009: burn

BRAD JACKSON SAT ALONE on the edge of the low brick wall that encircled a mostly-dead garden. The sign for the Marlatt Funeral Home & Cremation Centre sat behind him, reminding him why they were here in downtown Hamilton. Eyes closed as his head bowed, his breathing shallow as he tried to pull in his emotions. He was sucking back his third cigarette when a gentle hand fell on his shoulder, giving it a squeeze.

"Hey," Larry Gowan murmured, "is this a private pity party or do you want some company?"

Jackson grunted, not bothering to open his eyes. "Never gets any easier, does it?"

"Honestly?" Gowan shook his head, running a hand through his wind-blown hair, "no. It really doesn't. She was a good—"

"Don't, Larry." Jackson's head lifted and he glared at his diminutive companion, "don't fuckin' hand me a bunch of shit about how she was a good person and a good friend. We both know she was a cold-hearted, selfish bitch. This just proves that… you think she was worried about us when she was knocking back those pills?"

"I won't speak ill of the dead," Gowan said softly, looking out across the street. "I cared about her. You know that. She…" he blinked, tears filling his eyes, "there was that passion for life, you know? She loved it so hard— not just life but everything. It's hard not to lay blame here, Brad. I'm trying really, really hard… but if he shows up today, I'm probably going to need you to restrain me."

Jax did a double-take, staring at Gowan, "if who shows up?"

"Stryfe. If he shows, I swear to God…" it wasn't jealousy that hung in his words. It was deadly intent that had nothing to do with the fact that Kitty was the only woman he'd ever been with in his entire life. Laying the blame on Alexander Stryfe for that divorce, for all the contrived drama that he'd been a part of in FFW for buy-rates- 

"He won't," Jackson muttered, flicking his cigarette butt out onto the road. "Think he already made it pretty clear how he feels about her. Besides, if he does, you'll have to get in line behind Sabra— she's got dibs."

Gowan bowed his head, taking in a couple of shuddering breaths. "I've got this foreboding feeling," he spoke softly, "this match at Uprising— I don't think we're supposed to win it. For the life of me, I cannot wrap my head around what Amy's up to."

He shrugged, snorting in derision, "so what if you lose. Not like it's for the belts, right? Besides, if there was some Legendary beatdown in the works, I'd know about it. Between you and me… I haven't been told shit." His arm wrapped around Gowan's slim shoulders, giving him a hug. "And if this shit with Amy is meant to strip you of the belts down the road, so be it. You'll have another title shot… and another… and another— remember, you're one of the good guys— their fuckin' bread and butter. They need you, Larry. I'm the one who's getting lost in the shuffle behind guys like Gilray and Christian Kane. So, this is one match… and it's the KoA and Nathan against Legendary's finest," the last word oozed with sarcasm at the thought of STFU being considered anything close to that realm, "if I were wagering, I'd bet on you guys. Nathan's no slouch out there, either."

"Yeah?" It was so much easier to focus on wrestling than to think about the body lying inside that coffin with the hot pink lining.

"Yeah. Scout's honor, Larry."

Gowan fell silent for a while, the silence stretching out. Finally he broke it, with bitterness in his voice, "wanna hear something funny? I've spent most of my life since my teens pretending to be something I wasn't. I knew I was gay when I was fifteen but I went through the motions— I saw a few girls and tried to force myself to feel the same things you feel. My mom died when I was fifteen… you knew that, right?"

Jackson nodded— they had that in common.

"I went looking for my deadbeat dad. Tracked him to Florida and the first thing I saw was him with this happy new family— Shawn had to have been about ten then and you could already tell he was going to be big and tall, just like dad was. They were playing catch in the front yard and all I could think of was how much I wanted to be him. He was the perfect son— not some closeted little gay-boy. My father ultimately chose him… he left… before I could leave… he left me. I was so envious, Brad. For so very long I harbored that hate in my heart and let it eat away at my insides."

