Work Text:
“Ro.”
Cody tightened his grip around Roman’s middle, fingers lacing tighter through Roman’s, physically supporting him upright through sheer force of will.
“Yep,” came the panting reply, breath ragged enough to give it away.
“You wanna maybe sit down?”
“Nah, I’m good.”
The denial was automatic, stubborn as ever. Cody pressed his lips together and exhaled softly through his nose, the sound carrying all his frustration and worry.
His eyes flicked to the beads of sweat rolling down the side of Roman’s face, stark proof of what his pride refused to admit: that every step was a testament to the exertion and strain he was putting on his body. Roman's legs worked fine, yes, but with his current stamina, it was safe to assume he was in no position to be spearing anybody anytime soon.
Cody had kept track, fifteen minutes standing before the wobble set in, ten minutes walking before his whole body trembled with exhaustion; yet Roman pressed forward. It was classic Roman, the kind of mule-headed determination that made him an unstoppable force in the ring, and a complete nightmare in recovery.
Case in point: they had been pacing the living room for forty-five minutes now. Each step quaked through Roman’s frame, the tremors rattling down into Cody’s arms as he steadied him. But the man refused to stop, pride and jaw set firm. He wouldn’t yield, not unless Cody forced him to. And force wouldn’t work with Roman. No, this would take something sneakier.
So Cody hatched his plan.
“Roman, I’m tired,” Cody said, injecting as much feigned exhaustion into his tone as he could muster. “Can we rest for a bit?”
The sharp eye roll was instant, followed by a begrudging sigh, but Roman slowed them to a halt all the same. Cody hid his satisfaction as he maneuvered him carefully toward the sofa.
“You sure you’re not the one who needs these exercises, Nightmare?” Roman smirked as Cody lowered him down, the curve of his mouth smug despite the tremor in his hands. “’Cause I feel like I can still go.”
“Uh-huh.” Cody guided him gently back into the cushions, ignoring the bravado. “Just give me forty-five minutes to an hour of rest, and maybe we can continue.”
Roman huffed like he wanted to argue, but Cody was already fussing over him, grabbing throw pillows, stuffing them behind his back and under his arms until Roman was surrounded, propped, and cocooned in comfort whether he liked it or not.
And Roman let him. Which was the strangest part.
Roman was… happy, Cody realized. Or, at least, something in that neighborhood. Maybe 'happy' wasn’t the right word; serene, resigned? Whatever it was, they were words that had never once belonged in the same room as Roman Reigns, yet here they were.
The man hadn’t so much as mentioned Bron, Bronson, or Seth since the day they’d left the hospital. No grumbling, no plotting, no restless midnight mutters about payback. Roman was at peace, or something dangerously close to it, taking his current situation with a patience and grace that Cody didn’t think the situation deserved.
It was unnerving as hell.
Because Cody had seen the other side of it. He remembered those first days in the hospital, Roman’s jaw locked so hard it looked like it might splinter. His eyes sharp and angry, too furious to speak, too wounded to listen. He’d ignored almost everyone, refused to acknowledge anything or anyone. Except Cody. Cody had been the single allowed little moments of contact that slipped past Roman’s pride. A shoulder leaned against, a hand gripping his when the pain peaked. Once, unforgettably, Roman had fallen asleep with their fingers intertwined, his breathing finally evening out as though Cody’s presence had anchored him.
And then, almost overnight, everything shifted.
It had happened right after Moxley’s visit. Cody couldn’t pinpoint what exactly had transpired, Mox hadn’t said a damn word, and Roman wasn’t offering explanations. But the change was undeniable. The scowl and the fury had ebbed. There was still exhaustion, still pain, still the iron will pushing him through his physical therapy, but his edges weren’t quite as sharp anymore. Roman carried himself with a patience Cody hadn’t expected, a strange grace that made it feel like he’d made peace with the whole damn ordeal.
What the hell had Mox said to him?
Cody had no answers, and Roman wasn’t offering any. And maybe he should’ve pressed, should’ve worried that Roman’s newfound peace was just a quiet mask, before the catastrophic blowback. But instead, Cody told himself what he needed to hear: that Roman finally looked like he could breathe. And Cody, God help him, wasn’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth.
Cody studied Roman for a long beat, cataloguing the exhaustion the man was trying very hard to mask. The shallow rhythm of his breathing, the faint tremor in his hands, the sweat darkening the edges of his shirt. He still carried himself like he was performing in front of a crowd, but Cody could see the cracks plain as day.
“Thirsty?” he asked quietly.
Roman did a vague thing with his head, one of those gestures Cody had gotten used to translating over the last few days. He took it as a yes and started to push up from the chair he’d slumped into beside him.
But before he could rise, Roman’s hand shot out, fingers curling in the front of Cody’s shirt. The next thing he knew, Cody was pulled flush against him, and Roman’s mouth crushed against his in a bruising kiss. The suddenness of it stole his breath. Instinctively, Cody braced a palm against the sofa cushion to keep from collapsing his full weight onto Roman, every muscle in his body caught between giving in and holding back.
It took every ounce of willpower to break away, even then, Roman chased after his lips, unwilling to let go, hungry in a way that had nothing to do with thirst.
