After the pre-Thanksgiving spent with Alex and John, Mike had gone off to Ohio to do his media events before spending the holidays in his hometown with his family. Despite the various distractions and happy times he has there, his mind never drifts too far from the look on John's face throughout most of the meal they had had on Tuesday, how hard Alex had tried to make things more cheerful, and how helpless he himself had felt.

As much as he loved the brief break, catching up on some sleep before returning to the cycle of rental cars, airports, hotels and arenas that a WWE superstar's life tends to be, he's just as glad to return to his kind of normalcy that Sunday evening, having read one of Morrison's tweets saying that he would be at Raw. It doesn't even take that long for him to first see him, however, as John is sitting in the lobby of the hotel, a calm look on his face. He looks so different from last week that Mike freezes and just watches as he stands up and walks over, lips twitching. "Hey, Mike."

"Hey." Mike's eyebrows raise. "Were you waiting for me?" John hesitates for a split second, taking a deep breath. It's that brief period of time that sends the previous fear rushing back into his chest, choking his words. It's never a good thing when Morrison has that look in his eyes. "What, what do you want?"

"Yeah, actually. Check in, we can talk then."

"Uh, ok. Sure." It's with a deep frown on his overly expressive face that Miz wanders over to the front desk and waits for his turn. John is halfway to the elevators when Mike has his keycards, leaving him to jog to catch up. He doesn't want to push, still unnerved by the look on his former tag partner's face. To be honest, he almost thinks he doesn't want to know. It had been a surprise that John was here at all, after last week, but he's undecided if it's a good one, or not. The elevator ride up is spent in silence, Mike worrying his lip the whole way.

As soon as they're in the room, Mike relaxes only slightly. Alex's things are in the corner, the two having decided to room together once more with Truth gone and both unaware of John's plans. Morrison doesn't respond, just drops his own bags next to Alex's before facing Mike. "So I've been thinking..."

"Ok?" Mike prompts nervously, dropping his own things close to John and Alex's, his fretful eyes locked on Morrison. "What about?"

John doesn't say anything for a long moment, looking at the three separate piles of their things with a wistful smile before facing him once more. "I want you to do something for me."

"Sure, what?"

His smile fades, his eyes growing sadder at how easy it is for Mike to agree readily without even hearing what it is John wants. A year ago, it would've been a struggle to get anything out of him, he thinks. We've come a long way since then... "I want to wrestle you tomorrow. In my final match."

"Wait, what?"

"Mike, I... thought about it over the past weekend and it didn't feel right just... leaving things like I did. I want one last night, to say goodbye in my own way." His eyes darken as he peers over at a confused looking Mike. "Basically, Laurinaitis isn't interested in re-signing me and my contract expires this coming week. So... Monday is my final appearance. Eight years are a long time, I want, need, to do this right." He releases a slightly shaky breath, settling down on the bed behind him as he tries to think how best to word the rest of his idea. "I want... I want you to take me out of the game. One of us should... should be happy with our role in the business, and if it can't be me, then... you." He brushes a hand through his hair, almost disbelieving that he's even saying this, that it's gotten to the point where any of it needs to be said. WWE had been such a big part of him for so long, even talking about his last match leaves him cold and a little nauseous. "If you take me out, it'll maybe help you back into the main event."

As he continues to talk softly, Mike's eyes widen, his lips parting in shock as he backs away slowly, hitting the wall while shaking his head. His denial is obvious in every small movement. "No, John. No."

"Mike..."

"I'm not doing it, no. You can't spring this crap on me, not now. What the hell, John?" He shakes his head, eyes blazing as he pushes past him, staring out of the window with a vicious glare as he takes in the cool South Carolina evening. He doesn't respond as John takes a deep breath and joins him, peering down at the city life below them.

"Mike."

"Shut up, I said no."

"Mike, it's either gonna be you or someone like Brodus Clay."

His breath seizes in his chest again as he realizes that means if he doesn't agree, John will be going through with it anyway, but it might be someone else- bigger, meaner, with less consideration about Morrison's various injuries and weaknesses. "Why are you suggesting this? Why can't it be a simple match?"

"A simple match won't continue what you started last week with Truth. Mike, it's just... smart business," he says slowly. "I know you've wanted back in the title hunt since losing the belt and all those rematches. I can't do anything to help myself with Laurinaitis but maybe I can help you."

"Why are you always such a self-sacrificial bastard?" There's no heat behind Mike's words, just a sea of sadness, and John can't help but feel sad as well. "All the crap you pulled after the Anon GM made us tag partners to get me to that level and..." He stops talking, his breath shaky, and John claps a hand on his shoulder. "I can't believe this." He rests his forehead against the cool glass separating them from the outside, closing his eyes as Morrison kneads his neck slightly.

