FIFTY-EIGHT: Pinocchio's Blues

The KitKat jingle was stuck in his head, rolling around over and over: gimme a break, gimme a break... break me off a piece of that KitKat bar. He wasn't sure what had triggered it but it had been looping for days, annoying because it was just one more thing that seemed to be slipping out of his control.

"Dad?"

He heard her voice, kept his eyes shut, letting that little loop of song keep playing over and over, drowning out the rushing white noise in his ears as he leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. The carved handle of the cane was there against his elbow, cold and unyielding, a reminder that he'd come much too close to his career being cut short at the worst possible time.

You deserve it.

The voice in the back of his head was relentless, this hectoring bullshit tirade that seemed to run nonstop these days.

Grew too big for your britches, you damned fool. You knew it was bound to happen, too. Always does, as eventual as day following night.

"When were you going to tell me?"

"Shut up. Just shut up," he muttered under his breath, realizing too late that he was answering to the wrong voice. Bruce opened his eyes to see his daughter standing in the middle of the otherwise empty waiting room, hands on her hips and that all-too-familiar defiance in her eyes. "How'd you know I was here?"

She rolled her eyes with an exasperated sigh, flopping down in the chair next to him. "Find My Phone. You never shut off your location – not like it's hard. Does mom know you're here when you're pretending on social media that you're at the gym?"

The accusation rankled. He had been at the gym for a few hours this morning, forcing himself through it because he couldn't afford to miss time. Letting his head loll back, he closed his eyes, trying to ignore that disconnected feeling, trying to tell himself that it was just his own equilibrium reasserting itself after he'd gone balls to the wall. Maybe it was the roar of the crowd, stuck inside his head now, like the so-called ocean inside one of those big conch shells that they sold in the cheesiest souvenir shops. He'd bought one for Charity on their second honeymoon and for the life of him, he couldn't remember where it had gotten to. Maybe it had disappeared in the move.

"Are you even going to talk to me?"

"What do you want me to say?" He knew she hated it when he answered a question with another question but there weren't any words left otherwise. He felt drained, beyond exhausted.

"Tell me why you're—"

He held up a finger, forestalling whatever else she was going to say as the door opened, a short woman in a pair of Mickey Mouse scrubs standing there as she looked at the pair strangely as though she'd overheard their conversation before her gaze settled on Bruce.

"The doctor will see you now."

He pushed up to his feet with a wince and an audible grunt, leaning a bit more heavily on the cane than he wanted to as he made his way across the room. He heard the rustle of clothes, the squeak of leather against vinyl and knew his daughter had gotten up too. He could almost feel her hovering just a few inches behind him, as if she was going to rush in to catch him if he stumbled or fell. In silence, they followed her to another room where that paper-wrapped examination table waited, mocking him. He waited until the woman left before using the step stool meant for children to boost himself up – it was going to be a bitch hopping back down when his ankle still had a tendency to buckle under his full weight more often than not.

"Fucking Christ," he muttered, drawing a fit of giggles from his daughter.

"Yanno," the door had barely closed behind the nurse before she started up again, "you could vacate the title. Nobody would blame you for that and you'd probably be able to get a rematch when you're—"

"No."

"Dad... seriously. You've held the belt for like six months already and—"

"Not even four," he corrected her, his voice barely above a hoarse whisper.

He couldn't stop hearing the engine revving up before it was shifted into gear, couldn't stop feeling the agonizing crunch in his leg as the tire rolled over it. The whole thing haunted his dreams, robbing him of the vital sleep needed to heal. The paper on the table crinkled every time he shifted, the padding too hard then too soft and every time the hand on the clock on the wall moved, it clicked, and he flinched. The door opened, the sound of easy-listening rock flooding in from the hallway – Chicago's 'Hard To Say I'm Sorry' – too many damned memories there. He shivered, déjà vu crawling up his spine, the urge to bolt from the room so strong he had to bite his lip, tasting blood.

"We've got the latest X-rays back. Finally." The doctor – his doctor – smiled warmly, "I think we're finally past the worst of it. Smooth sailing from here on out, no more trouble. How have your pain levels been?"

"Manageable." The lie rolled off his tongue easily enough and he wondered when the weed was going to stop working. Thankfully the Body Slam stuff was high quality but there was only so much he could do before the tolerance built up to a level where he wasn't going to find relief any longer.

"—if you want."

He was only aware of the doctor talking after the man had stopped and he had to shake his head to clear the cobwebs. He glanced over at Sam, wondering just how long he'd been spaced out. Her eyes were filled with concern, and he cursed himself for allowing her in the room for this. Forcing a smile, he tore his gaze away from her and focused back on the doctor. "I missed that. Run it by me again?"

