019 (1000 Oceans) [PW]

THE COKE MACHINE HUMMED pleasantly in the otherwise deserted corridor, like an oasis calling out. Bouncing the quarters on his palm, Larry Gowan walked towards it, whistling tunelessly to himself. Just a few feet from the blue area, he wasn't really expecting any company. The rest of the talent were either wrestling or hanging out in catering. He couldn't bring himself to face Jackie and Starlett Sweets now that they knew his secret. A shaking hand raked through his unruly mop of hair, making the damp strands stick up wildly as he stopped in front of the machine.

"Just another hour," he muttered in a low voice, "be in Jackie's corner and then you can go."

He stared at the selections, relieved to find that the orange OUT OF STOCK light wasn't lit on the Sprite button. Slowly, he dropped the quarters into the machine, one by one, something almost soothing in those motions, and the rattling sound as the machine begrudgingly accepted them. He pressed the button and leaned his head against the machine while it rattled and whirred, feeling the bottle being dispensed from inside. The red light washed over his features, revealing the fading bruises on his arms and face.

"One more hour—"

"Hello, Larry."

He froze with his hand in the machine, caught between nostalgia and a prickle of unease at the tone in Brad Jackson's voice. "Hi." He pulled out the bottle and held it protectively against his chest. "Fancy meeting you here—"

"Yeah, funny considering I work here." Jackson folded his arms across his massive chest, glowering down at Gowan.

Gowan swallowed hard, "right. I forgot you signed. It's just been a really rough couple weeks and I—"

"Fuck off."

The words died off into silence as Jackson moved in closer to Gowan. For a long moment he said nothing. Gowan tried for a smile, still clutching the green plastic bottle between his hands hard enough that the crackling of the plastic can be heard. "I think it'd be a good idea if you shut up. Now."

Gowan's mouth closed with an audible snap as he stood there, feeling that unpleasant shift in the energy between them. "Brad? Something wrong?"

"I think you know what's wrong— don't play this innocent game with me. The last thing I wanna see is a repeat of WCWF."

"Oh." Gowan swallowed hard. "Okay. That's fine. The KoA is dead and buried since..." he trailed off, unable to say Chauncy's name, "I've got my thing and you've obviously got yours so—"

"Did I say I was done?" Jackson snarled, "I saw you making your fucking googly eyes at my girl. You think I'm about to let that shit repeat?"

Gowan held up his hand, looking horrified. "Your... who? What?" He shook his head. "Whoa... whoa... whoa... I have no clue what you're talking about, Brad. Seriously!" He started to edge away from the machine only to have Jackson's palm slam into his chest, driving him into the wall beside it. Before Gowan could haul himself upright, Jackson's stooge John Ojeda loomed over him, one of those motorcycle boots stomping down on Gowan's knee, making him howl in pain. "Please! I swear to God, I don't even—"

The words were cut off as Jackson leaned down, one massive hand clamping around Gowan's throat. "Hot little blonde in a pink and black miniskirt, Larry— Ryann Hardy. Yeah, you did. Saw you playing welcome wagon, cozying up to her, all smiles and sunshine. You touch her again, Larry... you even look at her, and next time I'll fuckin' kill you."

Ojeda chuckled, "should just take him out, Jax. Nobody's looking and it'll give us a numbers advantage out there tonight against Sweets— to hell with this little white knight bitch. Take 'im out and take his place."

Jackson grinned, nodding as he watched Gowan's face growing red while he struggled to pull in air around his crushed throat. Laughing, Jackson pulled Gowan forward by that grip and then smashed his head against the cinderblock wall. When he started to crumple, Jackson caught him, spun him around and bodily drove him through the front of the Coke machine. The bottle of Sprite fell from his hand as Gowan crumpled to the floor. Jackson straightened up, brushing off his hands. "You don't fuck with Anarchy Associated... we fuck with you."

Jackson bent down and picked up the bottle of soda, cracking it open and taking a long swallow. "Mmm," he mocked, looking down at Gowan's lifeless body, "now that's refreshing!" Ojeda and Jackson walked off together, laughing over the attack.

