After losing the tag team belts last week, John Morrison isn't up to hearing the latest conspiracy theory by Miz about why the Email GM interrupted the match so he keeps to himself for awhile during the Slammies, his thoughts unusually scattered and uncontrollable. He has a match with Sheamus later in the evening and, for once, he's looking forward to seeing the bully just to let loose some of the tension and anger that's been with him since losing King of the Ring. Since losing the tag belts.
He has no choice but to leave the quiet little corridor he's hidden in most of the evening when he realizes he's out of wrist tape a little bit before his match. Cursing his rare lack of pre-planning, he reluctantly heads back to the locker rooms in time to find Alex and Miz watching the "Fan Reaction of the Year" slammy being handed out. Sure enough, "Angry Miz Girl" wins the slammy and Miz stands almost immediately, shouldering the WWE title. "Come on, Alex," he says, barely glancing over at Morrison as he continues searching around the room for a spare roll of tape.
"Are you seriously going to go mess with that little girl?" John asks before he can stop himself, turning to face Miz after the words slip from his lips. "Why do you have to make everything into a huge confrontation?"
Mike stops by the door, an annoyed gleam in his eyes, lips twisting angrily as his hand tightens around the strap of his belt. "It's called taking control of a situation, John. If you ever want to advance in this business, you might try it sometime." With a quick motion of his hand, Alex exits first and Miz follows, not looking back once as John glowers at him.
He rolls his eyes, pressing a knuckle to his forehead as the door slams shut. Things had grown tense between them within a matter of moments after the tag match last week, the unfair loss just adding fuel to the flames.
He finally finds a roll of tape abandoned in the shelves and settles down on a bench to finish preparing for his match, half-watching as Miz mocks the Angry Miz Girl, taking her Slammy. Would you look at that, a Slammy just for Riley to carry, he thinks with an eye roll. He's getting quite the collection of things to lug around- the beat up briefcase, and now some 9 year old's Slammy. He looks towards his bag for a moment, only paying a little more attention as Miz's speech about TLC is interrupted by the Email GM's sounder, leaning closer to turn the volume up on the monitor as Cole goes through his usual monologue.
"I am not sending this email to discuss last week," he reads, glancing uncomfortably up at Miz before continuing on, announcing the individual matches for Miz and Orton.
"Oh boy," Morrison mumbles, shaking his head. Miz's match is noticeably harder than Orton's- Rey's speed and endurance making up for his size. Could've been worse, I guess. At least it wasn't Mark Henry or Big Show. He sighs, closing his eyes. His match against Sheamus is next so he has no choice but to focus strictly on his own issues, leaving before Miz and Riley can return to the locker room.
The match doesn't last long, both Sheamus and Morrison's anger boiling over until they forget about typical match rules, the ref yelling at them, and anything else, desperate just to inflict pain on the other. It's not until a group of referees enter the ring and the Email GM's sounder goes off again that they're pulled apart, Morrison distracted by Cole reading the match announcement off for Sunday- number one contendership ladder match?- that Sheamus gets the upper hand and slips outside of the ring while Morrison is still reeling, slamming a ladder into him when he tries to go after the man.
From there, it all happens fast, in a blur, as he's thrown over the top rope and impacts back first with the ladder bridging from the ring to the announcer's table, collapsing to the floor as his body protests the rough treatment. He writhes around on the floor until the referees kick Sheamus out and go to assist him. "Damn," he gasps as two of the refs slowly ease him up into a standing position, his back and head throbbing in time with each tentative step around the ring and up the ramp.
The walk to the trainer's room is slow and grueling but when he finally gets to lay down on his side on what's recently become an overly familiar couch, he relaxes a little and breathes shallowly, trying not to move around too much as the trainer starts looking him over more thoroughly than the quick check he provided at ringside before allowing the referees to help him move.
His fingers twitch around the armrest of the couch he's stretched out on as he rests his head against the cool leather, searching for anything to distract himself from the ache that follows each touch from the trainer. Ironic, earlier I would've given anything to stop thinking but now I wish I had something else to focus on, he thinks bemusedly, pressing his forehead against the side of the couch more as the trainer finds a sensitive area by his spine.
I wonder what Miz thinks about this- there's a chance he and I will be competing for the WWE title. He sighs, surprised by the conflicted feelings churning within him. I've always wanted the opportunity but not... not because of some anonymous GM's vendetta against him. Not that I won't have earned it- a ladder match isn't anything to discredit but still... If Miz wasn't the champion, would I have even been given the chance?
