Chapter Text
“You’re an idiot,” Knight grunted, the words scraping out between clenched teeth as Punk leaned even more of his weight against him. Their progress toward the medical bay was a painfully slow shuffle, with Knight acting as a human crutch for a man who seemed determined to break himself into pieces.
“I know.”
If Knight hadn’t been certain before, he was properly convinced now that Punk was on some sort of kamikaze crusade to dismantle Roman Reigns, even if it meant leaving his own career in the wreckage. Which, for the record, was doing absolutely nothing good for Knight’s blood pressure, or his heart.
“You’re a huge idiot,” Knight reiterated, raising his voice just in case Punk was too busy focused on the white-hot flare of his own pain to hear him properly the first time. The fluorescent lights overhead buzzed faintly, casting harsh shadows across Punk’s pale face.
“Tell me something else I don’t know,” Punk panted breathlessly, one arm curled protectively around his most likely bruised ribs, the other gripping Knight’s shoulder hard enough to leave marks.
Knight huffed, equal parts frustrated and impressed. “Oh, I got a list, but we’ll be here all night.”
They burst into medical with a frantic energy that sent the trainers and officials scrambling. Staff moved hurriedly, converging on Punk and, within seconds, Punk was being pried away from Knight and eased onto an examination bed. Knight followed close behind, jaw tight, refusing to leave even an inch of space between them.
Punk’s hoodie was immediately stripped off, revealing the ugly bloom of significant bruising along his left side; deep purples and angry reds spreading across his ribs, the exact shape of where Roman had first speared him, before planting him through the announce table.
Knight’s blood turned to molten lead in his veins, the sight making his knuckles itch with a sudden, violent urge to track Roman down and replicate those exact shades of purple and black on his own skin.
He had always hated Roman and for very public, very valid reasons that ran bone-deep. Whatever voodoo the man used on the people around him that made the general public gravitate toward him despite his other blatant, remorseless tendencies, Knight was eternally grateful it had never once worked on him.
Sure, he and the twins had been on a nice trajectory that might or might not have blossomed into something like friendship, but that horrible mistake had been swiftly nipped in the bud by this latest horrid display on Punk before it could proceed any further.
Knight dragged a hand down his face, forcing himself to focus as Punk hissed under his breath when the doctor started applying a cold gel across the bruising. The man’s entire body tensed, a sharp shiver running through him despite how carefully the ointment was spread. Once finished, the doctor snapped his latex gloves off and tossed them into the bin. He turned to Knight, holding out the tube of gel.
“It’s just minor bruising, no cracks or breaks, so he’ll just need to apply this regularly till the bruises fade.” The man said, and Knight wordlessly took the ointment from him. “I’ll grab an ice pack for him to use for the next twenty minutes or so, then you’re cleared to leave.”
“But he’s fine?” Knight pressed immediately, stepping forward. “This isn’t going to mess with his WrestleMania main event, is it?”
If Roman’s endgame was to cripple Punk before he could even reach the grandest stage, then Knight’s plan to jump Roman was moving from a ‘maybe’ to a ‘certainty.’ And if that didn’t work… well, Cody would certainly be paying for his husband’s sins, one way or another.
“As long as he refrains from overexerting himself and maintains a healthy, unable to grab-distance-sized gap between himself and Roman Reigns, he might just make it there,” the doctor said dryly, turning on his heel to exit.
“Keep away from Roman—that’s a funny joke, if I ever heard one,” the madman currently straining Knight’s last nerve muttered. Punk sat up with a wince, swinging his legs over the side of the bed, clearly preparing to disregard every word of medical advice he’d just received.
“Punk!” Knight barked, the word sharp enough to halt the man mid-defiance, one foot already halfway to the floor. “What the hell are you doing, provoking possibly the most unstable guy on the goddamn roster?!” His heart thundered in his chest, loud enough that he was half-sure Punk could hear it.
“He was intent on making a show of how unflappable he was; I just killed that narrative dead in the water.” Punk responded calmly, his eyes tracking Knight with a clinical detachment as if Knight were the one behaving irrationally.
Knight stared at him for a long second, incredulity burning straight through his chest.
“He pummeled you with an announce table, Phil,” Knight shot back, temper flaring hotter by the second. “I don’t care how creative you get with the storytelling; there is not a single camera angle on this planet where you came out of that looking like the winner.”
Roman was a jagged thorn in everyone’s flesh, that much had been a confirmed, festering deal for as long as Knight could remember. But the fact that Punk was currently attempting to sacrifice both his own body and Knight’s dwindling sanity to bring the man down was something Knight couldn’t wrap his head around, no matter how many times he tried.
