014 (Rehabilitating Camels) [SVW]

Larry Gowan's hands were shaking as he fumbled the Windsor knot in his lime green tie for the third attempt, muttering softly under his breath. This time it was too short, the tail dangling crookedly as he tugged it loose again. If he was lucky, perhaps he could manage to sneak out of the house before Chauncy made it back from the market. In nearly a week, he'd been walking on eggshells, biding his time and hoping for the right moment to broach the subject of how he'd planned to meet up with FTW for their European tour. He was, after all, still the general manager of Outbreak until a suitable replacement could be found.

Too late, as it turned out, the sedan parking by the side entrance and Chauncy climbing out with a basket of greens. There was still something there, some terse line to his shoulders, and a sorrowful turn of lip, that made him other. Not his usual safe self. Less predictable, perhaps, or more predictable in the way that weather can be once forecasted.

He heard the sound of the engine and moved the curtains aside, cursing to himself. "Shit, shit…" Giving up on the tie for the time being, he tucked it into the inside pocket of his jacket and made his way towards the stairs. The sooner he crossed that bridge, the sooner he could be on the road for London.

"Oh, good, there you are. Bring in the eggs from the car, please." Chauncy addressed the vague shape of Larry on the stairs, eyes adjusting to the light slowly, revealing the unusual choice of outfit. "Oh. I didn't realise you were going somewhere. We? Or just you?"

"You're welcome to join me," Gowan said with a bright smile, realising that a possible, perhaps even tenable solution had presented itself in that simple question. "I was hoping you would, actually. You could use a little diversion, I think."

"A diversion?" Dark brows rose high. "From…?" He glanced over his shoulder towards the car. "Right. Well, I'm not sure a diversion is going to make things any better right now, but it seems you've made plans. Don't let me keep you."

"I knew you'd make me feel bad. That's why I was going to take the other car and leave before you got back." He walked down the last few stairs, keeping his eyes on Chauncy. "It's been a week and spending all my time in this house barely talking to you is…" he broke off, realising he was going about this entirely wrong but unable to halt that momentum now that it was started.

"Ah, I see. Found your excuse to leave, then? Shall I bet on what the reason is? Work, or something else? Perhaps both? And you were just going to go, until you got caught, and now you're going to pretend that you're doing me a favour by offering me a diversion? Gosh, why didn't I think of that when Mum first passed away, hm? Never mind! Let's go to the movies; that will make it all better! Bloody hell, Lawrence. I knew things weren't the best between us, but I didn't realise that you'd become so insensitive."

"That's not what I meant." Except it honestly had been. At this point, anything would have been better than trying to make awkward amends only to be met with frosty resistance. "And yes, it's work. My presence is required tonight— FTW has a show in London and I need to make an appearance. I don't expect you to understand. It was easy enough for you to walk away when we lost the tag titles— there weren't any ties left. I don't really have that luxury." He paused, raking a hand through his disheveled hair, "it's only for a few hours— I have to dot a few i's and cross some t's— I have to manage my talent and that's next to impossible to do over the phone." At the look on Chauncy's face, he felt that irritation rising up from the dark little hole he'd stuffed it into, along with his cravings for something— anything— to take the edge off. "Just a few hours, okay? And then I'll be back to dutifully following at your heels, patiently waiting for that next moment of weakness to roll around."   

Chauncy's laugh was bitter, not a hint of sweet left to it. "Oh, I understand the importance of needing to work. Perhaps it's just the surprise: I didn't know there was a London show. Was I not meant to? Was I supposed to come home to an empty house and just wander about like muggins, wondering where you'd gotten yourself to? Last-minute, half-arsed introduction aside, did you have the slightest intention of inviting me along? No. So stop treating me like a tosser and expecting me to believe you, or anticipate that my good manners will excuse you. If you want to go, if you need to go, then do it. Bog off, have your well-needed break from being my lap dog, if that's what you need."

"I forgot to tell you. Honestly didn't cross my mind in all the..." he couldn't bring himself to affix that label to what the last nine days had been. "I have completely given up expecting anything of you. That's the sad part of all of this." It was far easier to just be painfully frank and he felt a sort of strange satisfaction at knowing that he could still pull those hurt looks from the hollow shell of a man Chauncy had become. On some level the anger was at least easier to cope with than the cold indifference of the past few days. Feeling pushed to be on the back foot retreat was a nice prelude to what he'd be dealing with at the arena tonight. At least seeing that spark in Chauncy's pale eyes was something new. "But I'll go get the eggs from the car for you before I 'bog off' as you so considerately put it." Gowan sighed, shaking his head as he turned for the door, "anything else I need to fetch while I'm at it?"

