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Paul Heyman has worked with monsters.
Champions. Legends. Men who maul and dominate and bend the industry to their will.
And now he’s here.
In a backstage lounge that smells like Lysol and catering-grade coffee, trying to broker a meeting between his two newest acquisitions. They know each other, sure, but not necessarily as allies, and both of them tend to be a bit…much, albeit in different ways.
Seth is already waiting, cross-legged on the leather sofa. Sunglasses on, predictably, and nursing a plastic cup of overpriced cold brew teeming with lavender foam. He’s wearing a cropped jacket that’s somehow both entirely see-through and bulletproof, depending on the angle, and his nails are painted with little gold accents to match.
He looks composed, if impatient.
Polished.
Domesticated.
Paul is not fooled.
He remembers what Roman said once, barely looking up from lacing his boots.
“You know he's just a pampered little lapdog.”
And then Punk had expressed a similar sentiment recently—bitter, like it hurt to admit.
"That bitch'll roll over for anyone offering a belly rub.”
Paul had assumed they were exaggerating. Paul had assumed incorrectly.
In the short time that he and Seth have spent together post-WrestleMania, Paul has been made aware of the fact that, perhaps, he has bitten off more than he can chew. Seth is everything that Punk and Roman implied, and then some. He comes with a list of instructions for care, typed up, printed out, and hand-delivered by Drew McIntyre.
"He needs structure,” Drew had said. “And frequent verbal affirmation.”
Paul had laughed. It was not a joke.
Seth is a fucking nightmare to deal with on a personal level, but at least he possesses the pedigree of a champion.
Paul doesn't hear footsteps. He hears the door slam.
Bron arrives like someone fired him out of a cannon. Sweaty, t-shirt so tight it looks as if it's trying to rip itself off of his body out of fear, and a protein shake in one hand.
Seth doesn't look up at first. Instead, he sniffs. Just a subtle twitch of his nose. He slides his sunglasses down and glances over the rim.
Paul immediately feels a shift.
“Bron,” he starts cautiously. “This is Seth. Seth, Bron—”
“Yeah, Paul,” Seth says. “We've met.”
“Right, well,” Paul clears his throat nervously. “We’re all aligned now. Unified. A new vision. Isn't that right?”
“You're late, by the way.” Seth's tone is clipped. He takes a sip of his coffee and licks the foam from his lip.
“You're…sparkly,” Bron says. He narrows his eyes.
“Great, we're bonding. That's good.” Paul exhales.
Seth stands with the kind of practiced grace that makes Paul feel like he's watching someone prepare for a Best in Show showcase rather than a professional alliance.
Bron cracks his neck. Seth takes a step forward.
They are, Paul realizes with cold certainty, posturing. Seth's coffee is shoved into his hands and he scrambles to grab hold of the cup and keep it from spilling. Wouldn't that be a disaster?
Unburdened by his beverage, Seth drops to all fours without hesitation or a trace of irony. He sinks down, spine arched, lips curling, and growls.
Bron’s nostrils flare. Then he barks.
Not a laugh. An actual bark.
“Oh my god.” Paul's eyes go wide.
They circle. One slow, taut loop.
Not like coworkers or allies. No, it's as if they’ve been left unsupervised in a dog park and neither one knows who’s top of the pack yet.
This is not what Paul signed up for.
He used to manage Brock Lesnar, for god's sake! Who, despite being referred to as “The Beast Incarnate”, is very much a human. Not an actual beast or a…well, he’s not sure what Seth reminds him of. A golden retriever, perhaps? An Afghan hound? Nothing comes to mind that fits his particular brand of beautiful but insane.
Seth growls again, low in his chest and Bron tilts his head like he’s trying to decide whether to bite or play.
Paul is afraid of both outcomes.
His mind seemingly made up, Bron lunges.
Not to maul, but to test. A quick snap of movement. A shoulder bump. Teeth not bared but visible.
Seth shoves back. Hard.
His nails scrape the floor. His lip curls. He pounces—not graceful this time, but fast, and lands on Bron with a thud that makes something rattle in the wall. Paul swears he hears someone in catering gasp.
They roll across the ground.
It’s not a fight, necessarily. It’s just…snarling, barking....
Oh god, mounting?
Paul is flabbergasted. His eyes dart away momentarily, horrified of what he might see next.
Bron gets Seth onto his back for a second—just a second—but Seth is fucking unhinged. He twists like he’s done this a thousand times. His tight bun comes loose and curls shake free around his face. For everything he lacks in brute strength, he makes up for in strategy.
He's scrappy, Paul has to give him that.
A blur of limbs, a snap of teeth near Bron’s throat, and then—Seth’s on top.
Straddling him with his head held high, radiating victory.
Bron goes still beneath him. He exhales begrudgingly like he knows the script and doesn't want to blow his cue.
Paul watches, frozen, as Seth barks a single, declarative bark and climbs off.
That's when Bron rolls over. Flat on his back, limbs loose, chin tilted just enough to expose his throat.
It's submission. Well, technically.
Obviously, if Bron wanted it bad enough, this would've been over in seconds. He could've cracked Seth's ribs like a wishbone and walked away wagging his metaphorical tail.
He's holding back and playing along. Deep down, even if Bron doesn't understand the politics of all this, he knows what it means to be a Paul Heyman Guy, and apparently right now that title is worth losing a dogfight for.
Paul lowers Seth’s coffee to the table with trembling hands.
“Oh my god,” he says again, softer this time.
Seth lifts his head, squares his shoulders and locks eyes with Paul. Not playful or pleased, just watching; a dog trained to sit and wait for its next command. He holds Paul in his gaze like he's evaluating a threat.
Paul swallows.
He recognizes the look. It's the kind Roman has been known to give people before spearing them into next week. The kind Brock gave just before deciding someone didn't need a spine anymore.
It's not rage. It's potential. That's good though, Paul can work with that. He wets his lips as panic creeps up his neck.
“You were…” he stammers, “very—very good. Strong. Dominant. I mean that in the absolute best way possible, Seth.” He shrinks back slightly, as if bracing for an attack.
Seth sits back on his heels. He is satisfied. For now.
“Great. Fantastic. I think we've made real progress.” Paul gives a strained smile and reaches into his jacket pocket for his phone. In his Notes app, he taps on Seth Rollins-Care & Handling. It already has seventeen bullet points—addendums to the guidelines he'd been given by Drew. He types in a few more:
- Avoid prolonged eye contact during introductions.
- Do not allow unsupervised interaction with large, untrained dogs.
He pauses. Then adds:
- Praise immediately after displays of dominance.
He hits save.
Now, they've settled.
Mostly.
Bron remains on the floor, stretched out like he's just finished a particularly satisfying workout. One shoe is off. His t-shirt is nowhere to be seen. There's a folding chair in the corner that's been dented, somehow.
He's not growling anymore, but he’s breathing loud and occasionally flexing like he's about to pounce again, just for fun.
Seth is in Paul’s lap.
In. Not near. Not next to. In.
Head tucked under Paul’s chin, breathing slow and warm against his neck. Paul wrinkles his nose at the sensation. His arm is around Seth purely for containment purposes.
He strokes Seth’s hair because that seems to keep the fussing to a minimum.
“Thank you for not biting him,” Paul mutters.
Seth hums.
“I can be good,” he says.
Paul doesn’t answer.
He studies Bron. There's no challenge in his eyes. Not yet.
But Paul knows how fast that could change. If it does, well, he'll be ready.
He used to work with monsters.