It had been established years ago that Roman was a fucking infestation. No matter how hard you stomped on him, he always seemed to come back, somehow even more resilient, entitled, and untouchable than the last time you’d seen him, and tonight had only proven the point in vivid, bruising color.
A part of Knight had reached a state of permanent, simmering resentment toward Cody Rhodes at this point. He still couldn’t fathom Cody’s decision to marry the very man who had not only caused Cody untold misery but had held the entire company hostage for years on end.
Cody had defeated Roman with literal blood, sweat, tears, and the combined force of the entire locker room, Knight himself included, standing shoulder-to-shoulder during that final, desperate stand. And yet the next logical step for Cody, after all of that mess, had been to marry the bastard instead of burying him six feet deep in the pit where he deserved to rot and be forgotten forever.
And as painfully irritating as it was, for a minute there, it looked like Cody being the Roman-whisperer had worked. It really seemed like their blossoming relationship was enough to keep Roman’s head screwed on straight, and that maybe the man had undergone some kind of self-rediscovery and changed for the better. But tonight was a bitter, bone-deep lesson in the cruel truth of life about how tigers never could shed their stripes, no matter how hard they pretended to be harmless kittens.
“You’re dwelling on the symptoms, Knight, and not the crack in the armor this has created,” Punk said, face stern, and as always ready for a fight.
The thing that made this whole situation infinitely more complicated than it had any right to be was the realization hitting him right then, at the worst possible moment, that he loved this man.
Maybe Punk was right, and there was some sort of decent strategy at play here for all Knight knew, but he personally couldn’t see past the ugly bloom of the bruise spreading across Punk’s ribs or the fact that Roman had actually put his hands on him. And it stung even worse because Knight had actually swallowed his pride and pleaded with Cody to talk sense into Roman to negotiate some sort of truce, and keep this nonsense from spiraling.
“There are more important things than taking down Roman Reigns,” Knight responded, his voice taking on a rare, pleading note that he hated hearing in his own throat. “And you certainly do not need to use yourself as bait to do so.”
The math was simple and suicidal. Jimmy and Jey had officially joined the equation now, circling like the ferocious hunting dogs they were, every bit as lethal as Roman when the mood struck. Punk versus three lunatic Samoans was simply a recipe for a career-ending disaster. Not to mention that Knight was well aware his boyfriend lacked the natural, golden-boy likability that Cody possessed. Nobody was going to rally the troops to assist Punk in this fight. If this turned into the war it was shaping up to be, Punk would be fighting it grossly outnumbered.
“Punk, please,” Knight finally resorted to begging, the words scraping out desperately. He stepped closer, unsure whether to touch the man or drop to his knees. “This is not the hill to die on.”
“So what, I shouldn’t defend my title against Roman?” Punk bristled immediately, hackles rising as he sat straighter on the edge of the bed despite the obvious protest from his ribs, eyes flashing with defiance. “I should barricade myself in a hole somewhere because some overgrown megalomaniac with a God complex thinks he owns the place? I have never run away from a fight in my life, and I’m not about to start now.”
“I’m not asking you to run,” Knight snapped back instantly, frustration spiking again. “I’m asking you to think past the stakes in front of you, for once! And you’re not being smart, Phil. Matter of fact, you’re being remarkably stupid with the kind of stunt you pulled tonight.”
“Of the two of us standing here, I’m the actual World Champion,” Punk said, his voice dropping into something sharp enough to cut. “I’m the only man in history who’s ever beaten those three pieces of shit at the same time with one hand tied behind my back! I made those bastards, Knight, and I can dismantle all three whenever I damn well please! So, you don’t get to call me stupid when the best you’ve ever achieved is some low-stakes mid-card title.”
The words settled heavily in the room, a suffocating weight that made the sterile air of the medical bay feel thin. Both men were panting, their chests heaving with the raw fury of their words.
There was a split second where Knight could have sworn a flicker of genuine regret crossed Punk’s features, a momentary softening of the eyes that suggested he knew he’d crossed a line. But the heavy door to the medical bay hissed open, the sound cutting through the tension before any apology could form or any peace could be brokered.
“I got the ice—” The doctor froze mid-step, the cold pack dangling from his hand as he took in the charged atmosphere. His gaze darted warily between them, from Knight’s white-knuckled grip to Punk’s defiant, pained slouch on the edge of the bed. “Is… everything alright?”
“Yeah,” Knight answered simply, the single syllable clipped and flat.