From the other direction, Jackie Sweets walked towards the Coke machine, hearing the feeble groan from Gowan's lips. Dropping to his knees, Jackie took in the smear of blood on the wall from the cracked open back of Gowan's head, and the finger marks that were still visible on his neck. "Larry?! Good God! Who did this to you?!" Sweets turned around, seeing nobody, "hang on, buddy. We're gonna get help, okay?"


The room was a semi-private affair although the other bed near the window was empty. Jackie Sweets had assumed that Larry had been moved there at the behest of MWA's management the union was supposed to cover extended hospitalization, after all. Washed out and pale other than the brilliant shock of red in his hair, Larry Gowan almost blended in against the sheets and pillows. His neck was still immobilized with a brace, making him look like a tiny, broken doll that someone had tried to mend poorly. The IV drip going into his hand was pure morphine, keeping the pain at bay for the time being— he wasn't aware of a single aspect of these austere surroundings even though the television set on the wall was tuned to a hockey game solely for his sake. Jackie Sweets had finally gone back to the hotel a few hours ago after begging the doctors to call him if there was any change in Gowan's condition. After more than twenty-four hours, Sweets had been ready to claim the second bed as his own. Thankfully his wife had intervened. The last thing they needed was another patient on their hands and the man in the bed was otherwise oblivious to all the action surrounding him.

The young man sitting beside the bed had been loitering in the hospital for a while: long enough for two nurses and an orderly to ask him if he wanted directions. Long enough for Sweets to finally disappear so that he could take the seat by the bed and make it his own. Chauncy had never quite lost touch with Larry: staying in the loop through second-hand connections and internet video, stabbing at himself with never-could-bes of the worst kind.

Although he had a paperback open in his hand— Truman Capote's In Cold Blood, he wasn't concentrating, keeping only the loosest mental ties to the words on the page, interspersing half-finished sentences with worried glances at the pale figure on the bed, flipping ahead without thinking, and flipping back to try and find a place he'd never had to lose.

There was a soft groan from the bed followed by a rustle of the sheets as the hand with the IV in it clawed at the covering, trying to get at the skin beneath. The pain was creeping back and with it a dull sort of wakefulness. 

There was a sudden stab of guilt in his midsection. Should he slip away now? No. No. The whole point was to be here and be...

What?

Supportive. Helpful. Platonically-friendly, if that wasn't the proverbial bridge too far. There was no way that Gowan would assume that he still held feelings after this long, surely. He'd be wrong, but that was beside the point. Another eye-flicker to Larry's slow movements, before another pre-emptive turn of the page, and a vain effort to find his place.

Gowan blinked, his eyes feeling gummy, his vision clouded for a few seconds. Beyond the whisper of a fan and the muted volume on the TV, he heard the rustle of the page turning but couldn't move his neck far enough to see who was making the noise. He assumed it was Jackie because there wasn't anyone else he could think of that would be maintaining a bedside vigil for someone like him. "H-hello," he croaked, falling silent immediately because he smelled something very familiar. No. It couldn't be. Not after all this time.

"Ah, there you are. Hello." It was an effort to keep his voice steady, but he was pleased by the smooth, low result. He sounded almost entirely unaffected, even to his own critical ears.

"Chauncy?" Gowan's voice shook, his eyes closing against the brightness of the lights. "W-what...?" he couldn't bring himself to finish asking the question because it was far too much to process right now. Why was he here? Was he even really here or was this just some sort of cruel trick of his mind and some coma dream?

"I was in town," he lied, holding his place in the book with one finger. "It seemed to be rather good timing, I suppose. I would have bought balloons, but well, the noise. Squeaking. Highly irritating." He was the picture of reserved, sitting very straight and very still in the chair, with that book loosely held in his fingers, but inside, he was all coiling knots of worry.

"Oh." The single syllable came out on a soft and very defeated-sounding exhale. He didn't bother to open his eyes or try to form any other words. It was difficult enough to keep the scream from boiling up his throat at the pain— his back was on fire, his legs strangely numb.

"I did bring you a book, but I doubt you're up to reading right now," he said, pressing on despite the urge to get up and bolt before the slightest hint of emotion could betray him. "Is there anything else I can do, though?"