Had Chauncy been at all aware that Larry would have described him as, 'hollow', he'd have agreed, absolutely and without hesitation. He felt hollow. And it was entirely his own fault: the result of pushing away grief so that he wouldn't break down. At first it had been just to make it through the funeral and the wake, and now, of course, it was because he felt that the numbness was a last line of defence against breaking down in front of his husband and, in that moment of weakness, accepting a lessening of what their relationship had been before now.

His fingers pinched the bridge of his nose, making him a picture of pure frustration and tamped-down anger, using the pain to centre himself, focus that hurt outwards, so that it would at least leach it off a little, stop it building up to a point where it would be insurmountable. One deep shuddering breath followed the one before it, gathering words for ammunition.

He set down the basket carefully. Stood, looking suddenly dangerous and predatory as he stalked towards Larry, pressing a palm to his chest before locking fingers inwards, gathering the fabric in his hand and tugging, bringing them together to a kissing distance, without a shred of intimacy behind it. "If you want to go— and clearly you do— then stop making excuses and say what you really think. Say you're choosing work or the bottle over me. You've obviously made your decision, why not make honest words out of it? At least do that. Or perhaps it's just that excuses and running away are the foundation you've built yourself on. In which case, fuck the bloody eggs and piss off."

The words cut deep, making drawing that next breath very hard, let alone gathering the words to form some sort of suitable reply. "I…" he tried to force something out because falling into another silence was too much like just another excuse to fall back on. "I haven't chosen anything over you, Chauncy. An obligation is not the same thing and we both know it. I understand what you're feeling… at the very least, I've tried very hard to and—"

"I doubt very much that you do," answered Chauncy with a sigh, letting go of the fabric and smoothing it down without thinking. "You've been choosing everything over me since before—" He cut off, swiping at his eyes with the back of his hand.

Despite the fact that he needed to go, Larry reached out, catching hold of his hand. "Since before what? If you're going to accuse me of another crime, be clear about it. Since before you walked out on wrestling and our team, leaving me holding the bag… leaving me to clean up the mess with that breach in contract? Is that what you were going to say? No, you didn't give that much thought and I didn't press it because I knew your mind was elsewhere— you needed to come here and tend to more pressing matters. So I let you go and I got myself mired in further as a means to make amends. If you had your way, I'd be penniless and jobless… is that what you want?"

Despite the fact that he wanted to cling to Larry's hand for dear life, Chauncy snatched his fingers away, holding his hand to his chest as though he were wounded. "My mother was dying. She died. If they were going to come after us for a breach of contract because I put that first, more power to them. There are a million other jobs out there, and companies last about as long as a sneezing fit. And you'd hardly be penniless, would you?"

"Of course," he took a step back, putting distance between them. "I've forgotten that I'm a liar now as well as an insensitive clod. You're right. There are hundreds of other companies out there willing to employ me as a singles wrestler when I'm going to be forty-four in a few weeks— the reason FTW was so willing to take us in the first place was because of the team. They didn't want me. They still don't."

"Singles? Who said anything about blimmin' singles?" he snapped, stalking four steps away and then turning to stride straight back. "All I wanted was for you to be here with me, and you're talking about singles?"

"I'm here right now— I've been here for a goddamned week. Seven days. One hundred and sixty-eight hours of excruciating agony, watching you alternate between suffering in silence and pushing me away. So you tell me how much longer the entire world needs to stop spinning before you're ready." The words were laced with anger and Larry's eyes were almost slate gray as he glared at Chauncy. "I'll call them right now. I'll tender my resignation and let the chips fall where they may. I'll sell the house in Toronto. I'll start drinking tea. I'll do whatever in the hell you want me to do if you can look me in the eye for ten seconds and tell me that there's still a reason. If you can't do that, then I'm going to the show."

"I wouldn't have thought one week was too much to ask for," he answered softly. "Do what you like. You will anyway."

Stab and twist. "I thought so," Larry replied, his whisper turning raspy as he tried like hell to control that prickle of tears he felt, "you can't do it, can you?"

"Can't set myself up to get hurt while I'm already bleeding to death?" he asked, almost panicking that he'd lost control enough to say it. "No, I bloody can't."