He grimaces as finally the trainer finishes prodding and poking his back, disrupting his thoughts. Within a few minutes, he's settled back against the couch, an ice pack held to his various bruises to ease the swelling already obvious around the grooves the ladder rungs left in his flesh upon impact. It was only two weeks ago we were tag champions. Hell, two years ago, we won a slammy for tag team of the year. There wasn't even a tag team category this year...
He's still sitting there, lost in his thoughts when the door opens, allowing in David Arquette who's still moaning and complaining after being put through a table. He barely reacts when footsteps stop nearby, not needing to look up to know who's standing close to him.
"So, number one contendership match," Miz's dull voice breaks into his focus. "I bet you're just thrilled."
He finally looks up, surprised by the lack of emotion in the man's tone or facial features as they stare at each other. "It's a hell of an opportunity," is all he says, uncertain what the right response would be right now.
"Hell of an opportunity," Mike echoes, a bemused smirk forming as he sits gingerly next to John. His eyes flash intensely as he turns to stare at him. "You know you only have this opportunity because the Email GM wants to screw with me even further. What better way than to give you a chance at a title match, now-"
Despite his own thoughts on the subject only minutes earlier, he can't help the anger that flashes through him. "What, you think I don't deserve a title shot? You only got this far because you had a contract where you could cash in for a title opportunity whenever you wanted. Anyone could win a title under those circumstances, it's not that impressive."
The two stubborn, proud superstars glare at each other for what feels like hours before Alex gets tired of Arquette's whining and joins them. "Uh, what's going on?" he asks, unnerved by their silent glowering.
Miz stands hurriedly, not bothering to look back once as he joins Alex. "Come on, we're leaving."
"Uh, ok," his apprentice mutters, glancing over momentarily at a grimacing Morrison before rushing after Miz. "Mike, wait," he attempts as soon as they're out of the room, stopping just before grabbing his mentor's shoulder to slow his careless rush away from the trainer's office. He doesn't want to get punched for trying to stop the obviously pissed off man.
"I'm not waiting for anything!" he volleys back. "Either follow me or get a ride with someone else, I don't care. I just can't stay here anymore." Even so, he turns to watch Alex as he walks backwards, lifting a hand to point at the door that's slowly closing behind the younger man. "That damn GM is trying to ruin everything for me. EVERYTHING. Just watch, Alex, he'll be after you next."
Riley opens his mouth to warn his mentor but the man turns just in time to sidestep a trunk in his path, smoothly walking past it to continue on his way. He looks through the crack in the trainer's office's door long enough to lock eyes with Morrison before shrugging and dashing after Miz.
Morrison tips his head back against the edge of the couch, releasing a deep breath. "Dammit," he mumbles.
Miz is just entering the locker room when Alex catches up to him, angrily kicking a duffel bag sitting in the corner of the room. He curses as soon as he makes contact, hobbling away to sit on a bench. "What the hell's in that thing?" he demands, pointing at the bag.
Alex raises an eyebrow at his reaction before hesitantly pulling the bag open, drawing back a bit almost immediately. "It's Morrison's," he comments, recognizing one of his t-shirts at the top.
"Figure out what I kicked," Miz orders through gritted teeth.
Reluctantly, he returns to the bag and begins digging through the clothes within before his hands brush against something cold and vaguely familiar in shape. He sucks in a breath as he pulls out a Slammy and looks over at his mentor, whose focus is solely on his throbbing foot as he rubs it angrily. "Uh, Mike?"
"What?" he snaps, looking up. He pales as soon as he spots the Slammy, forgetting instantly about his foot. "Is that...?" Alex quietly walks over and hands it to him, somehow feeling like he's intruding in this moment. "Good God," he mumbles, rubbing a finger reverently against the "Tag Team" plaque on the base. "He kept this the whole time."
"Well, you kept yours," Alex reminds him quietly, recalling seeing the golden statue at Miz's house the last time he was there.
"That's different," he comments dismissively. "I was proud of the Dirt Sheet- all that we accomplished with it wasn't tarnished by the draft or what happened after it. This thing," he waves the obviously well taken care of golden symbol of their partnership, "could've easily been thrown away by now, and I wouldn't have been surprised."
