Work Text:
The ambulance is loud.
Danny hadn’t really anticipated that, hadn’t thought about it before. The sirens are blaring, and it’s loud. The neck brace digs into the bottom of his jaw, scraping the already sensitive skin. Matt’s next to him, a constant presence, a familiar one. There’s blood on his face.
The ambulance is loud, but it’s not nearly loud enough to drown out Danny’s thoughts.
He stares up at the roof of the vehicle as the tires bump and skid against the concrete, and thinks about how badly everything has fallen apart. He’d thought he could win: wrong. He’d thought he’d found something of a friend in MJF: wrong. He’d thought he’d finally gotten his moment: wrong. Turns out, Danny was wrong about a whole fucking lot.
What a joke. He’s a joke. This whole charade of getting a match at Wembley is a joke, and Danny is the punchline.
Danny closes his eyes as the ambulance sways. He wishes he were still unconscious, so he wouldn’t have to be here to witness his own humiliation. Matt’s hands scrabble for Danny’s fingers, and while it’s nice, it’s also horrible, because they’re both wrecks. They’re both wrecks, and they’re both idiots for ever thinking MJF was going to be anything other than what he is.
“You’ll be okay, Danny,” Matt says, and Danny suspects it’s one of those things he’s only really saying for himself. Matt’s hand squeezes. It’s probably supposed to be reassuring.
It sort of just feels like another drop to the skull.
The engine beneath them rumbles, insistent, and if tears leak out from the corners of Danny’s eyes, hot and damning, then at least he can blame the head injury. It doesn’t really matter that he knows, deep down, the fault rests squarely on him.
They keep him overnight. Hospitals are a shit place to sleep, all things considered; there’s always someone in the hallways, and the nurses come in once an hour or so, unsympathetic to how badly Danny’s body is screaming for rest. He somehow ends up getting a few fitful hours between the interruptions. Matt fares better, collapsed in a chair in the corner of the room in the most uncomfortable position after the staff cleans up his head wound. Who knew diamond rings could slice through so much skin?
MJF had, probably. After all, it’s what he’d been banking on.
Danny curls his fingers around the stiff, thin hospital sheet they’d put over him. The room is cold, uncomfortably so, and he doesn’t have the faintest clue how to change it. He just grabs for the blanket, and stares at the ceiling.
He hates MJF—hates him so much he tastes stinging bile on the back of his tongue. Danny had been so damn sincere, too, and that’s the worst part, isn’t it? He’d been sincere, and MJF had used all of that against him. MJF had found it hilarious.
Fuck. Maybe it was hilarious to everyone else.
For the first time in a long time, Danny had thought he’d finally gotten it: the chance. The chance to prove himself, to prove he isn’t just an old pawn of Chris Jericho’s, or a kid who’s trying to play in the big leagues. He’d had a chance to be something. And he’d lost. He’d fucking lost, and then he’d been made an example of.
Jesus. He probably should have seen that coming, right? He probably should have known.
The nurse comes back in, fiddling with the machine they have him hooked up to. She looks over at him as she’s making a note of his blood pressure. “Pain level?”
“Doesn’t matter,” Danny replies, because it doesn’t. All the agony right now is in his mind.
She makes a noise of disapproval. Fitting. “You’re lucky you didn’t break you neck, you know that?”
Am I? Danny thinks. He doesn’t feel lucky at all. In fact, part of him wishes he had broken his neck. Could he have filed criminal charges? Attempted manslaughter? Attempted is a poor word choice there, since MJF succeeded. He’s destroyed Danny, good and proper, in all the ways that ever really mattered.
Danny doesn’t think he’ll ever walk back into a ring again. He can’t imagine showing his face backstage after this.
He glances at Matt, in the chair in the corner. Then he closes his eyes, and tries to slip back into sleep. At least when he’s asleep, the world can all fall away.
God, Danny is desperate for the world to fucking fall away.
