"So you're telling me...?"
"After examining Mr. Riley's contract as your employee and comparing it to his Smackdown contract, I see no reason why he shouldn't be able to hold both positions as long as the duties he provides for you do not conflict with his Smackdown duties, as determined by Mr. Long," the stiff lawyer whose name Miz had already forgotten intones boredly.
Despite initially bristling at the man's tone, by the end of his speech, Mike relaxes slightly and nods, his grip on the cell phone lessening. "Thank you," he murmurs, his eyes closing before he flicks the phone shut and leans back in his cushy sofa. Peering over, he reaches out and brushes a hand across the title belt settled next to him. "Now... to focus on Sunday."
John Morrison stretches, trying to prepare for his match. He watches people walk back and forth before him, keeping an eye out. He knows the business well enough to know that, after the last few weeks, R Truth will want his revenge- if not before the match, then during it. It being a cage match is very little comfort, similar matches in the past showing that the wall of steel chain links can mean very little if someone really wants to hinder someone's efforts.
He and Miz may be a little less angry at each other after their talk last week but John knows if it comes down to helping him, or retaining his title belt, Miz will pick the title belt- and he doesn't blame him, honestly. After all, John has no problems competing against his former best friend and holding nothing back, for the exact same reason.
He tenses up as footsteps get louder, more distinct. When they pause behind him, whoever it is shifting from one foot to the other, his eyes snap open as his body immediately reacts, going from a sitting position to standing within the blink of an eye, his fists held up to defend himself if need be.
"Whoa, relax, it's just me," Mike says, his hands raised unthreateningly as John raises an eyebrow at him.
"What the hell are you doing, trying to get your head taken off your shoulders?" he asks, only half kidding as he looks around the hallway for anyone else. Finding nothing out of the way, he relaxes and turns his attention back to Mike.
"No, hardly," Miz grumbles, rolling his eyes. "I was just wondering... have you seen A-Ri around tonight?"
"What, he hasn't been glued to your side like always?" Morrison shifts, putting all his weight on one leg as he stretches out his bad knee.
"I wouldn't be asking if I had, now would I?" He huffs. "I have something to tell him and he hasn't answered his phone or any of the texts I've sent him since the supplemental draft..."
"Ah, lover's spat?"
"Shut up," Mike rolls his eyes. "I just figured since you're stuck in the main locker room, maybe you'd seen him or heard something."
"Maybe if you didn't hide in your little private locker room all night, you'd know where he was at," Morrison points out dryly, brushing the hair out of his eyes as he stands up. "But I honestly haven't seen him."
"Lovely," Miz groans. "The worst possible night for this to happen too..." A self-satisfied glint in Morrison's eyes causes Mike to click his mouth shut. "Don't say it," he warns, raising a hand to point at John. "Don't even-"
"You're worried about being in the ring with me," he chuckles, swatting his hand away. "That's why you want your apprentice around. Poor Mike, having to defend his title all alone."
"Oh, shut up- how do you know I don't just want him there to witness me trashing two of the most annoying Johns in the WWE?" he demands, crossing his arms over his chest.
"The Godfather's back?"
"... I hate you."
Sure enough, Truth comes out in the middle of the match- just when Morrison can see an end in sight, only inches from hitting the floor and claiming victory. He attacks Morrison when he's hanging onto the side of the cage and can't defend himself, causes him to land awkwardly on the door before flopping back into the ring, hurting too much to even think straight. After Truth lunges into the ring and continues beating him down, all Morrison can do is watch from the edge of the ring apron as Cena and Miz battles back and forth. It's only a few minutes later that Cena gains the final upperhand, hitting the Attitude Adjustment on Miz off of the top rope. Morrison is half up the ramp, a referee supporting him on one side, when Cena makes an announcement. He sighs tiredly, thinking distantly of the timing of it all, his neck throbbing with each step.
When he reaches the back finally, people are scattered all over, gaping at their phones or the monitor- which for once, is not showing the usual arena feed, instead blaring a news channel. He waves the referee off and settles down gingerly on a nearby trunk, relieved that Truth is nowhere in sight. "I'll go to the trainer's soon, ok? I just need a minute," he tells the stubborn referee, rubbing his neck carefully as he watches the monitor for a few moments.
As the shock wears off, his colleagues begin getting louder and louder, the news finally sinking in more for everyone with each passing second. He's still sitting there, watching them, when Miz settles down next to him, his lips twisted into a sort of snarl as he takes in the proceeding. "What are they so damn pleased about?" he grumbles.
Morrison looks over at him, his own tiredness returning to him twofold as he takes in Mike's empty gaze raking over their fellow wrestlers, his fingers clenching and unclenching where his title belt used to be. He tilts his head towards the monitor and repeats the headline currently echoing across the world from mouth to mouth, watching as Miz's eyes widen, his own title loss momentarily forgotten.