"How..." his voice gave out so he paused, clearing his throat, "how bad is it? Did they...?" Gowan trailed off, his hand coming up to his face because even that felt weird to him.

"Did they what?" he asked, turning to lean one elbow on the back of the seat, an almost casual gesture that matched the look of mild concern. A look that he was sure was equivalent to one old friend enquiring after the wellbeing of another. That word though, that 'they'... It itched at him, under his skin the second it was spoken.

"The doctors," Gowan murmured, still trying to turn his head to see Chauncy better, "did they say anything to you?" Why was he here? Had it been spread all over the news that his wrestling career was over? Had he come out of pity? He couldn't bring himself to hope again because that would lead to nothing more than disappointment.

"They didn't say anything to me. The nurse did point out the limitations on visiting hours, but I'm sure that's not what you meant. Did you want a drink?"

"To hell with the limitations," the words came out before he could stop them, vehemence in his tone. He might as well have been six sheets to the wind for how well he was managing his filters right now. "You're here... I don't want you to go." Before Chauncy could say anything else, he broke the uneasy silence again, "yes. A drink. Please?"

"Oh. I thought—" He cut the words off, and made himself busy pulling at the foil lid of a tiny cup of apple juice, peeling it back a quarter of the way and passing it across, holding it out with a surprisingly steady hand, given how much his insides were boiling.

Gowan took it from him, slopping some on the sheets before bringing it up to his mouth. Greedily, he swallowed some of the sweet juice, busying himself in those motions because the last thing he wanted to do was analyse what those words or Chauncy's tone when he said them had meant. He finished it off slowly, savouring the rest of it before holding it out again. "Thank you," he said softly.

"You're welcome." He took the cup, smoothing down the foil with his thumb before placing it gently into the trash. "It's the least I can do, under the circumstances." He paused, not sure if now was the time to go fishing or not. "What exactly are the circumstances, Lawrence?"

"I don't know," he replied, his voice shaking slightly with emotion, "the last thing I remember was Brad spearing me into the Coke machine and—"

"I see." Although he'd tightened his self-control, the change in posture was more telling than if he'd jumped up and punched his way through the wall. "Brad Jackson, of course. How very like him."

"It's my own fault," Gowan said, "he saw me talking to that awful girl he's with now and assumed the worst. Not that I'd have touched her, nor would I ever have any interest in her— he brought up Kitty and then... well... I woke up in the ambulance, I think. I remember something on my face. A mask, maybe and..." he trailed off, realising he was rambling in the worst way.

With slow deliberation, the youngest Nottingham returned his book to his messenger bag, taking a different book out and placing it on the nightstand. "For when you're feeling a little brighter, Lawrence. I'd love to stay, but I have an appointment I can't miss. Perhaps I'll drop in on you afterward, if you're amenable to that."

"You..." he fell silent, realizing that no amount of begging was going to change the situation. Obviously that ship had sailed a long time ago. "Sure. You can come back." He felt an ache in his chest, one that was infinitely more painful than the rest of his body, "I mean, I..." he couldn't keep the words in, "I want you to, Chauncy—" his voice broke and he realized he had no idea why he felt like he was missing something vital in this entire exchange. "I... it's been a year and I've missed you. You didn't call on New Year's like you usually do— what did I do?" He licked his lips, feeling like this needed to be fixed before Chauncy vanished again. "You... I don't want you to go. Please come back?"

"I—" Chauncy closed his mouth with a snap, the strap of his bag halfway to his shoulder. "But you—" Snap again. The bag dropped to the floor and he dropped into the chair with a squeak of the rubber legs on the linoleum. "I did call, Lawrence. I left the ball in your court and you elected not to run with it."   

If breathing hadn't been automatic, he might have forgotten how in that instant and it was like being at the amusement park on one of those rides where the bottom dropped out to leave a person weightless. "No." The word slipped past his lips on an exhale, almost anguished-sounding. "I..." he frowned, trying to remember a moment when that might have taken place and he'd simply forgotten. He came up completely blank, feeling so low he almost wished that Brad had killed him. "What ball?" His eyes were almost aqua against the bloodshot whites and the shimmer of tears. He breathed in and out slowly, trying to find the words to express everything he was feeling but it was too much to process right now. "Chauncy... no. What ball?"

