006 (Broken) [PCW]

CHAUNCY NOTTINGHAM SAT ON THE most disgusting chair he'd ever had the displeasure of resting his posterior on. Sadly, it was the cleanest piece of furniture in the room. Sitting here, watching his partner in the throes of sleeping off his latest bender was giving him a sense of déjà vu that was rather unsettling. Idly, he twisted the band that was etched with Celtic knot work around his finger, alternating between crushing sadness and violent anger. For better or worse generally didn't dip this far into the emotionally draining spectrum— at least it hadn't since October of 2011 when his servitude had finally gained a legal document to support it. Where it rested on his thigh, his cell phone vibrated twice before falling silent again. He didn't bother to check the message, knowing that it was likely Wild Bill texting to check in on them. Like clockwork, the aged grappler still looked over the pair like a mother hen and since Larry had gone off the grid two weeks ago, he'd been worrying himself sick back in Phoenix. Sighing, Chauncy picked up the phone and tapped the message icon, glancing over the text before firing off a quick reply.



When he looked up, he found Gowan propped on one elbow, blearily rubbing his eyes with the other hand as he stared at his visitor.

"Slipped the lock," Chauncy murmured, moving to his feet with effortless grace. "The next time you feel like you want to play drunken Houdini, don't post photos of your food on Instagram with the location turned on."

"You—"

"I know, Lawrence. Save the garbage for once. The last thing I want to hear is an excuse about how you meant to call but time is a slippery devil. We've done this before, remember?"

"Skippy..." Gowan's voice was hoarse as he flopped back on the mattress, letting out a groan. "I..."

"What, Lawrence?"

"I can explain."

"Can you?" The look on his face was incredulous— he could feel that brittle smile and he knew that he looked borderline crazy. "Well by all means... spill your guts! We have a goddamned tag match in EIGHTEEN BLOODY DAYS AND YOU'RE SO GROSSLY OUT OF SHAPE IT'S INCOMPREHENSIBLE!"

"I'm okay. It's just The Burning Star Express—"

"Just?! Who the hell are you and what in the bloody hell have you done with MY Lawrence? Since when do you scoff in the face of—"

Gowan snorted, rolling his eyes with a laugh that made it clear he was still 99% drunk off his ass.

"JESUS TAP-DANCING CHRIST!" Chauncy took a deep breath, trying to control himself. He counted to ten...twenty... and then he broke the silence again. "Please, Lawrence. Enlighten me as to why you would throw away YEARS of sobriety for—"


"— his guts all over the lawn. It was ghastly." Chauncy's voice was barely above a whisper, but the tone cut right through Gowan's head and he realized that he was laying on something soft. One eye opened a slit to see the youngest Rottonbottom brother in profile, standing near the window. "I left the clothes in the shower, but I have half a mind to burn them in the fireplace—"

"...I like that shirt," Gowan croaked out, his throat more than just a little raw. When neither of the room's occupants answered him, he rolled over; scratching at his head, he realized that his hair was wet. Had he cracked open his head when he fell? He brought his hand to his nose, smelling it because he didn't trust his still doubled vision— it smelled like soap. He lifted the blanket that covered his legs, surprised to find that he was also dressed in a pair of sweats with a ratty t-shirt that he knew didn't belong to him. He'd never heard of who or whatever Gwar was. Someone had cleaned him up and he hoped against hope that it wasn't—

"Ah, the dead rise." The voice was deeper pitched than Chauncy's but at first he couldn't place it and that old familiar panic came flooding back.

"Where am I?" He pushed up, looking around the room, only to find that he was alone with—

"Shhh. You're fine. You might have recognized this room better if you'd actually slept in it last night." A hand as big as a baseball glove brushed the hair back from his forehead, "I can only imagine how rough you're feeling right now."

"I fell," Gowan said softly, trying like hell to impress upon this gentle giant that he didn't want his secrets out, "off the wagon."

"I know you did," Stanley Schwartz-Rottonbottom replied, his tone just as hushed.

"Literally," Gowan continued, only to be cut off again.

"Yes, I know; Kitty found you out on the lawn in front of it. You're lucky you didn't break anything."

His head was still fuzzy; it felt stuffed with cotton, but he could have sworn Kitty hadn't been alone. It made sense that Stanley had been with her. The two had been inseparable, after all. "Yeah, lucky."

Stanley's smiling face loomed in his field of vision. "Feeling better, are we?"

"...no."

"No worries; that will change..."

A sharp pain in his upper arm made Gowan gasp, and then he groaned as fire worked its way up his arm. He turned, glaring at Stanley, who still held a humongous needle.