"Fine." Gowan sighed, shaking his head, "then I'll get your eggs before I go." He turned without another word and walked out the door, moving stiffly and blindly towards the car as the tears spilled down his cheeks.

There was a heavy thud from behind him as Chauncy put his fist through the plaster.



Larry Gowan was bellied up to the bar, watching rain slide down the glass. He had a serious case of déjà vu even though the last time he'd been here was back in 2004 for a two-month stint, just a few weeks before Shawn's death. The staff hadn't changed over the last nine years. They greeted him with enthusiasm— the long face and the fact that he was back on TV meant they'd make some money off him tonight. They banked on guys like him falling off the wagon. He sat in the shadows, the short tumbler filled with scotch held in one hand, tight enough to break the glass. He watched the ice melt, watching it fade away and dilute the liquor. It was his third, all double-shots. He was feeling it in every fibre of his being. It felt so bad.

It felt so damn good.

Just a few short hours ago, he'd watched Lex Collins get destroyed by Matt Ford. He'd immediately sent off a text message to Hannah, offering his apologies. He'd tried to find Lex backstage but had been told that he'd disappeared ten seconds after Dr. Stabler had checked him over. By now the kid was probably headed back to Louisville to compete for PCW while he was sitting here, drowning his sorrows.

He couldn't help but feel responsible, as if in some way he'd become part of the corrupt wrestling machine. He'd never wanted that. He'd just wanted to take over for Tara Shannon so that his friend could move on to another chapter of her life. He hadn't signed on for this depraved dog and pony show. He hadn't intended to tear apart his own marriage in the process— neglect was a horrible thing.

His phone lit up, his partner's smiling face filling the screen. Heaving a sigh, he pressed the IGNORE button and looked up into the face of the bartender— his name was Jerry—  the name had popped into his head as soon as he'd sat down. His two-year chip sat beside the glass on the stained wooden surface. It was dented from riding around in his pocket. There were scratches and smudges on it from his fingers— in so many ways it reminded him of that lost belt so long ago, and how he'd been manipulated into that chase by everyone around him. A so-called intervention had turned into an obsession and he'd believed that every aspect of it was real.

Tapping the edge of his glass, he sighed. He tossed it back, feeling the liquor burn and steal away his breath. It was easier to cope with the contempt he felt for himself with a few shots down the hatch. That always seemed to be the case with him. He just couldn't say no.

"I'm sorry," he said softly, whispering the words into the glass as if he hoped the ice could transmit the sentiment to Shawn, to Lex Collins, to Chauncy and everyone else he'd failed.

Condensation was running over his fingers as he kept that iron grip on the glass so tight he was surprised it didn't crack.

Jerry's hand waved in his face in the bartender's version of 'these are not the droids you're looking for'. "Hey, LG?"

Nobody'd called him that in years. He flinched, feeling confused and disoriented. Why was he here? He lifted those pale blue eyes to stare at the bartender, "yeah?"

"You were a million miles away." He said with a frown, "hope everything's okay?"

It definitely wasn't. Gowan shrugged, staring at the indentation on his finger where the ring had been up until a few hours ago, "I wasn't paying attention. I've got a lot on my mind these days."

"Figured," Jerry chuckled, tapping the edge of the glass. "You want another?"

He lifted the glass to his lips and took a long, greedy swallow. "Yeah, might as well." He managed to keep the smile on his lips, but it was cracking, already brittle, "out of the frying pan," the words came out in a coarse whisper as he took another sip.

"What?"

"Nothing," Gowan shook his head, planning to keep it to himself but the words, lubricated by the Scotch, came slipping out, "everything's falling apart."

"You're in the right place for that." Jerry set down another glass, pushing it towards him.

Gowan fumbled for another crumpled twenty but Jerry waved him off. "S'on me, mate."

Even here in the bar aptly called Hell, the fame went a long way. It helped that his signed photograph was still hanging on the wall alongside some of the true greats in entertainment. "You want anything to eat before the kitchen closes?"

"I don't think so," he murmured, "I should probably go..." he glanced down at his phone, seeing the indicator that a message had been left. He could only imagine what it would say. Maybe he should just get a hotel and drink until it stopped hurting. Maybe—

"Where's FTW headed next?"

Gowan stared at him, completely lost. "I... I'm not sure."

"You're management and you don't know?" Jerry laughed, "maybe you should lay off the sauce—"

"Probably should," Gowan looked at him, "but then I'd probably go stark-raving mad."