He looked down at the ointment in his hand and, without another word, he chucked the tube of ointment at Punk’s chest. He felt a vicious little stab of annoyance at the pang that shot through his traitorous heart when the tube connected and Punk winced sharply in pain, one hand instinctively flying up to cradle his bruised ribs.
“Got to bounce, however,” he continued, turning his back on the room. “Logistics requires that I be in Iowa for a promotional shoot first thing tomorrow.” He strode toward the door without a backward glance.
The doctor stammered in confusion, nearly dropping the ice pack at the sudden, jarring change in itinerary. He had been under the impression that Knight was the one driving Punk home. The sudden fracture was as visible as the bruising on Punk’s side.
“And your—Punk?” the doctor asked uneasily, looking between the retreating Knight and the silent Punk on the bed.
“He’s the World Champ,” Knight said over his shoulder, voice dripping with bitter sarcasm. “He can sort himself out.”
The door swung shut behind him, cutting off whatever reply might have followed. Knight heard Punk swear softly through the thin barrier, frustrated, and edged with something that might have been hurt, before the sound was swallowed by the corridor’s distant hum of backstage noise.
The car door slammed shut as Seth slid into the passenger seat, a wide, unrepentant grin splitting his face like he hadn’t just spent a night in holding. He looked entirely too pleased with himself and the glorious trouble he’d stirred up, the faint scent of whatever brand of air freshener the precinct insisted on still clinging to his clothes.
Drew pulled away from the curb in silence, a shake of his head the only outward sign of his simmering exasperation. Outside, the orange glow of the streetlights flickered across his face in intervals, highlighting the shadows of exhaustion etched around his eyes, and for a long moment, the only sounds were the hum of the engine and the soft croon of the radio playing some half-forgotten blues riff in the background.
“You’re an idiot,” Drew said at last, his voice worn thin with pure, unadulterated exhaustion.
He spared a brief, sidelong glance at Seth, who still wore his utterly shameless grin firmly in place, though Seth was now absently rubbing his wrists—no doubt where the handcuffs had cinched a little too tight during processing.
Seth sank back into the seat with a pleased exhale, his entire posture deflating with the breath. Drew had no doubt he was about to be absolutely insufferable about everything.
“Mm-hm,” Seth hummed, extremely content. “But you love me despite that.”
“True,” Drew admitted, the corner of his mouth betraying him with the faintest upward twitch as he took in his beautifully chaotic boyfriend, all unfiltered mischief wrapped in the man he’d somehow chosen to keep.
He had long since stopped fighting how mushy it made him feel, how quickly his annoyance burned off into reluctant fondness when it came to Seth. Seth could stage a one-man disaster, drag half the city into it, and still walk away with Drew feeling more exasperated than angry.
At the moment, he couldn’t even summon the energy to be properly upset about how the night had unfolded. His only real regret was that Seth had somehow managed to get himself arrested instead of making a clean getaway when the opportunity had presented itself.
Don’t get him wrong, he was one hundred percent behind Seth making Paul Heyman’s life as miserable as humanly possible. For that particular brand of petty chaos, Seth had Drew’s full, unwavering, and loving endorsement. But the least Seth could do was be a little surgical about the entire affair.
Seth shifted in his seat, his expression softening into a frown as he reached out to gently turn Drew’s chin toward the soft glow of the dashboard lights. He inspected the faded bruising blooming along Drew’s jawline carefully, wincing in sympathy as his thumb traced the edge of the particularly nasty discoloration.
“Courtesy of your best friend’s cousin,” Drew noted dryly, keeping his eyes fixed on the road but leaning ever so slightly into the touch.
“I don’t know if you caught the end of the show, by the way, but he absolutely obliterated Punk. Went berserk on the man. It was actually glorious,” he added, a note of genuine satisfaction in his words as he recalled Roman planting Punk through the announce table with severe spite.
Seth’s hand paused, then dropped away, a spark of genuine intrigue lighting up his features. “Huh. I might just have to pay Roman a visit with a wonderful bottle of cognac after all. Was it good?”
“Listen, I hate Roman,” Drew replied, his tone hardening with his usual competitive edge that flared whenever the topic was breached. “So you know it had to be perfect for me to be sitting here complimenting the guy.”
“Or you just hate Punk more,” Seth countered with a knowing smirk.
“Also true,” Drew acquiesced, feeling no ounce of shame at the admission.
Seth chuckled, though the sound was weary with the adrenaline dump of the last few hours. “I will always cheer on anyone going after Punk’s head. Who knows? Roman might get lucky where both of us failed. He’s just insane enough.”