"Is that a yes?"

Mike's exhales still fogging up the glass at a near-hyperventilation rate, he steels himself for what's to come. "Fine, what do you want me to do?"

The next day, he avoids everyone. The steel pipe he had decided to use feels heavy in his grip, each shot he takes with it loud and echoing through the empty room he had locked behind him. Practice, practice, practice. He needs to know where his fingers should lay on the hard steel, how he should hit, where, how hard, to avoid actually injuring Morrison. He won't even consider that, wouldn't set out to do it even if Morrison had paid him a million dollars or promised to buy him all the candy and coffee in the world. Despite Morrison's prompting, this is nothing more than a simple match to him, another thing to put in the win or loss column. A way to give his friend the final hurrah he had asked for, despite Laurinaitis' apparent disinterest in such things.

Five minutes before the match, he pulls his phone out to find a bunch of texts from Morrison and a couple from Alex. He doesn't need to read them to know they're probably worried ones, asking where he's at, if he's bailing on this match, what. He simply goes to the send message screen and finds Morrison's name, his typing a little shaky as he types a short message out. Pre-match attack, steel pipe. Be ready.

He stuffs the phone back in his bag, not even wanting to see the response before leaving the room. As he wanders down the hallway towards the gorilla position, he sees a monitor nearby with Morrison and Alex talking and laughing. He stops and stares for a moment, lost in his own thoughts. Alex has no idea what's about to happen, probably thinks the two are just going to continue their rivalry. I hope he doesn't hate me for what I'm about to do, he thinks grimly, tossing the pipe slightly into the air before catching it. By the time he makes it to the gorilla, Morrison is out, about to do his slo-mo entrance. Here we go.

The pre-match beatdown is hard, Mike's focus locked as he strikes Morrison's lower leg again and again, breathing heavily with each hit.

"I'm not going to target your neck," he says while they strategize in the hotel room the night before, "or your bad knee. So don't even suggest it."

Referees finally come and pull him away, and he's fine with that, doesn't even argue or try to get more hits in as he makes his way to the ring. He almost wishes that Morrison will stay down, limp to the back, sell the exaggerated shots. But of course John is stubborn, prideful, and has his heart set on this final match so he doesn't take the out Miz had just offered him, brushing referees away once he's back on his feet, limping down the ramp to the ring for their Falls Count Anywhere match, the only thing missing to reproduce their January match perfectly being A-Ri at ringside. And, of course, a championship on the line. And the fact that it's John's final match, his thoughts remind him viciously, eating away at him as he pulls off his shirt slowly, his blurry eyes locked on the still limping man as he struggles into the ring. He better just be selling, I swear... I tried my hardest not to actually hit him. He bites his lip as John finally gets in and the bell rings.

Thoughts wiped from his mind as finally the action begins, he carries the advantage for awhile, keeping Morrison down and fighting from one leg, even slams his leg against the steel post before the tide changes, a kendo stick brought into the action. Miz can only watch as John rolls to a vertical base, his eyes grim and focused as he grabs the stick. They watch each other closely, both tense and waiting for the tension to hit its peak when finally Morrison takes his chance, beating Mike over and over with the Kendo. Each shot stings, leaving Mike arching away from its split wood and rolling to the outside. Even that isn't a good get away point as John follows, nothing but pure stubbornness and adrenaline pushing the agony he has to be in away from his notice, and hits a few more times with the stick, leaving him crawling and grimacing up the ramp.

Watching John use the stick to crutch his way slowly up the ramp is agonizing, Miz wondering anew if he's gone too far, if in the midst of the beatdown, he had actually landed unprotected hits on John with the steel pipe. The thought makes him ill. I gotta end this, he thinks as finally John reaches the top, his only remaining weapon useless and lost as Mike takes advantage of his slow gait to drop toehold him into the big W logo on the stage- the very one only eleven months prior, he had been flying off of to crash down upon Mike and Alex during their match.

He's clutching his jaw, grimacing and struggling still to stand, fight back, when Mike awkwardly grabs him and hits the Skull Crushing Finale, laying there for a minute listening to his ragged breathing before rolling away and trying to roll him over. It's such a hard moment, knowing that it's all almost over, this rivalry, John's time in the WWE, having his best friend by his side through whatever was to come in the business. Alex, of course, would still be here, but it just wouldn't be the same. He struggles to roll John over, his body unwilling to finish it even as he presses his head against Morrison's side to give that final push but still it's hard and slow, his thoughts circling in such a way that he can't even focus on finishing the match. Once Morrison's on his back, he just sits back on his legs and stares down at the dazed look on his friend's face, confused and hurt that it's come to this. I don't want this.

