Work Text:
*Ding*
Jeff Hardy looked up from the glass he was cleaning at the group of rowdy young adults piling through the door.
“Hey man, could ya get us a table?” One guy slurred, leaning heavily against a pillar for support.
“Ya, and, like, your entire fucking stock.” A girl wearing a rather revealing shirt chimed in, yanking her lollipop out of her mouth and subsequently flinging her spit everywhere.
Jeff sighed and dragged a hand down his face, trying to ignore his pounding headache. “Yeah, just go sit in that booth over there.”
*Ding*
Right as the party of 7 finally stumbled away, the bell above the door chimed again, and Jeff wondered how much trouble he’d be in if he just walked away.
But this was different.
The man who walked in was quiet and seemingly didn’t wanna be there at all, judging by the way he quickly slid onto a stool at the bar and aggressively smacked the bell in front of him.
“Dude, I'm right here.” Jeff muttered.
The man looked up and rolled his eyes, but didn’t seem legitimately pissed off; At least not at him.
“Can I just have a Pepsi? I’ve been craving one all fucking night.”
Jeff tilted his head at the request but nodded, grabbing a freshly-cleaned glass and walking over to the soda machine.
“Y’know, most people don’t waltz in here cravin’ a soda. You had too much to drink already?” Jeff asked as he slid the glass across the bar.
The man grimaced and nodded. “Hell no, man.” He raised his closed fists, revealing the words ‘DRUG FREE’ tatted across his knuckles. “I’m straight-edge.”
Jeff tensed. He wondered how it felt to not be burdened by the allure of alcohol.
Good for you. We should give you a shiny medal for being soooo much better than us junkies , Jeff thought, but he didn’t speak it out loud. He didn’t have the energy to start a fight.
Plus, why would he wanna scare away somebody so attractive?
The two spent the next half hour talking, revealing too little and too much about themselves to one another; Jeff didn't even know the guy's name, yet knew the exact address of the random old dude who yelled a slur at him earlier.
The man, who came up with the code name “Chick Magnet Punk” (how stupid, Jeff thought to himself once he heard it), seemed to carry an air of superiority, and it drove him crazy.
Surprisingly, he didn’t hate it. Not one bit.
Jeff actually found Punk's rambling comforting, a welcome distraction from the usual dull annoyance his job brought him.
But just as quickly as he showed up, he was gone.
“I gotta go Jeff, but it's been nice talkin’ to you.” Punk stood up, hanging Jeff a $10 bill and a few coins.
Jeff pouted, but quickly hid it, pocketing the money and hoping his manager wouldn’t see. “Will you be back?”
Wow Jeff, falling in love with a guy you just met and whose real name you don’t even know. What are you, a Disney Princess?
Punk looked conflicted before nodding. “Nah, probably not. This place ain’t really my scene.”
Jeff struggled to hide his disappointment and stared hopelessly at the entrance, watching Punk leave, officially marking the end of their first and probably last conversation.
Chick Magnet Punk . Jeff knew that, if he was going to yell about this man to his brother the second he got home, he’d need to shorten his name at least a little bit. Maybe a slight-acronym would work.
Chick MP? Nah, that just sounded weird.
CM Punk? Now that rolled off the tongue a bit better.