Mike adjusts his jacket, looking over his shoulder as various people mill back and forth to prepare for the night's show. "Ugh," he mumbles, some strange sense creeping down his spine as he stands there and waits for news on what exactly he's supposed to be doing this evening. Grabbing a random innocent tech person, he stares down at him. "Do you ever feel like someone's just watching you and will not stop?"
The guy blinks. "Uh... sure," he says. "It's a busy place, it happens." He waits, eyes wide, visibly growing relieved when Mike finally lets him go, unimpressed with that lackadaisical response, and watches him rush off to continue his work as the show nears start time.
Mike sighs and scratches at his jaw line, still feeling that itch between his shoulderblades. He casts another suspicious glance around before ultimately giving up and heading back to his locker room. "The guy's probably right," he mumbles. "Just too many people around out there."
But even in his own locker room, he feels creeped out. Unsettled. "Come on, Mike, get your shit together," he commands himself briskly, moving over to the full length mirror to look himself over. Seeing nothing that needs done there- his hair looks fine, makeup is good, clothes are fantastic as always, he turns back to the leather couch and sits for awhile, focusing on steadying his breathing.
But he doesn't really relax until his phone rings and he recognizes it as the ringtone he'd set for AJ. Lips twitching up into a soft smile, he snags the device and answers it in one fluid motion. "Hey, sweetheart," he greets her.
"Hello, husband," she says cheerfully. "How's the show going?"
"Alright," he hedges, not wanting to worry her. "How are my girls doing?"
"Asleep," AJ says with a laugh. "Or almost there. I just wanted to hear your voice."
Mike smiles softly. "It's always the highlight of my night to hear yours, you know that."
"Yes, I do," she responds. "I miss you."
"I'll be on the first flight available as soon as the show's over," he promises.
She yawns, then giggles. "Ok, I'll see you in the morning then."
"See you in the morning," he says softly. "Sleep well."
"I plan to. Good night, husband. I love you."
"I love you too," he murmurs, hanging up. Sits there for awhile thinking about how he's gotten this lucky, a dream career, the best wife, the cutest daughter, movies and accolades and championships... He sighs softly. Looks at the clock, then at the monitor droning on in the corner, turned down low. "Guess it's my cue to head out," he mumbles, getting up to do just that. Maryse is down the hall and quirks a smile at him as he joins her, Intercontinental title in tow. "Ready to go?"
"Always," she says, flipping her hair and getting into her role as he takes her arm and they walk side by side to gorilla.
His match goes alright, he wins at least, but it leaves him sore and a little frustrated as Maryse sits nearby in the trainer's room and waits for the verdict. "He's fine," the man finally says, snapping his gloves off and stuffing them in a trash can. "Some ice, some rest, call your MD if you experience any sudden pains." The usual that most wrestlers could recite in their sleep by now.
"Yep, thanks, doc," he says, hopping off carefully and following Maryse out. He's barely turned to go down the hall when he feels eyes on him again and he casts another, hurried glance around. There's no one visible that he can see staring, and he grits his teeth, aware that he's just playing into his own paranoia. "Dammit," he mumbles, before realizing Maryse is at his locker room, holding the door open and looking perplexed at his still being far down the hall. Jogging to join her, he shakes his head at himself and vows to just let it go.
"You alright?" she asks as he brushes past her to go inside.
"Yeah," he mumbles. "Just thought I'd heard something."
She turns to her phone, tapping against the screen as she scrolls through internet pages, and texts people, and does whatever it is that she does once they're done for the night, and he relaxes back against the cushions, trying to put all of this out of his mind. Focus on the important things- his win, and getting home as soon as he can.
Then he grabs his phone and sees a lone message waiting for him there. Unknown number, he muses to himself before tapping it. Then he just stares, mouth going dry. Liar. He scrambles, immediately, flashes of old memories attacking him as he drops his phone and pushes back against the couch, struggling.
"Whoa! Hey, what's wrong?" Maryse demands, jumping to her feet as he gasps for air, abruptly hyperventilating. She grabs the phone with one hand, reaches out for him with the other. "Mike," she says as calmly as she can, "You're having a panic attack. Breathe, come on, you can do it, slowly." She guides him until he gets it, eyes wide and so deeply blue that it hurts her to look into their crazed depths. "In... out..." Once he's breathing a little more normal, she settles in next to him and runs her fingers through his hair, massages his temples. "What was that?" she whispers and he groans, shaking his head.
