Chapter Text
It feels like taking a brainbuster, is the thing, sitting with ice held to the back of their neck in medical—like everything Mike knew and believed in was a rug beneath their feet, and now it's been jerked away, sending them terribly, horribly off-balance. Their stomach is a mess of knots; maybe they should have expected this, given everything, but they also aren't sure how. Everything Kevin had said was so positive, so inspiring. Mike had believed every word, fallen hook, line, and sinker, and in the end, that's what ended up being their biggest mistake. And it hurts, right down to their bones, in their joints still rattled from the impact in the ring.
Mike sits with miserably slumped shoulders. They were officially discharged already—"no lasting damage, just bruising"—which is the most incorrect thing they've ever heard. No lasting damage? They're hollowed out, empty, and everything they thought was true has turned out to be anything but. And how can anyone put a measure on that sort of loss? So they sit, fingers curled around the ice and skin long gone numb, afraid they won't be able to get their legs to move properly when they try.
That's why they're situated on the cot when two figures approach, shadows falling across the sterile plastic. Mike lifts their gaze, afraid, for a moment, that it's Kevin come to deal out additional damage, both physical and emotional, only it's not Kevin at all. It is, however, extremely surprising.
"Hey," Jack says.
Mike stares for a moment, blinking, and then, very slowly, replies, "Hey." Then their eyes slide to the second figure who, to his credit, is upright and moving around, a feat not too many others would be able to accomplish after going through the same match at Double or Nothing. "Hi."
"S'up," Darby says.
For a wild second, Mike fears they're going to get jumped. But neither Jack nor Darby appears angry, and medical is a weird spot to be launching any sort of attack in the first place. They drop their hand down, fingers still clutching the ice, which has begun to melt and turn to rivulets of cool water.
"You look like you've had a shit day," Jack comments, neither insulting nor cutting, as though he's describing the weather, and it's not like he's wrong. Mike has had a phenomenally shit day.
But Mike's gaze remains on Darby and the bruises lingering on his skin; he's carrying the marks of his match with MJF with him, the aftermath of having the title belt ripped out of his hands. Mike actually did, all things considered, enjoy their bout with each other, because Darby's the type of opponent one has to alter a lot of strategy for, and Mike likes being pushed outside their comfort zone between the ropes. Still, most people wouldn't be standing after what Darby went through, let alone be backstage like this. Most go dark for a few weeks to sulk and lick their wounds in isolation.
"I'm sorry," Mike says. They are—their chest aches with grief and regret, tongue coated bitter with the remnants. "I'm sorry for what he did."
Mike expects Darby to respond to that, but not for Darby to bark out a triumphant sort of, "A-ha!" and turn to Jack. "See?" Darby says, gesturing at Mike on the cot. "I was so fuckin' right!"
"That doesn't prove anything," Jack argues.
"What do you mean, it doesn't prove anything? They just apologized for Knight!"
"That doesn't prove they're fucking! Oh my god, I don't apologize for all the dumb shit you do."
Mike's missing something here, glancing back and forth between the two. This is an odd one, for sure: sitting in the bubble of two people who seem to be speaking their own language, and even moreso when those two people are, last Mike checked, individuals who had a bitter, violent grudge feud a few years back.
"Uh," Mike says, tongue thick and confused. It seems to catch Darby's attention, bring his focus back, because he turns to stare at Mike again.
"Got dumped via suplex, huh?" Darby offers. "Dude, that sucks."
"I don't think you're allowed to call them 'dude'," Jack says, and then leans in a bit, eyes narrowing as though he's studying Mike, cataloguing something they aren't privy to. "So, we thought maybe you could use some friendly faces after all that…" He waves a hand around, mouth screwing to the side. "…y'know, bullshit out there."
Okay, that's…new. Mike's eyes slide between them again a few times, as their brain is having trouble catching up to this new and strange reality they find themself in. "Friendly faces?"
"Yeah, you know." Jack shrugs. "As someone who's been through being horribly betrayed, it helps to have somebody around who isn't trying to piledrive your head into the mats."
"As someone who has also been the betrayer," Darby points out.
Jack sighs. "We're not talking about that time."
"Yeah, you never wanna talk about that time."
"This isn't about me, dipshit, this is about Speedball."
"Speaking of which," Darby says, attention back on Mike. "What should we call you? Speedball? Speedy? Ball?"
Maybe Mike's simply having trouble keeping up. They inhale slow, lungs filling, and then exhale, before replying, "You can, uh…you can just call me Mike."