They release him, but he’s missed his flight. Somehow, amidst everything else, that’s the goddamn straw that breaks the camel’s back. Danny sits in the airport while Matt spends thirty-five minutes arguing with the counter staff to get them re-booked, holding his head in his hands and trying desperately not to cry. The overwhelm is unstoppable, an onslaught. Not only has he lost and been ruined, but he’s also managed to be a giant problem for the company itself.
In a way, it’s fitting, and Danny absolutely hates it.
Finally, Matt returns with two boarding passes. He hands one to Danny. “Gate B48.”
“Thanks,” Danny says, mouth dry. He accepts the paper with two fingers. “What about you?”
“What do you mean, what about me?” Matt frowns at him. He’s got stitches in his forehead covered by a self-adhesive bandage, and it looks like he knocked himself out on a table corner. Might have been a better story, all things considered. “I’m goin’ with you.”
Danny’s limbs buzz. “You don’t have to—”
“Shut the fuck up, Danny,” Matt says, in his brand of aggressive support that’s somehow managed to work for him. He strongarms people into allowing him to be a satellite parent figure. And Danny’s always pretty grateful for it, but never more than now. He wouldn’t have been able to deal with anything today. Probably would have sat in the uncomfortable airport chair for hours in a sad, sorry state. “Let’s go. Get your shit.”
The plane back to Buffalo lasts a lifetime. Danny puts his headphones on and doesn’t hear a single beat of the music that’s playing, couldn’t even identify which songs were going. All he can see is MJF coming at him before everything had gone red. All he can see is the twisted delight on MJF’s face as he’d knocked Danny’s world off its axis.
As they land, Matt taps on Danny’s arm twice. “We’ll get an Uber to your place, and then food. I’m starvin’ after all that hospital crap. You wanna pick the grub?”
Danny can’t even think about eating anything; his mouth tastes like copper, the remnants of the blood he lost. “Anything’s fine.”
“Don’t give me that crap,” Matt snaps. “We’ll get subs. Meat’s good for you, helps you regain strength.”
Knowing Matt, he’ll make Danny eat a hundred subs if he’s got himself convinced that it will work, but Danny knows the truth. No amount of sandwiches is ever going to make the last two days disappear. He wants to bury his head in his apartment and disappear, slowly fading out of the public memory.
Matt might hate that, but whatever. He’s not the one who lost and failed to get the International title. He’s not the one who got annihilated on live television by someone he’d trusted to have his back.
Danny lets Matt manhandle him out to the Uber after they grab their luggage, and rests his forehead against the window. Every part of his body hurts. Turns out, when you get destroyed like that, completely, it lingers.
Matt holds out a bottle of ibuprofen, so the pain must have been evident on Danny’s features somehow. “Here. Pop a couple.”
“Shouldn’t take them on an empty stomach,” Danny mumbles, but he grabs for them anyway. Can’t hurt, at this point—he’s already reached his lowest point. He throws them back dry. It’s the only skill he’s got, apparently.
Matt doesn’t say anything more, and maybe, finally, he realizes there’s nothing he can say.
Danny spends the rest of the day in bed, under Matt’s orders, which is fine by him really, considering it’s the best play to dissolve into nothing. He’ll be a lost memory by this time next week. He curls up against the pillow and puts something mindless on the television. When Matt brings in the sub sandwich, Danny picks around enough to make it look like he’s eaten, to placate the man.
He sleeps a little. Matt wakes him up after a few hours and forces Gatorade down his throat. It tastes like being seven and having the stomach flu, and it says a lot that it’s hardly the worst sensation Danny’s dealing with at present. Matt orders wings through DoorDash for dinner, though the smell turns Danny’s stomach.
Late in the evening, he manages to get in the shower. He stands beneath the spray and stares down at the drain where the water swirls. The rivulets run down his nose and jaw; he’s nothing. He’s lost, and he’s nothing.
MJF has made him nothing.
