After Raw, Mike actually finds himself with some free time at home. LA looks like it's mocking him with its blue skies and warm weather, opposing his attitude in the most annoying way possible. He sits for a moment in his car, taking it all in with an aggravated snarl. Currently, Alex is across the country doing who-knows-what, and Morrison is only a few blocks away, not even aware that they're once more in the same town. He taps his fingers anxiously against the steering wheel, trying to think about anything else, but those same thoughts keep returning, making him feel even worse.
His blow up on Alex Monday hadn't been the younger man's fault, not at all. It had taken nearly a whole plane trip for him to realize and accept that it had been building up after weeks of Laurinaitis' false promises and his own career's shortcomings. He had had a true chance the week before at regaining his momentum, just to lose it half-way through. The willfull distance from Morrison hadn't helped his tension any. It had taken the slow renewal of their friendship and Morrison's firing for Mike to realize just what he had been missing in the months following the draft in 2009, what he's missing now. It all just mixes together into a huge pit of emptiness deep inside of the former champion, his lips twisting in annoyance as he finally pulls himself from the car.
Being home, with little to nothing to keep him distracted, does nothing for him. He spends a lot of the next few days driving around, trying to find something to do, anything to occupy himself. By the time Thursday rolls around, he's crawling out of his skin, anxious to be back on the road, even if it means having to witness another low point in his career- with Over the Limit looming ever nearer, all he can think is how he doesn't have a match on the card, which would make it the second pay per view in a row with absolutely nothing for him to do until possibly the last minute, if that. He stares blankly at his media appearances schedule for the next week and wads it viciously into a ball before throwing it across the room, crossing his arms over his chest.
By Thursday, he's so annoyed with himself and everything around him and in his life that he's not sure what to do with himself. Despite considering dropping by Morrison's house and just airing it all out right there and then, maybe starting a physical fight with him like in the old days just to let some of the anger and pain free, he's almost paranoid to leave his house just in case he should run into Morrison. LA's a big place, sure, but stranger things have happened, and the way his luck goes, well...
Midway through the day, WWE uploads Superstars and he's scrolling through Twitter updates when he sees one that says something about Alex Riley vs Heath Slater. He stares at it for a minute before making a face and clicking the link. Thankfully Alex's match is first up and he tilts his head, watching as the younger man comes to the ring, loosening up before the match by jumping around and flexing his wrists. He looks unaffected by the last few days, his expression purely focused on the redhead that comes out to the ring with his usual air guitar type movements and cocky taunts aimed towards both Alex and the audience.
Rolling his eyes, Mike rests his laptop on the table across from the couch before sprawling across the soft cushions, watching the match with a critical eye. It starts off a little slow, the two men feeling each other out, but once it really gets going, it's surprisingly good, Slater falling back on his own mat-based moves and tiring Alex out with a couple of restholds. It looks like Alex honestly has the match, even hitting his ridiculously painful slam, but Heath forces his way out of it, despite looking dead on his feet only seconds earlier. He hooks Alex into his own finisher and pins him into a solid three, leaving both Alex and Mike gaping. "Seriously?" his former mentor mutters, shaking his head. Maybe this all's bugging him more than I realized, and he's just really good at hiding it.
His heart sinks as he gazes down at his phone, tempted to call either Morrison or Alex or both, just fix something already. If I can't do anything to salvage my career then I can at least try to resurrect my friendships, right? Unsure which one to start with, he's staring at the phone when it goes off in his hands.
It's an email from WWE, reaching out to confirm his upcoming media events. He scowls at the device in his hand, wanting so badly to just ignore the email, delete it, mark it as spam, anything to forget how badly things have shaken out for him. Instead, he slaps both the laptop lid shut and gouges the cell phone's power button until it powers down, exasperated with all forms of electronics at the moment. He stops only long enough to grab his jacket, well aware that as the day grows longer and the sun slowly sets, it's only going to get chillier. Even so, he avoids his car, not wanting to drive, and starts to walk.
