John stretches thoughtfully as he peers over at Mike's bag from his bed. With Truth hanging around, there had been no real chance to sneak it to him once they were all back at the hotel, so it had remained in a corner of his and Alex's room overnight. Neither had slept very well, John half-dozing, half-watching TV through the night. Alex had been just as restless, messing with his phone whenever Morrison was awake enough to look over at him. Neither had spoken a word.
Needless to say, it had been a long night.
He's about to grab the bag and handle it himself- even if it means waiting in the front lobby until Miz comes down, hopefully alone, and takes it- but Alex comes out then, looking only a bit more awake as he runs a towel through his hair. He too glances at Mike's bag and sighs, a troubled look reappearing on his face. "I-" John's just said when Alex reaches over and plucks the bag off of the floor.
"I'll go bring this to him," he says quietly, squeezing the handles tighter than is necessary.
Despite his decision from the night before, John feels a little resentful at this and can't keep it from his voice completely as he sits up straight, his eyes narrowing slightly. "Oh?" For whatever reason, a part of him wants to see Mike for himself after last night and he feels his last excuse slipping through his fingers as Alex drops the bag onto his bed.
Alex peers over at him and sighs, shaking his head. "Stubborn idiots," John thinks he overhears him mumble. Before he can open his mouth to ask, the younger man turns to face him fully, his lips twisting in annoyance. "John, you will have plenty of opportunities to see him after this... you both live in LA. I'm stuck on the other side of the country, and, unless he miraculously gets his job back, I don't know when I'll get to see him again. So... just, don't get pissy with me over this." He takes a deep breath, hoisting the bag over his shoulder before grabbing his keycard from the table between their beds. "Besides, you're the one who's been pushing Mike away the past couple of weeks- he and I managed to always keep in touch even during the Anon GM nonsense, but you haven't even tried, have you? Despite what you seem to think, you don't need an excuse to go see him, you just can whenever you want unlike some of us."
John watches, dumbfounded, as Alex turns and leaves without a backwards glance. Dammit... I hate when he's right, he thinks, scrubbing a hand over his face roughly before heading to take his own shower.
By the time he gets out, Alex is back, collecting the last few things of his scattered around the room. A small pile of Morrison's items are laying across his bed spread, Alex's... unique way of organizing their things before they leave. Used to it by now, John carefully pushes his things off to the side and sits down to finish brushing his hair out. "Get Mike's things to him alright?" he asks after a few moments.
"Yeah, I texted him and he came down. We hid the bag in their trunk... he'll just play it that while Truth was still looking for his stuff, he put his in there." Alex pauses while stuffing his things into his own duffel bag and stares over at John. "What I said earlier-"
Morrison waves him off. "No, don't... There's nothing that needs to be said about it. I know you're right." He swallows and glances up finally, his hairbrush held in mid-air as their eyes lock. "It sucks, and I still hate what Mike did, but now isn't the time to dwell on that. With his being fired, it doesn't really matter all that much anyway. What's done is done, now we have to look forward."
Alex nods hesitantly, wondering what John will do from this point on.
John's been home in LA only a few hours, taking the time to check the mail, return some calls and handle other business that always slacks a bit when he's on the road, when he comes across his travel itinerary. He pauses, thoughts drifting as he reflects on this being the first time since he'd been drafted to Raw that Mike just won't be there... instead stuck in LA, trying to figure out what he's going to do for the future.
It's a lonely, depressing picture. He taps the envelope against the desk a few more times before standing up, stuffing everything back in drawers to go through more thoroughly later. Despite what you seem to think, you don't need an excuse to go see him, you just can whenever you want unlike some of us, A-Ri's words return to him. He's out of the apartment and in his car before he can even start to second guess his decision.
The drive takes forever, traffic as obnoxious as ever, and John does almost change his mind a dozen times while on the freeway alone, close to pulling off different exits almost each time he passed one. It's not until he's actually on the exit leading to Mike's place that he relaxes, heart and mind quieting for once, determined now to see this through, no matter what the end result is.
Pulling into Mike's driveway is surreal, sobering as he realizes that from now on, the only way to see the former world champion would be to do this, no more seeing him at work, watching with exasperated amusement or bitter fondness as he shoots his mouth off or cheats his way into a victory. His grip on the steering wheel tightens and he clears his throat, peering up at the house gleaming red in the slowly setting late September sun.