"I called. I told you everything, told you to... to call me, if what I'd said was... well, positively received. You didn't call, so of course the natural conclusion was—" He reached out, hand pale, knuckles prominent, nails very short and very square. "Don't let this make you stressed right now. You're hurt, you need to heal. If you can't recall, I'm sure—" Open. Close. Snap. "I'm quite sure that once you're better, you'll remember."

Gowan closed his eyes, wanting to both scream in frustration and break down sobbing at the same time. In what world would he have ever failed to return a call from the only person that had ever mattered? "You... told me everything?" He echoed the words, trying to wrap his head around the meaning of that sentence. "W-what did I say?"

"Nothing." Chauncy drew his hand back slowly, and laced his fingers in his lap, pressing his thumbs down together on the top as if to hold the package together. "You didn't— You didn't answer, Lawrence. Perhaps I was too..." He sighed, shaking his head, not able to find the right words to describe his concerns. "It was probably a little on the ridiculous side, blurting everything out on your voicemail, but well. I've never been particularly good at facing the possibility of rejection."

"My voicemail?" And now the pieces clicked into place and he remembered waking up on his balcony that morning, a snippet of a conversation in his head. "Something about cake," he muttered, opening his eyes, "I never... got the message. My phone fell... it broke and... it took me a few days to," sober up, he thought, "replace it."

"Right. Yes. Something about cake." Chauncy rose to his feet, picking up the bag again and shouldering it with care. "I really do have to go, though. The appointment isn't an excuse." Not an excuse, but a lie. Brad Jackson wasn't anywhere near as hard to find as he'd need to be this afternoon, and it was fair to say that Chauncy had booked an open appointment for his fist to meet Jackson's face. At least a few times.

"Sorry," he mumbled, "you didn't have to come all this way." The words that came out didn't match his tone at all. Like a true Canadian, politeness was his shield but the words that he wanted to say were written all over his face if Chauncy cared to look.

"Yes, Lawrence, I did." He patted the sheets at the foot of the bed and sighed. "I'm glad you pulled through. You ought to... look out for yourself a little more, as it were. Fairy godfathers notwithstanding."

"We," the words caught in his throat, the attempt at a joke stalling before it began when the tears started to fall but he forced them out regardless, "h-have to stop meeting like this. Me in some bed..."

Chauncy's smile was cryptic, but there was only one real way to take his words. "Oh, I don't know. I always did rather fancy you in bed, Lawrence. I'll come back. If you find your phone, that is. Call me."

He wanted to say something more, to call him back and tell him to skip whatever appointment was so damned important but his eyes were so heavy. He closed them for a second and when he opened them again, the room was dark and silent as a tomb. He was alone and everything hurt so bad he could barely breathe. He turned his head, surprised to find he had a bit more mobility now but the chair was empty and his heart broke into a million pieces. Pressing the red button on the bedrail, he waited until the nurse came into the room, the lights flickering to life slowly but only on the empty side of the room.

"Mr. Gowan," she came up beside the bed, checking the monitors he was hooked up to. "You're awake... how are we feeling tonight?"

"It hurts," he murmured and before she could ask him anything else, he blurted out his next words, "did my friend come back?"

"Your friend?" She adjusted the IV, glancing back at him, "I'm sorry, honey... but I haven't seen anybody in here today."

"Oh." He closed his eyes, wondering if it was a dream brought on by the painkillers they had him doped up on. Breathing in and out slowly, he waited it out until the woman left him alone again. Then and only then did he reach out a shaking hand, pulling the paperback book off the nightstand where it rested in arm's reach. It was a newer copy than the dog-eared one he'd been carrying around in the side pocket of his gear bag for years. He couldn't recall having told anyone that The Hobbit was his favourite novel, yet here it was. Cracking open the cover, he was surprised to find precise and orderly handwriting covering the blank inner page. The words written there were filled with hidden meaning and they broke his heart into a million pieces all over again.

Dear Lawrence,

I hope this goes some small way at least towards making you feel better. A story about a journey to match your journey of recovery, ideally. Do look after yourself, won't you?

C.