It's exhausting, being disrespected week in and week out. Yeah, sure, Mike's spent the better part of his career being treated like shit, but after awhile. Yeah, after awhile it's just hard to even want to deal with that shit ever again. So he gets home from Raw, he greets AJ, he kisses Sara and George, then he takes his leave.
He's sure they'll worry, he's sure his time by himself will be limited, but he needs it. So he leaves, and he goes to the beach, and he listens to the ocean, tries to drown out the repetitive SHUT UP MIZ that had ultimately ended with him dazed on the mat after a headbutt. He guesses he should be thankful that it was just that and not a swing of Drew's sword, but he's not. At least the sword would've led to horror and demands of... something being done. He hopes, anyway.
He rests his hands idly on his knees and watches the sun creep further down the horizon, about to disappear for the evening, when he hears footsteps behind him. Familiar footsteps, footsteps hard to ignore or avoid. "So they sent you," he says dryly, and Morrison chuckles before dropping down next to him.
"Indeed they did," he says, resting a bottle of coconut water next to Mike's leg.
"Did you all have a watch party for Raw?" he asks, frustration tinging his voice, as he grabs the bottle and takes a healthy drink.
"No," Morrison says. "We know what happened, of course, but we're not out to add to your humiliation, if that's what you're thinking."
Mike exhales, feels some of the tension leaving him. John, after all, doesn't deserve his anger or frustration. "No," he says quietly. "I don't actually think any of you would."
"If you want me to go," John says. "I'll go. But if you want me to stay, I won't say a thing until you feel like talking. Alright?"
Mike searches the skyline, already darkening at a rapid pace. "Alright," he says quietly, the two of them content to sit and watch night prevail for awhile.
He'll talk, eventually. He always does. But it helps to just have a few quiet moments with his best friend by his side.