"I'll be damned," he mutters. "Finally, huh?"
John smiles mirthlessly, remembering what brought all of this to be almost ten years ago. Ponders what could possibly come of it for a moment. "Yeah. Finally."
"You alright?" he asks after awhile, as the hallways finally begin to empty, the wrestlers, for once unified, leaving to find a more spacious place to hold their celebration, preferably with copious amounts of drinks and food.
John grimaces, remembering his promise to go to the trainers, and shrugs. "Little sore, should be ok though."
"Ok." Miz stares down at his hands, a distant look on his face, as Morrison struggles to think of something- anything- to say.
Finding that everything just sounds wrong no matter how he replays it in his mind, he shifts awkwardly to the edge of the trunk before hopping off carefully. "I guess I should find that trainer before he leaves," he sighs. "See you around, Mike."
"Hey, hang on a minute," Mike finally speaks up after he's only taken a few steps, causing fresh pain to pour through him as he stops short. When John turns to look at him, Mike raises his eyebrows. "Where are you staying?"
"What? Uhh..." He pulls a face. "Truth booked a room," he admits reluctantly. Miz makes a quick motion with his hand, urging him to continue talking. "You're not going to drop this, are ya?"
"Not right now. Spill."
"The hotel was booked full by the time Truth attacked me. So were most other worthwhile hotels in the area."
"What are you planning on doing tonight, then?" Mike wonders quietly, picking at his nails while staring at the floor.
"...My rental car was looking kind of comfortable. Why?" he asks, a weird thought coming to him as he waits, his lips twitching ever so slightly.
"Alex can't be bothered to be here for a title defense," he intones slowly, unconsciously gazing down at where his belt would ordinarily be. "Good chance he won't be needing the second bed in my hotel room." It's ridiculous, what Mike is about to ask, even he looks a little exasperated at himself but finally he looks up completely and speaks. "Why don't you just take it?" It's brusque, far from charming, but they're both tired and hurting, angry and not sure where they're going to go from here, though Morrison's got a rough idea, so he takes the words at face value.
They've both been knocked down a few rungs by different factors despite being in the same match and it's this that encourages John to shrug, a small smile overtaking his features as he nods. "Sure, what could it hurt."
Miz nods too, hopping off of the trunk a little easier than John's earlier attempt. "I'll get the spare key and drop it off at the trainer's before I leave."
"Ok," he agrees, his neck throbbing slightly as he turns to follow Miz, the champion's locker room just down the hall from the trainer's office. As much as he hates the trainer, neck injuries are never anything to ignore- Edge's recent and sudden retirement had proven that- so he's almost glad when the door finally is in sight. He's about to enter when he realizes Miz is frozen in the middle of the hallway, staring blankly down the hall at the name plaque reading "WWE Champion". "Mike?"
His answer seems to take a long time, his voice quiet and strained when he finally does speak. "This... this is gonna be the last time I get to use this locker room," he manages to choke out. "After this, I'll have to start using the main locker room again..." His fists clench once more before he lunges forward and punches the nearest wall, his whole body trembling. "Dammit!"
Morrison releases a deep breath. "Mike..."
"No, don't," he huffs, shaking the pain out of his hand. "I'll be back in a minute." He ducks into the locker room and this time John remains, not even bothering to look at the trainer's room. Miz almost looks surprised when he storms out of what was just an hour ago his personal locker room, duffel bag in hand, and has to stop short to keep from barreling a waiting Morrison over. "Here," he hisses, pushing the spare hotel room key into his hands. "I'll see you there."
Morrison watches, lips sagging wordlessly, as the former WWE champion slams down the hallway, not even caring where he's going or what's in his path. This is going to be a fun night, he thinks, staring down at the keycard.
After some range of motion tests and sensation checks, the trainer gives his usual response- ice and rest- before sending John on his way. Great, he thinks, carefully carrying his own bag through the mostly deserted hallways. Wonder if Miz has cooled down at all by now. Thankfully the drive to the hotel is short, as John's aches and pains, along with bone-deep weariness, makes him anticipate melding into a bed as soon as possible. Just in case, he enters Miz's hotel room quietly, well aware of the fact that it's after midnight by now, and blinks at the soft light coming from the TV. It casts just enough of a glow that he can see his former tag partner fast asleep, remote held tightly in hand as a newscaster drones on about the evening's happenings.
