A/N: Despite Morrison's injury, this story will continue up to and beyond his return. He'll still be a pivotal character, just used in other ways. The fact that both Miz and Morrison live in LA helps some, heh.
Text from: Morrison
You're in town right? Can you come over to the apartment?
Text from: Miz
That's not menacing or anything. Why?
Text from: Morrison
Have something to tell you.
Text from: Miz
Oooook. Be by in a little bit.
Eyebrows scrunching up curiously, Mike tosses his cell phone onto the passenger seatof his car and taps his fingers against his steering wheel, waiting until the light turns green so he can turn a left instead of his originally planned right to loop back around to the closest street that would lead him to Morrison's apartment. He hadn't heard much from John since early Tuesday when they had arrived back at LA and went their separate ways, except for a quick text a few hours later saying that the trainer's suspicions of his neck problems being a pinched nerve had been confirmed by a doctor with more tests planned for later in the week if needed. Morrison had thankfully caught him on a rare Thursday afternoon off, between weekend houseshows and media events leading up to the Mexico tour the upcoming week.
After being stuck in traffic for a torturously long time, Miz finally arrives at John's apartment and looks up at the building, his intense blue eyes examining its exterior as he tries to ignore the slight feeling of dread welling up within him. Ok, Mike, no point sitting out here being stupid. You won't learn anything that way. He closes his eyes briefly before pushing the car door open and slamming it behind him, forcing the grimace off of his face. He'll be fine. It'll be fine. Just... go inside. He takes a deep breath and walks through the first door, examining the nameplates. Finding Morrison's half way down the list, he presses the button next to it and waits. When it buzzes to allow him in a few moments later, he jerks despite expecting the sound and shakes his head at himself as he enters the main lobby. Get yourself together, Mizanin, he mentally lectures himself, bypassing the elevator completely and heading for the stairs, too antsy to wait.
He makes it to the third floor quickly and looks around before turning down the hallway, keeping an eye on the apartment numbers until finally he finds 3-8. He knocks and steps back, rocking back and forth on his heels as he waits for it to be answered. He scrapes his teeth against his lip as seconds tick by, tempted to knock once more when finally he hears the locks on the door click.
"Hey," Morrison greets him once the door's finally open, stepping aside. "Come on in."
"Hey," he responds blankly, looking around at what he can see of the simply decorated apartment from the doorway as he enters. While Morrison shuts the door, he watches him with a frown. Other than looking tired, he looks fine- until he turns around and Mike realizes just how carefully he's holding himself, his arm trembling slightly at his side. "It's gotten worse," he comments quietly, not even needing to ask as John nods grimly.
"Yeah," he mumbles. "Come on." They enter the main room of the apartment and Miz glances around at the beige couch and matching chairs reflecting off the mid-afternoon sun streaming through large, bay windows. Cherry wood tables and entertainment centers, along with some pictures on the walls, provide pretty much the only color in the room as the carpet is a soft off-white color also. The furniture is the exact opposite of what some would expect of a flashy man like Morrison, but considering none of them spend a lot of time at their respective homes, Mike doesn't blame him.
"So what did you want?" he asks, settling down on one of the chairs as Morrison sits on the couch, unconsciously flexing his hand. "Is it about your..." Words failing him, he motions at the other man, knowing that his meaning will be understood.
"Yeah." The tense silence continues as John keeps fruitlessly trying to shake feeling back into his appendage. Finally he gives up with a sigh and looks up, a grimace on his face. "You said it yourself, it's gotten worse... so I called the doctor and made a follow up appointment. I had an MRI to determine the extent of the damage earlier." Miz feels himself pale at the word damage but keeps quiet as Morrison swallows visibly, his eyes flickering away to focus on the far wall. "I need surgery."
It's funny how three words can change basically everything in a matter of seconds. Time starts ticking away slower, the bright sunshine suddenly looks faded, and he can hear his heart beating in his ears as he struggles to absorb this news. John Morrison, one of the most health conscience superstars, needing surgery. Neck surgery, which hits a little close to home considering. "How bad is it?" he asks, not even recognizing his own voice as he peers distantly at his fingers.