"Larry," Jackson shook his head, "you don't need to tell me this—"

He continued as though Jax hadn't spoken, "he died when I was twenty. I went to the funeral just to see… to see what Shawn had become with the father I wanted to have back. I watched him cry over that grave when I couldn't— I went back to my hotel room and I smashed that damned guitar to bits. The guitar he'd left behind that was just another cast-off from a life he never wanted."

"I'm sure that's not true, Larry. You're a good person… if my son turns out like you, I'll be thrilled."

He lifted his head, looking over at Jackson. "Was this your dream?"

"What? Wrestling?" He chuckled, "no, it was the fall-back because that offer fell on my plate. I was grooming myself to be a spy— was going to join the CIA or something. But they offered me an easy way out. The violence was too good to pass up."

"I never wanted this, either and I've been doing it almost longer than I did the music. When I was living in Toronto, busting my hump playing piano all night in dive bars just to make enough money to pay the bills, do you think being a pro wrestler was even on the short list? No way. Music was my life and I wanted to go to Tittenhurst Park— I wanted to sleep under the same roof that John Lennon slept under and I wanted to make music that would change the world." Gowan sighed, "music was my first love— my passion. And then one day… everything went sour. It just hurt too much."

"Larry, you're a wrestler. For the last fifteen years, that's who you've been. Maybe you never would have considered your oodles charisma and showmanship as assets to carry you into living rooms on Wednesday night broadcasts for the better part of the 90's— but they did. Bill Jackson pushed you hard and it wasn't just because of the KoA then. It was because you could hold them in the palm of your hand— they wanted to watch you. Those people cheered their heads off every time you came to the ring, even when you were supposed to lose to put the other guy over. You never heard them, but I did and God, I was so fucking envious of you. I tried so hard to be that on when the music hit. I had to chew the goddamn scenery… I had to break myself to bits just for a little heat and you were out there pumping a fist in the air and inciting a goddamn riot."

Gowan shook his head, "I'm not good… not at all. I've never been trained to wrestle— at least not really. I just jumped in the ring as a jobber and learned on my feet. I learned how to take the bumps. I learned how to sell moves but I didn't really learn anything about the sport until you came along. Remember… remember when we used to," he trailed off, his voice cracking.

"When we what?" Jackson looked confused, "when we trained together?"

Gowan turned his head, his eyes filled with unshed tears. "Yeah, I guess… but not just that. Before when we were both in the KoA, when I went out to the ring to fight, I always knew you had my back. Dane and Stan were fair-weather at best, but you were always there for me— until you weren't. I guess I'm realizing now how much I missed that. I didn't realize it until now, but I do. How pathetic is that? You and I were a team long before we were Knights."

"Yeah? And how do you think I felt when I watched you sweep up all those belts when the only damn thing I had was the fucking Hardcore to my name?"

"I never asked for that," Gowan shook his head, "I never asked for any of those opportunities. They just… happened."

"Right," Jackson pushed to his feet, "they happened because you're good, Larry. You were then and you still are. Why do you think they gave you THREE damn shots at the Pride Championship? Why do you think Amy chose you and Chauncy to challenge Stark and Stone for the belts? Because she knew you could compete at that level." He turned to go, stopping at the sound of Gowan's voice.

"Hey, Brad?"

Jackson turned to look at him, "yeah?"

"Thanks. For everything." The words meant far more than just a simple expression of gratitude.

"Love you too, little buddy."

Jackson hadn't called him that since WCWF, before everything went sour. They'd been at odds for years and it had taken Kitty dying to smooth those jagged edges. The nickname proved to be the one that broke him as the tears finally fell down his cheeks unchecked. At this rate it would take nothing short of a miracle for him to find his smile again, let alone lead his team to victory at Uprising.

He remembered something Kitty told him then, as they lowered Shawn's casket into the ground. He'd asked her how to cope with loss and she'd told him there were no steps etched in stone. "Take a breath," she'd told him, "and just keep doing that until it stops hurting." He whispered the words now, feeling oddly comforted.

The little things were the ones that mattered now. The big picture could wait. For now he was just going to work on breathing until it didn't hurt.