He holds his breath, gingerly toeing across the thin carpet. He drops his bag carefully at the bottom of his own bed before turning to Mike. Smiling slightly, he shakes his head. "If only I had a camera," he whispers, leaning over. A vague feeling of deja vu washes over him as he quietly tugs the remote from slack fingers, automatically clicking the TV off without looking away from his fast asleep rival. As soon as he puts the remote down on the table between their beds, he shuffles across the room and, not even caring that he's still in jeans he's changed into after the trainer visit, he drops onto the mattress and immediately drifts off.
It's disgustingly early when something smacks into his face, startling him back into the world of soreness and just plain pain after the cage match only hours earlier. "What the-?" he demands, blinking groggily as he mutters a curse at the sun gleaming into his eyes.
"Good, you're awake," Mike's too-annoying-for-6-AM voice greets him as he stiffly flounders to sit up, tangled in his bedsheets and a couple pillows. "Time to drive to Miami."
Finally freeing himself of the cumbersome covers, he glowers at Miz blearily and wipes at his face. "The hell did you-?" Before he can finish talking, he finds a sock hanging off of his arm and stops short, rolling his eyes. "Seriously?" As Miz attempts to respond, he throws it back and watches as it lands, drifting lazily off of sleep-mussed hair.
"Ffffah," the former world champion sputters, smacking it off of his face. "As I was trying to say... Go take your rental car back."
"What?" Morrison snorts. "Bossy much? How the hell am I going to get to Miami if I don't have a rental car?"
Mike stands up and tugs his back onto the bed, sorting things inside to make up for the anger-induced packing job he had done the night before. "Listen," he says, his back to Morrison as he focuses on his chore. "Truth was your travel partner- that's over now for obvious reasons." Morrison rolls his eyes. "A-Ri was mine, and he got himself drafted. The way I see it, we both are in the same position right now. So why not?"
It's ridiculous, almost hilariously horrible an idea, so why exactly "alright then" slips out of Morrison's lips as he begins digging around for his rental car information, he's not sure.
After dealing with the red tape to return his rental car early and surviving the drive to Miami, Miz stops short behind Morrison as a referee greets them outside of the main locker room, an uncertain look on his face. John recognizes him as the ref who helped him out of the ringside area after the cage match the night before, Chad Patton. "What's up, man?" he asks calmly, trying not to worry over the man's demeanour as he shifts from one foot to the other, barely able to look John in the eye.
"You have a match tonight against R Truth," he explains quietly, looking briefly at Miz before turning back to John. "Good luck." His lips thinning, he glances over anxiously before turning and leaving as quickly as he'd appeared.
"Thanks...?" John blinks, swallowing down his many questions as he turns to look at Mike. "Well, that was weird."
"Yeah," he mumbles, staring down the hallway that the referee had just disappeared down.
It's not that much later that, after watching Rock's opening segment, Morrison heads down to have his match with Truth. He barely makes it to the ramp when he feels someone slam into him, sending him further down the steel before he comes to an awkward stop. The beat down that follows seems unending, his body still feeling the match from the night before. He hisses out a relieved breath as black and white streaks appear before his strained vision, referees finally pouring out to break up the melee. It doesn't stop R Truth for long, however, as his anger ensures he breaks through and attacks Morrison further, slamming him awkwardly down onto the thin padding outside of the ring.
The referees persist, finally getting him to leave, as they attempt to help John up the ramp. He's barely with it, struggling to communicate to the men trying to assist him that he can't feel the pain he knows should definitely be there, had been there only ten minutes previously. Even so, he knows when Truth returns, the muffled sound of the referees yelling as he's pulled away, gravity failing him as he's slammed mercilessly once more into the steel, his arm outstretched behind Truth's shoulder. He attempts to curl into the pain as the referees return again, some yelling senseless words at Truth and others trying to keep Morrison from moving- exacerbating things any further.
Finally sense returns to Morrison and he somehow focuses on the words being uttered over his head. "We need to move him." "But what if we do more damage? Neck injuries-" "If we wait, Truth might return and then what?" Tired of the nonending arguments, he slowly levers himself up on one side, effectively shutting the arguing referees up. He can't focus his vision too well, his right arm strangely numb, so he uses his left arm to feel around as he struggles to stand. "John, maybe you shouldn't move-" Robinson finally shuts up as he somehow makes it to his feet, barely hearing the audience members as they cheer for him.
It happens quickly, before he can take another step on his own, three sets of hands rest on him, holding him up. "Ok, here we go," another referee mumbles near his bad arm, trying not to jostle him too much as they walk together the rest of the way to the back.
As soon as the audience noise drifts away, Morrison's focus fades with it, his senses tunneling to the feel of taking one step after the other, the sound of his shoes on the tile. He can't keep his eyes open at all any more, the last of his energy draining from him but he's unable to speak, his lips moving soundlessly. There's nothing he can do or say, the three men surrounding him unprepared as he stumbles and loses it,when his body finally falls forward. He mentally braces himself, unable to understand how he can still sense what's happening around him without being able to do anything about it, but instead of hitting something hard and unyielding, he lands against something warm and... human. Arms wrap around him, keeping him upright even as his body fails to respond to his commands.
