018 (Zombies) [PW]

and when i wake up you won't be here

don't you think i don't know why?

i've been asleep for years

you can see right through me…

— Matthew Good

Monday, December 29, 2014

ON A WHIM, Larry Gowan had tuned into the joint SVW and FFW year end show When Worlds Collide just to see how his former protégé Kasey Summers had fared in her match. He'd been booked so early in the PW show that he'd already finished wrestling by that time— they were only hanging about so that they could scout Redneck Rampage during the main event. He hadn't expected to see the former Kaitlynn McIntyre— now Stryfe— showing up as the secret, so-called 'moment of impact'. Not that she was supposed to be retired, no. She was supposed to have died three days after his birthday two years ago. It was Shawn all over again— Moscow all over again except he was safe in Alabama and the bitch was in Boston.

The notification on Twitter had been impossible to ignore and he'd told himself at the time that maybe it was the PW account tagging him in something or Caillie thanking him for a good match. In the back of his mind, he knew it was neither but morbid curiosity won out nine times out of ten.

Why had he put that subtweet out there?

Still, the undeniable truth was right here in his face. He'd been battling with the desire to get completely blitzed before the inevitable depression set in again.



The scar on the side of his neck itched and burned and he rubbed at it absently. He remembered the night of that particular injury up to a point. They'd been in Detroit; a cakewalk non-title match against Matt Walker had gone awry just fourteen days removed from Shawn's reappearance in Russia. He'd won the match handily but there'd been some sort of backstage altercation. Somehow, a chair had shattered on impact, part of it tearing apart his neck just inches from his jugular. He could have died— at least that's what Chauncy had told him when he woke up in the hospital. It was strange that it was bothering him now...

(the past: Detroit, Michigan)

Sunday, July 3, 2004

Dane Rennier, the former golden boy of the Knights of Anarchy was traversing the hallway, his hands stuffed deep in his pockets. There had to be some way to get through to Larry, other than his visits with a closed door and a million and one unanswered text messages. He wondered if anything he said was even getting through to the guy. His shoulders moved in a helpless shrug. He didn't know what else he could do. He'd gone about fifty steps down the hall, when he heard a loud report.

BANG!

His expression became one of shock as he whirled around, sprinting back to Larry's door. He knew that sound: gunfire. The thought brought gooseflesh to his arms, trailing an icy finger of dread down his back. He could smell the stink of cordite even through the closed door.

"Larry? LARRY! Are you hurt?! Larry! Answer me goddamn it!"

His hand went immediately to the doorknob, and he wasn't surprised to find it didn't turn. Without considering his actions, he backed up a few steps, and let loose a hard kick that splintered the doorframe. The sound was deafening, and in his concern, he didn't notice the interviewer Mark Bishop and Brad Jackson also sprinting down the corridor from the opposite end. He stepped inside, and fumbled for the light switch, flicking it a few times. Nothing happened. He waited there, backlit in the wash of light from the hall, waiting for his eyes to adjust. There, in the far corner, he could see a huddled shape. He took one step, then another, drawing closer, his ears straining to pick up any sound.

"Larry?" His voice was barely a whisper, but to him it was deafening. The lump in the shadows moved, and he saw the glimmer of something metallic. The gun, likely. He stopped, raking a hand though his hair, shattering his perfect image. He held out one hand, pleadingly, and tried again to reason with the man who had been his friend before egos and politics had led to the implosion of the KoA faction. "Oh shit, Larry... man, are you still alive?"

The figure in the shadows groaned, and then moved again, and this time Dane saw a flash of white— the gleam of Gowan's eyes as he looked up at him. The light was playing tricks, and for a moment his eyes seemed to gleam reddish, perhaps just from the glow of the exit sign above the door. Dane took another tentative step, and then stopped when he saw the gun clearly, leveled straight at him, held in one shaking hand.