He hesitates only briefly before thumping his fist against the steering wheel and pulling himself out of the car. He's not even up to the door when it opens, as if Mike had seen him coming and waited. That's probably exactly what happened, he thinks mirthlessly, peering up at his former co-competitor. "Truth isn't here, is he?" It's a stupid thing to ask, he realizes, as Mike's curious, cautiously hopeful demeanor changes immediately.
His arms slowly crossing over his chest, Mike leans against the door frame and frowns down at John. "What do you want, Morrison?" It's obvious he's had little to no sleep as well, his hair lifeless and dull against his forehead, eyes heavy and shadowed, each blink slow and looking like it may be his last. On top of that, an undeniable sense of sadness just bleeds from him, overwhelming Morrison more and more the longer he stands there, staring silently up at him.
"You... uh." He fumbles, licks his lips. "Are you ok?"
"Oh, now you care," Mike groans, slamming the door shut behind him as he finally drags himself from the protection of his house and stands before John, the blinding gleam of the dying sun making all of his exhausted features the more vivid. "I waited..." He presses his fists to his sides angrily and shakes his head. "I waited for you last night."
"What?"
Mike scrubs at his face, angry and hurt, before looking back up. "I took my time in showing Truth the hotel keycards, the car keys. I thought, well, hell, Alex figured out a way to lure Truth away for a minute. Morrison could do the same, right?" His voice drifts for a moment and he takes a deep breath, releasing it before smiling mirthlessly at his frozen former tag partner. "I stalled in the cold for almost an hour more, until I knew people were going to start to leave. Then I showed Truth the keys and lied that Julie felt bad for us," he muses, shaking his head. The seamstress who had a hand in all of their ring gear dislikes him as much as everyone else in WWE, but Truth had been ridiculously easy to convince. "So we left. But, dammit, John, would it even have killed you to take a minute? Just... something? I know things have been bad between us lately but... hell. I don't even know why I'm saying all of this, it obviously doesn't matter. I'm not in WWE anymore, you're probably planning a party later or something, to celebrate having one less obstacle in your career." He huffs and turns, reaching out for his door once more, when something stops him, causes him to freeze on his steps.
"Wait," John demands faintly, gripping Mike's upper arm tightly. He clears his throat, says it again, louder and stronger this time. "Wait, dammit."
"Why? If you're gonna yell at me for tagging with Truth again, for God's sake, John, I do not want to hear it, alright?" He tries to pull away but, even with his numerous nerve issues and the Alberto match from the night before- doubt towards his health flashes through Mike's mind as he stops fighting quite as hard- John holds on even tighter and succeeds in turning him around, face set and stubborn.
"Listen, I should've come, probably. But it wouldn't have ended well, I was still pissed... even am, right now, a little bit." He pauses as Mike rolls his eyes, tries pointlessly to free himself again. "But I realized there's no point in letting that anger rule me... or ruin whatever it was we had worked out the past few months." He takes a deep breath and loosens his hold on Mike's arm slightly, sensing that the man isn't going to try to run now. "You stayed by my side when I was injured, even when I didn't want you to, and now... well, now it's my turn."
Mike stares down, flabbergasted, and whispers, "Seriously?"
It's John's turn to roll his eyes but he nods anyway. "Seriously."
Miz stares at him for a long moment before nodding briefly. "Alright. Alright. Um." He looks behind him at the door and says, "Hang on a second." Before John can formulate a response, he's ducked back inside the house.
John frowns, wondering if the man had just agreed so he would let go of him, but within moments, he's back, almost looking surprised himself at finding John still there, waiting for him. "What are you doing?"
"I need out of there for awhile," Mike explains, pushing his keys, wallet and phone into his jeans pockets. Steeling himself for a denial, he brushes past John and heads for the sidewalk. "How about food?"
Morrison gapes after him, remembering all too well the kinds of places Mike usually eats at and is thisclose to saying no, but stops at the last moment, remembering the look on Alex's face after dropping Mike's things off with him, the look on Mike's when he first opened the door. He hesitantly takes a step, two, towards him. "Alright, I guess."
