Chapter Twenty (Come As You Are)

There were always rats. Even when everything was clean, even when the gym at the new house – he couldn't stop calling it that mentally, even though he'd owned the place for the last ten months – even when the gym was so bright, so white that it gave him a headache if he spent more than an hour or two in here.

Ten months. Two months shy of a year. Fifty-nine days to be exact and none of the rooms had curtains other than the bedroom they slept in because he was still afraid of the darkness creeping up on him when he wasn't looking. He was still afraid he'd wake up in the middle of the night, smelling that sick-sour rotten garbage smell – he still avoided the concession stands at arenas because that smell of fried foods, of overloaded trash bins and spilled beer made his stomach clench painfully. He'd set up the Carnage Championship so that every time he leaned forward that glint of gold caught him square in the eyes. A not-so-gentle reminder to do one more set of whatever until he was shivering and shaking and sweating like a lathered horse. It was timed out to the second. After twenty-three years, he knew himself well enough to set clocks by. He knew his limits and even if he tried to push beyond that, to keep going, he'd fall into that lethargy the second the music shifted to something slower, something mellow.

Always music because without that white noise in his ears, he could hear the scratching, the scuttling there in the edges of his periphery, just on the edges of his hearing and it was like the ringing people with tinnitus get, maybe. Probably more psychological, probably a wire that had snapped, frayed, gotten crossed or whatever and now it had fused itself that way even though everything else surrounding High Octane Wrestling was a distant memory. The rats would always be with him, no matter how bright it got.

"Fuck," he forced the word out, flopping back against the bench, letting the clang of the plates dropping back into place ring out, resonating in his aching head. At least there was comfort in the familiarity – dead guy singing from the hidden speakers, telling him to come as you are, as you were. He could do that as easy as sliding his feet into those old, broken down boots he should have replaced years ago but couldn't quite bring himself to part with. They belonged to The Dark Horse. They were as much an intrinsic part of him as the sneer, as the casual disdain he threw around when he was between those walls.

You dropped the ball. The voice in his head was loud today, pick-pick-picking away at every little thing. Crashing Stone's party wasn't the same as flashing that belt like the Guy Smiley caricature you're supposed to be now, you neutered fucking twinkletits pansy.

His eyes closed, sweat burning, turning to stinging sand between the lids. "It's what they want," the words came out softly, a whisper of affirmation. Later, he'd lay down to write something, fumble with sliding his thumb across the screen of his phone – such a fucking marvel that technology was – some bullshitty little blog about Ana, about Carnage and how much the belt meant and how it was going to be a mulligan, a reset to purge those dark days from the record. He could taste the metallic lie of that in the back of his throat, like blood, making him want to gag rather than swallow. But he swallowed, pasty-thick saliva getting lodged half-way down, making him cough, that reflexive response turning into a groan when his back spasmed, that old pinched nerve flaring up. His hand flopped over the side of the bench like a dead fish, groping blindly for the bottle of water he'd left there – warm now, the lid a little more resistant to twisting than he'd have liked but he gritted his teeth, forcing it to bend to his will, the plastic crackling in his other fist as he squeezed his eyes shut. Tim Armstrong's voice drifted to his ears, you can see the San Francisco Bay, Alcatraz, Albany landfill – "Motherfuck," his eyes snapped open at that name-drop, water slopping on his chest as the lid went flying and then he fumbled it up to his mouth, ending up pouring some down his throat, most over his face because his hand was shaking too much. Checks and balances, karmic redemption for Mike Marshall, for Marcus Gratton, for stealing two years at the peak of Larry Gowan's career, for cheating on Ryann Hardy with Alyvia – so many goddamn things to atone for, the list was endless. The slights were there, perfectly ingrained into his memory and while all the successes, all the belts and accolades were things that he had to look up because the timeline was so goddamned muddled up, so damn muddied, all the shitheel things he'd ever done were right there in the rolodex at the flick of a finger. G – Gratton, Marcus – SAWF in 2002: already concussed by a hockey stick snapped over his head and thrown into a cinderblock wall the week before, laid out with steel ring steps that blew out two discs in his back. He was lucky to walk again, didn't for years. Never wrestled again. He still funneled money into an account, anonymously covering part of the man's bills fourteen years later. Nobody knew about that. Missy didn't even know and he didn't plan to tell her any time soon because it didn't mesh with the unfeeling, uncaring asshole image he'd cultivated over the years.