If doctors clear him to wrestle, maybe Khan will let Danny get out of his contract. Maybe he can scamper away with his tail between his legs, the way MJF wanted him to.
Danny runs a hand through his shorn hair and spits out water that’s accumulated on his tongue. Fuck, he’s tired. He’s exhausted by the weight of still existing. His failures have clamped around his ankles, impossibly heavy.
“You goin’ to sleep?” Matt asks, when Danny crawls right back between the sheets once he’s dressed again.
“Yeah.” Nothing else to do—at least if he sleeps, he can be somewhere else for awhile.
After he shuts the lamp off, he checks his phone. It’s the last thing he wants to do, all things considered, but whatever. He’s got over twenty unread messages that he leaves just like that: untouched. He doesn’t need the roster’s platitudes. Just thinking about the things they might say turns his stomach. The only thing he thumbs into his his email, to see if the EAs have gotten anything set up.
They haven’t.
Danny sets his phone facedown on the bedside table and flops over onto his stomach, letting his arm dangle over the side of the mattress. His knuckles drag along the carpet. He breathes, in and out.
Fuck it.
He closes his eyes.
He dreams of MJF, in the ring. In his dream, MJF doesn’t stop at pummeling him; instead, MJF gets his hands around Danny’s neck and rips his head clear off, and as Danny’s eyes continue to take stock in what’s around him, even with the blood and the gore and his body lying a few feet away, MJF gets up on the posts, and the crowd cheers. They cheer, because Danny’s in pieces.
When he wakes, his eyes are wet, and he doesn’t bother to brush the tears away.
Matt leaves in the morning. It’s pretty obvious that he wants to stay, but Danny’s a lump now. He hardly needs babysitting. Just to make sure Matt thinks he can leave, Danny moves from the bed to the couch, and that single change takes all the fucking energy he’s got left. At least it’s enough to convince Matt that Danny won’t end up dying on the floor somehow.
“You eat, you hear me?” Matt says, in the entryway. He’s got his luggage next to him, and the Uber is waiting outside, impatient. “You eat some real fuckin’ food, Danny. I’m not playin’ around here.”
“Yes, sir,” Danny responds. He’s got no real intentions of doing that. As soon as Matt leaves, he slumps against the cushions, stomach dropping. Here, in his apartment, he can cease being. He’ll disappear from people’s minds—assuming he was ever there to begin with.
He checks his phone again. The unread message count has climbed higher since last night, and Danny doesn’t bother to check any of them. It’s all useless, anyway; the only message that would matter would be Khan firing him, and hopefully that wouldn’t come via text. Danny shoves his phone to the floor where he can’t be tempted. He loops his arms over his chest, and closes his eyes.
He’s startled out of sleep by a knock on the door.
“Matt,” Danny sighs. Maybe he should have answered some of those texts, if only because apparently the guy’s flight was delayed or something. He stumbles his way off of the couch with the heel of his palm pressed against his forehead, fumbling for the doorknob. Except it isn’t Matt when Danny swings the door open, it’s Will Ospreay.
Danny stares at him, slack-jawed, and for enough time that it becomes noticeable, Will stares right back. He’s got a duffel slung over his shoulder. Finally, Will says, “Hey.”
“Hey,” Danny returns, with trepidation. What the hell? “Uh, how’d you get here?”
“Took a plane, didn’t I?” Will says. He nods into Danny’s entryway. “Let me in, then?”
It’s not like Danny can refuse the guy—after all, they’re in Buffalo. So he steps aside and lets Will step in, closing the door behind him.
“Dude,” Danny says, as Will is surveying the place like he’s in some kind of mausoleum. “What…?”
“Yeah, I got your address from Zay, right?” Will drops his duffel down, and it puddles immediately. “Just thought… well. Fuckin’ sham, innit? What happened Wednesday.”
“That doesn’t mean you have to come out here.”
