"MizTV, huh." Mike's unimpressed. Bored, annoyed having to still be in this wheelchair. He just wants to be recovered, be able to walk around normally, do more than just spare water at people in a weak attempt to help John out.
"Yep," John says, voice low, with underlying bits of cheerfulness mixed into it. "How should we best handle it this week? Go after his clingy friendship with Bad Bunny? Or his inability to get an opportunity at Sheamus?"
Mike waves an impatient hand around. "Why not both?" he says, sighing and pressing his hand to his face.
John frowns, examines him. "You alright, man? I know it sucks getting stuck doing MizTV this close to Summerslam, but-"
Mentioning Summerslam shatters something inside of him. "When will I get out of this chair, Johnny?" he demands. "It was fine to start with, but this has been months! I was to be healthy again! I wanna be able to chase my kids around the yard, I wanna be able to grab AJ and spin her around, I want... I want to be more than some prop you have to push around week in and week out like some sickly houseplant."
John frowns, a hurt look crossing his face before fading away. "You're no prop, Mike. I'm just... I mean, if you didn't want the chair, or my help, you could've just said something. We didn't have to do things this way. The dripsticks aren't that important, man."
This somehow makes Mike feel even worse, and he pushes his cart forward towards John. "I'm sorry," he says. "I didn't mean to make it sound like... I'm just ungrateful or something. You helping me out the last couple of months is... I have no idea how I'm going to ever repay you for this. Please, John, helping you with the dripsticks are, like, the absolute bare minimum of what I can do in return. I just wish I could walk, I wish I could wrestle again. You get it, right? My anger ha nothing to do with you."
John nods slowly, searching his face. "Understandable," he says. "But the trainer says there's some progress, right?"
"He says it, but he's so super vague about it," Mike sighs. "I have no idea what it all means. Maybe I should call the surgeon back, see what he thinks."
"You could," John agrees. "Or jut wait, and ask the trainer for more information the next time you see him."
Mike slouches in his chair. Sighs, long, and loud, and beleaguered. "I guess you're right," he sighs.
For now, they have to go to the ring. Priest came out, was his usual aggravating self, Sonya had to come out and make a match between them, then return again after Sheamus and Ricochet interfere to make a tag match. John ends up losing both of them.
Mike grits his teeth, reaching out for his best friend as John rolls out of the ring towards him, clearly in pain. "S'ok," he says. "I have you."
John leans against his leg and catches his breath. "That sucked," he groans, looking up to glare into the ring, where Ricochet and Priest still are, playing up to the crowd.
Yeah, Mike thinks, squeezing his shoulder in quiet companionship. It truly, absolutely did. He wonders if, had he healed fat enough, and been able to partner with Morrison, things would have played out differently tonight. The last few weeks. He huffs, but when John looks up at him, shakes his head slowly, lips twitching up faintly.
John's head returns to resting against Mike's knee, and Mike resumes glowering into the ring. Someday soon, he promises. Everyone will regret this.