Cody leaned back gently, a small, amused smile tugging at his mouth as he studied Roman’s face. The sharp cut of his jawline, the stubborn set of his mouth, the smoldering intensity in those eyes. It was maddening.
“Someone's happy today,” Cody murmured against his lips, and Roman leaned forward again.
“You’re right here in front of me,” Roman said, a glint in his eye, “what’s not to be happy about?”
Cody snorted, equal parts amused and endeared by the cheesiness of it, and finally pushed himself to his feet, prying Roman’s fingers loose. Roman, theatrically, crumbled into a pout at the motion, which only made Cody smirk wider.
“Should I be worried about how well you’re taking this?” he called over his shoulder as he strolled toward the kitchen, his tone a mix of jest and genuine concern. “You’re not going to break down on me a couple of weeks from now, are you?”
Roman reclined into the sofa, wiggling his toes in a small, compulsive rhythm. He had been doing that almost incessantly since leaving the hospital, a nervous, almost childlike tick that betrayed the conflicting emotions he refused to voice. To say the accident had shaken him would have been an understatement. Why he felt… good at the moment, he couldn’t explain, not even to himself.
But the air had shifted since the peculiar hospital encounter with Seth and Moxley. Ever since that shared, tense, and oddly cathartic moment, Roman had felt lighter. Not unbroken, certainly not yet, but freer, as if a weight he hadn’t realized was crushing him had been lifted. Seth was still on the list for some overdue retribution; that part was set in stone. Even Seth knew, and perhaps begrudgingly accepted, what was coming.
Yet Roman couldn’t ignore the heady thrill of simply existing in peace alongside them, even sharing a room and talking, without immediate chaos erupting around him. It was… an old/new sensation.
Speaking of Seth.
“Seth came to see me in the hospital.” Apropos of nothing, his thoughts spilled out of his mouth.
A sudden splintering crash echoed from the kitchen, splitting the silence. Roman winced at the sound of shattering glass.
“Nightmare? You alright?” he called, craning his head toward the doorway. No answer.
“Cody?” His voice sharpened, edged with concern as the silence stretched too long.
He was just about to push himself off the sofa and wobble into the kitchen when Cody emerged, a scowl carved across his face that could have wilted any ordinary man. Roman’s eyes snapped wide in shock. Cody was the only man he knew who could be terrifying, infuriating, and absurdly attractive all at once.
“What the fuck?” Roman exclaimed, his whole body lurching forward like he was about to rise. “Nightmare, what did you do?”
Cody stood at the kitchen doorway, shoulders squared, jaw set, and a scowl that brooked no compromise. His left hand gripped his bloody right fist in a white-knuckled clutch, crimson dripping in small, angry rivulets down his wrist.
“Me?!” Cody snapped, offended as hell. “I was trying to bring you a goddamn glass of water!”
Roman’s brows climbed, incredulous. “Did you smash the glass with your grip?”
But Cody wasn’t having it. His fury had already found another target. “What the fuck do you mean Seth was in the hospital? Did he make it to your room?”
“Nightmare, focus.” Roman gestured at him with a lazy flick of his wrist, calm where Cody was pure rage. “Get the first aid kit.”
But Cody was already off to the races, words spilling fast and hot, “I knew you and Mox were hiding something!” Cody ranted, words tumbling out so fast they nearly tripped over each other, his cheeks flushing crimson. Roman privately called this his third stage of anger—the stage where Cody’s brain couldn’t keep up with his own mouth. “Is that why you’ve been so damn agreeable since we got back? Smiling, cracking jokes, acting like this whole thing doesn’t bother you?”
Roman heaved a put-upon sigh and leaned forward as if preparing to haul himself upright. “Shall I go get it myself then?” he asked mildly, making a show of shifting his weight.
“Just—sit your ass down.” Cody ground out between his teeth, pointing one sharp finger at him like he was scolding a child. “I’ll get it.”
“Bring it back here,” Roman instructed coolly, settling back into the cushions with infuriating patience. “I’ma clean it up myself.”
Cody growled low in his throat, an honest-to-God growl, and stalked back into the kitchen like a man on a warpath. Drawers opened, cabinets slammed, Roman bit back a smirk. His Nightmare was so easy to wind up, it was almost criminal.
A few minutes later, Cody reemerged with the kit, his scowl somehow darker than before. He dropped it onto the sofa with a little too much force, then flopped onto the far end of the couch, the gulf between them some sort of invisible boundary. Roman, of course, found this all very amusing.
“How am I supposed to—who do you think I am, Stretch Armstrong?” Roman quirked a brow, lips twitching. “Scoot your ass over here.”
Cody muttered something under his breath that Roman suspected wasn’t fit for polite company, but he did as ordered, shuffling closer and reluctantly offering his injured hand.
Roman took it gently, turning Cody’s fist this way and that, pressing along the skin to make sure no shards of glass were embedded. He worked slowly, and Cody, furious as he was, never so much as flinched when the antiseptic burned. That, if anything, was proof of just how pissed off he was.
“He just wanted to see if I was alright,” Roman said finally, tone even as he began cleaning the cut.