Will shrugs. He shoves his hands down in his pockets that are, in all honesty, too small for that sort of thing. He may have come in with bluster, but now, he seems a little lost. Danny wonders if he barrels into every situation like that: act first, ask questions later. It seems to fit. “No one else here.”
“Yeah, on purpose.” Danny heads back to the couch. His head hurts, temples throbbing. He doesn’t need this; doesn’t need Ospreay showing up like some kind of knight in shining armor. Will’s done more than enough. He won. He doesn’t need to be here acting like Danny’s a charity case.
Danny collapses back on the couch again. “I don’t need you to be here.”
“Danny,” Will says, in that fucking voice of his, like he owns the damn place. “You were just—”
“I was just what?” Danny interrupts. It comes out harsh, and he doesn’t care. “I was just fucking what, man? Beaten half to death? Betrayed by some asshole who, yeah, I probably should have figured was fucking with me for the hell of it?”
Will’s face does something, and oh, Danny hates it. “You don’t have to—”
“I don’t have to what? God.” Danny swats at the air between them, an ultimately useless gesture. “Get the fuck outta here. You already won. You don’t have to come rub my nose in it.”
“You think that’s why I’m here?” Will asks. “You think I flew here, what… just to be a dick?”
“Dude, I don’t know why you’re here.” Danny stares steadfastly at the television, even though the only thing on is a Popeyes commercial. “But you can leave any time you like.”
It’s an invitation, and, most importantly, it’s one that Will ignores. He sits down in the recliner and props his foot up on his knee. He takes up space like that, everywhere he goes, effortlessly comfortable.
When Danny glares at him, Will shrugs. “You said I could leave whenever I like. Well, I wouldn’t like to leave now.”
“Fuck off,” Danny says. He figures eventually, the guy will get bored and skedaddle, so he settles into the couch cushions to wait while his head pounds.
Turns out, Will’s got a stubborn streak to rival Danny’s own, ‘cause he won’t go. He sits through two episodes of CSI:Miami, which must be something of a rarity considering Will tends to start fidgeting after, like, ten minutes. After those episodes, though, he tugs his phone out and starts going through texts, and then, when he seems to have finished with that, he lifts his chin once more.
“You hungry?” he asks.
Danny sighs. “Why are you still here?”
“‘Cause I wanna be.”
“That doesn’t answer any questions,” Danny says, frustrated.
“Didn’t answer mine, either,” Will says. He pulls his phone up again, scrolling with one thumb. “Pizza? Chinese? Mexican? Gotta admit, Mexican here is loads better than what we got back home.”
Danny’s stomach twists at the thought of food. “Whatever.”
“Right, dealer’s choice.” Will seems to make a decision with that. About five minutes later, he settles in to watch again, offering Danny nothing at all. And Danny’s too damn annoyed to ask questions, so they sit in silence with only the television sounding until the doorbell rings.
Danny’s a little surprised when Will comes back with two bags. “Man, why did you DoorDash Arby’s?”
“Bruv, it’s the fuckin’ curly fries,” Will says, sitting back down and digging his hand into the bag on his lap. “Finest of American cuisine.”
Oddly enough, the fries actually do sound good. Danny sits up and reaches for the second one, that Will had tossed onto the floor. A few bites in and his stomach doesn’t revolt. Matt will be happy he’s getting something in his system, at least.
He’s halfway done with the cardboard packet when Will says, “You were good, y’know. Out there.”
Danny’s appetite shrivels. “I don’t need you to—”
“Ey, don’t,” Will says. “Lemme just say it, yeah? You were good out there.”
“Not good enough, though,” Danny replies. He drops the remaining curly fry in his hand back into the bag. “Doesn’t matter.”
“Piss poor way to look at shit, innit?”
“Whatever.” Danny doesn’t need this. He doesn’t need Will here to remind him of everything he failed to achieve. He lost. It doesn’t matter. He heaves his legs over the side of the couch, even though the motion sends another jolt of pain up into the back of his head. God, everything still just aches. “I’m gonna take a shower. Don’t let the door hit you in the ass on the way out.”