"Ball," Jack repeats, with a low, deeply annoyed tone. "Christ, there's so much wrong with you." He sticks one hand out as though waiting for Mike to accept it, and oh, he is. He wiggles his fingers a few times until Mike sets their palm within and allows themself to be pulled upright. The linoleum is sticky, with a bit of give, but at least they're standing. After everything that's transpired, that's probably half a victory right there.
"You wanna get some ice cream?" Darby asks.
"Because we're apparently in middle school," Jack adds. He drops Mike's hand, rolling his eyes.
Darby grins at Mike, teeth bright. He really does look a lot better than Mike would have expected at this point in time. Hadn't the paramedics taken him to a hospital in New York City? The guy is superhuman. "Ice cream with a side of grumpy-puss."
"I'm not paying for you tonight," Jack tells Darby, quite serious. "You're on your own."
Darby ignores this, motioning with his chin towards the door Mike was cleared to exit through twenty minutes ago and hasn't been able to goad their legs into taking yet. "C'mon, you gotta get outta here. This place is a fuckin' mine field right now."
"You trust me?" Mike asks, because it's a valid question; Jetspeed was a team, after all, and it wouldn't be unheard of to stage a betrayal to win trust from an enemy one's hoping to get the jump on. Not that Mike would do that, destroy their own life just to gain the upper hand on someone else, but it's not like it's outside the realm of possibility. "After everything?"
"Are you gonna suplex me in medical?" Darby asks.
Mike shakes their head. "No."
"Then, yeah." Darby arches his eyebrows, comical. "I trust you. I mean, ain't your fault. You aren't responsible for what Knight did."
Logically, that's true, though it certainly doesn't feel that way. The truth is that Mike is responsible for Kevin's actions, in their core. They were a team. They were partners. And now all that affection's been stopped up, a dam erected to block the flow, and Mike's stuck choking on the backwash. They miss Kevin with an ache already so fierce it threatens to break them in half, cracked right down the middle, and at the same time, could reach out and run their fingers through the physical manifestation of the fury. Being stuck between the two extremes, experiencing both wholly, is a jarring and terrible kind of existence, one Mike hopes will lessen with time.
Mike hadn't seen Kevin's betrayal coming. They also hadn't seen these two coming, and it's the second thing tonight that has managed to be a full-body shock. The first one had been world-altering; Mike's still waiting for the verdict on this one. But if something so unexpected could happen to rock his world in a negative way, isn't it possible to get something…not awful as well?
Besides, Mike does want to get out of here, and they do like ice cream.
"Okay," they say, slow, and hope they aren't making another massive mistake.
On the walk out to the parking lot, it doesn't seem like they are. Jack grabs Mike's bag and slings it over his shoulder like it's second nature, he and Darby caught in some back and forth Mike can't follow and, quite frankly, doesn't think they want to. The night beyond the arena is still and calm, the most bizarre serenity following the fact that Mike's entire life has been summarily destroyed. In the back of their mind, a thought, an insidious one: forgive Kevin and follow him down the same path, and the two of them can be together again.
It would be easy here, wouldn't it? Trailing behind Darby to a rental car, with Darby's attention elsewhere. Mike could do it—could slam Darby into the bumper, take him out after he thought he was in the clear with the championship target off his back. But the thought, while potent, never fully materializes, because it's an impossible ask. Mike would never attack an unsuspecting party just to get back with their partner, not when the party in question has done nothing wrong and has, actually, been dealt a shitty hand of his own.
Another ache in Mike's chest, mournful. Their brain knows it's a lost cause, a fool's hope. Even if they did attack Darby here, there's no promise Kevin would even take Mike back.
As much as they want it, desperately, it's not worth losing their soul for.
Jack tosses Mike's bag in the back as Darby opens the driver's door, and the three of them slide into the car. The vehicle smells like a rental: the faint, lingering odor of cigarettes a previous loan shouldn't have been smoking baked into the fabric, and the almost overpowering pine scent from the hanging air freshener a bid to disguise it. Mike needs a few moments to adjust to the whole thing.
"So," Darby says, apropos of nothing once he's pulled them out onto the stretch of road beyond the arena lit with streetlamps and neon sign posts. "You and Kevin."
Mike sees his eyes flicker into the backseat via the rear-view mirror, and it doesn't feel judgmental, merely curious, though the whole thing remains a bruise on Mike's skin. "Me and Kevin."
"You were…partners," Darby says, with emphasis.
"Yes," Mike replies, because they know the angle Darby's going for here but isn't real keen to give it up so easily just yet, no matter how obvious they think it's all been. "We were a tag team."
