John Morrison grimaces slightly as he leans over the steering wheel a bit to stare across at the arena door from his rental car. Despite a full week having passed since the falls count anywhere match against Miz, he's still amazingly sore. The freezing conditions in Tennessee and long hours spent traveling to reach the arena isn't helping much, his aches all the harder to ignore as he makes his way slowly out of the car, hunching over slightly so the brutal wind doesn't bite through his clothes quite as easily.

He was so close to the WWE title last week, but still fell short, despite everything. He had known almost as soon as he had leapt from the turnbuckle post to the outside that trying to send Miz through the table was just a little too reckless, even for him, but it had been too late to go back. Pay for it, he had, with nothing to show for it afterwards but an intense throbbing through his ribs and back. Not to mention the deep tiredness that had followed, once the adrenaline faded, leaving nothing but emptiness behind at how he had wasted his own number one contendership by a needless, split second decision.

Falling asleep in the trainer's room was a bit embarrassing but the reprieve from the self-recriminations and many, many shoulda/woulda/couldas he was torturing himself with at the time had helped clear his mind, despite the strange sensation he woke up to, like someone had been watching him recently, and the bottle of water sitting patiently in his line of sight that no one could explain.

He sighs as he pushes his way into the building, relaxing slightly as he gets away from the freezing conditions outside. His first stop, as always, is the small board with matches already scheduled for the evening. He sighs as his eyes fall upon Morrison vs Sheamus. "Damn," he mutters. I'm screwed, he thinks while wandering slowly towards the locker room. Every weakness I have, he'll find and exploit. And he'll take great pleasure in adding more.

One problem with wrestling the same guy basically week in and week out, they know your moveset about as well as you know theirs and what to look for, what to target, how to keep the advantage. It's another split second decision on the top rope that causes Morrison to eak out a victory and even though he's relieved that he's not lost two weeks in a row, those same uncertainties from last week return to him. I should've been able to win easier than that, that was little more than a fluke, he thinks, aggravated at himself.

He stumbles stubbornly through the halls, his whole body aching anew at the abuse provided by Sheamus. It's not until his legs almost give out that he finally stops his purposeful walk, taking a couple of deep breaths while supporting himself against the nearest wall. He looks around, surprised to find that the referees that had been following him previously had apparently given up at his repeated refusals of their help.

He shrugs it off and, still pressed against the wall, makes his way slowly to a nearby trunk. Hopping up onto it feels like fresh agony, waking up every pain in his body, and maybe some new ones. He groans and sucks in deep breaths, waiting for it to pass, before sliding back so he can rest his back against the cool wall, his eyes slipping closed at the relief of finally being off of his feet.

Maybe I should've gone to the trainers after all, he thinks tiredly, turning his head slowly to look in the direction of the trainer's office. "So damn tired of that place," he mumbles, shifting slightly in an attempt to ease his different aches. When it doesn't help even a little, he gives up, dropping his chin to his chest. "Dammit."

He's still sitting there he's not sure how much later, stuck in this pained haze, when footsteps stop just in front of him. He doesn't bother moving, unable to think of anyone he actually wants to see or have see him like this, but it doesn't stop whoever it is, as they hop up onto the trunk with an ease that makes his throbbing body jealous. The silence remains unbroken until his curiosity gets to be too much and he finally peeks at the person next to him. Somehow, he's unsurprised to find that it's Miz. "What do you want?" he mumbles, trying to sit up straighter, appear less vulnerable.

"Who said I wanted anything?" he asks, stroking the title belt in his lap mindlessly as he looks ahead at the quiet hallway before them. A few moments pass before he turns to look at John, frowning slightly. "Why are you here, Morrison?"

He purposely keeps his eyes turned away from the enticing gleam of the title belt as he thinks through Miz's question. "What do you mean?" he grumbles, shifting slightly and just barely stopping the pain filled gasp that tries to slip out of his mouth at the movement.

"That," Miz comments, unfooled by Morrison's attempt at not showing weakness. "You can barely move but you're sitting here, acting stupid, instead of getting help from the trainer. Why?"

"Am sick of the trainer," he sighs, tilting his head to look over at Miz easier. "What's it to you?"

"If you weren't being a stubborn dumbass, you wouldn't have to ask that," Mike responds, glowering at him. "We're all sick of the damn trainer, but we still go see him."

Morrison rolls his eyes but says nothing, choosing instead to needle his former tag partner. "So how'd the tag match against King and Orton go?"

"... Shut up," he huffs, the look on his face turning almost murderous as Morrison smirks, pleased with himself. "You're not distracting me, by the way," he adds after a few moments. "Go to the trainers or I'll drag you off this trunk myself."

"Yeah, sure," John sighs, closing his eyes, too sore and tired to argue about it. "Fine." He takes a deep breath and shifts stiffly, inching agonizingly slowly towards the edge of the trunk. His body is nearly uncooperative, every tentative movement sending stabbing pain through him, after so long of sitting on the hard surface of the trunk. When Miz easily hops off of the trunk just seconds after he reaches the edge, Morrison glares at him.

"Don't look at me like that," he says, rolling his eyes. It takes a minute for John to realize he's not moving from in front of the trunk, obviously waiting for something. He closes his eyes, giving in slightly as he reaches out, gripping Miz's shoulder as he eases himself down from the trunk, wearily standing on the hard concrete floor. "Got it?" Miz asks quietly after giving Morrison a minute to catch his breath.

"Yeah," he grunts, turning towards the trainer's office after releasing Miz's shoulder. "Get this over with..." He starts to walk, ignoring how his legs quickly start throbbing once more almost immediately, the weakness from the match against Sheamus still not completely gone."You don't need to babysit me," he comments when he finally hears the footsteps behind him.

Miz shrugs as he keeps up with him easily, rolling his eyes. "Yeah right, if I didn't follow you, you'd skip out of going to the trainer's. Considering I'll be on those roads too later, I don't need to be keeping an eye out for some stubborn idiot who probably shouldn't be driving."

"So kind of you," Morrison snorts, relieved to see the trainer's door in sight finally.

Miz looks from the door to John and frowns, taking in how pale the man already is, with a long stretch of hallway still ahead of them. "What do you think about the Email GM lately?"

"He has been kind of hands off lately, hasn't he?" he mumbles, trailing a hand against the wall to keep himself focused on the forward path. "It's weird."

"I don't like it," Miz admits. "I mean, it's not bad that he's been leaving me alone but..."

"Sorta feels like he's biding his time for something big," John provides as they finally arrive outside of the trainer's office.

"Exactly," Mike mutters, his face twisting anxiously. "I hate not knowing what's going on. At least this crap with Orton is mostly straight forward. Never thought I'd say this but I almost wish Jericho was still around, he was determined to figure out who the damn GM was."

Morrison shrugs as he pushes the trainer's door open and slips inside, relieved to see the couch waiting for him. That looks a lot more comfortable than the damn trunk, he thinks, easing himself down on it as Miz looks around at the decor. "One thing about Jericho, he's been fired over and over again and he somehow always manages to come back eventually," John offers, turning Miz's attention back to him. "Maybe that'll happen here too."

Miz snorts and settles down in a chair across from the couch. "Knowing my luck, Jericho'll end up being the Email GM."

He laughs silently, holding his ribs as he leans back against the couch to wait for the trainer. "Stranger things have happened, I guess."

"That's for sure," Mike responds, his lips twitching upwards as he glances over at Morrison.