Mike half-grins before turning to face him. "Great. Let's walk, it's just a few blocks away."
John takes a deep breath and follows him, wondering how much he'll regret this as they walk on silently. It's barely a five minute walk, the restuarant of Mike's choosing just a couple streets from his house. "No way," John mumbles, coming to a stop outside of the establishment. This explains a lot, Arbys being so close to his house... Dammit! he thinks grimly, trying to figure out a way to get out of going inside.
"Come on, John," Mike orders, staring at him with a raised eyebrow. "You're not going to try to weasel out of this with me, are you? Consider it our final meal as coworkers or something, if it makes you feel better."
"Playing the guilt card, Mike?" he counters, lips twisting into an awkward grimace. "Oh dammit, fine. But I'll be blaming you for each extra set I have to do at the gym to make up for this..."
"Ha! That's more like it," Miz smirks, eyes gleaming as they finally enter the building. Thankfully only a few people are inside, the supper crowd long gone, leaving only a few stragglers behind. John peers up at the menu board distastefully for a few moments until Mike nudges him. "Come on, you have to order something. If you must, get a damn salad."
"Probably the least evil thing they have here," he concedes with a sigh, following Mike up to the cash registers. He half listens as Mike orders a super roast beef sandwich- what exactly makes it super, John isn't sure, but he doubts he really wants to know anyway-, curly fries and a chocolate milkshake. Trying not to think about how unhealthy this all is, he nods and manages, "A chopped farmhouse salad-"
"And he'll have a Jamocha shake too," Mike cuts in, flustering both Morrison and the poor girl behind the counter, who looks awkwardly at John.
"Fine, I'll have the shake too," he accepts through gritted teeth, elbowing Mike roughly when he gets close enough.
"Hey, I declare this your cheat day," Miz hisses, pushing him back.
"Dammit, you always do that, Mike," John grumbles, digging through his wallet. Before he can even find a ten, Mike's dropped a twenty down into the girl's outstretched hand. "Hey! You don't have to pay-"
"Don't worry about it, I want to."
John pauses awkwardly, frowning tensely. It doesn't feel right to take money from the now-unemployed man but Mike glares at him warningly so he accepts after a moment, stepping back to look for a table. They end up at a bench, both relaxing into the well-worn but comfortable plush seats as they wait for their food.
"So this morning go alright, getting your stuff?" John asks with a vague smirk after a moment, not wanting to bring up the R-Truth subject in their first civil conversation in weeks but his curiosity's always been his weakest point.
"Yeah, security let us in, we got 'our' things, and we were out of there and heading for our individual flights within the hour." Mike only pauses long enough to use air quotes before finishing off his sentence, obviously wanting to avoid mentioning Truth as well. "The trunk lie worked well too, he didn't even second guess what I was saying."
"He never was the smartest," Morrison offers, frowning as Mike looks abruptly awkward. "Wha-" Before he can finish, a man comes up with a tray and starts handing their food out.
By the time everything is where it belongs, spread out before them, John looks like he's about to ask once more why Mike reacted that way when Mike glances down. "Damn, that guy forgot ketchup for my fries."
John sighs, derailed once more. A quick glance around shows that all of the workers are clustered around the cash registers or in the back. "I can get it, if you want."
"Yeah? That'd be great, thanks." He watches, wanting desperately to stay off the track they were heading by discussing Truth. Damn my overly expressive face... He waits until John gets the ketchup and pulls the lid off of his Jamocha shake, dipping a few curly fries into it just as Morrison returns.
"Dammit, Mike! Use your own shake," he grouses, pulling his shake away and reapplying the lid. "Now I don't feel as bad about you paying." He rolls his eyes as Mike grins, pulling the ketchup packets out of John's grip.
Conversation officially forgotten, he thinks as John glares at him, picking at his salad. "Oh, go on, John, eat. I didn't touch your salad."
"Why doesn't that surprise me?" the Prince of Parkour sighs.
After they finish eating, they walk leisurely back to Miz's house, the rapidly approaching night easing some of the Californian heat. The closer they get to John's car the slower they walk until they're barely moving at all.
Morrison finally sighs and turns to Mike. "So what do you think you're going to do now?"
