"So how is he?"
Mike toys with the charger cord for his cell phone as he leans against the foot of the bed, listening to the quiet, undisturbed breathing above him. "He's asleep," he mumbles. "ER doctor said it looked like he got lucky, but wants him to check in with his rehab specialist ASAP."
"Well, that's good, right? At least he didn't get reinjured."
Snorting, the former world champion bangs the back of his head against the mattress, immediately freezing as the springs creak in protest. When nothing else happens, he relaxes slightly and shrugs. "So it seems. But he's so stupid, this could've gone south so easily." He rubs a hand over his mouth and grimaces, trying not to let his imagination run wild.
On the other end of the phone, Alex takes a deep breath. "Yeah, but it didn't. Focus on that."
Making a non-committal noise, Mike grumbles. "I swear, if he tries making an appearance this Monday- or, God knows, the pay per view- I'll knock him out myself."
But it ends up Mike has nothing to worry about: They take the same flight back to LA, Morrison for once having the sense to not say anything about how it's obviously Mike's way of making sure he contacts the rehab specialist once he arrives back home. Tired after spending part of the night at the ER after the event and the rest talking with Alex or staring at the ceiling, a million thoughts echoing through his mind as he listens to the various nighttime noises, he falls asleep midway through the flight just to find, upon reawakening a couple hours later, John thumbing disinterestedly through a book. He doesn't say anything until he notices how tightly he's gripping it, his knuckles white around the crinkled paper. "Book's that bad, huh?" he croaks, uncoordinatedly reaching for his abandoned bottle of water to wash away the sleep-dry feeling that he hates so much.
John rolls his eyes, finally looking over at him. He looks close to exploding with anger, his eyes flashing darkly in the overhead light, but before Mike can ask, he thrusts his cell phone into his line of sight, apparently having been waiting for this since the moment he received the email on the screen. "Did you do this?"
Mike blinks groggily, his vision clearing enough for him to read the small words on the bright screen.
Email from:
This is to notify you you've been assigned an overseas media tour to Singapore, China and Indonesia beginning on June 23rd. Travel arrangements and lodging have already been set up for you. Further details- such as times, dates and places- will be sent shortly.
Just barely smothering the smile that's attempting to break out on his face, he glances up at John. "You think I honestly have the pull to make something like this happen? I'm good but I'm not that good, John." Turning, he looks down the aisle, his face reflecting his relief, as his former tag partner huffs and puts his phone away before glaring out the airplane window stiffly. Must admit, that was good timing. Maybe the Anon GM does have some sense, and wants to keep him from getting injured further too? But that might be giving him- whoever it is- too much credit... Either way, it's one less thing for me to worry about.
That Sunday, Miz rolls his eyes as the President impersonator wanders by, his arms crossed as he leans against the wall not far from the gorilla position. His match against Alex Riley is next and, despite not hearing from the other man since after Raw days earlier, he feels confident that they can continue pulling this off successfully. On top of that, he's certain of his own future victory- nothing against Alex's abilities, but he has learned all he knows from Mike so really there can be no question who will ultimately be walking out with his arm raised tonight... right?
His thoughts are derailed as silence falls across the titantron area, everyone from refs to technicians holding their breath as Alex walks into the area, the two opponents' gazes locking as he walks past Mike's position, neither of their masks cracking as they continue putting on this show for their colleagues. Neither had contacted the other leading up to this match- both had perfected their roles in the last few weeks, growing used to what was expected of them to keep the Anon GM from getting suspicious. To talk it to death would have been overkill, made it easy to overdo or underdo it. The less planned it is the more truthful things would seem.
It's not until halfway through the match that Mike second guesses this for the first time, blinking sweat out of his eyes as he stares at Alex's arm, swatting uncoordinatedly just a few inches from his face as he locks in a rear naked choke, trying to wear his former protege out. Even at this close range with the bright overhead lights shining in his eyes, he can see bruising and swelling forming along his upper arm. When they finally separate, Mike raises his eyebrows at Alex and shakes his head slightly as Alex, understanding with a quick glance to his arm, waves it off, immediately going on the offense to deflect attention from his obviously hurting arm. The fight spills out of the ring, Alex taking out both Mike and Cole when the announcer tries to get in A-Ri's face.
Not longer after, the match comes to an end with Alex's hand being lifted in victory. Miz stares, dazed, at the ceiling as Alex's music echoes through the arena. As proud as he is of his protege's accomplishments, it'd take a really short sighted competitor to be glad of a loss so he can't help the look of disappointment on his face when he falls out of the ring and leans against the apron, ignoring the camera aimed right at him as he stares up the entrance ramp. I always hated that saying, the student has become the teacher... now I hate it more.
His bitter thoughts fade as he stands up, frowning. Wait, that's... unusual? Why did Alex leave so qui-... Oh crap, his arm. I forgot. Paling slightly, he marches up the ramp as quickly as he dares, struggling to remain as stoic as possible as the camera tracks him up to the top. He's not sure if it's filming or just getting into position for the next entrance and he doesn't really care, his hands clenching and unclenching as he pushes past the curtain into the back. He scans the immediate area, frowning when he doesn't see Alex anywhere. Damn, just what I love to do after a match- do a whole building search just to find someone.