Will doesn’t stop him, but when Danny gets back to the living room, he’s still there, in the chair. He’s got his legs thrown up over the arm, ankles crossed, like he’s never sat in an armchair before in his life. He’s scrolling through Twitter as though it’s terribly interesting and not a cesspool of the worst takes anyone’s ever put into words.
Danny sighs. “Got a blanket in the hall closet.”
“Brilliant.” Will grins, wide and bright. “Sleep well, Danny.”
Danny slams his bedroom door, just because he can. Then he lies in bed, limbs rattling with repressed energy, and thinks about the guy out in his living room.
Danny doesn’t know what the fuck to do with all this.
At some point, he sleeps. It’s fitful, but at least he doesn’t dream about MJF again. Danny’s so damn sick of thinking about MJF. The next morning, as he blearily blinks into the sunlight, his head feels a little bit better. The skin’s healing over well enough when he runs his fingertips across the scabs; he’ll look like shit for awhile, but he’s probably not in danger of dying anytime soon.
Will didn’t leave during the night, either. He’s on the couch, still asleep, when Danny heads into the kitchen for coffee—one leg off the couch, heel angled against the floor, sock-less. He’s got a hand thrown up over his face like he subconsciously tried to block the dawn from interrupting.
Danny leaves him there, and clicks the coffee machine on. He’s got company before the pot fills all the way, because the scent of the roast must have woken him.
“Oy, I need some of that,” Will says, wincing as he rubs his hand along the back of his neck like sleeping on Danny’s couch gave him the worst kind of crick. Probably did. Maybe he should have left, like Danny told him to.
But something about the guy sticking around has settled in between Danny’s ribs. It gums up his lungs, a bit dizzying. Other than Matt and Zay, no one’s ever bothered to do this for him before—make sure he’s not alone. And he hates that it warms his chest, a tingle along his skin.
He reaches for two coffee mugs in the cabinet. There isn’t much else here.
“Thanks,” Will says, when Danny holds the second one out for him.
“You leaving soon?”
The smile Will flashes him is ridiculous. “Nah, I got all the time in the world.”
“Why the fuck would you want to spend it here?” Danny asks.
“Because maybe, Danny,” Will says, leaning against the cabinet as the coffee machine sputters to a halt with a few pops of steam, “I’m just as pissed off about what happened back there as you are. And despite you deciding to be an arsehole about this, you really were good.”
“What does being good matter if you don’t win?” Danny shoots back, because it’s on the tip of his tongue and in the back of his throat and coating every single one of his thoughts.
Will regards him for a second. “Not everything’s black and white, right?”
“It is here,” Danny argues. “Either you win, or you lose. And I’m so fucking tired of doing nothing but losing.” He slams his mug down on the counter and is surprised when he doesn’t crack the porcelain. “Every goddamn day out there, all I do is lose. And I’m sick of it. So fuck off, Will. Get the fuck outta here with all that dumbass optimism, and let me disappear in peace.”
He’s shaking by the time he’s done, limbs trembling. And Will just watches him, a charged sort of regard. Eventually, Danny has to shift his eyes away to the paint on the walls just to avoid breaking down completely.
“You done?” Will asks. The coffee maker has long since beeped to signal its completion.
“Yeah,” Danny mumbles.
“‘Kay. ‘Cause I’m gonna argue pretty much everything you just said there, Danny, but I just really need the coffee first.”
When Danny glances at him again, his face is scrunched, nose wrinkled in amused apology. He points at the counter.
“Sure,” Danny says, stepping back. His head’s a mess; he probably doesn’t need coffee when he’s got a non-stop drip of organic self-loathing to fuel him. He waits until Will’s filled his mug before continuing, “So, if you’re gonna stay here and argue with me…”
“Big plans to do just that, yeah.”