"L- look at the text," he intones, and she does so, visibly confused by the one word there. "When the Wyatts, when-" He hisses out a breath and understanding crosses her eyes suddenly.
"You don't think this is them, do you?" she wonders, staring at the number the one worded text had originated from.
"No, I don't- don't think so," he rasps out. "But... if they thought I was a liar then, I definitely have things to lie about now..." His head thuds against the wall as he drops back against the couch and she winces, realizing what exactly he means.
"I'm sorry," she says softly.
He shakes his head, unable to verbalize his usual comforts for her right now. One wrong move, one curious wrestler with enough smarts, and his whole world, AJ's world, Sara's world, could be torn to pieces. Just like that.
The texts keep coming, scattered here and there throughout the week, and Mike does his best to keep them from AJ, to keep his worry and his fear off of his face, out of his voice. Thinks he manages until he's about to leave for the weekend's events and she finds him leaning over Sara's crib, watching her sleep with a soft, tired look on his face. "We're gonna be ok, you know?" she tells him softly, fingers curling into his palm as he looks down at her. "No matter what."
He stares down at her and she smiles weakly. "Your phone kept going off, I got curious." His breath catches and she leans on him. "I know you want to protect us, and I love you for that, but I deserve to know... especially if it's the Wyatts or someone like that threatening you, Mike. The last time..." She shivers a little and he wraps an arm around her. "I won't be there to help you if they try something at the arena this time, Mike. You have to be careful."
"I will be," he promises, stroking her jaw. "I swear. Nothing bad will happen to me."
She looks sad as she peers up at him. "I guess, at least, you're not alone, Maryse is there." It hurts her, he knows. To see him working with his ex, acting like they're married, and in love, and everything else.
"I love you," he says softly, and the sadness in her eyes eases as she smiles up at him. "I love you so much, and I love Sara, and I love our life together. Nothing and no one will ever change that."
"I hope not," she says, sighing softly as he leans in and kisses her so warmly, so intently, that her toes curl in her slippers. "I love you too, husband. More than words can describe."
Raw is bustling again. Maryse stays with him the entire evening this time, doesn't even bother to wander to visit with her usual friends. He considers saying something but he thinks he understands- be it by her own urges, or because AJ had asked it of her, it's nice not to be alone, especially when his paranoia is hitting all time high, and the texts keep coming, and he always feels like he's being watched no matter where he goes or what he does. The only peace he gets is when he's in his own locker room with the door shut and locked securely behind them, and even then, he's tense and watchful because his phone only lights up even more then. Texts still saying little more than Liar and Scum and other one worded insults that he's not sure sounds like the overly verbose Wyatt, but could be pretty much anybody by now.
He's distracted and he loses, and suddenly he has more challenges towards his Intercontinental title, and everything's pushing in around him and it's hard to breathe again and he shakes his head wildly, ignoring Maryse's cries for him to stop and storming through the halls until he sees an exit, slamming through to the outside where he kneels and struggles to catch his breath, relieved for a breeze as the wind pushes through his hair, cools his sweat soaked skin.
Until he hears purposeful footsteps and only just looks up as hands grip his skull and slam him face first into the brick outer wall of the arena, dazing him. He doesn't have time to react or do anything as he's slammed once more into the hard surface, scraping along his cheeks and nose as he collapses forward. "Liar," a familiar, raspy voice hisses at him, and then everything goes dark.
Consciousness comes slowly. He can hear Maryse crying out for him, but he can barely move, much less answer. Finally he kicks at something, sends it clattering around, and he hears her pause mid-yell, rushing for the sound. "Mike!" she yells out, dropping to her knees next to him behind the dumpster and slowly rolling him over. "Oh my God," she mumbles, rough French pouring from her trembling lips, her makeup a mess as she cries freely over him. "Who did this to you?"