"Get away from me." Gowan's voice was hoarse, but it still carried a strange weight of authority that stopped Dane in his tracks. "Or I'll shoot you too."

Dane gulped, it wasn't that he was afraid, it was that he was entirely unsure as to whether Gowan was bluffing, and he didn't really feel like finding out the hard way that he wasn't. "Larry, you don't want to do this. Please, think about what you're doing. Just stop and think."

Harsh laughter greeted this entreaty, followed by coughing, and then Gowan replied, his voice cold, utterly devoid of emotion. "I haven't been doing anything else recently but thinking. You think this is easy for me, Dane? Huh? I killed a man..."

Did he actually think that the World Title scavenger hunt had been real? "Larry, you didn't—"

"I begged and pleaded with God... every fu-friggin' day to bring my brother back... to take me instead. Shawn's back now— everyone saw that. So I have to keep my promise. I have t-to uphold m-my end of the bargain... don't you see, Dane? I have to keep my word... t-that's all I have now an' if I can't keep those, what do I have?"

He paused to take a breath and Dane watched in horror as Gowan shook his head before putting the gun below his chin again. He could see the blood covering the side of Gowan's face now, and it sickened him, like a knife twisting in his gut. He pounced on Gowan, locking his hands around the smaller man's wrists, trying to power the gun out of his grip. Gowan struggled, cursing and spitting like an angry cat, but Dane didn't let go. He wasn't about to stand idly by and watch someone he cared about— someone he respected— take the coward's way out. He had more integrity than that.

BANG!

The gun went off again, and Gowan went limp in Dane's hands just as he managed to wrest the gun away from him. Dane backed away, and the lights in the room suddenly came on, blindingly. Dane blinked rapidly, and then whirled around at the sound of Brad Jackson's voice. "WHAT THE FUCK DID YOU JUST DO?!"

Dane turned, and saw Gowan slumped on the floor, breathing shallowly, covered in blood. His left earlobe was a bloody mess, and his jaw and neck were crimson. Dane looked from the smoking gun in his hand, back to Larry, and then beseechingly at Jackson and Mark Bishop.

"This— NO! I didn't... I was trying to save him, Brad. He..."

Mark ran out into the hall, screaming at the top of his lungs. "HELP! Someone, please help! We need medical attention! SOMEONE HELP!"

Brad tore his murderous glare away from Dane, and rushed to Gowan's side, pressing his hands over the chest wound, hoping and praying (for the first time in his life) that this night wouldn't be Gowan's last. "Hey, Dane, you might want to wipe your fingerprints off that gun... just on the off chance he doesn't make it. I don't think your good looks and charm will beat a murder charge."

Dane looked at the gun he still held in his hand, and then dropped it to the floor, his expression caught between horror and despair. "I didn't shoot him..."

(the past: Detroit, Michigan)

Tuesday, July 5, 2004 

Larry Gowan awoke with a stifled gasp, reaching up to rub his gummy eyes and finding that he was unable to bring his arm up that far. Soft restraints bound his wrists to the equally padded rails on the bed. His hands were crusted with dried blood, his nails filthy and cracked. He pulled against the strap, ignoring the pain in his immobile wrist— he would have kept at it for hours if not for the calm and reasonable voice that spoke from the shadows, making him freeze guiltily.

"It was either that or sedate you, Lawrence," he remarked in a tone of soft rebuke. "Quite frankly, I didn't want to risk any further backsliding down that particular slope. You came to in the ambulance and you tried to fight them off."

"Fight... what?" He turned his head, feeling the pain in his neck intensify to the point he nearly passed out again. Chauncy tsked softly as he unrolled a length of fresh gauze. He taped this with equal efficiency as Gowan simply gaped at the ceiling, his mind a complete blank.

"Where'm I?" This didn't feel like any hospital he'd ever been in.

"A private facility," he replied, "Stanley pulled some strings. No one will bother you here."