Great. This is the last thing Danny needs; his heart is pulsing pain in time with his heart, and it’s radiating down the back of his neck. “Can you at least wait until this headache fades?”
Will pauses, mouth poised on the lip of his mug. “They give you meds?”
“I’ll be fine, I just—”
“Danny,” Will says, with considerable force. “You got dropped on your head, bruv. Absolutely scrambled your spine. Take the meds.”
“Fine, Jesus,” Danny grumbles, but he does as directed, and heads back for the couch. The cushions hold the indentation of Will’s weight from the overnight. The armrest smells faintly of aftershave. Danny closes his eyes, inhales, and lets himself drift off while the medicine starts work on negating the aches beginning a jamboree in his vertebrae.
“Everyone’s worried about you, y’know.”
Danny frowns at the television. “Everyone needs to get some hobbies.”
“Bit rude,” Will huffs, though it seems, at least, relatively good-natured. “Haven’t answered any messages, have you? ‘Bout time to get on that, right?”
“Why won’t you leave me alone?” Danny moans; half out loud, for Will’s benefit, and half to himself, just to put the words into the world.
Will goes quiet for a while, and then, after Danny had hoped he’d stop talking entirely, says, “You do have friends, Danny.”
Danny has a win-loss record that rankles his skin and enough defeats when going for titles that he’s probably gaining a reputation for it. The last thing he wants to think about right now is having friends—friends aren’t gonna get him any further in the company. The last time he’d thought he had a friend, he ended up in the hospital. He doesn’t plan on making the same mistake again.
But there’s something in the way Will says that, in the lilt of his voice. In truth, Danny’s so god damn lonely he could puke. Maybe that’s why he latched onto MJF’s offering like he did, even when he knew better. Maybe that’s why he ignored his better judgment and the years—years—of evidence that contradicted all the pretty promises.
Danny tries to sink into the cushions, to disappear. It took years to get out from the shadow of Chris Jericho when he, too, had become the thing Danny no longer wanted to follow. Now, Danny’s just a statistic. He’s a blip that proves how good other people on the roster are, by losing.
“When have friends ever helped?” he asks. It’s a genuine question he doesn’t actually want an answer to. “I don’t need friends. I need to win. And I can’t fucking do that, can I?”
“Winning ain’t everything, bruv,” Will says.
“Says the guy holding a title,” Danny snaps.
“Look,” Will starts, pushing up on the recliner a little and leveling Danny with a stare that seems to see through all his shields. “I lost, too, y’know? I went after the World Championship, and I lost. And don’t you for one minute think that wasn’t the biggest fuckin’ disappointment, that I came up short. I could taste that gold, Danny.”
Danny punches the volume up louder, just because he can. “Not the same, and you know it.”
“No, fuck off.” Will says. “And you know what? This is a crock of shit, whole way through. MJF doesn’t even have the title any longer. Don’t you put that arsehole on a fuckin’ pedastal. He lost, too.”
“Why are you here?”
Will settles back into the chair, lacing his fingers over his chest. “‘Cause I wanna be.”
It’s not an answer. Danny wants to hate him for it. Instead, he just glares at the screen, stewing in all the shit he can’t seem to let go of no matter how his fingers cramp around the misery.
Near late afternoon, Danny’s phone buzzes with an email: official, from the EAs. They’ve set up a scheduled flight for Dynamite a week and a half out, the kind of thing they do when someone is expected to return from injury but hasn’t been cleared yet, a placeholder. It won’t be booked until Danny sends in the doctor’s orders, but Danny doesn’t even need to wait for that. He has no plans on going back, especially not just to appear backstage on a promo. He can’t imagine showing his face there again after everything. After what everyone watched.
He must stare at his screen for long enough that Will figures out it’s something more than a get well text, because the guy frowns from the chair. “Bad news?”
“For the EA,” Danny says. Too much, he gave too much away. He should have clicked into the email and replied without saying a single goddamn thing about it, and now Will’s hackles are up.