He knows now. He doesn't say, however, as she pulls him to his feet and wraps his arms around her waist, dragging him inside as he struggles to get his feet under him. The trainer's verdict doesn't surprise him. Concussion, mixed in with a broken nose, and bruised cheek, jaw, the works. His face is a mess, and he definitely feels it. "So much for the moneymaker," he jokes weakly and Maryse swats at him before her face crumbles again.
"Asshole," she mumbles. "It's not funny, you... you disappeared, and I thought..." He takes her hand, lightly soothing his thumb over her knuckles and she breathes in and out a few times, muscles relaxing under his ministrations.
"I'm ok," he promises her. "I'm gonna be ok." His face stings, his thoughts are muddled and slow, but he knows now what he has to do.
Sometimes when people are betrayed, are lied to, are led to believe someone's who they're not, they crave justice. For themselves, for others. And sometimes, they take it to the extremes if they sense something's off somewhere in their orbit. So it's with this thought in mind that Mike begins to plan, even as he's sent home, even as AJ fusses over him, makes sure he sleeps enough, he eats well, the bandages on his face are changed regularly, fresh ointment dotting the scrapes along his flesh. It's a lot, especially with the baby needing care, and he hates himself for putting her through this again. "I'm sorry," he says one day and she hesitates, hovering over him.
"Do you know who did this, Mike?" she asks softly, and sighs when he shakes his head. "You have nothing to apologize for. It's not like you asked for this." Her touch is gentle and he leans into her, eyes gentle and full of affection as he wraps an arm around her and draws her close, kissing her carefully. His nose hurts, his skin is raw and rough from scraping against the bricks, but she makes a soft noise deep in her throat and it's enough for him to continue, trailing kisses down her jaw, nuzzling into her throat. "We can't," she whispers, closing her eyes and running her fingers through his hair. "We- we can't..."
But the more he touches her, the more heated and lengthy his kisses become, the more her resolve weakens. "April Jean," he whispers into her ear the way he knows she likes, and she gasps softly, shivering in his grasp. "If it hurts,if I start to feel sick, I'll stop," he promises her and she grits her teeth, finally curling her hands behind his head and kissing him, a quiet acceptance. He eases down against the couch and brushes her hair out of her eyes as she finds a position that works for her and doesn't add to his discomfort, staring up at her. "I love you," he whispers.
"I love you too," she sighs, turning her face and mouthing at his palm as he runs his thumb over her lips, along her cheek.
Later, she's curled up asleep under a thick blanket, looking peaceful and so satisfied that he can't help the pride welling up deep within him, but now's not the time for an ego trip so he gives himself a quick shake and gently eases away from her, grabbing his clothes and slipping into the hallway to redress. He holds his breath as he shuts the door behind him, calling for a taxi. It arrives eventually and he slips into the backseat, the driver looking back at him as they exchange the standard small talk. "Where are we going?"
Mike could give the address in his sleep, but he's wide awake as he leans back and waits for traffic to clear, to see the first signs of the beach on the horizon. When he arrives, he pays handsomely, even gives the guy a tip for getting him here pretty quickly in the usual awful traffic jams. Jogging up to the apartments, he rushes up the stairs, pausing only when dizziness and nausea gets ahold of him, his concussion still playing with him. He stops at the door he knows almost as well as his own and knocks loudly, holding his breath and waiting- afraid that maybe he's not home, maybe-
"Coming!"
Mike breathes a little easier when the door is pushed open and John Morrison stares at him, perplexed and worried as he takes in the various wounds scattered along his face. "I need your help," he says simply, not surprised when John nods immediately.
"What do you need?" he asks, guiding Mike inside and closing the door behind them before directing him to the couch, where he collapses and exhales a soft little sigh as he relaxes into the soft, well-worn fabric.
Mike thinks about that long and hard. You'd think being someone with his business acumen, especially in the grand world of wrestling, this wouldn't be such a hard decision for him to make. But it most definitely, especially when it comes to involving his best friend into such things. He looks up and meets John's eye. "Well, things aren't going great for me right now." He runs a hand over his face and Morrison nods, examining the raw flesh around his nose, along his cheeks. "As you can tell, I was attacked. I can't compete but I know who did it, and the situation needs handled ASAP."
"Right," John says slowly. "What do you need, Mike?"
Mike grins at him, knowing he could count on him. "Well..."