"Right," Darby agrees, "but were you, like…a tag team?"
Jack's hand thwacks against Darby's arm, and he must have force, because Darby sort of yelps. "What the fuck is the matter with you? Stop grilling people about their relationships!"
"It's a valid question!" Darby exclaims.
"They were a tag team! People can be in tag teams without having sex with each other. Of all people, you should know that. We haven't even bought them ice cream yet, god."
Darby's fingers on the steering wheel splay straight, as though he's metaphorically raising both hands to prove his own innocence. "I'm trying to figure out what we're dealing with here!"
"We're dealing with a betrayal, it doesn't matter what kind." Jack growls, low in his throat, and then turns in the front passenger seat to cup a hand around the head rest and look at Mike in the back. "Oh my god, I'm so sorry for this, he's not—"
"Ha!" Darby crows. He wags his index finger across the center console in Jack's direction. "You just fucking did it!"
"I did what?"
Darby's laughing, full on, almost kicking his feet in the footwell as they slow to a stop at a red light. "You fucking apologized for me!"
"You did," Mike agrees, reluctant, because Jack's eyes have gone wide with horror. "You…yeah, you apologized for him."
"I'm fuckin' right!"
Jack looks positively stricken. "No," he says. "Oh my god. No way." Then he tries for the door handle, which doesn't budge. "Oh my god, I can't—did you put the child lock on the doors? Let me out, I'm gonna go walk in front of traffic."
Darby's too busy smacking his palms, delighted, against the steering wheel. "I'm marking this day on the calendar. I was so right." He spins around to blink at Mike. "You guys were together, weren't you? You and Kevin?"
"Darby, let me out so I can fling myself in front of that truck. I can't be this person."
Doesn't seem to be much point in denying it. "Yeah," Mike murmurs, and after it all, the agreement tastes like ash. "We were. Past tense."
"Sorry," Darby tells them, mirth fleeing. He does, actually, look sincere. "That's goddamn rough."
"I'll buy your ice cream," Jack says to Mike, though at least he's stopped trying to shove the passenger door open.
He's a big talker; he buys all the ice cream, and the three of them sit out in the warm breeze on a wooden picnic table past the little small-batch creamery one of them must have searched ahead of time. The bench isn't really big enough for three grown men seated shoulder to shoulder, so they're sort of squished together, and Mike thinks they ought to hate the familiarity of it, only they don't. It's almost painfully nice to have people around them as the cold burst of the ice cream hits their tongue.
They are very, very aware that they just got dumped, and this whole excursion is meant to be a pick-me-up. What a bizarre place Mike has found themself in, next to these two and their odd, comfortable banter.
"Fletcher and Takeshita," Jack says.
Darby, on Mike's left, nods. "Absolutely. Completely a thing. I'm positive I saw them gettin' handsy in catering once."
"Hopefully not around the mashed potatoes," Jack comments. "Okay, what about Fletcher and Ospreay?"
"I think they were just friends," Mike offers. They roll their tongue around the plastic spoon gone cool from the dessert, staring off at the road occasionally lit by a passing car, too-bright headlights.
Jack makes a noise of contemplation, a little trill. "You know, that somehow makes it even weirder. All that, and they weren't even a thing?"
"Okay, Mr. Hypocrite, you and Hook," Darby says.
"I never fucked Hook!"
"And thank god for that, he has the goddamn ugliest tattoos. I would be so concerned about your taste."
Jack snorts. "That's rich, coming from you. I'm already concerned about my taste."
The ice cream is a stone of ice in Mike's stomach. It's not entirely a bad sensation—actually, it's somewhat grounding. The whole night has felt like something out a nightmare, and here, with the sweetness lingering on their tongue, Mike is finally settling into the reality. Sure, the reality is awful, but hovering over everything like a ghost wasn't helping anything, either.
Mike exhales, long and measured, wishing they could close their eyes and be back at the morning, before their world imploded. Then they lean back over the top of the picnic table, spine an arch, and stare up at the stars. It's hard to see too many with all the city light pollution, but a few shimmer brightly against the expanse of black.
After a few moments, Jack settles back next to them, adopting a similar position, and then Darby does the same. No one speaks for awhile as the sounds of the parking lot and the road and the world still turning wash across their skin.
"This sucks," Mike says, quiet. They're afraid to pitch it any louder, afraid of giving the situation more weight.
"Yeah," Jack agrees.
"I feel like I got punched."
"You did get punched," Darby points out.
Mike sighs. "I meant emotionally."
