DON'T SAY THE WORDS (LVL UP #5)

The video kept looping, this little snippet he'd found online of the last thirty-some seconds of match. LEGION and Maggie, beating the shit out of each other. Maggie Lockheart won and he wondered how much pain she was in right now. He wondered how much she hated herself, how much of a parallel this truly was. Was LEGION somewhere sulking? Was he licking his wounds, whipping the Church of Psychos into a lathered frenzy?

He kept replaying that ending, that final moment. He was already long gone by then, an afterthought like usual. A blip on the radar. A speed bump that only slowed the greats down for a moment. Simon Swinger had almost broken his arm to get him to let go of the ropes. At least it hadn't come to that. This time. He could probably fight again, even though he'd already begged off for the next show. 

LOSER. YOU FUCKING LOSER. YOU'LL NEVER GET IT DONE. YOU CAN'T AND YOU KNOW IT. 

His brow furrowed as the poison whispered through his skull, carried on the seashell noise of the crowd.

It wasn't the most crushing blow – he'd expected this very outcome, after all. Enough of these damned matches to count on both hands and he'd never managed to come out on top. There was probably some bullshit definition in a medical textbook somewhere that gave it a cutesy little name, explained it all away with a dismissive gesture.

"It is what it is," he muttered, shaking his head, eyes glazed and burning as he forced himself to watch that replay again. And again.

He needed to accept the reality, swallow that motherfucker of a horse pill even though he knew it was going to stick there for weeks to come. His back ached. His hands were stiff, still tacky with tape residue. He'd come out last and done no better than the so-called LEGEND Jack Michaels.

He knew she was standing in the doorway. He'd been aware of her presence the moment she'd breached the silence of his sanctuary, but he couldn't bring himself to open his mouth for fear that all the wrong things might come spilling out. So, he pretended to be oblivious, waiting for her to make her move and it felt a little like those nights when he heard the back door slam and the rattle of ice cubes. The heavy footsteps on the stairs always came next. And then the pain and humiliation. The only thing missing now was that sickly-sour smell of whiskey breath. He closed his eyes. Counted to ten. Twenty. Let out the breath he was holding slowly, trying to keep himself perfectly still. This was the comedown, the worst part of it, when he had to disengage that lizard part of his brain that was all too happy to dredge up the memories – no matter how many blows he'd taken, no matter how many times he'd tried to purge through therapy and conditioning and rewiring himself, they still hung on, stubborn. They crept back in, filling the cracks until the darkness was everywhere and it always seemed to blindside him, even though it was a pattern that had been repeating for years.

"I'm sorry."

Her voice was soft, startling him because it came from closer than he'd expected and then her nails ran through the hair at the back of his head, that touch making goosebumps pop up all down his back and arms.

She wanted so badly to say something to lessen the pain he was feeling, but knew that everything that was likely to pass her lips right now would be the wrong thing. She didn't really understand the minefield he was tiptoeing through in these moments, but she understood enough in the way he held himself, his body language almost a neon sign that screamed CAUTION in fifty-foot letters.

"You look-"

"Yeah." He cut her off, closing the app on his phone that was streaming to the TV. "I know. You know. So, let's not…" he trailed off, sighing. He closed his eyes, lapsing into silence again as he bit his lip to keep the poisonous things that were bubbling up inside from spilling out his mouth. The last thing he wanted was for her to tell him that it wasn't the end of the world. He'd have a couple weeks to recuperate, to pick apart all the mistakes and make sure he didn't repeat them again – if he was lucky, another opportunity would present itself. He'd been undefeated before this mess. Technically, still was in singles matches and he'd been holding court at the top of the rankings for weeks. The moment wouldn't pass him by. This was just a hiccup.

"Talk to me," she urged, sliding down to squeeze into the spot next to him, half sandwiched between the arm of the couch and that bit of cushion and halfway on his lap. Her hands rested on his cheeks, forcing him to make eye contact.

There was sadness in his gaze, that stoicism and pained panic she remembered all too well from their teenage years. Even now, she could tell he wanted to retreat or lash out, was torn between the two extremes. "Oh, honey. Tell me what you're thinking."

He let out that bitter chuckle, and he blinked a few times. His one eyelid drooped a little more than the other and she knew that was from some old damage he'd picked up along the way. It was the worst tell – she knew he was exhausted, on the verge of shutting down and she wondered how long he was going to go dark on her this time.

"Doin' my best not to think," he closed his eyes for a moment, focusing on taking some nice, even breaths. His tone was so practiced, so calm and neutral but she knew that was all an act that he'd perfected more than twenty years ago. He had no idea how nervous it made her now. It felt too much like those months when he'd been new on the scene in SCW, when he'd been chasing the Vegas championship and the approval of assholes like Freddie Lombard and V.

"Tell me what's on your mind."

She realized he was staring right through her, those dark and soulful eyes boring into her soul, as if he could pluck all the fears from her mind with that intensity but somehow still needed her to say them out loud. "Is…" she swallowed hard, trying to keep her voice steady, "is everything okay?"

"Not really," he paused for a second, hesitant, "I just… there's a lot of shit in my head right now – feel positively fuckin' scrambled."

She glanced at the TV, as if she wanted to remind him of what he'd been doing before she asked. "Why were you watching that? Tell me you're not going to take a run at him."

"What?"

Shit.

"You think I don't remember his father? The psychopath didn't fall too far from the tree. Which reminds me, have you talked to Bruce? Have you heard anything from Sam?"