Gowan didn't reply, again trying to twist his arm free. God, his neck itched so badly.

"We had to restrain you, Lawrence." He undid the Velcro, loosening the strap as he continued speaking in that calm voice, as though explaining to a child, "you were trying to fight us off, surprising considering the amount of blood you lost. The steel chair shattered when your head impacted with it. Do you remember Matthew Walker attacking you backstage?"

There hadn't been any such attack, but of the three witnesses to what had really happened, and in the best interests of WCWF as a company, history had already been rewritten.

"I..." Gowan frowned, "I don't... know."

"The chair hit your head and then the wall behind it. It was a freak accident, Lawrence— it broke and part of the rail punctured your neck. A piece of the seat damaged your ear, well ruptured the drum, really, but you're going to...." Chauncy paused, swallowing back the flicker of emotion with his usual stoicism, "you're going to make a full recovery."

Something about that story didn't add up. "You weren't there, Skippy. How..."

"Oh," he leaned over the bed, meeting Gowan's eyes as he pushed the blue-streaked hair away from his face, an almost-smile on his lips, "but I was, Lawrence— in the crowd— nothing better than watching you perform from that vantage point. Just because you don't see me, doesn't mean I'm not here. I promised you that in Moscow, remember?"

Gowan closed his eyes against the tears that he could feel coming. "I love you," he whispered the words, so low they were almost inaudible. Under normal circumstances, he'd have never uttered that sentiment— after two days in and out of consciousness and a blood transfusion, he wasn't quite himself and all the walls had come crumbling down.

"Hush," Chauncy said, feeling his heart break into a million pieces at the confession. He buttoned everything down like he usually did, his pale blue eyes unblinking. "Save your strength. You've got quite the journey ahead..."

(the present: Decatur, Alabama)

Monday, December 29, 2014

Checkout time had been three hours ago. The flight back to San Dimas that they were supposed to be on was boarding in an hour from Huntsville International Airport— over an hour away. The breakfast tray from the night before still stood by the door, untouched. His egg white omelet had gone rubbery hours ago. Larry Gowan lay in bed with his face buried in the pillow and the blankets pulled up over his head.

He hadn't spoken to Chauncy since they'd left the arena. He hadn't even changed out of his ring gear. He'd allowed himself to be ferried from the arena back to the hotel like cargo, existing on autopilot, steeped in silence. Once inside that safe room, he'd just crawled into bed like a frightened child.

Concern had given way to a frustrated kind of impatience about an hour before. Polite questions had trailed off, not replaced by anything because the bite of less polite ones was not helpful. Chauncy was not built for this: you couldn't fight back against this with reason or good manners. It was just there, an impossible task taunting him with its impossibility, and holding his spouse hostage against it.

"I cancelled our flights. Or postponed them, rather," he said from the doorway, leaning against the jamb without a trace of casual slump: more reassured by the solidity of the wood. Answer. At least answer this time.

The blankets moved slightly, one hand appearing from beneath although he stayed silent. A second later, the pillow shifted and Gowan's familiar shock of red-streaked brown hair appeared. Rolling over, he looked at Chauncy in the doorway, sighing as he nodded.

Small victories could still be counted. "Tomorrow morning, so you can…" What, sleep more? Recover? Get up? "... have time." He sat on the edge of the bed cautiously, wanting to reach out but knowing a touch could just as easily be a push off the edge as a pull to safety. "Lawrence? Will that give you ...suitable time to…" frustration edged the sigh. "Be ready?"

"You could've," he found his voice but it was weak, strained at best as though he'd spent the night screaming. Internally, he had. "Gone without me…" he trailed off, realizing that particular statement made absolutely no sense.

"I'd hardly have left you here in this stage," he answered. "Even if you hadn't been, I wouldn't have left under these circumstances."

Gowan rolled back over, letting out another sigh. "I can't do this again," he mumbled, the words muffled by the pillow.