It's not as bad as he thinks, however, as he stumbles across Alex almost the instance he turns the next corner away from the gorilla position, nearly running into the younger man. "Alex!" he starts, his teeth clicking together as he slams his mouth shut, eyebrows furrowing as he takes in how the other man's leaning heavily against the wall, his fingers wrapped around his arm. Sweat is trickling down his back, gleaming in the LED lights. "Are you ok?" It's a stupid question but he can't think of anything else to say as he carefully drops a hand on the younger man's shoulder, feeling the tremors rocking through his fingers.
"It's my arm, Mike," he breathes, eyes closed as he swallows thickly. "I... it hurts." The bad goes unsaid but Mike doesn't need to hear it to know, turning Alex just enough for him to see the offending appendage. He hisses as he glances at the still bruising skin, the swelling looking much worse than it had even ten minutes ago.
"When did you notice it?" he whispers, staring wide eyed at the injury.
"During the match. I worked through it but it hit me all at once when I got back here." He shakes his head, closing his eyes as Mike looks piercingly up at him.
"Ok, you need to go to the trainer's office. Get checked out." He hesitates, looking around the mostly empty hallway and inches closer, whispering, "I'd go with you but..."
"I know," Alex nods, visibly steeling himself physically and emotionally as he pushes away from the wall, holding his arm tightly to his side. "I'll be ok."
"Text me when you have some word," Mike urges, unable to do anything but watch as the younger man nods and walks away from him, the trainer's office thankfully only a short ways down the hallway. In a failed attempt to clear his mind, he wanders down one hallway to the next, waiting for his phone to go off as the pay per view carries on just feet away, cheers giving way to jeers mixed in with pyro and various entrances.
He's somehow made it all the way to the parking lot when his phone finally goes off in his hand, almost vibrating right out of his grip as it startles him.
Text from: Alex
Trainer wants to schedule some tests; worst case scenario, maybe a tendon tear. When I know, you'll know.
He stares at the text for a few moments before walking the rest of the way to his rental, collapsing against the trunk. Dammit. His head spins as he angrily presses the "end" button, making the text disappear from his screen. I was so focused on John, I never even thought I might need to worry about Alex. Kicking his heel against the tire, he stares up at the blank, dark sky blandly as he tries to work through future possibilities in case Alex's injury is as bad as it sounds.
The next day, he wanders into the arena, his eyes distant and troubled. Morrison is at home preparing for his overseas tour. Now to keep Alex out of trouble today too, he muses, shaking his head. To think a year ago I wouldn't have bothered with any of this BS...
Despite his focus being on keeping Alex away from the ring, not everyone has the same consideration in mind, so his breath stutters in his throat, almost causing him to choke on thin air on national television, when Teddy Long interrupts his argument with Christian and R Truth over who got screwed over more the night before. General Managers messing up his plans are by now common place so he almost knows what Teddy's going to say before he even opens his mouth, his lips twisting into an angry sneer. The only difference with this one is that he has someone to actually glare at, instead of aiming his disdain at a laptop stand.
Once the six man tag match is announced and Christian and Truth glance from each other to him and back, he leaves the ring, not wanting to spend more time arguing nonsensically with them. It's thankfully not hard to find Alex, the kid standing outside of the trainer's office as he carefully stretches his arm out. "You cannot tell me they cleared you for this match?" Mike demands quietly, glancing at Alex's arm. The swelling and bruising is still visible over twenty four hours later, somehow looking worse than it did the night before.
"Of course they did. I'm able to wrestle with it, as long as I'm careful... the tests are scheduled for when I get home to Florida tomorrow."
"As long as you're careful," Mike scoffs, anger flaring anew within him. "You do realize Morrison said something similar last week? Where did that get him? And don't you dare say Singapore, because you know what I mean."
Alex sighs, glancing around at the people wandering around. "We can't do this here," he hisses, motioning with his head at some of the referees and fellow wrestlers lingering around.
"They're not paying attention. Just keep your voice down and look pissed," Mike mumbles. He raises his eyebrows, lips twitching slightly as Alex rolls his eyes. "Probably won't be that hard for either of us, considering this conversation."
"Look, my tag partners are Randy Orton and John Cena. How much ring time do you think I'll honestly get?"
Even though he has a point, Miz still isn't thrilled. They spend a few moments staring at each other before Mike raises his arms in surrender. "Fine. Do what you want. I'll feel better about crap like this when I can do this..." He quickly presses a finger to Alex's upper arm, unsurprised but sympathetic when Alex flinches back, looking scandalized even at that small amount of pressure. "... without you reacting like that." The look on Alex's face burnt into his memory, he turns and walks away, each step measured and balanced as he works at not losing his cool. I need to think.
Alex is correct with his speculation, only ends up in the match for a few minutes at the most later that night. It's just enough time for things to start breaking down amongst the six and Mike to get himself inside and gain the upperhand, hitting Skull Crushing Finale- carefully manipulating Alex's arms to position him for the move to put less pressure on his injury- as quickly as he can before A-Ri can even think about responding to the tag. As his former NXT rookie rolls out of the ring, effectively eliminated, Miz can't help but sigh in relief. He doesn't last very much longer in the match either but, unlike the night before, it's with a clear mind that he makes his way back to the locker rooms, his main goal completed.
Alex is nowhere to be found, either in one of the other locker rooms or with the trainer, and Mike's ok with that. He needs some space too, recollect his thoughts and find something else to think about other than the fact that, should Alex's injury be as bad as the trainer suggested, he'll be all alone on Raw trying to stay out of the Anon GM's line of fire. He closes his eyes, tearing off wrist tape viciously.