"It's none of our business what's-"

"The hell it isn't. If any of this shit is real… like really real outside of what's happening when cameras are rolling? I'm worried, Lex."

"Why?" He was back to staring at her, his eyes flicking back and forth a little as if he was trying to decode what her body language meant. "She's not a fragile baby bird. She came out of that shit with Smith a hell of a lot more level than I'd have expected-"

"You think she'd tell you… tell any of us if she was having some kind of mental breakdown?"

He chuckled, the sound devoid of any sort of real amusement, "who hasn't been falling apart over this last year..." he trailed off, realizing that his dark cynicism was probably not the best idea now. He bit his lip, rejected words trapped behind clenched teeth.

Reaching out, she placed a hand on Lex's arm, "you want her to end up in some psych ward like you did in Vermont?"

He froze, having to force himself not to pull away from her touch at the mere mention. Sure, he'd never hidden it from her actively. He knew she'd seen the paperwork, the charts when they'd moved cross-country and had to find new doctors. She'd had access to it before when she'd been a nurse. Bringing it up now was a low blow. "Why… that…" he stammered, shaking his head, "no. That ain't the same kinda thing. Wasn't a breakdown or suicidal or..." he fell silent, shaking his head.

He'd never told her why, had never brought up the statutory rape charges that they'd tried to lay on him. There hadn't been a lick of evidence. Just Vic's word, saying he'd seen the two. In flagrante delicto in that motel room – he remembered that term now, more poison bubbling up from deep within. Remembered the door kicked in, all the shame he'd felt in that moment.

Dirty piece of shit. 

All the questions, badgering him endlessly until all the words had dried up. Six months of silence. They'd even tested his IQ to make sure he wasn't retarded. He shook his head, not wanting to re-open the wounds she knew nothing about.

"What happened, baby?" She scooted closer to him, "if you don't want to tell me, you don't have to-"

"It was October, I think."

"I saw the paperwork, Lex," she said softly, "it said July."

He said nothing, feeling her hand on his face, feeling the flutter of her breath before she kissed his cheek. "Six months, 'cause of the holidays. Was there until January."

"Was it because of me?" Her voice came out small, a little tremor there on the lilt at the end and it cut right through him. "Because I came to see you and Vic-" 

"No." He said it firmly, the word laced with steel and when he opened his eyes, they were dead black before they skittered away from hers. "I don't wanna talk about..." he lapsed into silence and it stretched out for far too long before she broke it.

"I'm proud of you, you know that?"

"What?" The frown said it all as he stared, clearly puzzled. "Why?"

"Because you survived, baby." She said the words softly, as though they were the most natural thing to say, "everything Clay… everything this shitty world and all the assholes in it like Finn Whelan and Matt Ford and V and Freddie, everything they tried to take from you… you never let any of it change you. You never let-"

"That's not-" he clamped his jaw shut, biting the words back. If it hadn't been for Whelan, he'd never have left Jana. He'd never have reached out to Hannah, looking to repair that broken relationship with his daughter. He'd have never found the parts of himself that he'd thought were lost forever. 

"Stop it, Lex. No matter what, you got back up and you kept going. Even tonight… you got up and you came home to us. You didn't go on some rampage or have a meltdown because you didn't win that stupid gauntlet match."

"How does that even equate to any of the rest of that, though?"

"How doesn't it? It's still your life, isn't it? Getting beat up, beat down… out there in the ring… is that any different than what Clay did for all those years?"

"I… I'm not sure how they'd feel if you equated child abuse to enduring a Don Tirri promo," he tried for a smile, but it came out all wrong, more a grimace than anything else.

"You know damn well that's not what I'm trying to say. Whether you believe it or not, you're strong. You've never let anyone break you – you're a good man. You didn't deserve any of the shit life threw at you, and instead of whining about how unfair life is, you took control of it. How could I not be proud of that?"

"Kept goin' out of spite, but for those last couple years 'fore I got sent away, I kept on 'cause of you. You know that, right?" He closed his eyes, taking a deep breath, "why do you think I always came to you when it was a bad night? I needed it. Hell, I needed you."

"As much as I hated the reasons for you coming to me, I did love those nights. I know that sounds messed up, but…"

"I know." He sounded so sad as he whispered the words, "you always made me feel like you were undoin' what he did... like you were putting color back into things..." he trailed off, biting his lip, "nah, that ain't right. It was like... nobody else could see me. Like when he tore me down, I was… I was nothin', Han. This insignificant nobody, unwanted like he always said."

"You're somebody, Lex."

"I know that." He nodded quickly; "an' it goes good for awhile. The voices stop. I feel good. About it. About my… about the things I do."

"Don't let this loss get in your head, baby. Don't let it get under your skin. You're gonna get another shot. I promise."

He nodded again, closing his eyes as he tried to hold her words close to his heart. "I don't wanna be a nobody. I want them to see me, Han."

"Everyone sees you, Lex – you're a household name and-"

"I know," he cut her off, "the worst of it's not the act of contrition or the goddamned guilt that follows every last success I've had. It was never any of that. It was… it was the fear. I never said the words. Never dared to – I just got kicked an' got back up so someone else could do it again tomorrow." He didn't sound sad, just resigned to that reality.

"You're more than that."

"I'm not," he corrected her, his voice soft, "and maybe it's time I just accept that I'm always gonna be a little too flawed, a little too backwards an' broken to really be the shiny paragon they wanna put on a pedestal. I'll be lucky if they throw me another scrap – not gonna hold my breath, though. Not keen on suffocating."