“Danny,” Will says. Danny’s name always sort of rumbles on his tongue. “What're you doing?”
“Replying.” Danny frowns, fingers tripping over the words he’s trying to type in. “I’m not going back to—”
“What do you mean you aren’t goin’ back?”
He’s distracting. Danny has to respond in the negative, and Will is distracting him. “I mean exactly that! God, why does everyone think they can get all up in my business? I’m not going. It’s over. And I don’t want them to book my—”
Will lunges out of the chair. He’s quick, is the thing, and at the present moment, Danny decidedly isn’t. Will’s got his fingers wrapped around Danny’s phone before Danny can process what the hell is going on. Danny tries to yank the device away, coming up short.
“You are not doing this!” Will exclaims, like he can say that, like he can make that decision.
“Fuck off!” Danny cries, but try as he might, he can’t seem to get his phone free. Will’s grip is a vice around the damn thing, unyielding. It’s just as obnoxious as he refusal to leave Danny’s apartment. He throws his other hand up and gets his palm smashed against Will’s face, shoving him backwards. “You can’t make me—”
“Give me the phone, Danny.” Will drags the phone and Danny’s arm backwards, ends up falling half onto the couch in the process. “Do not do this.”
“Why is everyone always telling me what to do,” Danny growls. He’s got shit leverage against the cushions but digs his heels in, trying to stretch back and away enough to get his phone free.
“You are going back,” Will says, shaking his head. “You are going back and you are not—”
“No!” Danny yanks the phone with all the strength he’s got left. He actually does get it free from Will’s fingers, raising it up over his head, which doesn’t do much good when he’s still horizontal. Will climbs up on top of him and grapples for it, smacking Danny’s forearm a few times.
“Danny!”
“No!”
Except that Danny is injured and the pain is slicing down into his shoulders, and he loses his grip on his phone, fingers sliding. His arm jerks back like a bowstring. The only silver lining is that Will loses his grip, too, sending Danny’s device to the carpet where it bounces twice and then disappears beneath the couch.
Danny smacks at Will's chest, furious. “You think you can come here and tell me what to do? You think, what, you can just show up and have some kinda control over me?”
“I'm not trying to control you,” Will says, low. “I'm trying to keep you from making—”
“A mistake?” Danny balls his hands into fists, heaves them against Will's shoulders. “Well, guess what. It's too fucking late for that! I already made the biggest one I ever could, and it beat the shit outta me.”
And it must piss the hell out of Will, because he grabs for Danny’s face, a roar of frustration. “Sometimes that happens! Sometimes shit fucking sucks, Danny, but you don't turn your back on everything you've been working for.”
“Why not?” Danny cries.
“Because people believe in you!”
Will’s weight on him is heavy. Danny’s spent the past several days languishing, with zero reserves left to throw the guy off. The best he can do is to push up against the restraint, the bulk keeping him on the couch, and he knows he won't be able to throw the other off but at least trying convinces him that he's doing something. “No one—”
“Don't you give me that shit,” Will snaps. “Don't you dare. I believe in you.”
Danny inhales, the air somehow sharp enough to slice his throat to ribbons. “Why?”
It occurs to him the position they're in right about the same time it seems to dawn on Will: that Will’s draped across Danny on the cushions with one foot off the couch and toes propped up on the floor. The delayed realization makes the whole thing a hundred times worse when Danny’s chest squeezes and shudders, when both of them abruptly freeze. Movement would be better than the lack, because without it, Danny can focus on nothing except how warm Will’s exhales are as they skate across Danny’s chin.
“Why?” Danny repeats, infinitely softer. He's not fighting anymore, though he can't recall many times in his life he could say something like that.
“Fuck,” Will says, kind of raspy. “Don't punch me for this, yeah?”