"Oh—"

"Yeah. That's about what it's come to." Gowan tossed back the next drink and then peeled off a few bills, laying them on the bartop. It was at least triple what his tab was. He didn't care. "Keep the change— it's blood money anyhow..."



His hand trailed through the ties hanging from a hook at the side of the closet, looking for one that would fit the occasion. Coming up with a pale pink one with tiny white hearts on it, Larry nodded and pulled it free from the jumble. Turning towards the mirror, he adjusted the ends around his neck before tying it efficiently, getting it right on the first try, despite his shaking hands. Snagging his jacket where it rested across the bed, he shrugged into it and smoothed out the lines, smiling in satisfaction at his reflection just as he heard the car pull in. Pulling out his phone, he checked the time— cutting it close, but maybe he could still pull it off in time.

Too late, as it turned out, the Prius pulling in in front of the garage and Chauncy climbing out with two rustling paper bags of what looked to be staples. There was still something there, some softness to his motions, something of a bounce in his step, that made him obvious. Not his usual reserved self. Then again, given the date, he was being fairly predictable.

He checked out the window, muttering, "shit," when he realized that Chauncy hadn't pulled into the garage. Turning on his heel, rushed down the hall, measuring his steps so that he arrived in the kitchen doorway at the same time the back door opened.

"Oh, good, there you are. I need your help bringing some things in from the car," said Chauncy, pointing towards where it was parked. "In the boot, if you'd be so kind."

"Did you buy out the whole store?" He quipped, making his way towards the door while his partner set the bags down on the kitchen counter. Whistling to himself, he made his way out to the car and leaned down, pushing in the release for the trunk before lifting the hatch. "OH!" The sound was one of pure delight as white and pink balloons rose up from that dark space, surrounding him before flying up towards the impossibly blue sky. He turned back towards the house, laughing.

Chauncy was leaning in the doorway, one ankle crossed over the other, watching him almost raptly, a smile curving his lips and crinkling the corners of his eyes. "How'd you go? Find your pressie?" he called.

"The balloons were wonderful!" Larry called back, turning towards the car again because he could smell that heavenly scent of roses. Leaning in again, this time he saw that the trunk was stuffed with flowers and several boxes of the imported German chocolates he loved so much. "There's far too much for me to carry," he called out, his voice breaking on the overwhelming emotion. Sure, as far as gifts went it was far from outlandish or original, but they were simple and sweet. "I think I might need some help."

"Of course. Happy Valentine's Day, as well." He walked out and picked up the chocolates. "I do hope you like them. I know you liked them last time…"

"I did—" he paused, correcting himself, "I do. Anything else I need to fetch while I'm at it?" He glanced between the car and Chauncy's face as he lifted the huge bouquet of roses from the trunk. 

"There might be a voucher for dinner tonight in the bottom of the grocery bag," he answered. "We'll go together. Then maybe a walk, I thought."

"A walk? Sounds heavenly," Larry replied, nudging the trunk closed with his elbow before turning towards the house. "And you should park in the garage. It looks as though it might rain."

"Then we'll just pack a brolly," he suggested. "See? Problem solved before it begins. Besides, what better night to share an umbrella than Valentine's? It's movie-kitschy, so ideal."

Resisting the urge to facepalm at being thwarted twice in his attempts to unleash his own surprise, he marched into the kitchen, gently laying the flowers down on the counter before going in search of a vase to put them in.

Chauncy set the chocolates on the counter, leaning against it for a moment, looking thoughtful. "I am sorry I'm not more original. You know how bloody terrible I am about feelings. There's a card, though. It's easier when I write things down."

He finally fished one out from the top shelf above the glasses, turning around as he set it down on the counter. "You remembered the day… that's all that matters to me. You could write my name in the sand and take a photograph of it— I'd treasure it forever— doesn't matter what goods are exchanged, honey." He took a few steps towards Chauncy before stopping, "the fact that you're here is more important to me than anything else."

"Well, of course I'm here. Where else would I want to be?" he asked, pressing a palm to Larry's chest and clutching his fingers, bunching up the fabric of his shirt in one hand and drawing him closer. "I mean, I do love you, Lawrence."

"You mean the world to me, Chauncy. You're everything," he replied in a voice that was barely above a rough whisper. The emotions were running far too close to the surface today for his own good. 

"Well, just as well we're together then, isn't it, love?" he asked, pulling him even closer. "And staying that way."