbled Mark, "Kept me up half the damn night."
Jeff smiled shyly, his eyes glinting with mischief.
"Yeah, sorry about that", he said, "Guess I've just always been a terrible roommate."
The Undertaker paused in his task to turn and glare at the younger man for a second, before resuming his slow and torturous grooming.
"You should start from the bottom, when you're trying to get knots out", advised Jeff, who was sniffing the coffee to see if he wanted to brave drinking any, "Otherwise, you'll just make the tangles worse."
The Deadman just let out an inarticulate grunt in response.
The young Hardy moved away from the coffee and sat down heavily on the bed. "So, Mark, can I ask you something?"
The big man stopped what he was doing, and turned to Jeff. He studied his young friend. Now that he really was looking at him in the light of day, he realized that he looked terrible. There were dark circles under his eyes, and he was deathly pale. Mark frowned. He obviously hadn't been sleeping, or eating as much as he should.
"Sure, kid. Shoot."
"Have you ever been really, really close with anyone, and then lost them? Like Glen, have you two ever fought?" Jeff looked up at Taker with huge, despair-filled green eyes.
Mark furrowed his brow in concern. "Fighting is an unfortunate part of all relationships. Glen's my brother. We fight all the time, but we always make up." He looked closely at Jeff's face. "Why do you ask?"
The younger man shook his head. "Matt and I used to be like that. We'd fight, and we'd be fine five minutes later. But now…" He trailed off, and looked away miserably. "What did I do to make Matt hate me so much?", he said softly.
Mark was taken aback. "Why would you think that your brother hates you?"
Jeff's face fell. "He won't even fucking look at me, Mark. He hasn't talked to me since the Rumble. I don't know what to do." He looked up at his friend, his face shadowed by weary desperation.
Mark sat down next to him on the bed, and wrapped a strong arm around his shoulders. "Matt doesn't want to see you right now because he knows what he did was wrong, and he's not ready to pay the piper yet. He doesn't hate you. He's just being a coward. He'll get over it eventually, Jeffro, and he'll ask you to forgive him." He beamed at Jeff, who smiled shakily back. "Time heals all wounds. Remember that."
Mark stood then, and ruffled the younger man's blue and red hair.
"Time for a shower. You stink, kiddo."
Jeff mock-glared, and moved to leave, trying to fix the mess that the Undertaker had made of his hair.
He turned back.
"Thanks, Deadman."
"Anytime, kid."
* * * * * * *
The catering hall backstage at the arena was full of superstars, milling around, socializing, and having light dinners before their matches that night. Triple H and Umaga chatted amicably in the corner, discussing stocks, and how much they'd lost this year as a result of the terrible economy. Big Show, Vickie Guerrero, and Chavo were going over the script for that night's opening segment. Vickie thought it would be prudent to add a few extra "Excuse Me's", for good measure. Adam was preening in the corner, fixing his hair and ensuring that his bruises were covered with well-placed makeup.
Matt was sitting in a folding chair, staring fixedly at the double doors. He looked as if he were waiting for something to happen. Or, for someone in particular to enter.
A loud shriek echoed throughout the room, causing heads to jerk towards the back corner. Maria, Kelly Kelly, and The Miz were throwing food at each other, and laughing hysterically. The other superstars, used to their annoying antics, just rolled their eyes and turned back to whatever it was that they'd been doing.
"They get anything on me, I'll twist their heads off", grumbled Triple H sourly.
Suddenly, one of the doors opened, and Jeff slipped in. Looking around, he made a beeline for the soups and sandwiches table. He didn't notice Matt in the shadows, getting up from his seat.
Jeff wasn't overly hungry; he really hadn't been in days. But he had promised Mark that he would eat something. So, he ladled some chicken soup into a Styrofoam cup, and grabbed a plastic spoon. Turning, he moved to go and find a seat. And nearly smacked right into his brother.
The older Hardy barely looked like himself. He'd lost all the warmth in his expression. His eyes raked over Jeff's face, as if seeing it for the first time.
"Matt-", he started, wanting to say something to cut the tension. He could feel the eyes of their fellow wrestlers on them both; they were being closely watched.
"Shut up, Jeff", Matt interrupted softly, shocking his younger brother into silence, "If you want an apology, I have no intentions of-"
"I don't care about that!", said Jeff, his voice desperate, "I just want to make this right."
Matt leaned in, closer. "If you want to make it right, Jeffy, then I'm afraid there's only one thing you can do." He paused, looking deep into his brother's dark green eyes. "Go back in time, and find a way to ensure that you had been stillborn. Then, I never would've had to take care of a sniveling fuck-up for the entirety of my adult life." The words were spoken with cruel and utter sincerity. Jeff flinched with each syllable.
Matt turned, and began to walk away. "Bye, Jeffro."
Jeff stared after his brother, unable to believe what had just occurred. It wasn't supposed to happen like this. He felt his limp fingers drop the soup he'd been holding to the ground. It splattered everywhere, but he didn't even take notice.
Strong fingers laced slowly onto his quivering shoulder. "Hey, kid."
He flinched at the contact, and at the voice. He tried to pull out of the person's grip, but to no avail.
"Let go of me", Jeff said, staring at his brother, who was sitting casually on the other end of the room.
"Come on, kid, you don't need to be here anymore." The voice was gentle, but firm. The hands were guiding him away.
"Let… GO OF ME, GOD DAMMIT!!!!!", Jeff struggled, punching and kicking. All he could see was his brother. All he could hear were Matt's cruel words.
A slap rained down across his face, bringing him immediately to his senses. He blinked. The Undertaker held him firmly by the shoulders, looking down at him with sad eyes. Tentatively, the big man reached out and rubbed a thumb across Jeff's cheek. It came away wet with tears. Movement had ceased in the congenial catering hall, and the superstars were now staring, and whispering. Jeff couldn't stand it. They thought he was out of his mind, that he was fucked up on drugs.
The young Hardy pulled roughly out of Mark's grip, and walked briskly out of the catering hall, head down. The moment he'd gone, everyone began talking at once.
Matt watched the scene with extreme satisfaction. Breaking his little brother's spirit was going to prove easier than he'd originally believed.
* * * * * * *