"So don't. Don't go there. Don't make contact. Leave it well enough alone. If you remain uninvolved, you remain untouched." It was the advice Chauncy would give himself, but even as he said it, he knew it wouldn't work for Lawrence.

One hand lifted, gesturing at his phone where it sat on the nightstand. "She already made contact," he mumbled, "go ahead and look."

There was a formality in the way Chauncy used a smartphone, holding it a distance from his face and carefully scrolling with the tip of his index finger. "Hm. Taunting, perhaps? Block her. You can do that on this platform, can't you?"

"And if I block her?" Larry turned his head, looking at Chauncy, "what then? I can pretend that she's still gone? What I want to know is if she wasn't dead… who was in that coffin we buried? If she's able to come back at will… how do I know that Shawn's…" he trailed off with a soft moan, burying his head under the covers again. He still hadn't told Chauncy that Shawn had been there on the rooftop at Rori's reception, urging him to get up on the ledge for a better view. He had no idea how to even broach the subject.

"Do you think that dwelling on those things is going to be anything but harmful to you?" he asked, catching himself before he could let out the frustration on a sigh. "Shawn is gone. Kitty isn't. She lied to you."

"Not dwelling," the reply came through the blankets, "it's either this, or I go down to the bar and drink myself stupid. Which would you prefer?"

"If they're the only choices available, obviously this, but honestly…" This time the sigh slipped out. "I'm worried."

"About what?" His head popped out from under the sheets again, hair tousled as those blue eyes locked on Chauncy's face.

"Well, about you, obviously. This has been a terrible shock, of course." He managed a wan curve of lips that was almost a smile. "It's good to actually see your face."

"I'm sorry," Gowan murmured, feeling a little tug at his heartstrings in the wake of that almost-smile, knowing what it meant after all these years, "for ruining last night— the ritual and everything. I just… I can't do this right now. We've just barely gotten our sea legs back and now..." he reached out, sitting up slightly as he rested his hand on Chauncy's shoulder. "I'm being foolish. It's just a part of me can't forget all the things she did in the past. A part of me can't forget that before that, she was someone special," he paused, "like you."

"Oh, trust me, I remember for the both of us. This is just another line on a long list of ways she's messed with you, and I don't intend for her to have another opportunity to find a knife and a free patch to stick it in," answered the younger man tersely. "Block her. It's the worst possible thing you can do to her which doesn't draw you back in."

"I…" he glanced at the phone, shaking his head, "I don't even want to look at it. Do it for me. Please?"

It took him almost a minute to navigate the unfamiliar platform, but he did it. "There. Now you're safe. Problem solved, yes?" Especially given that Chauncy now avoided social media as though it were likely to give him plague. Although this tempted him: if he did reopen his account, and Kitty tried to use it to get closer to Lawrence, he'd be able to give her a verbal thrashing she'd be unlikely to forget, no matter how many 'deaths' she suffered.

"Not solved… but it's a start." He lifted a hand to his mouth, stifling a yawn. He might have spent the night in bed, but he'd definitely not been sleeping.

With care to line things up neatly, Chauncy folded the sheet and tucked it around Larry's shoulders. "You tossed and turned for hours. Sleep now and you can order room service later. We'll fly home tomorrow, spend some time listening to dreadful music and eating rubbish, yes?"

He nodded, finding a huge amount of comfort in his partner's actions. "I'm glad you're here…" he hesitated for a moment, pulling back from turning it into some schmaltzy and embarrassing confession even though he suddenly felt dangerously close to tears, "I'd probably have done something idiotic otherwise."

"Well, you forget, I did re-sign the contract on being the bodyguard to your impulsivity," he answered, patting his arm. "Get some sleep, Lawrence. And tomorrow you'll eat your bloody omelette."

Gowan rolled over with a smile on his face, fluffing the pillow just so. "Keep an eye out for monsters then," he mumbled, already drifting towards sleep, "love you... so much..."