"Honestly... I'm not sure. I don't think I'm done with WWE, by a long shot, but it's barely been twenty four hours yet. I haven't really thought things through yet, you know?"
John nods thoughtfully, peering at him through the partial darkness. "Well, you're innovative when you want to be. If anyone can figure something out, it'll be you."
He nods, smiling slightly. "Yeah, God knows I'll try." He turns somber quickly and shakes his head. "Just hit me this week will be the first time in a long time I'm not out doing media or wrestling for WWE or doing... something... Especially with the PPV this weekend. This makes Summerslam feel like the best time of my life, you know?"
John winces, well aware of how much the man hates sitting around idle. "I'm sorry," he says honestly. "For all of it- how I've acted the last few weeks, your firing..."
"Yeah, me too," Mike mumbles, staring back over at his house as his fists clench at his side. "It's like... it's like HHH is slowly sucking away whatever promise was left in the WWE, you know? Shutting up those willing to speak out about things. He fires me, he wrestles and defeats Punk after so much weirdness with the text messages and Kevin Nash and everything else..."
Morrison can't help but think that he sounds like a more rational, sane R-Truth in this moment, but even so... "It is suspicious," he agrees.
Mike turns his attention back to John and says, "This is really it, isn't it?" At John's confused glance, he elaborates. "Life post-WWE. Not stepping foot in a WWE ring again... Stuck watching the shows at home... Not seeing Alex at all unless there's an event in California..."
It sounds like unequivocal torture to Morrison. "It'll be ok," he offers after a moment, reaching out to squeeze Mike's shoulder.
Mike, however, slaps his hand away. "No it won't, dammit," he almost yells, stepping closer to John. "You know it won't... Oh God, what am I going to do? Screw your cliche platitudes, Morrison, tell me that."
John stares at him, takes in how exhausted he looks, and regrets undoing everything they had managed during the meal by bringing up the future. "Mike, dammit," he mumbles, not even allowing himself to think as he reaches out and wraps his arms around his best friend, greatest rival and worst enemy all in one. "I don't know... God, I wish I did... but I'll be here if you need me." He's repaid in stiff silence until finally Mike tentatively reaches up and hugs him back.
That Monday, John and Alex are randomly thrown into a ten man battle royal for the Intercontinental title and both eliminated within moments of each other, a close repeat of the week prior as they painfully drag themselves to their feet and walk slowly up the ramp, side by side. "Is it just me or is it depressingly quiet around here without Mike?" Alex mumbles out of the corner of his mouth as they return to the locker room, glancing around to make sure no one is listening in. Everyone had silently agreed that discussing Mike or Truth either was just asking for trouble, especially with how unforgiving HHH had proven himself to be the week before on both Raw and Smackdown.
"Not just you. But it doesn't help that everyone's tense right now, waiting for the next shoe to drop," John responds just as quietly. "Ugh, how is it we keep getting thrown into these random matches?" He flexes his hand a few times, ignoring Alex's curious stare.
"Just our luck, I guess?" He settles down with a sigh, grimacing as the back of his still bruised leg touches the hard bench.
"How's your leg?" Morrison asks, noticing the look on his face.
"It's fine," he waves it off. They glance at each other, sighing. "We're pathetic, aren't we?"
"Yeah, sometimes," John admits grimly.
"Well... this is probably going to sound weird but... hm, I'm glad I didn't win the Intercontinental title..." He unwraps his wrist tape quickly before glancing over at a confused looking John. "I still want the US title... now that Mike is fired, I want it even more... Like, it'd be a tribute to him and everything he's done for me if I was a success at something." Silence follows this statement for a bit before Alex notices John's face twitching. "Uh, John..."
"Oh my God, that was so sappy," he finally chuckles.
Alex glares at the side of his face, flushing. "Dammit, Morrison..."
He sobers quickly as Alex's glare turns almost murderous, sucking in a deep breath. "No, but seriously, it's a good goal," he gasps, waving a hand. "Really, I mean that. I hope you reach it."
Alex rolls his eyes. "Great. Thanks. Is this how it's going to be from now on since Mike's gone?"
"Weren't you just talking about how lucky you were?" John grins as his exasperated friend groans, burying his face in his hands.
"Why me...?"