A/N: I apologize for the Morrison free chapter. He'll be in next week's, I promise.
He closes his eyes, takes a deep breath. Clings for a little longer, the plastic protesting beneath his weakening, sweaty fingers. Not yet, not yet, he begs mentally.
All match types have different results that can bring about pain almost unimaginable- regular matches, too, of course- but the various weapon-based matches- ladder matches, table matches, extreme matches, on and on- are worse, because one walks in almost knowing what to expect but not entirely. You consider falling into the table straight just to hit at an angle, unable to prepare yourself for the agony that follows no matter how many times you've wrestled in similar match types. Figure in what it would do to your strategy to hit a ladder head first or falling off at a certain height just to be suplexed into one in the middle of the match and not want to move for the next five minutes, though you know you have to.
So this, here, now, hanging precariously from the ladder high over the ring, his slackening grip on the much desired briefcase the only thing keeping him from splatting against the mat below, is the last thing he'd expected. Far from something he had planned for. His heart in his throat, he knows there's no point in delaying the inevitable; hopes that the ladder isn't in his path as he releases his hold. The fall seems to last seconds and hours all at once, a swirl of colors just barely made out before he closes his eyes tightly, waiting for the impact.
When it finally ends, the world returns with a horrible, painful rush, leaving him yelling and thrashing as his knee cracks the edge of the ladder- every other ache and pain from the fall not noticeable, his knee overcoming everything else. He can feel it swelling beneath the brace, throbbing against the oppressive fabric with each beat of his heart.
Even the refs touching him hurts, his flight or fight instincts kicking into high gear as he tries to fight them off, relieve the agony in his leg, anything. They're insistent, although also professional and careful with him, gets him out of the ring as smoothly as possible, away from the maddening action going on around and above them.
He pounds his hand on the ground as they move the brace down, horror quickly replacing his pain as he gets a good look at the damage done to his knee. Dammit, he thinks, leaning back hopelessly as the mat shakes overhead, an indescribable anger towards the competitors still capable of going on without him adding to his physical and mental agony.
It's humiliating, getting walked out of the arena by the shorter referees and trainer supporting him on each side, but he can't do it on his own, each jar and shift causing his breath to catch in his throat as it is right now.
He keeps his eyes on the ground, ignoring each superstar they pass on their way to the back. He does glance up at one point, just to catch sight of Daniel Bryan watching his progress with a solemn look even as he holds onto the blue briefcase reverently. He glowers at him a moment before stubbornly returning his gaze to the ground, hating all of this.
He's not the only one injured from tonight, Big Show is being taken to the hospital for scans on his obviously broken ankle, and Sin Cara is still holed up in the trainer's office, getting looked over as they try to decide what to do with the man. It could've been worse, he thinks as he tries to get comfortable on the couch the referees settle him on. At least he doesn't talk...
The trainer examines his knee closer, each touch and adjustment sending pain crawling up his thigh. Trying not to react as harshly as he had outside of the ring earlier, he leans back against the cool leather cushions and breathes steadily in through his nose, out through his mouth. Closes his eyes and thinks about the match proceeding without him, the competitors left in that ring... how wrong Daniel Bryan looked with a briefcase.
"I want you to ice this," the trainer says. "Take it easy and go to the ER, just to make sure. I don't think anything's broken or torn but better safe than sorry."
He nods grimly, squinting an eye open as the trainer moves away to get the ice and a couple things. As soon as the man's back is turned, he pulls himself up from the couch and turns, catching sight of Sin Cara looking his way. Due to the mask, he can't tell if he's actually watching him but there's no time to think about such trivial things... not if he's going to return to the ring before the match ends and stand any chance of showing Daniel Bryan how a Money in the Bank winner should look. Blown knee and all.
Hobbling to the ring takes a damn life time, even when he attempts to half run, and he fully expects the trainer to grab him at any moment and scold him before dragging him back by his ear or something as ridiculous as that. Even so, no one stops him, his trip to the ring unimpeded and, other than what the torture each step is, smooth.
He honestly thinks briefly that he has it, pushing the teeth grinding pain to the back of his mind as he hops one-legged up the ladder, only fingertips away when that stupid Rey Mysterio grabs him, slams his useless leg into the relentless steel of the ladder and causes him to crumple, easy picking for a slam onto the mat. Paralyzed by fresh pain, he has no chance, no choice but to watch as the match rolls to its conclusion, Alberto Del Rio standing proud and cocky with the briefcase in hand. Son of a bitch...