Ana could be another statistic. She could be another on that list and the certainty of that was chewing away at his brain – more persistent, fucking scavenging rats – that anger was directionless. Even bickering with Stone held no appeal and seeing Ojeda's face reminded him of John Pariah, reminded him of Mike Norcia and Dylan Greenwood and Tyler Boyd, reminded him of Kirsta Lewis. That stupid, bottom-feeding whore, the definition of talentless arm candy, posing as a predator when she was some cat in heat, showing her ass and yowling for another mate to rut with. She had everything to do with Uncensored being a bust, had everything to do with HOW heading south even before he'd been locked inside that Alcatraz cell for seven days. He'd hated reality television before. He'd forced himself to relive it for weeks after, watching the recorded feeds that someone had bootlegged and posted online. They thought it was a work, talking about how badass, how Bear Grylls hardcore he was to kill the rats and eat them. He'd read all the comments, seen all the debates about how fake it looked, how shitty of an actor he was – chewing up the scenery like some absolute hack. He wasn't an actor. He'd never been. He was a liar and that wasn't the same thing by any stretch.

They didn't have to live through the aftermath. They didn't know about the infections he'd gotten in all those festering barbed wire cuts. They didn't know he was running a fever when the door had opened and that he barely remembered the match that Jason Parker Davidson had ended up winning. Getting fired had been a blessing. So had walking away from the toxicity of his marriage to Ryann Hardy – another goddamned rat infesting his house.

Put on my blue suede shoes and I boarded the plane – he was pulled in immediately, singing by the third word, feeling the calm wash over him because that song always did it. Goosebumps crawled over his arms, the sweat turning to ice and if he moved he might puke – too much water. He kept moving his lips, echoing the words like a Catholic prayer – oh you've got a prayer in Memphis. Did he have a prayer? He didn't think so, probably used them all up when he was asking for stupid shit like one more run at some belt that meant absolutely nothing now, in some company that nobody but he remembered. Used them all up asking for the next bullshit marriage to some broken bitch to work – they never did because the breakage he was drawn to was the kind that wasn't fixable, the kind that made him feel important, empowered to manipulate with some soothing salve, some charm and attention lavished until the edges smoothed out. Tomorrow would be Kitty's birthday and the thought made him sigh. So much bullshit there that he couldn't let go. The ultimate betrayal that he'd been complicit in whatever scheme had been going on, identifying the body in that Dallas hotel room in 2012 as hers, leaving him to second-guess his sanity the moment she'd popped back up. Surprise!

The bottle fell from his hand, rolling before crunching underfoot. He closed his eyes, concerned she might see darkness there. "Hey, Miss. Couldn't sleep. Figured I'd get to this now," his voice came out hoarse, raspy and strained, "get it out of the way?"

Missy lightly kicked the bottle to the side, finishing the braid she was putting her damp hair in. "Smart, baby." She moved closer, picking up a towel before she came to a stop standing over him. "Hey, you. If you sit up, I'll slide behind you and work the kinks out of your back... I got a call from Kyra I need to tell you about too."

"Kyra?" He tried to keep that sound of dismay out of his voice, tried like hell but it was still there even as he groaned, grabbing the sides of the bench and pushing himself up. Slowly. Super slowly and he knew she was probably measuring that, gauging how rough he was today. "Careful... kinda wet. Spilled some water... heh." He tried for a laugh, not sure it sounded right before he glanced up at her. "Can turn off the music if you want."

"Nah, music's fine." She wiped the bench with the towel before she smoothly threw her leg over to straddle it and settle behind him. She was indeed measuring how he moved with those numbers stored in her head marked 'My Jax' and a hint of frown touched her lips. She heard that little sound of dismay and thought about that too, she understood but hoped in turn he'd understand what she'd done. She set her hands to his back, his skin hot to the touch but it just about always was that way, her man ran hot. Fingers splayed she felt for the knots, gentle where she could be before she finally started on his shoulders, the tone of her voice would tell him she was more focused on that, on him than what was coming out of her mouth.

"So Kyra called, and said some things that really made other things make sense. She's been all over the place, I'm sure you've seen it. But she told me she's been..." That distracted tone softened. "She's been wanting to die, and I get that. But she found out something that changed all that. She got in some stupid fight, got cut up... found out at the hospital she's pregnant. She was so lost, baby, I just told her to come. I know I should have asked you first, so if you're going to be pissed, I earned it." She took a deep breath, letting out a sigh that washed over his back as her fingers kept working.

Kyra. Here. That's great, so fucking great. Then she can see how completely and utterly fucked you really are.

