A new week, a clearer mindset. Yes, Mike is still disappointed he'll be missing Money in the Bank. But John's in it, and he'll do everything he can to support his friend, guide him to victory from wherever he may end up- ringside, in his wheelchair, backstage, watching from the locker room, something. Anything. He grips the Dripstick and thinks about Ricochet or McIntyre trying to climb the ladder just to get a face full of water and drop off hard, allowing John to climb up, claim the briefcase, and get one step closer to the title that always eluded him. He smiles and picks at his wheelchair handle, sighing under his breath. If it could work, it'd be amazing...
"Whatcha thinking about?" John asks, adjusting his wrist bands as he quirks an eyebrow at his best friend and the distant look on his face.
"Oh, your success this Sunday," Mike says. "Imagine, me winning the briefcase last year, you winning it this year. We truly are the greatest of the 21 century."
"Hell, we could change it to the greatest of all time at this rate," John says, flashing a grin at Mike as he maneuvers around his wheelchair and looks at himself in the mirror, picking at his hair. "How's it looking?"
"Great, as always," Mike intones, glancing at him for a second before returning his focus to Sunday, to tonight. "You ready for Ricochet?"
John scoffs, looking at him in the mirror. "Aren't I always?" he asks, standing up straight and smirking at Mike. "No big deal, the last few weeks have proven what I can do to him. We've got this."
Mike grins. He likes that answer. "Hell yeah, we do."
Well, they almost do. It's just somewhere between Ricochet almost diving out of the ring on top of Mike, and John having to dash forward just to catch Ricochet's weight and keep his vulnerable friend from getting squashed, and Riddle running out and screwing around with Mike's wheelchair until he's left flat on his back, unable to fathom how to make his body move to free himself, John loses. Mike hits the floor once, twice, three times, almost crosseyed in rage as he registers Ricochet's music, Riddle laughing at him, and he grits his teeth, wanting nothing more than to punch the look off that man's face.
"This sucks," John grouses, hand warm on Mike's shoulder as he untangles him from the wheelchair, glaring at the referee who actually bothered to wander over, help try to right the thing. "I can't believe Riddle would- would- ugh!" He takes a deep breath, leans over to look Mike in the eye. "Are you ok?"
"Fine," Mike huffs out, glowering forward at nothing. "I don't know how, or when exactly, but Riddle will pay." As soon as his knee is steady enough, as soon as he's cleared to compete again.
Riddle is his.