He's spared from actually completing the pin when the referee waves him off, deeming Morrison too injured to continue and calling the match immediately. It's the most emptiest victory Miz has ever felt- whereas beating Truth down the week before had felt so perfect, this is the exact opposite. He stands briefly over Morrison, trying desperately to hold onto the shreds of his cocky, egotistical attitude which doesn't mind mowing over friends and enemies alike, but as he heads for the ring, he can barely see, his eyes misting over. His heart skips a beat as he looks back for a moment and spots Laurinaitis peering curiously down at Morrison. He waits in disgust for the other man to say or do something to confirm that this was John's final match, while he's already down and out, but the moment passes, Miz's time with the mic thus unbroken.

What exactly he says during the promo, he's not entirely certain afterwards, his eyes flicking over now and again to Morrison getting put in a neckbrace and then onto a stretcher. By the time he finishes talking, the group of referees and trainers are gone, probably taking the stretcher back to fully check John out.

His walk back up the ramp is slow and subdued, his gaze dropping as soon he's out of sight of the audience.

"Mike?"

He stiffens, barely two feet away from the gorilla position as Alex calls out to him, voice sounding as shaky and sad as Mike feels. "What?" he asks lowly, still unable to look up at his former protégé. "If you're here to yell at me, then-"

"He told me," he whispers, clears his throat in an attempt to sound stronger. "Everything. Before the match. I- I know this was his final match and that he wanted you to... to... do what you did."

"Damn him," he mumbles, scrubbing at his face. "Damn him."

Alex ignores his words, quickly wraps an arm around his mentor, drawing him closer as his eyes blur even more, and it's then that Mike realizes just how hard he's trembling. "Mike..." He shakes his head, burying his face in the younger man's shirt, unable or unwilling to care about the brief period of weakness, or who could be watching, as they just stand there. Alex waits for Mike to slowly pull away, his face wet and miserable when he finally does. He doesn't look much better though, and they peer at each other awkwardly. "Come on, let's go to the trainer's room."

"No, no," he hisses. "I can't see him. Not right now... it..." His face falls further, even as he struggles to wipe away all evidence of his breakdown. "You go. Make sure he's ok. I just... can't be here right now." Before Alex can say or do anything, he's rushing down the hallways, back to that empty locker room he had left only a little over half an hour ago. He remains there for the rest of the show, disgusted to find that somehow he had lost the rental car keys. Just as well, I can't leave Alex here alone, he thinks grimly, not even sure where Morrison's at in this moment. ER? Trainer's room? Who knows.

He remains in that room the rest of the night, staring blankly ahead and ignoring the dull pain from the Kendo shots remaining with him. It's nothing compared to what Morrison has to be feeling, he knows. When he finally checks and realizes the time on his cell phone is flashing 10:15 PM, he slowly collects his things, having dressed long ago. He doesn't bother trying to find Alex in the large building, instead wandering to the rental car. It's dark and abandoned, the night growing chillier as he stands around and waits for his travel companion to come unlock its doors for him.

He finally hops up onto the trunk, grimacing as the cold steel bites into his skin through the clothes more, leaning back against the windshield as he waits. A few minutes pass, feeling like years, before he hears footsteps and soft murmurs, a couple of people heading for their own rental probably. He expects them to walk past, only expecting Alex, but the footfalls stop in front of him and he jerks as something slaps his leg, reviving him from the stressed half-doze he had fallen into. "What?" His gaze sharpens as he realizes Alex and Morrison are both standing before him, weird looks on their faces.

"Mike? You alright?"

"Shouldn't I be asking you that?" he snaps, motioning at them to move away as he slides off of the car. "Why aren't you at the ER or something?"

John's face softens into a pensive smile as he takes a hesitant step, still limping but not as badly as during the match. "Bone bruise, trainer tells me. Who knew that a ringpost could hurt more than a steel pipe? ... Oh wait, that's what happens when I'm being hit more with a fist than actual pipe."

Mike's breath whooshes out of him as he takes in John's words. "So I didn't actually hit you? I thought for a little bit..."

"Sorry, if there had been time, I would've told you, but Laurinaitis was lurking around and the referee... I didn't want to risk it," he explains.

"How's your head?"

"Jaw hurts," he admits. "The base of that W definitely is nothing to play with." Before Mike can apologize for the impromptu move, John talks over him. "Trainer said it's a minor concussion at most. I'll be fine, Mike. Thank you," he says sincerely, eyes gleaming brightly in the overhead lights.

"I think I should be thanking you," Mike says dully, staring at him. "For everything. You know?" There's so much unsaid between the two of them that it hurts to think about.