His face pressed against something soft and cottony, he feels himself being lowered to the floor. His focus locks on the soft murmurs around him as he struggles to understand what's going on. Finally he hears a quiet "John?" close to his ear and releases a shuddery little sigh. Miz. "What happened?"
Before the referees can begin to explain, he manages to open his eyes slightly and grip Mike's shirt, struggling to regain his equilibrium. He's still too tired and worn to move very much but every little bit feels like an accomplishment, his body slowly responding to him again as he stares down at the I'M AWESOME logo only inches from his face.
"Someone get some water," someone yells. "We need a trainer over here."
As the flurry of activity around them grows, Mike slowly eases John back until he's settled against the wall. "I'll be right back," he tells him, eyes flashing angrily as he stalks over to the referees. Thankfully one of the techs run up with a bottle of water and it helps, the pure exhaustion and disconnect that he's been feeling since Truth's earlier attack slowly releasing him enough that he can concentrate on his surroundings just before the trainer arrives. The next few minutes go by quickly as he's checked over as thoroughly as possible and asked questions about his complaints of numbness.
When Mike returns, Morrison watches him approach as the crowd slowly disperses, uninterested now that the drama begins to pass. "What's the verdict?"
The trainer looks from Mike to John. "Judging by what he's said, it sounds like a pinched nerve. He should go get checked out ASAP though, just to make sure it's nothing more serious."
"Why did he pass out then?"
"Combination of things probably. Exhaustion, pain, maybe dehydration. Some rest, he should be ok." The trainer stands, dusting his hands off on his pants. "If you need anything or start to feel worse, you know where I'll be at," he tells Morrison.
"Yeah." John pushes himself up onto his knees, using his left arm to support himself, as the trainer turns to return to his office.
Mike helps him up the rest of the way, ignoring the bland stare fixed on him as he pushes him carefully towards the locker room. "Grab your crap, we're gettin' out of here."
"What, you're going to make me miss the rest of the Rock's party?" he snarks. "And what about your rematch? I know that's soon."
"I have plenty of time to drop you off at the hotel and get back here-"
"No way," John shakes his head. "You'll be rushed and it'll just be stupid. I'll be fine here."
Tempting as it is to listen to him, Miz hesitates. Truth is who knows where and he doesn't want to leave Morrison open to further attack. But his chances of actually making it out of the title match with his belt back if he leaves and misses out on some good preparation time... He taps his foot in aggravation against the tile as he stares down at Morrison, his arms crossing over his chest as time ticks away. "Fine. But you do not move. And if I hear or see anything about Truth, you're out of here, I don't care if I have to drag you out by your damn hair."
Morrison's lips twitch but when Miz's glare turns almost murderous, he holds his good hand up in surrender. "Fine, fine. I'll stay and I'll be a good boy. Alright?"
It sounds a little too sarcastic to thrill Miz but his match is soon so he simply glowers a bit longer before leaving. He goes to the second locker room, which is generally smaller and quieter, needing some time to clear his head. Leaving Morrison might not be the best option but he'll be left alone through Miz's whole match against Cena so a few more minutes wouldn't hurt... right?
He's grumpy and weighing the various thoughts in his mind when finally Alex arrives, giving some cheap excuse about the Rock's party keeping him from joining Miz and an even worse one how he wasn't at Extreme Rules because he had been drafted to Smackdown. Miz finally gets to tell him what the lawyer had said last Friday, but he's so angry and fed up with everything this week that his words come out biting and demanding, not the logical way that the lawyer had explained them, or even how Miz had intended on explaining the situation.
Things only become worse when, during the match that follows, Miz has victory in his grip- is rewarded the three count and everything, but then the referee spots the title belt hidden underneath him and reverses his decision. For the second time in less than twenty four hours, the title belt is pried from his trembling fingers and given to John freakin' Cena.
Everything- Truth bashing Morrison to the point of passing out, Alex not being around when Miz wanted to tell him that their partnership could continue despite the draft, Mike losing the belt not once but twice- builds up within him and he pushes Alex. Time freezes but before he can fully determine what's just happened, Cena attacks and lays them both out with clotheslines and Attitude Adjustments.
After they stumble to the back and meet up with Morrison, who's succeeded at remaining undisturbed the duration of Miz's match, it's unanimous that since Alex is the least worse off of the three of them that he'll drive to the hotel. Before he gets into the car, he looks curiously from Mike to John and can't help but wonder what, exactly, he missed in the last twenty four hours.