By the time they finish talking it all through, a good two hours have passed, and John's promised a panicked AJ to bring Mike home shortly. Still, Mike feels content with what they've accomplished, the decisions they've worked towards.
-x
Some program on the radio is going on about deterging a patio set after a party, and Mike's only half listening as he thinks about his conversation with John, all of its potential repercussions. "Deterging? That's awfully esoteric of them," he mumbles, smirking.
AJ's driving and she glances over at him, a faint smile on her face. The first one since she'd laid into him for sneaking out while concussed the day before. "So you and John are hatching a plan," she says quietly and Mike simply nods. "Could you at least tell me against who?"
Mike reaches over and lightly takes her hand, squeezing. "April, I love you. And I promise you when it's safe for you to know, I'll tell you. But for now, this needs to be something for me to focus on."
She exhales, rolls her eyes, continues staring out at the cars zipping past them while they wait to merge into traffic. "I don't like this, Mike. You keeping secrets. It's... it's not fair."
He sighs. Thinks about Liar. Liar. Liar... all over the place, haunting his sleep and waking hours. "I'm sorry, I'm just doing what I think I need to to keep you and Sara safe. Please just trust me a little longer?"
She frowns over at him but eventually caves, turning her exhausted gaze back onto the road ahead. "Fine," she sighs tiredly and he knows as soon as this is over, he has a lot to make up for. TO her, to the kids, to John. Just pretty much everyone he's wrapping up in his mess.
-x
It takes a few days after the attack. Then the importunate emails start pouring in. One every few hours. Most just say liar but then one comes in. Your wife is too. Like they grew bored of the repetitiveness, and decided to get really personal with the attack. Mike starts getting even more paranoid that somehow he's being tracked, watched from afar. Considering he's been staying at home so much, this feels more and more likely. He closes his eyes and digs his fingers into them, struggling to think. "Come on, come on..."
There has to be something, some way to make this all stop, but Mike's not even sure what the root issue is, much less how to be left alone.
John looks up from whatever weird novel he's reading now and chuckles. "This book has some wild stuff in it, maybe you should pick up reading while you wait to be cleared."
Mike grouses at him and shrugs. "Can't focus, my head hurts too much to bother with reading. what kinda wild stuff is in that book anyway? Isn't it from the 1800s?"
"1700s," he corrects him. "This one character just suffered through chilbains and almost lost his foot. Sick."
Mike frowns. "What the hell is chilbains?"
"I think it's a fancy way of saying hypothermia," John sighs, settling in a more comfortable position on the oversized chair he'd claimed as his own when he arrived earlier in the day.
"I don't think I even want to know," Mike huffs, kicking at the chair on his way past. "Anyway, look at this shit." He passes over his phone and watches as John scrolls through some of the emails, his joking demeanor quickly fading away as he reads, and reads, and reads.
"Holy shit," he mumbles. "Mike, do you think maybe you should go to someone about this? I mean... it doesn't seem safe. In a number of ways. Now they're involving AJ in it?" He truly looks worried, frowning over the phone as he rereads the messages. "I mean, receiving emails nonstop for days is bad enough, but mentioning your wife... this is... this is on a whole other level."
"Not going to lie," he says slowly. "I've considered it. But I don't know if that's the right move here. I'm not sure what they want, or why, but I think I should find out before I jump the gun." He's being very careful to keep the identity of the person to himself, not wanting anyone to try to fight his war for him, especially while he's still not cleared.
"So what'll you do then?" John asks. "Wait until you're cleared, figure it out and confront them?"
"Yeah, I don't really know what else to do," Mike says. "I can't let this continue going on, especially if they're going to start threatening my family."
John nods solemnly, glancing once more at the emails. "I still think, once you figure out who it is, you should also notify WWE staff. I know, it's... minor now, but we both know how these stalker things can go. Better safe than sorry."
Mike nods, staring down at the darkened screen as he reclaims his phone, clicking through the pile of emails. "Yeah," he murmurs. "I know."
-x
Sometimes it feels like there's something of a putsch in motion, all of the younger, newer wrestlers conspiring to take control and respect away from the older wrestlers all at once, which leaves WWE more a struggle just to survive than it usually is in the resulting youthquake. Mike is one of the ones fighting back with all he has to keep his spot, determined not to lose an inch in the business he'd fought so hard to get a foot in to begin with. So he does everything right, rests and tries to avoid screens- which isn't easy, with all of the emails coming in, and AJ's perpetually worried frown- and when he's cleared again a few weeks later, it's a relief.