John shrugs, with a slight smile. "We live in the same city, Mike. It's not like we're never going to see each other again. And you either, Alex. When WWE's touring around LA, you're both welcome to drop in whenever." The words stick a little, obviously a struggle for him to say, and Mike sympathizes. It's going to take awhile for the fact that tonight's the end of John's time in WWE to sink in for all three of them.

Alex brightens slightly at this, his lips curving up. "Thanks, John. And, uh, if you're ever in Florida, well, my place isn't much but it's open to you anyway."

"Ehh, Florida." John laughs slightly. "Well, you never know, huh? We'll see."

Only half listening to them discuss Florida, Mike digs through his bag, desperately looking for something that he had been holding onto for awhile now. "John-" he says, not caring in the slightest as he interrupts their conversation. "I've been wanting to do this for some time but it never felt like the right time." His eyes shining suspiciously, he holds his hand out to John. "This does feel right, now, though. I- I have a key to your apartment and now... I, uh, want you to have one to mine. I'm not sure what you're gonna decide to do now but whatever it is, if you ever need a place to escape to for whatever reason, you're welcome to go hang at my house. It's usually empty anyway, since I'm gone so much, and I think... I think this would be good." He realizes he's rambling, finally cutting himself off as he drops the key in John's outstretched hand.

John nods, his gaze somber and wet as well, staring down at the key in his palm with a wavering smile. "Thanks, Mike," he mutters. "I mean it, this means a lot. A year ago, I wouldn't have thought..."

"I know, things were really different back then, weren't they?" Miz's laugh sounds forced and a little fake but the appreciation in his gaze is sincere, almost overwhelming. "I'm glad that we worked through all the BS though." Just in time, he thinks, glad that he hadn't remained stubborn and bitter towards Morrison's attempts at making things work until it was too late.

"So am I." They stand around awkwardly for a little longer before John takes a deep breath and holds his arms out. Mike doesn't even wait a second before he steps forward and hugs him tightly, his breath ghosting against Morrison's curly locks. "I'm gonna miss annoying you around the locker room."

"Oh please, as if you'll ever stop doing that," he says with a strained laugh. As he steps back and lets Alex take his place quickly hugging the parkour master, he looks away. I hate change...

"Mike?" Alex cuts into his thoughts once he and John have pulled away from each other, watching him worriedly. "We should go, the flight to Japan is only a few hours away."

"Need a ride, John?"

"Sure," he agrees, limping around the side of car, blatantly ignoring as Mike fights his base instincts to help him walk, hands hovering helplessly in midair.

Alex sighs, quickly unlocking the car. He's unsurprised when John takes the back seat and Miz joins him, turning to face the other man as the car hums to life. "Leg," he orders, snapping his fingers together obnoxiously.

"What? Mike, you've got to be kidding," he grouses. "I'm fine."

"Elevating it won't kill you. Now move." Alex doesn't need to check to know that the two are glowering at each other but finally he hears the sound of denim rasping against the leather seats, Mike not needing to look too far to see the results of the abuse Morrison's leg had taken when his pant leg rides up just enough. "Dammit, John," he mumbles, looking at the bruise already spreading across the skin.

"It's fine. Really. Just gonna be sore for awhile, and honestly, it's not like I have anywhere to be in the next few days, right?"

Mike looks up at him, his eyes shining with sadness. "I guess," he whispers. When Morrison stiffens as his hands press on various points of his ankle, he watches closely, noting with relief that it doesn't seem to be broken. Just bruised, as the trainer had suggested. "If this gets worse..."

"I know," he breathes heavily. "I'll go to the ER or something. It'll be fine, Mike."

"Say that one more time, John, and I'll make this injury look like nothing," he groans, unimpressed. What a sucky time for both Alex and I to be going to Japan. Dammit.

"Sure you will," John mocks tiredly, his head dropping back against the edge of the car seat as he blinks lazily at Mike. "You hate me?"

The exhausted question surprises him, leaving him gaping back. "Why would you ask that?"

"Because I forced you into this match... I know you didn't wanna." His eyes look glazed over again, and Mike remembers that John had vaguely mentioned a concussion. "Sorry. It was all I could think of to do, instead of going out on Laurinaitis' terms."

"You don't need to apologize to me, goof. It's the situation I hate, that it needed done at all, by anyone."

"Ok. Well, still, I'm sorry. It was a sucky position to put you in with such little notice." He yawns and Mike sighs, chancing a glance at Alex, who peers back at him sympathetically from the rearview window before returning his focus to the unknown road ahead.

A/N: Ok, BtB readers. I have a cut scene for BtB chapter 72 that I wrote weeks ago, before R-Truth's suspension. It has no bearing on the actual story now, obviously, since it involves Truth, but would there be interest in me posting it anyway?