Given that, Danny really ought to have been expecting it, but he still manages to be surprised when Will kisses him. It's just not one of those things he ever saw coming; like most of the big upsets in Danny’s life—the car accident he couldn't walk away from, the JAS disintegrating, beating Brody King in the last Continental Classic match—he ends up being entirely flabbergasted by it. Which is why he sort of just goes slack, boneless, as Will presses a chaste kiss against Danny’s mouth.
When Danny fails to respond, Will pulls back. He stares at Danny with those wide eyes, one of his curls hanging over his forehead, and neither of them moves. Danny’s heart thunders, impossible to corral behind his ribs. Maybe Will thinks he's gonna get his ass kicked, despite the plea that came just prior. Maybe Danny should kick his ass.
Danny doesn't; he cranes his face up to get their mouths together again, a bad angle but an honest attempt. He can feel Will’s whistled gasp before Will is kissing him back, and this time? He's got all his focus behind the action, puts his whole damn chest into it. That's really all it takes to get them to a fairly desperate, decently frenzied state: mouths open and lungs trembling. Will kisses like he's intent on taking Danny apart, piece by piece, and hell, he might do a better job at putting everything back together again. Danny gets his palms against Will’s cheeks, sinks his nails into the guy’s curls.
It's when Will has Danny’s bottom lip between his teeth, tugging the groan out of Danny’s mouth, that reality snaps back into being around them. Danny shifts his head to the side just to break the contact, which sends Will’s lips stuttering down his neck.
“Seriously?” he asks, a bit breathless.
“God,” Will huffs, a chuckle that's mostly a burst of heat against Danny’s skin. “You're really gonna ask that right now?”
Danny doesn't have a better time to ask—they've already hurled past the point of no return. But now it's making more sense, the way Will had knelt down next to him after Danny lost their match, the way his voice had gone soft, the way he'd reached out to curl his fingers over Danny’s shoulder.
There's something intoxicating in this, in the way Will carries a whiff of cologne when he plants a kiss beneath Danny’s ear, the way he seems to be able to launch himself into anything with reckless abandon and has come into Danny’s life no differently.
As Danny is stumbling over the turmoil of his thoughts, Will sits up and back. He's still straddling Danny’s legs, and god, that's just so damn much.
“Right,” he says, like he's decided something monumental. He slides one hand through his hair, eyes drifting off to the ceiling. “We need to eat somethin’. And you are not gonna reply to that EA with some horseshit about refusing to go back.”
“Then what?” Danny asks. He can’t help it. His world’s gone upside down.
Will grins at him, bright. It’s infectious, that smile. “Ah, I got some real ideas, yeah? Think we can find somethin’ to do.”
Danny’s gonna rattle clean out of his bones. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” Will replies; his voice has gone deep. He leans in, pressing their foreheads together, and every one of his exhales is another burst of bewildered excitement in Danny’s stomach.
He doesn’t make Will sleep on the couch again. At this point, it feels counterproductive, and Danny’s had more than enough of that. Will’s a space heater when he curls around Danny’s back, arm thrown over Danny’s stomach.
“Hey,” Will breathes. It tickles the back of Danny’s neck. “Think I’m gonna challenge MJF.”
“You don’t have to defend my honor,” Danny says. “I’ll do it myself, once I’m back up and running. I’ll take the fucker down.”
“Yeah, but it’s a little romantic, innit? Gotta give me that much.”
Danny supposes he can. “Fine, fine. It’s a little romantic. But I’m still gonna kill him.”
“Brilliant,” Will says, slurred and sleepy. He’s asleep in a minute.
Danny stares at the street light filtering in through the bedroom window and dappling the paint on the opposite wall. Somewhere beyond this apartment in Buffalo, MJF thinks he’s won this. He thinks he’s come out on top, untouchable, and Danny knows the truth. He knows he’ll go out there, and he’ll destroy everything MJF thinks he’s decorated himself with. It might take awhile, but Danny’s come back from far worse before.
Will’s finger twitches against Danny’s stomach, warm.
Danny breathes deep, and closes his eyes.