"...the hell? What did you just inject me with? Who do you think you are, a goddamn doctor?!" He threw the covers aside and leapt out of the bed, still shouting, not even noticing that he suddenly felt fine. "THIS IS CRAZY! You're not a DOCTOR!"

Chauncy interjected from where he sat in the armchair in the corner. "Uh, actually he is. Stanley is a fully licensed family practitioner, along with being an orthopaedist... since he was 14."

"Oh." Gowan sank back to the mattress, feeling like an absolute heel.

"You're welcome, by the way," Chauncy continued, his eyes flicking to his brother before settling back on Gowan.

"For what?"

"I scraped you off the lawn. Kaitlynn wanted to just leave you there but I wasn't about to allow you to be shat upon by the birds."

"Oh." Gowan flopped back on the mattress, hiding his face with his arm. Even so, he could feel the heat in his face, knowing that he was blushing furiously. "Thanks," he finally mumbled, "you could have just left me there."

Chauncy snorted in derision, shaking his head. "Nonsense. You seemed as though you were troubled last night so I felt obligated to look out for you."

He tensed at the word 'obligated', feeling a sudden burst of anger. Before he could unleash a verbal typhoon on the hapless boy that he'd met only a few short weeks before, Stanley sat down on the edge of the bed, making the mattress creak in protest.

"How do you feel now?"

How did he feel? Well he no longer felt like death warmed over. In fact, he felt pretty good. "What on earth did you just give me?"

"That was a little something I keep on hand for wrestlers who imbibe a bit too much. I call it Aldetox," he was almost humble as he looked down at his large hands clasped between his knees.

"You should sell this." Gowan said softly, sitting up slowly only to catch sight of Chauncy as he was slipping out of the room. "You'd make a..." he trailed off, realizing that the energy in the room had suddenly shifted in a way that made him very uncomfortable, "I do feel pretty tired," he blurted suddenly. "Everything hurts from—"


"—I didn't fall off the wagon last night!" Gowan shouted, immediately wincing at the volume of his own voice. "And if I want to visit with some old friends and have a good time, why shouldn't I? If I want to attend Misty Whitmore's birthday or bachelorette party or whatever that was last night—"

"Lawrence," Chauncy's voice was so sharp it cut through Gowan's defensive tirade like a hot knife through butter, "I know. You've been drinking since October at the very least. You've a terrible poker face— you realize that, don't you? I was willing to overlook it at first because you were still... well... you. I know it was the stress of what happened in FTW. I know you only agreed to take that position as a favour to Tara, only to be completely screwed over by that she-bitch herself. I know you wanted to leave after that loss to Daesun—"

"Skippy, please... please don't do this right now. My head hurts and I feel like I'm going to throw up."

"Then do it." Chauncy moved closer to the bed, his voice as rough as his partner's thanks to the emotions that he was trying to keep in check. "Wouldn't be the first time you've ruined a pair of my shoes. I'll hold your hair. I'll clean it up like I have the thousands of times before. I know that you truly believe that life goes in patterns and circles but this is something that I can't really bring myself to stand idly by and endure. I can't—"

"What are you saying?" He lay frozen on the mattress, trying to pretend that the rasp in Chauncy's voice was just exhaustion. He didn't think it was and that prospect made his stomach clench painfully. He let out a soft groan, squeezing his eyes shut as tears flooded them. "Tell me you're not saying what I think you are... please... Skippy..."

"Don't call me that," Chauncy replied, letting out a soft laugh that was almost breathless. He felt like the room was choking him and the tears he could see slipping out from between Gowan's lashes to spill over his cheeks were like knives carving off layers of skin, flaying him alive. "I've never liked that name— you know that yet you persist in using it."

"I'm..." he licked his lips, feeling hot and sweaty— he was probably going to have to bolt for the toilet soon, "sorry. I won't do it anymore, okay? I..." he rolled over and when his feet hit the floor on the other side of the bed, he half staggered and half fell into the bathroom. He fumbled with the seat, and when it went up, it rebounded with the tank and came back to bash him in the forehead as he bent over the bowl, emptying his guts. When he was finally done, he fell back onto his ass and realized the room was utterly silent— Chauncy had left.

It took him ten minutes to drag himself up off the floor.

It took him twice that time to make it back to the bed because he saw that folded sheet of paper right away. He didn't want to read it because he knew it would be bad.

When he finally found the courage to pick it up, it was mid-afternoon and his stomach was growling. The shadows were lengthening across the room.

He'd been wrong. It wasn't just bad.

It was worse.