"It could be a lot worse," John offers, trying obviously to look on the bright side of things. "It- it's not invasive, Dr. Maroon told me."
"You already met with the WWE doctor?" he mumbles, a bit dazed at how fast all of this is moving.
"Yeah. I called him on Tuesday. In case it ended up being something serious, I wanted him to handle it from jump." He sighs and shifts, running his right hand through his hair. "It, um, it's relatively straight forward by what he said, they just take away the bone fragments or whatever that's pressing on the nerves and that's that."
"How long's recovery?"
"A little over a month," John says softly. "You can't get rid of me for that long." He smiles slightly but it's obvious it's forced and fades quickly. "I just wanted to let you know. I haven't even called corporate yet. I'm still... digesting all of this."
Mike nods, not even wanting to imagine how dumbstruck he'd feel if he was in Morrison's shoes right this moment. "If, uh... I mean, when is the surgery then?"
"We scheduled it for Monday morning." John looks up at the ceiling as Mike takes in this bit of information, frowning.
"Dammit," he mumbles. "I'll be in Tennessee. And then there's the Mexico tour..."
"Hey, it's ok. I understand," Morrison says, surprised and touched at Miz's visible struggle. "It's not like I'll be alone anyway. Melina will be with me."
Mike scrubs at his face, trying to hide his eyeroll from John. He and Melina had never exactly gotten along and the attack during the 2009 draft hadn't helped much. Despite his and John getting along better recently, she hadn't trusted it so the two of them had fallen back into the old dance of avoiding each other, which Morrison didn't seem to mind as long as they kept him out of the middle of their tension. "Ok, well... that's good," he mumbles, suddenly feeling awkward and out of place as he looks around the nearly spotless apartment. "Uh, yeah, I should go. I haven't even started packing for this upcoming week." He hesitates, eyeing Morrison. "In case we don't talk before Monday, good luck with the surgery." He stands up and takes a deep breath when his former tag partner echoes his movement, the two pausing as they wait for the other to make the next move.
However, when Mike finally takes a step forward, John stops him by pressing a hand to his shoulder, something in his palm digging uncomfortably through his shirt, into his skin. "Hang on a minute. I... want you to have this," he says, sounding as awkward as Mike feels.
April 13, 2009
"What the hell was that?" he hears, pounding footsteps barreling towards him as he doggedly makes his way to the exit, bag gripped tightly in one hand and a pained grimace on his face. "Miz, dammit! Stop!" He only does so when a hand grabs him by the shoulder, roughly pulling him around to face an irate John Morrison. "What the hell, Mike?"
"What did it look like, John?" he spits, marveling at the shock, hurt and anger warring across the man's face. "I'm done with you, I'm done with this."
"Why? What did I ever do to you? Yeah, I said some crap the last few weeks that's probably been a little low... and we've kind of been on a downward spiral but-"
"What more do you need?" he yells, causing John to flinch. "Our partnership's ran its course. Now go back to losing on ECW while I start winning on Raw, and everything will be as it should be." Classing the last couple years as nothing more than a partnership leaves him feeling empty but he's so angry that he barely comprehends it, choosing instead to barrel on. "I don't need you anymore. So get out of my face!"
The transformation at these words is astounding, as each emotion once crowding John's face fades away to be replaced by pure and utter loathing. "Fine, if that's what you want," he all but snarls, digging something out of the bag that up to this moment Mike hadn't noticed. "Then I don't need this anymore!"
Miz blinks as something cold and hard slaps off of his chest, landing harmlessly on the hard tile at his feet. As John slams back down the hallway, he leans over numbly and lifts the key to his house that he had given Morrison around a year into their partnership off of the floor, sadness finally cracking the mask he had formed when Morrison had refused to be ignored.
As soon as he returns to the hotel room, he locates the key to Morrison's apartment and gives it to the hotel staff to pass along to him, unsure where exactly his former friend is staying tonight.