The returning trip to the trainer's office is even worse this time, his failure adding onto his anger. He ignores the referees attempting to help him as he stubbornly hobbles back the way he came, his eyes once more locked on the floor before him. After a few minutes, he sinks again onto the leather couch, his eyes slipping closed as footsteps and murmurs carry on around him.
The other Raw Money in the Bank competitors trickle in to get checked out, the noise in the room rising and falling with each entrance or exit. Sin Cara, he notes the one time he looks around, is gone, everyone else avoiding 'his' couch as the trainer looks them over, finds nothing seriously wrong with them and sends them on their way. Which is good, because the less he has to listen to Alberto's boastful faulty English, the better.
Only one hasn't arrived yet, Mike listening carefully to the varied voices around him, and noticing that Alex's hasn't been among the group yet. He's pondering this when the door slowly eases open and, instead of walking past him, the person sits down comfortably next to him, releasing a quiet sigh.
Glancing over, Mike rolls his eyes at Alex. "What are you doing?" he hisses, aware that the trainer is still somewhere behind them.
"Sitting. Gotta problem with that, Mike?" He looks calm but there's curiosity and a bit of worry in his eyes as he glances down at Mike's uneven brace still resting uncomfortably beneath his swollen knee.
"The trainer-"
"Minds his own business, and doesn't like the Anon GM either," he mumbles out of the corner of his mouth. "Give me a little more credit, Mike. You think I'd risk all of this after all this time?"
"No."
"Exactly. So... what's the verdict?"
"Trainer says it's probably nothing serious but he hasn't looked at it since I ran back out there- I think he's ignoring me."
"You're in trouble now," A-Ri says with a small smile, which grows when Mike glares at him. They usually don't get to just be in an actual WWE arena but Christian vs Orton is going on now- King, Booker and Cole's rambling commentary and arguments distinctly noticeable even though the monitor is a good ways down the hallway from the trainer's office- and no one else is in the room at the moment, so they don't worry as they remain where they're at until the trainer slowly makes his way around, an exasperated look on his face at he looks at Mike.
"I know, I know, I'm an idiot, I could've made it worse and what would I have done if I'd torn it clean off the bone?" he repeats the lecture similar to what almost all of them have heard at one time or another from the fussy man still glowering at him.
Alex coughs to keep from laughing out loud, looking on innocently as the trainer peers over at him suspiciously. No way am I annoying him when he'll be looking me over soon too!
After a rushed trip to the ER, which confirms what the trainer mentioned and compounds on the ice suggestion, Miz turns right back around, gets in his rental car and begins the long ride to Green Bay, Wisconsin. He could start the trip a little later, get some sleep, but his mind is racing- just hours prior, CM Punk won the title, Cena may be fired, and a WWE without the title AND Cena seems odd to him. Cena gone makes him want to party till next year but the loss of the title... There's no way that's going to hold, he thinks, checking a nearby mile marker as he hits the Wisconsin border. It's just not possible. Vince has to do something... right?
So he makes sure he's at the arena nice and early, despite how tired and ragged he feels. No matter how pain stabs up his leg with each step, on top of the all-around soreness he feels that is only compounded by being in his car for so long. The closer Raw comes, the slower time slips past until finally, finally, it's 8 PM and Vince is making his way to the ring.
Rumors had been abounding since before he walked through the arena's doors, from tournaments to Vince just naming a new champion. Someone (he suspects he knows who) had even started spreading around that Zack Ryder's Internet title would be observed as the top belt in the brand.
The hallways go from 10 to 0 as everyone present hushes, crowding around the various monitors and gorilla position to watch on as Vince finally starts to talk. What he says is no surprise- there will be a tournament, and there's been no concrete decision on Cena's status with the company yet, he'll announce it later on in the show.
Miz is unsurprised to see his name in the tournament listing but he can't help looking over at where he had last seen Alex, catching the younger man's eye as their match- next- is announced. He nods briefly, his expression dark and unreadable as Mike watches him. No uncertainty, no text messages, nothing... I guess he's finally getting the hang of this. By now it should be obvious that I'll go along with whatever he feels he has to do to get the point across, as he has to do with me.