"I'll write you another thirty days for the T3's, if you want."

"I'd prefer not." He looked at his daughter again and she looked away. "So, how does it look?"

"I can't find any hint of the hairline fracture you said they found on those first scans; it's pretty clear to me that it's just a severe sprain. Given your progress so far, I'd say it's safe to start physical therapy and you can probably return to the ring in a month or—"

"I've got a match in a week," he cut the man off, shaking his head, "and you told me if it came back clear, you'd sign off on it." His voice came out hard, a thread of steel there that had been absent a few seconds ago, " don't you even think of reneging on me now."

"I was more concerned about blood clots, to be honest. The frequency of your travel and your profession – even in the best of health, there are risks. Compounded with your age, I think it would be in your best interests to consider postponing that match."

"See?" Sam piped up, looking up from the screen of her phone. "I told you, Dad."

"No." He shook his head, a strange and irrational fear turning his guts to ice. "I've been resting up, training light for weeks. I didn't go to California for the last show, stayed off the road, out of the air – did what you said like a good boy. I dropped the other company. Lightened my schedule." He didn't bother to mention the Roth 3 Tournament. He'd dropped the match to Don Tirri, had barely been able to focus on the fight. Just walking to the ring without limping had been enough to completely gas him.

"Dad?" He froze, head snapping up, the irrational tears that were clouding his vision threatening to spill over as he jerked away from her touch on his arm. She wasn't slouched in the chair any longer. She was standing beside him, her hand on his shoulder.

"I need to see this through." His voice cracked in desperation as he stared at his firstborn and then the doctor in turn, not caring that he looked (and sounded) like a crazy old man. "Letting those hooligans get away with this is the least of my worries. Letting the championship fall into the wrong hands – I can't do that."

"Jesus Christ, Dad. Listen to yourself – you sound just as crazy as Smith did, like it's the only thing that even matters. It's wrestling. What's that next to your health?"

The fact that he'd just compared her to that douchebag Smith Jones bothered him more than it should have and he immediately lashed out, going for blood. "Nah, I don't expect you'd understand." The way he said it, she recoiled as though he'd slapped her – that wound was barely closed up and he'd just salted it in the worst way.

"No, I suppose I don't. I was able to walk away rather than let stupid wrestling ruin my life."

"Don't start—"

"Bruce," the doctor cut in smoothly, "you're running the risk of permanent damage if you compete. That's the bottom line here."

His head whipped around, eyes boring into the doctor's. "Is that a certainty then?"

"It's not that simple. It all depends on what happens next. You want me to speculate? Sure. If someone targets your ankle again, it could happen. Or it might not. It might take twenty more times before it's something serious, but I don't want to sign off on this without cautioning you on the risks."

"Fine." He snapped, "I'm 'cautioned'... so do whatever you need to do to make sure that CaliGrapps knows I'll be there on the fourteenth."

He just needed to get past that rematch with Rowen. If he could eke out another win, put those little shits in their place, things would be better. He had to keep telling himself that. If he made it to No Love Lost, if he made it out of there in once piece, everything was going to be perfect. "I'll be careful."

"Damn right you will," his daughter replied, just as vehement as he'd been.

The doctor nodded, pulling a couple Xeroxed pages from the file in his hands, handing one to each of them. "I'll let you two read over those and I'll be right back to answer any questions."

The doctor never expressly said he was going to sign off, but this little handout seemed promising. Bruce stared at the words on the page, their meaning lost on him for the time being. Symptoms to watch out for – he looked up at Siobahn instead, shaking his head slowly. "Every time I ever come to an office like this, it's always bad news," he sighed, closing his eyes for a moment, feeling contrite now that the anger had started to fade. "Am sorry for biting your head off. Glad you're here."

"Yeah," she replied, looking away as her eyes welled with tears, "me too. I just... you know I worry, right? Mom does, too. And we're both so proud of you – so very proud – you have no idea. You could walk away now and none of that would change. You know that, right? Please, tell me you know that."

Proud? No. Oh, God no. There's no way in hell you deserve that.

He closed his eyes, dragging in a deep breath, trying to re-check the urge to strike out that still had his fists clenched tight. "I'll be fine," his voice came out as a croak, barely there and he wondered just how loud his voice had been raised earlier. He'd have time to process it later, probably tonight when the sleep refused to come. For now, it was easier just to tell more lies and hope his nose didn't grow a foot and betray him.

He was fine. Everything was going to be okay. There was no danger whatsoever of him losing that Pride Championship and even if he did it wouldn't be the end of the world because it wasn't the most significant thing that had ever happened in his pathetic wrestling career. 

What a load of shit.