He's not sure how long exactly he's been walking when he finally blinks and realizes that, not that far off, lies one of the many beaches dotting LA. He stares at it vacantly, remembering various times he and John- and yeah, a time or two, Alex- had sat around on the sandy ground and talked, or how Alex would douse them both with bitter ocean water when trying to stop them from bickering like they had a too regular tendency to do. Taking a breath, Mike enters the beach and absorbs the salty smell into his lungs. He'd been so busy, it'd been too long since he came close to having even a minute to think about the beach, much less actually come down and stare at the waves as they crash against the coast.
As he drops down on the sand, hands crossed atop his knees, he leans back and sighs while the sun beats down upon him. Morrison, being all about tranquility and focusing his aggression into his matches, had spent many a day sitting right on this very beach, doing nothing but meditating to the sounds of the water lapping nearby. He had tried over and over to get Miz to attempt it, to ease into the soft breathing and the deep concentration, but it had never worked. Mike was an active individual, he needed stimuli, energy and someone to challenge him to get where he needed to be, whether it was as a tag partner or a rival. In the end, Morrison, with all of his chi, would conveniently enough become both of those for him.
Until now. He has no rival, no tag partner, barely five minutes of time weekly on WWE, and he doesn't even have Morrison or Alex to turn to. "Damn," he mutters, falling back against the sand and not even caring as it clings to his gelled hair.
That Sunday, his retrospective depression has cycled back into full on anger. He's mad at Morrison for separating himself from both he and Alex, he's mad at Alex for getting mad at Mike and not talking to him for the last week, he's mad at WWE for everything they've done to ignore and belittle him despite everything he's done for them, he's mad at not having a proper match at Over the Limit and just barely making it into the battle royal that kicks off the show for a chance at the US or Intercontinental title. He's mad at every person who gets any sizeable amount of airtime that could be spent focused on him, he's just simply mad at everything.
Even so, when he takes out some of that frustration on the only person still within reach, Alex, by eliminating him from the Battle Royal, his smug sense of accomplishment as his former protege glares up at him with something akin to hurt lurking behind the anger in his eyes is short lived when he makes it to the final two- the US title isn't exactly what he was going for in attempting to get his career back on track, but he has such fond memories of that belt that he wouldn't complain- just for Christian to eliminate him.
He pitches a silent fit all the way to the back, kicking the wall as he storms through the hallways back towards the locker room. "Dammit, dammit, dammit!" As soon as he's throwing various things around, trying to find some clean street clothes so he can just go, Alex approaches him for the first time since their argument after he'd talked with Punk.
"What was that?" his voice sounds cold and bitter, surprising Mike enough to look up.
"What did it look like?" he asks lowly.
"It looked like you taking the weak way out, as usual!" Alex yells, getting right in his face for the first time since their feud mid-last year, probably. "Do you know how much John and I both have taken from you and we just kept coming back for more like idiots? It looks like we've both learned our lesson, huh?" As soon as the words slip out of his mouth, he blanches.
Before he can apologize or think of anything to say or do in a worthless attempt at erasing what he'd just said, what is echoing around in Mike's head, probably never to be forgotten, the former champion holds his hands up. "I don't see how it matters, you both appear to have learned your lesson." Spinning on his heel, he has nothing more on his mind than just getting away.
As it happens, the ring is empty, recaps airing of one of the other many Miz-free matches slowly fading to black. He determinedly makes his way down the ramp, not caring in the slightest that he's not supposed to be out here. He spends a few minutes glaring around before he begins to speak. He blames all of WWE's shortcomings lately on Brodus Clay- which is false, the shortcomings hardly fall on Alberto Del Rio's former bodyguard's back, but he refuses to call out who he really considers the bulk of WWE's problems to be on.
The much larger man answers his challenge, coming down to the ring. The match goes back and forth for a bit and, even though Mike does let out some of his anger on him, in the end he's the one staring up at the lights, dazed and beaten once again.
The following night, he yet again isn't on Raw at all. After seeing his name not on the scheduled match/segment board, he makes his way to Laurinaitis' office, where Eve coolly tells him they have no plans for him that night. Relieved he'd kept his clothes on, he hoists the duffel bag he hadn't even bothered to drop in the locker room before coming here and marches back at of the arena, heading for the rental car that will take him back to the hotel.
No point in staying, he decides bitterly, when I'll have just as much an effect watching the show from the hotel room."