Even so, the intensity Alex brings to the match almost catches Miz off guard, his target blatantly on Mike's thoroughly wrapped and braced knee the whole time. Hard as it is to keep his balance, he manages to grab the advantage when Alex is trying to dodge the almost equally as clumsy referee, only just hitting the Skull Crushing Finale. His energy flagging, he gasps for air for a moment, the pain from even that minor impact- in comparison to yesterday's fall from the ladder, anyway- excruiciating. He finally composes himself and rolls over, getting the three count.
The second match against Kofi almost an hour later is basically a foregone conclusion, the man barely even looking twice at Mike's knee as he goes about his usual wrestling style. It's this lack of ruthlessness for the most part that causes Mike to cinch up another victory, his attention immediately turning to the final match of the tournament. His knee is close to giving out, he can tell it with each careful step he takes up the ramp, and the only real hope he has bases on the fact that, depending on which one ends up being his opponent, Rey Mysterio's knees are just as screwed up on a near nightly basis, or that R Truth will be too far gone mentally to even mount a good offense against the former champion.
Unsurprised to find Alex in the trainer's office, bugging him about something, he settles down to wait on a couch similar to the one left behind in Chicago not even twenty four hours, feeling his former protege's weighty stare on the back of his head. Upon finishing with the trainer, he settles in a chair not far from the couch. "You going to be ok for one more match?"
"Kinda have to be, don't I?" he asks, glancing up and over briefly before returning to scratching at his gummy wrist tape. "Besides the WWE title will be waiting for me at the end of it..." He hums slightly, finally loosening up the tape enough that blood starts to return to his hand and fingers. "Do you think..." Despite Alex's comments from the night before, he turns to look at the trainer and takes in his obvious disinterest in their conversation as he looks through his supplies on the other side of the room.
"What?"
"That the title will be the same? Or will they make a new one?" He moves on to picking at the tape on his other hand, movements so nervous and jerky that Alex almost wants to reach over and handle it himself.
Alex sighs and settles back, watching him as he clasps his hands in his lap to refrain from trying to help his prideful mentor. "I think if you wanted to bring back the M belt, you could. I mean, you'd be champion, right?"
Considering this, Mike finally frees his hand and looks up, some of the stress off of his face. "Right. Of course, I'd be champ, I could have whatever I wanted." Some of the spark returns to his eyes as he smirks, Alex wondering briefly what he's inspired.
The trainer has just finished looking Miz's knee over when Rey's theme song echoes once more through the arena, all the details Miz needs to know who's remaining in his way on the path back to being champion. He's looking around for more wrist tape when Vince's music interrupts Mysterio's, that creepy hush from earlier returning with a vengeance. Vince announces that this match is postponed until next week, to Mysterio's displeasure, but Mike all but melts with relief as he sits back down. Another week for my knee to recover... If I can handle two matches with a screwed up knee in one night, then one match against him on a slightly better knee will be like taking candy from a baby... or, well, a title from a very short Mexican, he thinks with a gleeful smirk.
As if his night couldn't get any better, Vince goes on to talk about firing Cena. The man himself comes out and seems to be giving Vince an ultimatum, find an opponent for the Rock before Wrestlemania or else- eight months without Cena still sounds close to Heaven for Miz- but Vince doesn't seem all that bothered by the prospect, appears to be working towards saying what Miz has wanted to hear since almost the moment his time on Raw began.
That is, until HHH's theme music cuts into the tension, Mike's eyes widening, his lips twisting in annoyance as H enters the ring, delaying the inevitable. A lot of that seems to be going on tonight, he thinks, half-tuning HHH out until he starts going on about the board of directors and... Oh hell no.
Cena celebrates on the outside, clapping audience members' hands as HHH announces that Vince can't fire him... and is thus being relieved of his duties. Miz's jaw drops further as HHH announces himself the board of director's choice to take over. Oh, great. We're so screwed.
"What does this mean?" Alex whispers, glancing from Mike to the monitor. "Will the Anon GM just... stop mattering, if HHH remains in charge? Or..."
Clueless and floundering at this, Miz shakes his head. "I don't know," he mumbles.