"We knew what you meant, some people are just dumb," Jack says.
Another stretch of silence that Mike thinks should be weird and decidedly isn't. They shift a little to avoid the edge of the picnic table digging into their lower back.
"I lost the fuckin' belt," Darby offers, and he, too, sounds resigned—beaten down by recent events, both physical and metaphorical. "I can't believe I lost the belt to MJF."
"I got knocked out of the Owen," Jack says. "I hate Mark Davis. I hate him so much. And Ricochet. I hate them both."
"Of all things, too, a headlock takeover. I wanna tear his hair out with my bare hands."
"There's no way to fight this shit when they've got an entire faction on their side, you know? I mean, there's literally nothing you can do. These fuckers are gonna overpower you, no matter what."
Mike blinks at the sky, and the smattering of stars blurs a little at the corners of their vision. "We're a happy bunch, aren't we?"
Darby barks out a harsh, sharp laugh. "Jesus. No kidding. What a bunch of sad pieces of shit."
"The ice cream was nice and all," Jack says, "but I don't think it really made anything better."
"What am I gonna do?" Mike says aloud—doesn't actually mean to, since that's the sort of thing they think they ought to keep beneath their tongue, behind their teeth, too vulnerable. They try to swallow, and their throat has gone tight. Everything is awful. Reality has crashed into them like the mack truck Jack was threatening to walk in front of earlier. "Holy shit. What am I gonna do now?"
"You're gonna keep going," Darby says, forceful. Emotion warbles his tone a bit, so this has hit a nerve.
"What does this look like now?" Mike wonders.
Jack's exhale is slow, audible. "I mean, it's gonna suck. I'm not gonna lie, it's gonna fucking suck. But…you keep going."
"I'm gonna have to face Kevin," Mike says. "In the ring. What if I don't win?"
"Pretty sure going up against him is the win," Darby comments, and it rings awfully true.
The stars wink, and Mike can't tell if they hate the lights up there or are grateful the sparkles exist. "I loved him."
Still does, really, but the past tense is necessary here—helps shift things away, a step aside Mike knows is necessary.
"Yeah," Jack says again, with another of those mournful sighs. Then Jack does something very surprising, and lifts his left hand up, the arm shoved next to Mike's form. His palm is open, fingers splayed. He wiggles his digits a few times in an obvious invitation.
Mike stares at the offering. "Really?"
"You look like you need it right now," Jack says.
"Are we friends?"
"Think we can be," Darby offers from Mike's left.
"Oh," Mike says. They reach up for Jack's hand, which is warm and not unwelcome; what a night this has been. Mike couldn't have seen any of this coming, both good and bad. They could use a friend right now, it's true—Hangman is M.I.A. and Mistico hasn't been around in weeks and all the people Mike once thought maybe they could fall back on if needed have slowly but surely faded away.
If all the things they believed in were wrong, can't the opposite also be true? Can't things they never could have come up with in their wildest dreams be right? And real?
"Thanks," Mike murmurs, and it's aimed at both of them.
"Hey, maybe we need to start, like, a faction of people who aren't pieces of shit," Darby says. "You know, to go against the Don Callis Family and the Death Riders and all these fuckin' assholes."
"The Conglomeration is sort of like that," Jack tells him, and his fingers tighten a bit around Mike's. It's nice. It's stupidly, absurdly, surprisingly nice. Mike is fiercely glad for the support they never anticipated getting but, in honesty, very much needed.
"I meant more like, the anti-Don Callis Family."
Jack huffs out a chuckle. "The Nod Sallic Family."
"What does that—oh. Oh, wait, I get it."
"Kinda slow there, babe," Jack says.
"It wasn't that clever. Hard to figure out, actually."
Jack lifts their joined hands to motion across the picnic table. "You wanna smack him for me? Kinda on the arm? Or in the face, I'm really not picky."
Mike does not smack Darby, though they do keep their hand in Jack's, which, again, they think maybe they shouldn't be clinging to as hard as they are. In their defense, they lost essentially everything today: their tag team, their partner, their partner…everything. Is it really so bad to hold onto something kind offered? "I think maybe we all need more friends."
"Yeah," Darby says. "Yeah, we really fuckin' do."
"Well," Jack says, "you have us now."
Mike smiles up at the sky, and it's, against all odds, genuine. "It certainly would appear that way."
And in the grand scheme of things, Mike thinks they might really like to have them, because in the midst of the storm, they've found something of an oasis—a spit of calm as everything else falls spectacularly apart.
"Okay," they say, tenuous and warbling, but there. "Okay."