A heavy silence settled into the car as Drew weighed the pros and cons of that particular disposition.
Punk had become something of an unresolved dilemma; a rot that needed to be excavated, once and for all, before it festered any deeper. True.
Drew had tried and failed, and so had Seth. Also true.
If there was anyone left on the roster unhinged enough to dismantle CM Punk limb by limb until the man was nothing but a blubbering pile of shattered ego, it was definitely Roman Reigns. Roman, who for all means and purposes, had been enjoying a comfortably extended break from his more sociopathic tendencies for the last couple of years, playing the part of the reformed husband with surprising conviction. Somehow, Punk, unfortunately for himself, had been stupid enough to poke the bear and awaken a version of Roman that had once taken nearly an entire roster of people past and present, to successfully contain.
“There’s also the small issue of him losing his marbles again,” Drew pointed out, his brow furrowing as he eased the car through a sharp turn.
“Punk?” Seth asked absently.
“No, Roman,” Drew corrected, “I mean, you’ve got to admit, he’s been remarkably placid these last few years. Very domestic.”
Seth nodded in agreement. “The Cody effect,” he said simply.
Calling it the ‘Cody effect’ was the most accurate description for the inexplicable.
Cody Rhodes had somehow, against all odds and every scrap of logic in their chaotic industry, managed to take Roman Reigns: former tyrant, professional menace, walking embodiment of control issues, and sand down the edges just enough to make him a halfway respectable member of society.
Even during the whole mess with Bron and Bronson, when any sane person would have expected Roman to snap clean in half and take half the roster down with him, the man had stayed surprisingly level.
Roman had held his calm through the indignity of losing his shoes to overeager rookies and the genuine physical toll of being hospitalized by them shortly after, without so much as a well-deserved Tribal Chief tantrum. Which meant that Roman finally snapping now, would more than likely plunge the situation with Punk into an all-out war, not to mention one involving a reformation of The Bloodline.
Punk had already managed to piss off both Jey and Roman in a single stretch, which meant Jimmy was very close behind. And as much as Drew was salivating at the prospect of Punk’s spectacular downfall—hell, he’d readily buy tickets and cheer it from the front row—he would much prefer to achieve it without needing to summon the devil to exorcise a demon… or in other words, the return of the Bloodline.
“And have we figured out a backup plan for if the effect loses its mojo?” Drew asked, his voice taking on a serious edge. “Or are we satisfied with regressing into 2020 through 2024 simply because we hate Punk more than we value our own sanity?”
Seth was, to Drew’s constant and vocal bafflement, actually friends with Roman. Despite a decade of drama, betrayals, and psychological warfare, they had somehow managed to cobble together something stable. It was definitely unhealthy and navigated by a compass only the two of them could read, but it possessed moments of genuine connection that surpassed even the most sensible of relationships.
Yes, Seth had been instrumental in dismantling Roman during the height of his tyranny. However, Drew knew his boyfriend still possessed an innate, frustrating ability to turn a blind eye to Roman’s more excessive qualities when it suited him.
Seth groaned, dramatically throwing his head back against the headrest. “God, I hate it when you have a point.”
Drew actually relaxed a bit at Seth’s agreement. At least the man had his eye on the bigger picture, which was peace. Or whatever vague, fragile thing they all existed in at the moment, without Roman throwing his considerable weight around.
“I always have a point,” Drew said flatly, eyes fixed on the road. “People just hate listening to me for some reason.”
“Perhaps try being a little more suggestible than imposing,” Seth suggested, a playful glint returning to his eyes as he looked over at Drew. “The ‘Doom and Gloom’ routine is a bit 2024, don’t you think?”
Drew snorted, glancing over at Seth. Stripped of his usual sequins and fur, Seth looked jarringly different in an all-black ‘burglar’s ensemble’. “Next thing you’re going to tell me is to start wearing brightly colored outfits and giant sunglasses.”
“And what the hell is wrong with brightly colored outfits and giant sunglasses, Andrew?” Seth asked, eyes squinting at Drew in immediate, mock offense.
Drew’s expression softened, his lips pulling into a smirk meant to both tempt and appease. “Nothing at all when you wear them, babe.” He said primly, feeling a surge of smug satisfaction when Seth settled back into the seat, mollified by the compliment. Drew chuckled low. “Where to, then?”
“Home,” Seth said with a heavy, bone-deep sigh. He cracked his neck both ways before his face twisted into a thoughtful frown. “I need a long shower and a warm meal. Then I’ll need to pay the Rhodes-Reigns household a little visit tomorrow. Make sure Roman’s still got his noggin screwed on straight.”