"I don't know, Mike," John says the night before he's meant to fly out. "You don't even know who's done all of this, yet, and now you're going back as in the dark as you were before."
"Yeah, well, we did work out that plan," Mike reminds him. "Multiple plans, actually. Everyone's going to be fine, I'm going to figure out who it is and how to stop them, and then we can all move on with our lives."
"Yeah, but I'd feel better if-"
"If you were with me, I know," Mike sighs. "I feel the same way, actually, but there's only so much we can do about that right now." He fumbles with his phone and shrugs. He knows, all in all, the aggregate of these emails would be enough to make some higher ups sit up straight and pay attention, especially considering how long they've been going on by now, and the general threatening nature going behind him. But he's not ready to take that step yet.
He always tries to put on this prepossessing air, to seem larger than life and adaptable to what everyone around him might need or find useful. Determined to check all the boxes on anyone's wishlist, to thrive on the attention and the spotlight. No lie that it's damned exhausting sometimes, though, and even he needs a break every now and again, but it's clear this situation won't come close to offering him that, so he squares his shoulders and prepares for the week ahead.
He starts replying to the emails. It's time to put one of his plans into motion. He knows this is the one John wasn't thrilled with, but it's straightforward, means this might come to an end sooner rather than later.
What do I have to do to make you stop? he asks once, dead of night, unable to sleep or think straight as he blinks sluggishly at his phone.
Stop lying. The reply is instantaneous and sends shivers down Mike's spine. Even so, he doesn't give up on the idea. Every time he replies with a question, the person on the other end turns it around on him, in some vaguely insulting way. He starts, after awhile, despite his best efforts, to show them to Morrison, who begins mulling them over constantly with Mike, trying to suss out any clues, or ways of speech or just anything that would give them an idea who they're dealing with exactly.
"Look, I'm ambidextrous," John says and Mike pauses, unsure what his hands have to do with anything. "You just let me know what you need, and I'm there, alright?"
Still a little baffled, Mike exhales a slow, lengthy breath. "Yeah, alright," he says softly.
Then one night, it happens. Mike's placed in a match and he's mid-swipe when his feet get taken out from under him and his opponent leers down at him, a wild, crazed look in his eyes. "Stop struggling," the man tells him and there's such a familiar edge to his words that Mike's breath seizes in his lungs and the match is all perfunctory from there, Mike not able to get his thoughts straight enough to actually do anything from that point on.
After the loss, Mike scrambles backstage, grabs his things and just leaves, heaving desperately, struggling just to breathe. He somehow holds on until he makes it to his hotel room, safe on the 5th floor, away from prying eyes and feeling much more defensible before scrambling for his cell phone and dialing. The instant the phone beeps that it's been answered, he's off. "I know who it is," he chokes out. "I know who's been stalking me."
John hesitates. "Who?"
Mike stares off into the distance and wonders why and how he's never figured this out sooner. "Ambrose."
John doesn't say anything for a long moment, then: "Well, son of a bitch."
It makes a sick kind of sense and Mike hates himself for not piecing it together sooner.
-x
It's dark, eerie out, and Mike kind of regrets his decision to meet Ambrose alone like this, even more so when his feet are suddenly swept out from under him and he sees the thin knife Dean is carting around, obsessively watching how it glints in the moonlight. "Ya know," Ambrose says, once he has Mike flat on his back, hovering over him, knife scraping over his jaw, up to his ear. "You should do something really out of character. Live a little, you know. A tattoo, a piercing." He sneers. "I could absolutely hook you up on the last one. Could see you with one of those weird ass tragus piercings. Right here." He pokes at a spot close to Mike's ear with the tip of his knife and Mike gasps shallowly. "They look really painful, you should absolutely do it."
"Shut up," Mike wheezes. "I'm not... I'm not doing anything because you..." His words die away when Ambrose digs in deeper, quaking the oxygen from his lungs as he seizes up in fear, the knife too, too close to his skin.