“So he could, what? Finish the job?” Cody shot back, his words sharp and fast. “Roman, at this point, I’m no longer finding this you-and-Seth thing funny anymore.”
“You used to find it funny?” Roman asked, a teasing lilt in his voice, eyes glinting.
“I’m not joking.” Cody’s jaw was tight, eyes blazing. “The man’s minions try to paralyze you, and then he strolls into your hospital room like it’s visiting hours? You don’t see the problem here?!” He spat the words out, practically vibrating with fury. “Next time I see Mox, I’m hitting him hard.”
Roman’s lips twitched at that. “That’s not a threat. That’s just how he says hello.” He wrapped the bandage with practiced hands, his touch as careful as his words were dismissive.
Cody’s glare faltered, giving way to the gnawing curiosity beneath his temper. After a long pause, he finally asked, “What did you three even do?”
Roman glanced up, his expression unreadable, then deadpanned: “We had lunch.”
“Lunch,” Cody repeated the word like it was a curse, his tone flat with disbelief.
Roman ignored the tone, finishing up the last of the bandaging with deliberate care. His thumb lingered, caressing over the fresh wrap, fingers brushing soft and slow against Cody’s hand until Cody’s scowl softened into something more conflicted.
“Did you really smash a glass with the sheer force of your anger?” he asked again, clearly enjoying the image.
“What do you think?” Cody shot back, arching a brow.
Roman tilted his head, weighing the thought with mock seriousness.
“That’s… hot.” His grin spread, equal parts mischievous and shameless. “Call me insane, but violent you always gets me going.” He punctuated it with a waggle of his brows that was so obnoxious Cody wanted to smack him.
Cody groaned, rolling his eyes. “The doctor said not to do anything strenuous.”
“I thought we hated the tiny Frenchman?” Roman countered, already sneaking the first aid kit and bloody cotton balls off the sofa with the slyness of a thief.
“We don’t hate him,” Cody corrected, though his tone carried more resignation than conviction. He let Roman tug him down again, maneuvering carefully so his weight pressed along Roman’s frame without straining him. “We were only trying to… encourage distinction in his diagnoses.”
Now stretched out along the length of Roman’s body, Cody propped himself on his elbows on either side of Roman’s head, trapping him there with the kind of intimacy that made Roman’s chest feel warm and grounded.
Roman smirked at the phrasing, eyes glinting. “I appreciate the incentive,” he muttered before tugging Cody into another kiss.
This one was much hotter, slow at first, then deeper, until Roman was convinced if he kept Cody distracted long enough, they’d both be halfway to shirtless in a few minutes. His hand fisted in Cody’s hair, pulling him down when he tried to speak.
“Your back—” Cody started.
Roman swallowed the protest with another searing kiss, this time giving it a few more minutes before letting his other hand wander beneath the hem of Cody’s shirt, fingers skating over warm skin, testing boundaries.
Apparently Cody’s reflexes were sharper than Roman’s patience today. His hand shot out, catching Roman’s wrist in a firm grip. He pulled back just enough to pin him with a glare that Roman just needed five more minutes to break through.
“Ro…” Cody warned.
“Come on, Nightmare, I’ve walked off worse things than a back injury.” The words tumbled out before Roman could stop them. And the second they did, he wished he’d bitten his tongue clean off.
If there was one thing Cody Rhodes hated, it was when Roman glibly brushed off his pain and scars. And tonight was no exception, the narrowed gaze Cody had leveled at him now more than enough to inform Roman he had just nuked any chance of having sex.
Operation: Get Cody's shirt off was failing spectacularly. Roman scrambled to backpedal.
“If you would please ignore the last twelve things I just uttered,” he said quickly, layering on sheepish charm.
But the damage was done. The window of opportunity slammed shut, dead-bolted and barricaded, as Cody extricated himself from Roman’s grip with grim determination.
“No!” Roman whined, making desperate grabby hands for him. He was chalking up that dramatic little blunder to the hospital-grade painkillers he was on.
Cody ignored him. “I’ve got to go clean the mess I made in the kitchen.” He rose to his feet, then leaned down just long enough to drop a quick, measly peck on the top of Roman’s head, adding insult to injury.
Roman groaned dramatically, tossing himself back against the sofa. “We can go upstairs?” he tried, one last Hail Mary.
Cody was already halfway down the hall. “Not until you’re good enough to use the stairs,” he shot back over his shoulder, his stride unrelenting as he disappeared into the kitchen. The man may as well have doused himself in anti-Roman hair gel today; nothing was getting through.
Left behind, Roman sat up with a grunt and a little extra fuss, glaring balefully at the sofa that had been his reluctant bed for days. Sure, it was comfortable, stuffed with more throw pillows than a home décor catalog; hell, it was a cloud compared to some hotel beds. But it wasn’t his bed. Nothing was as satisfying as sprawling in his king-size, with Cody tucked against him. But his bed was upstairs. And right now, the climb to it felt as impossible as scaling a mountain.
He groaned again, louder this time, purely for effect.
“I still haven’t gotten my glass of water!” he hollered, his voice carrying down the hallway, sharpened with pure pettiness.