Wonder where we'd be now if I hadn't made that choice upon being drafted... Miz blinks, shaking the depressing memory from his mind as he looks down at John's hand. "What?"
Smiling wanly, he pulls back and holds out a simple key, the same key that Mike had returned to him two years ago. "This way if I'm feeling lazy, I don't need to get up and let you in." He sobers after a moment and sighs, pulling back marginally when Mike doesn't even blink. "I know we still have issues, but the next few weeks are going to drag. I could use all the support I can get. It's yours if you want it."
He's about to put it down on a nearby table when Miz finally moves, plucking it out of John's hand. "Fine," he says slowly. "If you're sure."
"I wouldn't have offered it if I wasn't," he replies simply, looking a bit more at ease now.
"Alright." He pushes it into his jacket pocket before facing Morrison once more. "If, you know, you need anything, just lemme know." It's still awkward, the memories dredged up from the key still haunting him. I may not have taken things as far as Truth did, but there were times I was so angry, I really wanted to. I could've just as easily been the cause of something like this...
Despite his conflicted thoughts and feelings, John doesn't seem to notice anything off, nodding as he walks Miz to the door. "Sure. Thanks, man. Don't annoy Mexico too much."
"Oh please," he scoffs, a little of his egotistical fire returning. "It's not my fault if they can't handle my awesomeness."
Huffing a vague laugh, Morrison holds the door open as Mike walks out. "You know, it's gonna be fine, right?" he asks, watching as Mike hesitates in the hallway, looking uncertain.
He turns to face John and smirks, all cockiness and fake blaseness. "Of course it will be. You're too stubborn and annoying to be gone for very long, you said so yourself."
"That's not exactly how I put it," he replies, rolling his eyes once more.
Mike shrugs. "I like my version better." After a moment of silence, he looks back up, solemn and intense once more. "You know, I don't know what I'm gonna do when I see Truth on Monday."
"As much as I'd like seeing him get beat down, leave him to me." Morrison leans out of his doorway, raising his eyebrows as they stare at each other. "Trust me, give me a month to dwell on it and he'll regret every second of this. I'll make sure of it."
Despite not being fearful of a lot, Miz finds himself a little freaked out by the smoldering look in John's eyes. "I'm sure you will." He takes a few steps back and pats his pocket, checking on the key inside. "Ok, I really should go now. I'll see you around, John."
"See ya."
He waits until he's in his car and a few blocks away before he pulls over and rests his head on the steering wheel, careful not to set off the horn. "Dammit!" he mumbles, punching the console between the seats.
"So what are you going to do?" Alex asks mid-Monday afternoon, trying to tread lightly. He's not really talked with Miz much since the ordeal last week and he's sure this recent Morrison news has just added to Miz's anger.
"What would I like to do?" Miz responds almost mockingly. "I'd love to kick Truth's teeth down his throat. What am I going to do? Focus on something I can actually handle... like last week's mess." He looks up with a glower at his apprentice before glancing back down at his phone, as if staring at it long enough would make it ring.
Alex sighs and looks away, feeling sick. He hates when Miz is mad at him, and it seems to happen more often than not.
Finally the man's phone goes off almost half an hour later and he springs to life, grabbing for it.
Text from: Melina
Jomo wanted me to text you. Surgery went well.
He releases a deep breath, relieved.
Text from: Miz
Good. Thanks.
"Surgery went well," he relays to Alex, sliding the phone onto the bench as he leans over to lace his shoes.
His eyes light up slightly. "That's good."
Email from:
To:
There's been rumblings around that Miz would like to get his hands on R Truth. Perhaps you should let the Raw GM know?
Michael Cole frowns over the mysterious email, fiddling with his glasses. The Raw GM hasn't been after Miz as heavily lately, maybe his issues with him have cooled down... If I mention it to him, maybe he'll make that match and Miz will get what he wants? He shrugs, smiling slightly. "Yeah! Miz will appreciate that," he nods, quickly typing up and sending an email off.
Later that night, when Cole reads off the email keeping R Truth out of the match that Miz is in, his jaw drops slightly. As things heat up in the ring, he sinks back in his chair, mumbling to himself. Don't kill the messenger?