"You always walk around like you're inviolable," Ambrose says. "It was always so confusing because I knew someone with nothing but pride like yours would be an easy target. Look at you now."
"Yeah," Mike breathes out. "Look at me. People lining up to partner up with me, I've got a beautiful family, friends who always have my back, and so many great things in my life. What do you have?"
"Just because people fawn over you because of your money and your influence doesn't meant anything," Ambrose informs him, pressing more weight down on his throat. "Despite all that you do, and all that you are. I don't understand it."
Mike gasps and coughs, trying not to panic every time the knife gets a little too close to him. "If you're done pontificating..."
"What's the fun in that? Having to listen to you talk and talk and talk for years, and I'm not even allowed a few moments before you start tearing your raiment in frustration?" Ambrose scoffs, scrapes the knife down Mike's jaw again. "Sorry to disappoint, but I have a lot left to say."
"Why the emails?"
Dean rolls his shoulders lazily, gazes down at Mike. "Why the emails. Well, I'd say it's pretty simple to figure out. You have been lying for years about your home life, making people think you're married to Maryse when you're really with AJ Lee, and I'm tired of it. I've been dealing with liars my whole career, and I just don't understand why it's so hard for people to simply... tell... the... truth..." Each word punctuated by another shift of the sharp tip of the knife and Mike gasps shallowly, feeling blood drip sluggishly from right under his jaw.
"What's it to you though? We haven't even ever been friendly," Mike chokes out. "My home life shouldn't mean anything to you."
"Nah, see, personally, I don't care, but like I said, been dealing with liars my whole life, and the more I think about it, the more I realize this business could do with quite a few less people like you. Do you think AJ likes being the erased party in all of this? Or your little girl?" Dean laughs when Mike's eyes flash dangerously. "Oh yeah, I know about your kid. How do you think she'll feel when she's older and realizes Daddy couldn't even talk about her because he's too busy pretending to be Monroe's daddy? Do you think she'll feel good about that? How many years of therapy do you think it'll take for her to accept that Daddy preferred being someone else's daddy over hers?"
Mike sees red and forgets the knife for a minute, lunging forward and grabbing at Dean, just to gasp as white hot pain slices through his cheek, uncomfortably close to his ear, before lodging in his shoulder.
"Look what you did," Dean clucks. "I wasn't really planning on stabbing you. Unless necessary. I guess." He hums for a moment before pulling the knife out with a flourish and Mike yells out at the sudden, bone-grating pain. "Oh well, I don't think you'll bleed out. We'll be done here before too long."
"What do you want from me?"
"An email," Dean tells him. "From you, to WWE headquarters. A statement claiming that everything with Maryse the last few years has been a lie. You're not married, you don't have a kid together, it was all just fraudulent to keep her afloat financially. You are AJ Lee's husband, the father to a cute little girl named Sara Louisa. Simple enough, right? If you can't type it now that you've been all stabbed and everything, I'll gladly do it." He begins patting around Mike's pockets in search of his phone, ignoring Mike's pained struggles to get distance, to slap, kick him away. "The more you fight me, the more time you waste, the more you're gonna bleed," Dean tells him, finally locating the device and bringing it out, tongue sticking out as he types slowly, Mike's fate sealed letter by letter, with his thumbs as soon as he locates Mike's email program.
"You'll never get away with this," Mike chokes out.
"Yeah, well, I think I will, as long as I can figure out a way to make this sound as obnoxiously in character as I can." Dean taps away cheerfully for a few more moments before looking up. "Alright, tell me what you think," he says before beginning to read aloud.
Mike stares up at him, emotions writhing and tempestuous deep within him, desperation to find a way out of this mess sending him spiraling even further. He's just about to lunge up, knife wound or not, and kick Ambrose in the face, when there's a strange sound approaching. Mike holds his breath, looks back, and blinks as a dark blur whips out of the silt and knees Ambrose hard in the face, sending the cell phone spiraling through thin air before planting itself in the sand with an oddly satisfying shattering sound.
Mike is overwhelmed, flummoxed, until he looks up and squints through the gloom. "John?"
"Yeah, man, it's me," John says. "Did you really think I was gonna let you deal with this alone? Glad to see you weren't wearing your fancy Zibeline today."