He lifted a hand to his face, rubbing his itchy eyes, "not pissed. It's fine, Miss. Your house too – not a goddamn dictator here, telling you who you can and can't have over." Jax barely managed to keep his voice level, "pregnant, huh? Wonder if JD knows."

"I know that, Jax." A tiny hint of her fire for a moment, but it warmed to something besides a temper flare. "I know you don't look at me like that, but I want to always treat you the way you should be too. It's we here, you're right." A deep breath, she knew it would bring her breasts up against his back, but she kept that touch on him for the first reason, working out the knots and the stiffness of his muscles, though she paused to run her thumbs over the big tribal sun on his back. "No, he doesn't know. She hasn't told him, and with how things are? I think she needs to figure out what she's doing before she does. Shit, that sounds cold doesn't it? But you know how I feel about that son of a bitch."

"Yeah," that single word held far more weight than him simply agreeing, as if the level of hatred he held for the bastard transcended any words that could have passed his lips. "Give her a place to land... why not?" He said it like he was trying to convince himself – maybe he was. "Down a bit lower," he murmured, feeling that twinge again, hoping he hadn't gone too far.

"Thank you, baby." She moved her hands, careful with the first touches and then firmer, listening with one ear for any changes in breathing, and watching for any sudden tenseness that could be from pain. "After this, maybe a nice cold shower and a hot pack?" Left unsaid if she could get him to sleep some more she'd do that too. She paused for a moment to draw her right hand back and shake it, working her fingers as if that would get rid of the tremble before she placed that hand back on him. "Then maybe, you could take me for a ride." She had a hard time suppressing the throaty chuckle that followed. "In the car, just ...go. We can relax a bit, before she gets here."

"Drive up the coast, maybe." He nodded, feeling the darkness start to abate a little, the funk of depression loosening its grip. "Find a nice beach, a nice deserted one. Spend a little time being Mr. and Mrs. today. How's that sound?"

Missy couldn't help the purr that was under her words, and for a split-second marveled at herself. It was warm, real, and all because of Jackson. "That sounds like the heaven this angel fell for, Mr. Jackson." She paused, her hands still moving but she wanted to exhale the next word right on his skin. "Boss."

He held his breath for a second, that inhale shakier than the sharp that would have telegraphed pain. For a second, he felt that irrational flare of anger, remembering Chauncy Nottingham – Larry Gowan's idiot of a husband – poking him about advertising his sexual exploits with his employee over social media. "Miss," his voice came out softer than usual, stripped of the bass it usually carried, "maybe need a new name. One just between us?"

"You don't like it anymore?" A hint of curiosity touched her voice, but the way he'd spoken so softly took her a little aback. She took a breath, held it longer than she should have so it came out a gusty sigh. "I'm so bad at that baby. Look how long it's taken me to try and think of a new first name for you, you know? Everything I've come up with, just...sure you wouldn't like them."

Turning his head, he looked over his shoulder at her, the ghost of a smile on his lips for a moment. "Could call me 'dumbfuck', and I'd answer to it, babe. Maybe you haven't noticed... but I'm so far gone for you it's..." he trailed off, shaking his head, that hint of bitterness creeping back. "Goddamn, I really have been."

Missy shook her head. "If you're going to say you've been a dumbfuck, then we might be fixing to fight." She narrowed her eyes a second, but then shook her head again. "So you're trying to tell me if I started calling you Beowulf, or Arthur, you'd just answer?" She hesitated, almost bit her lip but ended up just looking at him with a sort of strange anticipation.

"Depends," he countered, still meeting her eyes, almost defiantly as he turned slightly on the bench, "if you're gonna answer to Aphrodite."

She blinked, her tone mystified. "Why would I answer to...oh." Her cheeks took on a hint of color and she gave him a little laugh. "Jax. If you did it, I'd answer to it. Anyone else I'd punch them in the jaw. But I guess that's because they wouldn't mean it." Her brows drew in a tiny bit. "You really see me like that?"

"You see me like that?" He echoed her question, spinning it back around, "noble? Is that the theme? Tragic-as-fuck stories... ending in fatal wounds? Seems maybe a little fatalistic," he shrugged, trying to play it off, telegraphing that low self opinion of his through defensiveness. "And yeah. I do, Miss. You're..."

"No." She said it very softly, looking right at him with those dark eyes. "You might well be my hero but you're not the polished up fake they show you in Disney movies, baby. You're the man that fights on the front line who's got the dirtiest mouth and the quickest brain and knows how to end a threat to what he loves. You're the guy, they make stories out of so far after the fact that who really knows how his ended. And maybe that's the tragic part, but in our story... Romeo and Juliet don't die. Everyone else does."