"That jackass!" Miz all but yells, slamming into the locker room and glaring at the few guys scattered around until they leave, Alex trailing behind him as he kicks at the benches. "Did you hear him, bragging about- Ugh!" He slams someone's bag into the lockers and kicks another out of his way as he storms around the room. "I swear to God, what the hell is with that Anon GM? I was this close to getting my hands on Truth, no matter what I told Morrison, and then he puts frickin Rey Mysterio in the match. It was all I could do just to keep from laying into Truth out there... I just should've done it, he might've been back by next month, then Morrison could've had his turn... dammit."
His rant is cut off when his phone starts to ring. He glares and pulls it out of one of the lockers, throwing it thoughtlessly at Alex. "Who is it?"
Alex fumbles for a second, gaping at it. "Oh." He quickly answers it before it goes to voicemail and passes it back over to Miz.
He glowers at the younger man briefly before putting the phone to his ear, not bothering to check the screen. "What?"
"Someone sounds pissy," Morrison's tired voice greets him.
"... Well, gee, I guess I am," he comments, some of the anger draining from his voice as he finally sits down.
"You looked really pleased when Truth interrupted."
"Yeah well. I still don't know how you handled listening to him the whole time you traveled together. Two words and I want to stick my fingers in my ears."
John laughs, then hisses slightly into the phone.
Miz sobers, leaning forward. "How are you doing?"
"Not bad, considering. Just kinda sore. And craving juice boxes."
Miz pauses, eyebrow raised. "They have you on the good stuff, huh?"
This time when John laughs, he doesn't make any sounds of pain afterwards, which helps Miz relax a bit more. "Yeah, something like that. When I came out of surgery, I drank fourteen juice boxes in a row before they made me switch to water."
Mike rolls his eyes. "Good Lord, John."
"What can I say, they were good."
He smiles slightly. "Sure they were... I saw you on Tough Enough earlier. Just had to help the girl, didn't you?" he mocks slightly.
"Oh, please. Like you would've left Ivelisse up there while she was struggling so much."
"Actually, I would have. She'll have to learn sometimes all she has in this business is herself." He purposely keeps his gaze away from Alex as he says so, not wanting to see the look on his face.
"Nothing wrong with helping people out now and again, Mike. You know that as well as I do."
"Yeah, I guess."
"Raw's coming back on," Morrison says. "I should get off the phone."
"Ok. Hey, glad the surgery went alright."
"Me too, man. Bye."
"Bye."
Despite the phone call, Miz's mood still remains combustible, especially towards Alex. Finally it blows and he lectures Alex about the week before, and how close he had come to winning back his title, blaming the loss on his protege.
Already aggravated from the dropkick he had taken from Ricardo Rodriguez of all people earlier in the evening, he storms off to prove himself to Miz and challenges Cena... just to lose to him right in front of Miz's face after two Attitude Adjustments and a STF. He can barely walk afterwards, needing two referees to ease him back to the trainers' room. The lack of Miz the whole time he gets checked out isn't a surprise but it is disappointing. As soon as the trainer has his back turned, he gets up and starts the long journey from the back of the arena to the gorilla position. If I get a chance, I'm gonna take it, he decides grimly, heaving a deep breath as he awkwardly maneouvers his way next to the curtain so he can see out to the ring.
His opportunity comes not long after that and he begins the arduous trip to the ring, limping painfully on the leg that had been caught in the STF, making it to the ring just in time to be slammed off of the apron. Even so, it doesn't keep him from grabbing ADR and pulling him out, opening things up for Miz to grab the victory.
Surprise, surprise, Cena chooses that moment to announce what their match will be come Over the Limit: An I Quit match. Despite his celebration getting interrupted, Miz looks more confident than he has since the week prior, helping Alex limp up the ramp. "C'mon, A-Ri. Let's go take over Mexico."
Despite how each step hurts, Alex can't help but chuckle at this- the first thing Miz has said to him in a week that's not spoken in anger or annoyance. It feels good.