"Haha," Mike wheezes, moving to sit up and try to join John when there's a shifting noise behind him and John's eyes widen.
"Mike!" he barks out a warning, but Mike has no time to respond when there's a rough hand snaking around him, tugging him back and holding the knife warningly to his ribs.
"You're not going to get away this easy," he says. "I hate liars. You know? People get away with too much shit for too long, and I'm not letting you do this to your wife or kid. Send the email, or I swear to god..."
Morrison quirks an eyebrow at the two of them, his face carefully blank as Dean swipes the knife in front of Miz tauntingly. "Are you mimicking a kapellmeister or something over here?" he asks, crossing his arms over his chest.
"A what?" Ambrose sneers. "Do they do this with knives?" He swipes again and Mike chokes for air as the knife gets even closer to his bare skin, slicing against his shirt and popping a couple of the buttons on the downstroke.
John glowers at him, stepping forward with gritted teeth. "Here's what we're going to do. You're a fan of pugilism, right?"
Dean blinks at him. Then throws his head back and laughs. "Where do you get these words at, man? God, just talk like a normal person for once. Or else..." His knife gets just a little too close to Mike again, popping the rest of the buttons and leaving him completely bare chested.
John tenses. "Look, man, I don't know what your deal is, but this is getting really out of hand. Why is it any of your business what Mike does? Or what you think he does? it-"
"I've dealt with no good liars and thieves all my life," Ambrose tells him with a vague smirk. "Gist of it is, they disgust me. And I'm tired of people like him gettin' away with it all."
"You don't need to take your anger over Rollins out on-" Mike starts to say, then snaps his teeth shut as Ambrose spins on him once more and brandishes his knife under Mike's jaw, uncomfortably close to his jugular.
"Shut up!" he snaps.
Mike looks over his shoulder at John, terror in his eyes. John shakes his head slightly at his best friend and Mike closes his eyes, giving himself in to whatever may come next. "You're so worried about my daughter," he says quietly. "That she'll grow up knowing that I lied about her for years. How is that worse than what you're doing? Threatening me with a knife? Risking her growing up without a father? Tell me how that's better for her?!"
Silence falls once he stops talking, the wind and the water lapping against the sand all he can hear. "You really are a smooth talking bastard," Ambrose mumbles.
There's a flurry of motion, Mike expects to feel a sharp pain and a horrible release of blood, but there's nothing. Just pressure against his shoulder and back, then a grinding kind of pain as he slams into the ground.
"HEY!" John yells, but Mike's comment seems to have been the coup de grace for Dean's determination to get the truth to come out: Ambrose is barely visible through the gloomy fog and John hesitates, debating between chasing after him and going to Mike.
"John," Mike grits out, trying to cling to consciousness as his arm throbs.
Ultimately, Mike succeeds, blinking blurrily up at John. "It's ok," John tells him, kneeling down to rest a hand on his shoulder. "You're going to be ok."
"Get me outta here," he all but pleads, holding a hand out to his best friend.
John does, gripping his hand and hoisting him up with as much care as he can. They stagger together back onto the main road and immediately John drags Mike into the first, well lit shop he can find. Freaks the workers and couple of shoppers left lingering out, but beggars can't be choosers.
"Is there something I can do?" the first worker who had spotted them asks, fretting as her eyes flutter between Mike's bruised face and his blood soaked shirt. "Someone I should call? The cops, maybe?"
John pauses while helping Mike to a bench, squinting at her name tag which is just visible from this angle. "No, Cassandra, we're ok, but if you could get my friend here a glass of water, and maybe some ice-" He's barely finished speaking when she's dashed off to do just that. He smiles down at Mike. "Still got the magic touch, I see."
Mike shivers and shudders, staring up at him. "I don't know if he'll keep my secret, but I... I owe you so much for being here today, I'm not sure what he would've done." He wriggles the fingers of his good hand and exhales. "I'm just glad I wasn't alone."
John wraps an arm carefully around him, holding him close. "I told you, I wouldn't let you be alone with that louche."
Mike blinks, letting out a breathless sort of laugh. "What did you call him?"
John smirks. "Probably not what you think." He scrubs a hand up and down Mike's back. "Just relax, man. I've got you. Everything's gonna be alright."