They're still looking at the two Slammies, Morrison's sitting next to the Angry Miz Girl's, when the locker room door opens. "I just forgot my bag," Morrison mumbles as he slowly enters, his back obviously still aching. He pauses next to it, taking in how all of his clothes and things are scattered around, the bag yawning open in the middle of the madness. He looks suspiciously over just to freeze upon seeing Miz with the tag team Slammy.
Alex feels guilty somehow, as if caught with his hand in the cookie jar, but Miz brushes off John's glare and stands. He hesitantly joins him, gauging his reaction before he gets too close. He likes a bit of advanced notice before getting punched, after all. "I didn't know you kept this," he comments, pushing the Slammy back into John's hands. His earlier anger is all but forgotten for now in lieu of Alex's discovery. "Why'd... you bring it tonight?"
"I'm not sure," he mumbles, looking at the floor where his things are still scattered. "It just felt weird leaving it behind tonight of all nights. I probably should've left it in California though." He awkwardly puts the Slammy down on one of the benches, moving to squat down and resort his things.
"Nuh uh, don't even think about it," Miz says, stopping him with a hand on his shoulder. He watches as Morrison grimaces just at that subtle movement and nods, knowing his back is far from good right now. Potential number one contender or not, I'm not going to be totally cruel to him. His gaze returns to the Slammy, softening slightly. "We screwed up your stuff, just... relax, huh?" He glances over at Alex, who's on his feet before he can even say anything, and the two make quick work of putting Morrison's scattered shirts and wrestling gear back where it was previously before Alex dug out the Slammy.
John holds up his Slammy, comparing it against the stolen Slammy, taking in the subtle differences that the last couple of years have brought to the design. After a few moments of silence, he looks over at Miz. "Where's yours?" His voice is level now, quiet. A marked improvement from earlier when they both were saying things in the heat of the moment, Mike acknowledges before looking up.
"It's at my house," he comments calmly, stuffing the last t-shirt into Morrison's bag. Not folded to his standards but he can fix that when he gets to the hotel, he decides, sitting back to double check the floor for anything they might've missed before zipping it up. "There ya go, back to how it was before."
"Thanks," John says, "but you forgot something."
Miz looks up and spots the Slammy in his hands. Nah, I didn't forget anything. "Oh, that. No big deal, Alex likes carrying them. Don't ya, Alex?"
Alex looks up from where he's examining the dents in the briefcase. "What?"
"Never mind," Miz sighs, rolling his eyes as John chuckles. He drags the bag towards Morrison before sitting down next to him, almost mirroring their earlier position in the trainer's room. He grimaces and pushes that thought from his mind before turning to face John. "Ready to blow this joint?"
He glances over at him before staring back down at the Slammies, remembering two years ago when they had the slammies and the tag belts and everything was just so much simpler. "What I said earlier."
"Don't," Mike says, his eyes flashing warningly. "We both said stupid crap, let's just forget it for now-"
"No. It was ridiculous, we've both worked to get where we're at, just in different ways. I shouldn't discredit it just because your way isn't my way. After all, I was in that Money in the Bank match too. If things were a little different, it could've been me willing to use any chance to cash in." He pulls a face as he stretches, trying to work out the kinks in his back. "I'm just still angry that I lost the King of the Ring and the tag belts. I shouldn't have taken it out on you."
"I'm far from blameless," Miz concedes slowly, glancing over at a still distracted Alex. Sometimes I swear he finds stupid things to focus on so we can have talks like this, he thinks before returning to the conversation at hand. "You deserve it if you get the number one contendership this Sunday. I guess... I just freaked out a little bit because the Email GM's already taken the tag belts and... well..." He sucks in a deep breath as he glances from John to Alex and back. "I don't have many people in my corner, never have. And that's fine, I don't need anyone, really," he says almost defensively as Morrison looks at him worriedly. "But I've grown used to ... this again, anyway, in the last few weeks. So the thought of you and I feuding for the WWE belt... I guess it just feels wrong. It'd be easier to consider a feud with you if I still hated you but I don't so much anymore."
Morrison looks thoughtful for a moment before chuckling, looking down. "I think that's the nicest thing you've said to me in a long time, Mike."
"Oh, shut up," he mumbles, almost tempted to nudge him. If he didn't look like he's about to fall over already, I would totally knock him off of the damn bench. "Um. You know, since Money in the Bank, we've been injured a lot more lately?"
"I've noticed. I think it's a conspiracy." He smirks.