003: (de)motivation

CHAUNCY NOTTINGHAM WAS battered and bruised, lying broken in a hospital bed and Larry Gowan had taken up the filthy habit of smoking— something he hadn't done since his early 20's. He flicked the cigarette away into the wind, stepping back through the doors, making his way back along the hall towards the nurse's station. He nodded to the nurse, getting a bright smile in return as he hesitated outside his partner's door. Celebrity status was something he'd never really gotten used to even though he'd devoted a huge part of his life to the spotlight— first as a rock star and then as a professional wrestler. They hadn't denied him one thing when he'd arrived here at Chauncy's side, even though it was well past visiting hours.

He stepped inside, his head bowed, shoulders slumped in defeat. He couldn't help but feel responsible for the current situation. "I'm sorry, Skippy," he whispered, sitting down heavily in the chair beside the bed. Machinery hummed, providing a backdrop of white noise. Here, the scent of the roses nearly overpowered the astringent reek of the hospital, almost banishing darker thoughts from his mind. He'd gone a little overboard in the gift shop earlier, purchasing everything they had. They covered the table, bright bouquets of pink and red, white and yellow.

Chauncy had been drifting in and out of consciousness and lucidity for the last few hours and the doctors were fearful that he might have some sort of permanent damage to his spinal column. Thanks to the Suicide Sisters, Chauncy might never see the inside of a wrestling ring again and that was weighing very heavily on Gowan's mind.

He wanted a drink very, very badly which was why he was still here haunting the hospital like a restless spirit. He'd watched the playback over and over on his BlackBerry— bootleg footage had already been leaked on YouTube, after all. He felt every impact of the chair that hit Chauncy, even if they hadn't bruised and battered his own flesh. His ears were still ringing from his own chairshot, but it was nothing. They'd caught the side of his head— nothing horribly dangerous— unlike the implant DDT onto a chair that poor Chauncy had endured.

"Skippy," he began, his voice gruff with emotion, "I don't know how to say this, so I'll just say it. Nothing fancy. No poetry, no dancing around the subject. I'm sorry. I screwed up big time. I should never have laughed at them. I'm sure you never expected to hear those words from me. We've known each other long enough that you can gauge my sincerity though. I know you can tell," he broke off, sniffling as tears filled his eyes, "you can tell when I'm blowing smoke up your ass."

The fact that he'd just uttered a curse word aloud was very indicative of his current mindset. He raked a hand through his hair, wincing as his palm brushed against his bruised forehead. The pain was nothing compared to the dull ache in his chest as he watched Chauncy breathing shallowly, his eyes flickering behind closed lids. "I'm sorry. Just two little words and I don't think they have the power to undo this damage. Maybe I need to rethink this, Skippy. Maybe I need to hang up my boots after all. I'm no good at anything and it's clear that I can't even keep you out of harm's way."

Leaning forward, he picked up the empty glass from the bedside table and filled it from the pitcher of ice water. Feeling nauseous, Gowan sipped the water slowly, relishing the coolness as it soothed his throat. After a moment he spoke again, this time choosing his words carefully. "You can probably hear me. I know I heard all the things that were said around me when I was in my coma— they became part of my dreams. So you can hear this apology— I still feel like I owe you one— I know that's just the Canadian in me. Always feel guilty. I need to say sorry for every little thing but this… this is big, Skippy. You could have died and once again I was tied up in the ropes like a tool."

He sighed, shaking his head, "I've done a lot of things I'm not proud of. I guess it's easier to admit things like this, when you can't throw it back in my face."

He shook his head, taking another small sip of water. "They told me I won't be booked again until the Pay-Per-View— I guess they figured I'd want to be with you while you recover. I should have felt grateful for the time off. Instead I was angry to get that call from Spooky. I just… I feel like the Claude Rains factor is rearing its ugly head again. You got the pin fall there, and you paid for it dearly. I did nothing but waste time. This should be a time for us to celebrate our first win with the revived team-" LG cleared his throat, attempting to dislodge the lump there, and failing miserably. He set the cup aside and reached out to take Chauncy's hand, watching his chest rise and fall.

"You taught me what it was like to live… you taught me what it was like to love… and now I understand, finally, after all this time, just why you came back. I get it, Skippy. I know you'll do anything for me…" he broke off, struggling with his emotions, "you know I would for you as well. I guess I needed to say it out loud, even if you can't reciprocate. Chauncy, I can't quit you, man— I love you more than anything. Please, please, please don't die on me."

He bowed his head, choking on a sob. "I'm going to call Spooky in the morning. I'm going to retire. Forget about that Pride Championship shot at Extreme Prejudice. It's not worth it."

Without another word, he stood to go, still holding Chauncy's hand. Those fingers in his gave a little twitch, startling him and then he looked down into the impossibly blue eyes of his lover. "Hey," he whispered, tears still falling down his cheeks.

"Hey," Chauncy said back, his voice a splintered rasp. "Don't…" his lips moved but the sound died. Shaking his head slightly, he pulled on Gowan's hand, dragging him closer to the bed. "Don't….give….up."

"Oh, Skippy," the tears splashed down on Chauncy's face. "I don't think I have a choice. I don't have it in me to keep watching you get hurt." Smoothing back his partner's tousled hair, Gowan pressed a kiss to his forehead.

Chauncy squeezed his hand again, whispering one last thing as he closed his eyes. "Always….a….choice."

Gowan pulled back, expecting to argue and instead he found that Chauncy had passed out again. He stared, searching for a flicker of movement, but there was nothing but the steady rise and fall of his chest. "I'm going down the hall. They said I could sleep in the nurse's lounge. I'd stay in here but these chairs do nothing for my back." Reluctantly, he pulled away with a sigh, and paused in the doorway, looking back one last time, as though committing the image of Chauncy in this broken state to memory. "I'll make them pay, Skippy. I promise you that."