Mike nods wearily and they sit for awhile, still waiting for Cassandra to come back. "I think we scared her off," he mumbles.
"More than likely," John admits, adjusting his shirt to look at the knife wound, which had thankfully stopped bleeding mostly. "Lucky this thing looks pretty shallow. Shouldn't affect your being able to wrestle for too long at any rate."
Miike groans and closes his eyes. "The way he was swinging that knife around, I was really starting to think he might actually..." Mike shudders and looks at John. "I owe you big time for ignoring what I told you and coming."
"Yeah, well," John says. "I could tell by his emails he was spiraling more and more and I wasn't ready to write your epitaph just yet, so. I'm glad I came too."
Mike smiles at him, picking at a thread dangling off of his shirt, when Cassandra finally makes a reappearance, looking between the two of them. "You're sure you don't want an ambulance or something?" she asks hesitantly, handing over a glass of water and ice pack, as requested.
"No," John tells her with a small smile. "I know it looks like a lot of blood, but I checked. He'll be ok until we get out of your hair."
The girl looks both relieved and hopeful that it'll be soon as she takes her leave of them a few minutes later, returning behind the counter to wait for further (hopefully non-bleeding) customers.
John gives Mike a few minutes to drink his water, relieved to see some color return to Mike's face once he's done, and then move to hoist him upright. "Alright, big guy, let's get you home," he says softly, tossing a couple of $5s onto the bench they'd commandeered for Cassandra's trouble before tugging Mike out of the building.
All in all, John's right. Mike's wound is shallow, he's told not to even bother trying to wrestle for the next week or two, of which he spends on media and MizTV and trying not to weight what Ambrose might do next. He thinks the wounds and John being a witness to all will ultimately keep Ambrose's mouth shut, but he's not sure. None of the Shield guys ever were easy to read.
"You're lucky," John says with a small smile. "I have an eidetic memory so I'll be the best witness you could ask for."
"Of course, if I can't trust you, who can I trust by now?" Mike says with a shrug. He pokes grimly at his shoulder, relieved to find it's mostly stopped bleeding. "Gonna have fun explaining this to AJ, aren't I?" he mumbles.
"I'd offer to come along and help, but ya know, I've already fought enough battles tonight," John says with a faint smirk and Mike rolls his eyes at him.
"Coward."
"Eh. You'll be fine," John tells him, clapping his good shoulder carefully. "She just wants to make sure you're alright."
Mike nods. "I know." He does. It never makes it easier though.
-x
AJ looks pale as he tells her, her hands shaking a little as she bandages his arm up. "You're sure you don't want a doctor to look at this? They could do a better job than me," she insists, and he shakes his head.
"No, AJ, you're all I need." This flusters her more and finally he reaches out and claims her hands, curling them up close to his lips, pressing kisses to her knuckles. "I'm going to be ok."
"I can't believe it was Ambrose," she says weakly. "And he knows our secret? Mike..."
"He has no proof," Mike says. "It's his word versus ours. And I highly doubt WWE's going to dig too deep, considering the ratings for Miz and Mrs. We're not harming anyone. I promise you, AJ, no matter what happens, we're going to be ok. All of us, you, me, the baby. No one's going to harm us."
Her hand hovers over his shoulder. "You sure about that?"
"I am," he tells her. "John has my back, and I know if I needed it, I could get a few other people to help too. Heck, maybe even Del Rio, if I really got desperate. But we are nowhere near there. So just breathe, sweetheart. Everything's going to be just fine."
AJ finishes taping the gauze down, then presses a gentle, feather-like kiss to his shoulder before sitting up to look him in the eye. "Promise me," she says quietly.
"I promise. With all that I am, and every inch of influence I have. We, our child, and our life together, are going to be just fine."
AJ hugs him as tightly as she dares and nods. "You'd better keep that promise, Mike Mizanin."
"I will do my very best to," he murmurs into her hair, kissing the side of her head tenderly.
-x
Deep in the deserts of Nevada, Dean Ambrose stands. He has no internet access here, but he has silence and he has his imagination, and that's better in ways. Sharp blue eyes search the skyline before his lips twist into a deranged kind of smirk. He tosses his head back and laughs, twirling a knife rusty with dried blood between his fingers.